We were so busy trying to promote our birthday party that we didn't have time to watch The City last night. Luckily fictional freelancer Betsey Morgenstern was there for all the bitch-on-bitch fighting action.
Civil Diss and Obedience
by Betsey Morgenstern
Accessories Intern, Cat Fancy
There is nothing more exciting right now than RueLaLa.com. What is that, you ask? Well, if Gilt Group is like online Nordstrom's Rack, the RueLaLa is like the e-commerce Marshalls. Except they think they're fancier because they have a deal with Elle magazine. This week they were shooting Whitney Eve, the line by Whitney Port, the most important new designer of her generation. At the behest of the honchos at Elle they are going to be selling Whitney's clothes, even though the only ones that are made are the prototypes. Who is going to sew all the clothes you order? Who knows, but based on her fashion show and market appointments, there aren't going to be a ton of orders.
The shoot was being done by Johannes Gugesfrenol, who is the hottest photographer in fashion right now because he is really a war photographer and he is just slumming with this fashion stuff. He's always yelling, "Give me carnage! Carnage!" at the models. And he still has a touch of post-traumatic stress disorder from when that IED exploded next to him in Jalalabad. That's why he has a hard time using a flash, because it reminds him of bombs exploding. And God forbid anyone makes a loud noise he just drops his camera and curls up in the fetal position and rocks back in forth muttering, "Fabiola Beracasa...Fabiola Beracasa...Fabiola Beracasa." For some reason, exotic names comfort him.
Speaking of exotic names Olivia Palermo was supposed to come and interview Whitney for Elle.com, but first she had to interview a designer friend of hers who makes pretty jewelry. They were there all afternoon giggling about jewelry and making jokes about all the silly boys from St. Luke's. They just tittered and spun their hair and stared at the camera. Who wouldn't want to watch that? Finally she broke out of her daze and went over to Milk Studios in the Meatpacking District, which is where I found her.
See, I was writing an article about Scheherazade, the cat who lives in Milk Studios—get it, cat in Milk Studios. I'm in the lobby waiting for the stupid cat to come out and Olivia walks in the door and steps on my coat. I just bought the French Connection knock off from RueLaLa.com and I wasn't about to let her get it all dirty. "Excuse me?!" I said, getting out of my seat.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was hurrying to an appointment," she said and lapsed into the whole story about her jewelry designer friend and how they were making a movie and how she had to go interview Whitney Port and she was sure I understood. Before I could even respond she started to walk away from me. It was like she made up her mind about what was going to happen and that was the end of any discussion, no matter what anyone else thought.
"Excuse me?!" I said again, grabbing her arm.
She turned around and said, "What now? God, can't you see I'm trying to go?"
That's when I punched her. I couldn't help it, it's like my rage took over my fist. There was Olivia Palermo passed out in the lobby of Milk Studios with blood running down her nose. What was I supposed to do! I stood there looking over her body, which I didn't think was dead, but wasn't sure. Hmm, what to do? Then the phone in her bag started ringing. I looked on the display and it said, "That Stupid Bitch Erin calling." For some reason I answered the phone.
"Olivia, it's Erin. Where are you?" the voice said.
Now I had to pretend like I'm Olivia, but I forgot how to do my entitled WASP accent, so I just sort of mumbled and tried to say as little as possible. "Not coming," I said.
"Why aren't you coming?" she asked.
"Hate line. Can't support," I said.
"Well, I wish you had told me. What are we going to do?"
"Gotta run. Bye."
As I hung up the phone, all I could make out were a bunch of jumbled screams and the word "unprofessional." Oh, this scene upstairs was going to be good. Fuck Olivia, hopefully the fall hurt her head enough that when she wakes up, she won't remember it. I ran upstairs to hear what was happening.
When I got there, I heard Erin explaining the situation to Whitney and reality television show publicist Kelly Cutrone. Whitney was confused because she thought that Olivia had set up the whole RueLaLa deal and didn't know why she wanted to sabotage her interview. Erin explained that Olivia actually hated the line for no particular reason and she and Joe Zee were the ones who wanted Whitney to sell her nonexistent clothes on the TJ Maxx of the interwebs.
Suddenly, with the sound of a thousand knives falling down the stairs, something was awoken in Kelly Cutrone. "I am going to fucking kill that fucking bitch. Where the fuck is she? I am now a shark and if I stop moving I will die just like Olivia Palermo will die when I find her. She is fucking dead to me for fucking ever!"
Then she started swinging her arms around and throwing clothing and equipment. She lobbed a giant handbag at one of the lights which crashed the ground exploding the bulb with a vicious flare. Johannes jumped into the air and as quickly fell to the ground. "Fabiola Beracasa...Fabiola Beracasa...Fabiola..."
"Oh, shut up!" Kelly yelled. "Where is Olivia?"
"Um, I think I saw her in the lobby," I said. She ran out of the room and down into the lobby. Everyone was 5 beats behind her, so when we got there, all we saw was Kelly standing over a passed out Palermo. "She punched Olivia in the face!" I yelled and pointed a finger, happy to point the blame at someone else.
Whitney, who was mad two seconds ago said, "I hope she's OK." Kelly just grunted and raged through bare teeth. Erin shook her head and said, "Unprofessional. Joe Zee is going to be pissed. Actually, I'm going to make sure he's pissed." I just tried to shuffle away from the scene unscathed. That's when I finally saw a little bolt of grey fur running down the hall. It was Scheherazade! I followed her into the stairwell. She was perched on the banister the sweet sound of "Fabiola Beracasa" coming from a studio far, far away.