Unfortunately, mine was headed for Paris, for fittings and run throughs for Elie Saab's runway show. I was so proud of Holli, and so freaked out at the same time. We’d lived together since our first semester of college. The longest we'd been apart had been for a few days, visiting family. Now, I wouldn't see her for four weeks, as she was immersed in a media blitz carefully orchestrated by her brilliant agency.
Everything seemed to have exploded for Holli overnight. Not only would she be walking in her first fashion week show, she'd also be featured in the pages of French Vogue. The side-trip to London, to be interviewed for a BBC documentary about body image, was going to be the thing that pushed her over the top, I knew, even if she was trying not to pin too many hopes on the next month.
I was bursting with happiness for her, but I have to admit I was slightly bumming myself out by comparing our situations. It was difficult, though; her career was taking off like a rocket, and mine had burnt up on reentry.
“Baby, you are gonna miss your flight,” Deja, Holli's girlfriend, called out with the certainty of a mother telling her kids they were going to miss the school bus. I didn't envy her the task of trying to herd Holli to the airport.
Dressed head to toe in sleek, sexy black, from the very professional cut of her blazer to the very rock star chic matte leather pants she wore, Deja could have been a model, herself. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a sleek, low ponytail, and her brown skin shone beneath what I suspected was Smashbox Soft Lights bronzer.