“In Christianity, really only one person is saved: the bride,” said Father Andrew O’Connor, a Diocesan priest. He was standing on a makeshift alter in the Union Square W ‘s marbled Great Room, surrounded by models in flower girl dresses, standing in front of a groom and his presumptive future wife.
“You may now kiss the bride,” Father O’Connor said.
The man then lifted his partner’s white lace veil and planted a kiss, inciting ripples of earnest joy to break out among the models in sheer gowns, all carrying bouquets, standing all around them.
The faces of by the runway were a bit more confused. Wait, these faces seemed to say. Did this happen, they seemed to say. Did Lydia Hearst just get married, to some guy, at the Imitation of Christ show?
“It’s true! They’re married!” said a harried publicist as the attendees, drunk on shock and champagne, filed out of the carpeted corridor.
Theophilus London shook his head.
“They were actually married?” the rapper said. He slid tiny oval sunglasses over his eyes. “Shit man. Good luck.”
We searched for clues. Imitation creative director Tara Subkoff walked out from backstage, where the models were changing out of the fragile looks — glasslike weightless dresses, as if made from the same petals strewn on the runway.
“Maybe it was real, in a spiritual way,” the actress-turned-designer said. “It felt real.”
The Observer was skeptical. Would anybody get married at a fashion show? Luckily, we ran into Ms. Hearst and her, um, husband on the street corner by the W. His name was said to be Miles, and looked perfectly cut-jawed and anonymous.
“Congrats, guys?” we offered.
They both laughed.
“Well, thanks,” Ms. Hearst said.
“You really did fool everyone in there, didn’t you,” we said.
The two looked at each other, and the would-be bride smiled enigmatically.
“Did we?” she said.
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