Blonde Ops (2 page)

The car rolled to a stop in front of the Alitalia departure area. Didn't Mom say United? From her purse, she dragged out two tickets and handed one, along with my passport, to me. “You land in Rome at—”

WTF?

My heart sank. If Mom was going to Belize, who was going to Rome with me?

“Rome? I'm not going with you?”

She looked at me like I was insane. “No. What would you do in Belize?”

I shrugged. “Homework?”

She laughed. “I'm going to be in meetings for the next three weeks. Daddy may join me at some point, but with his schedule…” She put a hand to her temple, then stared at me with a very serious expression. “I don't have time to keep an eye on you.”

“Come on, Mom! I don't need watching.”

Up went that cutting eyebrow. “Really?”

“You know what I mean.”

“The decision's been made. You aren't in any position to bargain, Rebecca. My friend Parker from college owes me a favor and agreed to watch you until Daddy and I are back in the States.”

I ran down a mental list of Mom's friends. “Parker?”

“Parker Phillips. She's the editor in chief of
Edge
magazine. I really think you'll like her. She's a good role model. Successful, respected—”

Basically, everything I'm not.
I shrank down in my seat, smarting inwardly at the unintentional barb, and looked away from her.

“I think you're making out quite well,
all things considered
.” She fished her wallet out of her bag and pulled out a few bills and a credit card. “Do
not
go crazy with this,” she warned.

The driver opened the door, letting in the roar of the airport.

“You'll be fine,” she said. Not a reassurance but an order. “Be good, and I'll call you once I've landed.” She kissed me, giving me a little nudge out the door. “Love you!” Then her phone rang and she was back in full executive mode again. I should've known better than to get my hopes up. Numb, I slid out and retrieved my carry-on waiting for me on the curb. The driver shut the door behind me, got back in his seat, and sped away to the next terminal.

Ciao, Mama
.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Had a rough night? Be prepared with travel-sized premoistened wipes for a fresh face, anywhere, anytime!

2

It had been a full twenty-four hours since I'd taken a shower.

And forget about sleep.

I didn't even bother looking at myself in the bathroom mirror when I landed in the Fiumicino Airport in Rome; I was just relieved to be in a stall that was larger than a broom closet. I considered hiding out in the sleek marble and chrome sanctuary forever. What would happen if I just … disappeared? No. Trouble on one continent was enough. I didn't need my face to go on a viral milk carton.

I checked my cell—no service. Damn. Bad, bad,
bad
decision not to make some adjustments to my cell phone plan before I got on the plane. Now I had no school, no phone, and no human connection. Making my way through customs and out to arrivals, I hoped that Parker knew I was coming, or had her own version of Tam to come and get me. I was in no mood to hunt down my probation officer, and in a foreign country no less.

But there was no need to worry. An older man in a well-fitted suit and fedora held up a sign with my name in a scrawl. I waved and he walked over, smiled, and took my carry-on, holding his free hand out for my laptop case.

“
Signorina
, please, may I?” he said, and reached for it.

I shook my head—“No, that's okay”—and pressed it closer to my chest. I didn't like anyone touching my equipment. He shrugged and turned away.

Squished into the back of a Fiat, I gripped the seat edge with sweaty hands as he wove in and out of traffic on the highway, dodging a truck that looked too rickety to be legal, then daring to race a blue Ferrari. He had amazing reflexes for an old guy. I was relieved when we finally got on a road where he had to drive slower, a street called Via Portuense that ran along the Tiber River.

Despite the haze of exhaustion, I gazed out the window. We passed countless statues, fountains, churches, and temples that looked older than time. I was really in
Rome
. I'd been to Europe before with my parents but usually got stuck at the hotel while they were in meetings. I'd seen a little of Prague, got glimpses of Barcelona, Munich, and Cannes. I'd only flown by myself to and from boarding school over vacations.

I'm in Europe.

Alone!

How could they do this to me? I got into trouble at school. Aren't they afraid of what I'll do when I'm an ocean and two continents away?

