The Allure of Julian Lefray (The Allure #1)(49)

The only problem? I’d be holding a broom or a mop at all times.

Yup. That’s right. Josie Keller would henceforth be known as Night Janitor. Jealous yet?

For ten days, I’d have to bolt from Julian’s hotel at 5:00 PM on the dot and book it to Lincoln Center. I’d have to sneak in the back doors with the rest of the event staff and change into my alter ego, Clark Kent style. There was a small locker room for staff where I’d kick off my heels and slip into converse, slide on a black hat with “NYFW STAFF” embroidered across the front, and grab the broom least likely to break on me.

The pay was terrible, but I didn’t care. I could use the extra money while I continued to hunt for a more permanent night job. I saved every penny I earned except for the $5 I used to splurge on a fresh green smoothie every afternoon on the way from Julian’s hotel to Lincoln Center. (And by green juice, I of course mean chocolate cupcake.)

“Ladies! Ladies, line up, the show is starting in ten minutes!” a stagehand clapped her hands, trying to get everyone’s attention—a nearly impossible feat.

I paused my sweeping and stepped to the back of the room to give the models space to run around me. It was only my fourth day on the job and I’d already learned a lot. No matter how organized the event coordinators thought they were, there was always a mad rush ten minutes before the fashion shows started. Fake eyelashes, sticky boob tape, hairspray bottles, high heels—all flying in the air, trying to find their final destination. I’d been hit in the head by enough bras on my first day to realize that I needed to stay as far away from the madness as possible.

And yet, I still loved every second of it.

I watched a designer waltz through the room with her nostrils flaring. She paused in the center, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Models. Get in line now, or I’m going to rip your hair extensions out. So help me god!”

Some of the designers were a tad more pleasant than others…

“You!” a stagehand pointed at me and then waved her hand at the row of salon chairs near the back wall. There was a mess of hair scattered across the floor beneath the chairs. Minutes earlier, a team of stylists had chopped away at extensions to give all the models a similar hairstyle. “Can you pah-lease sweep all that up already? I nearly broke my neck a second ago.”

I nodded and jumped into action, pushing my broom out in front of me. I worked quickly to push the multicolored hair into a neat pile, working my magic on the mess. Unfortunately, just as I was about to sweep the first pile up into my dustpan, a model shoved past me on her way to the runway and scattered the hair in every direction. She’d been a force of nature on my small hair mountain.

“Dammit,” I hissed as the model waltzed off without a care in the world.

She hadn’t even noticed.

I had the least glamorous job in the most glamorous setting and I was still having trouble wrapping my head around that fact. At times, I got swept up in the excitement of the shows, as if I was somehow a part of them.

After I’d collected all of the hair once again, I swept it into the nearest trashcan and then tried to finish off the rest of my duties as quickly as possible. The sooner I finished, the sooner I could peer out and catch a glimpse at the finale of the show—when all the models paraded down the runway one after another with their dazzling gowns and gorgeous faces. Every time I snuck a glimpse at a fashion show from behind the scenes, I wanted to pinch myself.

Next season’s trends were right at the tips of my fingers. Granted, my fingers were sticky and gripping an old broom, but still, it was the closest I’d ever been to my dream world.

I wanted to share my experience on What Jo Wore, but I couldn’t figure out how to share details without admitting to my readers how I was actually getting my behind-the-scenes look. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Just a few months ago, I’d attended a major fashion gala. The glamorous people from that night were out in the front rows of all the NYFW fashion shows, and where was I? Sweeping up hair.

I found a tiny gap in the curtain off the side of the room and pulled it to the side just a centimeter. I peeked through and held my breath, completely in awe of the show. Strobe lights danced overhead, illuminating each model as they strutted down the runway.

I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and snapped a quick picture so I could send it to Lily.



Josephine: This is my current view.



I clutched my broom and peeked back through the slit in the curtain. The show was in full swing and the photographers at the end of the runway were firing away, snapping hundreds of photos per minute.

I glanced back to my phone after it buzzed.



Lily: What is that? It looks like a cat wearing a top hat.



I smiled.



Josephine: Put your glasses on. It’s a fashion show. You can’t really see it because the lights are dimmed.

Lily: Hmm, I still see a cat.

Josephine: It’s not. You’re blind. Go see a doctor.

Lily: How’d you get invited to a fashion show?

Josephine: Turns out that janitors get backstage passes.

Lily: Oh yeah, I forgot about that job.

Josephine: It’s still pretty cool though, I must admit.

Lily: Any hot dudes?

Josephine: Just skinny bitches.

Lily: And yet you want me to move there.