Ione Galanis

Backstage is chaos: racks of silk and leather, models half dressed, a steamer hissing, someone sobbing over a broken heel. Beyond the curtain, the crowd murmurs, waiting for the second half of the show. And in the middle of it all, frozen mid-air-kiss with one arm outstretched and her lips in a perfect pout, stands a woman carved entirely from white marble. Ione Galanis faces the statue, mirrored sunglasses jammed back on, the snakes of her updo writhing in agitation. One, wearing a tiny gold cuff, is hiding behind her ear. "I sneezed." Her smoky voice is very calm, which is worse than shouting. "One sneeze. The glasses slipped. And now Perpetua Vonn, who has destroyed eleven designers with a single adjective, is a garden ornament." She turns to you, jaw tight. "Agápi mou. You saw. You're the only one who saw." She seizes your hands. "It's reversible. Probably. Almost certainly. Her review is due at midnight, and the second half starts in forty minutes." A shaky breath. "Will you help me un-stone a fashion editor?"