Bright flowers popped out of window boxes, and terra-cotta roof tiles added warm color to the clear blue sky as we snaked and bumped over cobbled streets that were hair-raisingly narrow. Vespa scooters putt-putted next to us, the drivers gesturing or yelling if the Fiat got too close.

We pulled over in front of a row of pale stuccoed buildings that looked left over from the Renaissance. When I stepped out of the car, the driver handed me my bag with a small bow. I fumbled for my wallet and handed him a twenty; I only had American dollars.

He shook his head, smiling. “
No, signorina, buono.
” And he slipped back into the car and shot away before my brain remembered that
grazie
was the word for thank you.

He'd dropped me in front of a large house. A shiny plastic sign with “
Edge
Magazine” emblazoned across it in bold black letters had been stuck to the door. Someone answered as soon as I knocked, a pin-thin girl in black skinny pants, a long-sleeved tee shirt in vivid geometrics that clung to her tiny frame, and outrageously high stilettos with wicked pointy heels. Her pale blonde hair was pulled away from a face with skin so perfect I doubt it had ever experienced a pimple.

Taking a sip from a bottle of mineral water, she said, “Rebecca?”

My name rolled off her tongue with a Euro-flourish of vowel. I liked the way it sounded.

“Just Bec is cool.” I managed a smile, hoping my lack of Italian wouldn't be a problem. Her answer was a quirked finger and a wide berth as she stepped aside to let me enter.

Oh man, did I smell
that
bad?

Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I entered a spacious brownstone-type house that was reorganized to be office-friendly. People milled around on the bottom floor. One worked a behemoth espresso machine in the kitchen toward the back. Others were curled up on the sofas and chairs in the front room, busy with laptops and sketch pads.

Skinny inclined her head toward an open set of stairs without looking at me. “
Al piano de sopra,
” she said.

Piano?
I didn't see one, but I guessed she wanted me to go up.

When I got to the top, I found the hallway filled with a line of freakishly tall and expressionless models in various states of undress, waiting to go through an open door to the left. All the others were shut. Each model had a much shorter and harried-looking companion holding stacks of clothes over his or her arms and canvas bags with belts and hair clips and scarves and other accessories frothing out of the top like foam on a fizzy drink.

“Excuse me?” I said, trying to get someone's—anyone's—attention. “Does anyone speak English?”

I got a few odd looks. Then one of the model-handlers said in a thick Italian accent, “Are you here with the missing accessories from wardrobe?”

“No. I need to find Parker Phil—”

“So does everyone,” she said, and turned her attention back to her model.

I maneuvered around them to squeeze into the room.

What lurked on the other side of the door was a sartorial war zone. Clothes were strewn about as if Neiman Marcus had exploded. An elaborate but small setup of white screens and lights dominated the room and centered on the window, which provided a spectacular view of the city beyond the river. Fans were humming and blowing from all directions and the model at the center of it all, a skyscraper of a girl with flawless caramel skin, stood absolutely still, the artificial wind billowing out the voluminous silk sheath that draped her body. From my angle, I could see it was fitted in the back with a row of black binder clips.

“No no no! Too much wind!” shouted a small steel-haired woman in a too-bright daffodil yellow dress.

Everyone froze. She pushed through the crowd, strode right up to the model, and peered at her through eyes ringed with glittering orange liner. In the few seconds of silence, I did a quick mental count. Madame Eyeliner—she couldn't be Parker, could she? A pleasantly plump photographer stood next to a younger bald man holding accent lights for him. Another guy, short but built, in jeans and a super-fitted polo shirt, hung back at a polite distance holding a can of hair spray, and next to him, another similarly shaped and clad guy clutched a fat Kabuki brush: Tweedle-buff and Tweedle-dee, ready to beautify the world. A panic-stricken assistant, a dress in each hand and a belt slung around her neck, looked like she wanted to run and hide. And then there was the model. It took this many people to take a picture?

