It is late in the Prada atelier. Miuccia Prada leans over to turn off the last lamp, on her desk, before locking up and going home. Her sleeve catches on a piece of paper. It flutters to the ground. She leans over, and picks it up.
Her scream pierces the still, dark air. “She is supposed to wear that dress tomorrow?“
But the night has no reply. And she is alone.
She takes a deep breath.
“Okay. Okay. We can do this. You can do this, Miuccia. Just…pretend the beading is totally half-assed and unfinished on purpose. Yes. Sure. I can do that. People will believe this if I tell them to believe this. This is the STYLE. This is INTENTIONAL. I know what I’m doing! No one will fight me on this! It’s SUPPOSED to be like this. Naomi is a great actress. No one will ever guess, right? Right. Right.”