“Serena,” a voice drawled from the back, and Madam Eyeliner turned around. Okay, not Parker. Something inside me was happy about that. The photographer and his lighting assistant moved out of the way. The voice belonged to a man, deeply tanned, with perfectly styled white hair. He covered his eyes and mumbled something. Lounging back on what looked like the only comfortable chair in the room, he sighed dramatically and proceeded to talk to Serena in rapid Italian, pointing at the model and a pile of clothes on the floor. Serena said nothing, only nodded at his every word. When he was finished she said, “Of course, Gianni,” and clapped her hands at the assistant, who first jumped like a scared rabbit, then started unclipping the model's outfit. Through it all none of them even looked at me.

Time to find Parker. I moved forward and bumped into one of the makeup tables, watching in horror as it teetered in slow motion. The guy with the Kabuki brush made a dive, saving it just before everything slid off.

“You can thank me later,” he said, holding up his hands in triumph. Now everyone was staring at me. I backed away, hoping I wasn't going to have to spend a lot of time here. It would be a disaster looking for an opportunity.

Gianni pointed a stubby finger at me.

“Who. Are. You?”

“Uh, Bec Jackson.”

“Do you belong here?”

“Yes! I'm looking for Parker—”

His imperial nose sniffed. “If you're not part of this shoot, wait over there.” He motioned to the door with a sweep of his arm. “Out of my way.”

I edged carefully toward the hall, wondering if I'd successfully blended into the wallpaper, when I nearly stepped on a tall guy in a tailored jacket and trousers, his shirt unbuttoned enough to prove that he was ripped, his eyes on a tablet. When he tore his attention from his device it was to give me an up and down. He was blindingly stunning, but the curl of his lip told me he didn't think the same of me.

“The schoolgirl look only works in Japan,” he said—in American English.

“I'm—” I started.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Bec Jackson. Also known as my latest headache.”

Hey! I was a compatriot!

But he stalked off, stopping a short distance away, then turned and huffed. “Stop gawking. I don't like to be kept waiting. Come on!”

If I apologized nicely, would Dean Harding take me back?

Not a chance.

I hurried after him to a back room where he pointed to a dusty corner.

“Put your stuff there. Trust me, no one will touch it,” he said.

I wondered how he was so sure, but instead I asked, “And you are…?” I wanted to know who I was dealing with.

“Kevin Clayton, managing editor. Now, as the newest
intern
,” he said as if saying the word left a bad taste in his mouth, “your job is to tend to the models. They want water? You get it. They need a neck massage, you do it with a smile. You deny them carbs, no matter how much they beg—it makes them look bloated in pictures. But do it nicely, and make sure they eat something. They need to be kept happy and focused—if they aren't, no one around here will be happy or focused. Got it?”

I held up a hand.

Whoa.

Wait a minute.

“Intern? I think there's been a mistake. I'm
staying
with Parker—uh, I mean, Ms. Phillips. She's expecting me.”

“Parker delegated you to me,” he snapped, killing any hope of a reprieve. “You'll see her later.”

I blew up my frazzled pink bangs so he'd see how annoyed I was. “I just got off a plane. Where's the bathroom? And I need something to eat.”

“Bathroom.” He threw a hand over his shoulder, indicating a room behind him. Then looking at me as if lunch was something I should reconsider, “The caterer was here earlier. There might be some fruit left in the kitchen downstairs, which you can look into
after
I'm done with you.”

As soon as I got out of the bathroom he crooked a finger at me. “Let's go.”

I followed him, hoping I didn't pass out from hunger or dehydration.

“I'll introduce you to everyone,” he said, as if he didn't relish the task. “Unfortunately Parker couldn't bring everyone over from New York. Titles don't matter here, so everyone pitches in where it's needed.” He paused at the open door of the room where my not-so-fun encounter with Gianni the White had taken place.

“First rule, never interrupt a shoot, for anything, not even lunch. The models are expensive, and they get paid by the hour, so every second counts. I heard you already met Gianni,” he said, tilting his head at the designer, who was back on his throne. “Don't even speak to him unless he asks you a question or tells you to do something. The photographer is Angelo, his assistant is Aldo. Ugi does makeup, Joe does hair. Serena is the executive editor, has first say on styling the photo shoots. I handle the details of everything else.