The misshapen larva disappeared and Amanda emerged from her chrysalis as a butterfly. She was an instant out-of-left-field sensation on magazine covers and on the runway at Fashion Weeks in Paris and Milan. Partly it was her curiosity value, the “freak factor,” but she also seemed to represent the possibility of change for even the plainest person. But would she really be that beautiful off-camera? Lacey wondered. And could she really have been as homely as she first appeared on
The Chrysalis Factor
?
Lacey caught a cab from
The Eye
’s office at Farragut Square to a new boutique known as Snazzy Jane’s on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown to interview Amanda Manville. In spite of the occasional downpour, October in D.C. was generally well behaved. And this day did not disappoint, with its hint of apples and turning leaves in the air. The sky was bright blue and clear. Lacey was comfortable without a coat, but on the street there was the usual mix of costumes; short shorts and sandals and exposed pierced belly buttons, along with the Washington uniform of civil servantdom, those bundled up in their trench coats and mufflers as if marching off to war instead of the office.
Snazzy Jane’s occupied one of the narrow Georgetown town houses that had been redeveloped, like many of its neighbors, into a long, thin sales space with a second-floor balcony that hovered over the store’s entryway. Large plate-glass windows tempted passersby with a glimpse of the interior. The effect was oh-so-cool—at least, cool for D.C. And the message was,
If you’re not oh-so-cool, don’t bother stepping into
this
store.
From the sidewalk Lacey could hear popular retro numbers from the Fifties. What she could see of the decor, while sleek, had an air of knowing irony, something like a cocktail party in a vintage Airstream trailer. To herald Amanda Manville’s premiere Chrysalis collection, large butterfly wings in gauzy pastels were suspended from the second-floor balcony.
Because of the media interest in the hometown-girl-turned-supermodel, Snazzy Jane’s was closed to the public this afternoon, and the staff and Amanda were fielding interviews and allowing a sneak peak of the collection for the media. It would open later that evening for a cocktail party for invitation-only guests.
Lacey stepped up to the front door just as a broadcast reporter and her cameramen were leaving and the caterers were buzzing around. The reporter was giving his camera guy notes to take some shots for the B-roll. Lacey could see that the black-and-white-clad waitstaff inside were setting up tables and covering them with pastel linens.
A young woman posted outside the boutique checked Lacey’s credentials and was just ushering her through the door when someone came out of nowhere and rudely muscled his way in ahead of her, pushing Lacey aside so roughly that she hit the doorjamb and caught her shoulder bag on it. For a minute they were all three wedged into the opening together.
“Oww! Hey, who do you think you are?” she said.
“Amanda!” he yelled, “I need to see Amanda!”
“Sir, are you on the list? Sir?” the gatekeeper shouted after him, but the man, small but seeming to take up a lot of space, pushed past them and into the store with all the panache of a process server in a panic.
“Amanda! Amanda Manville!” he yelled. “Where are you? Show me your phony face, Amanda!”
“Security!” the gatekeeper called out. “Security!” Lacey checked to make sure her suit hadn’t been damaged. She glared at the man’s back, noticing that his brown hair was thinning and his shirt was wet with sweat. He was about to dart up the stairs when a huge man suddenly appeared from behind a clothes rack, grabbed the intruder, picking him up like a suitcase, and evicted the man from the store, brushing past Lacey with a face as calm as a man putting out the cat. All the while the little man was shouting about having to see Amanda on a life-and-death matter.
Something about the huge security man was very familiar. Lacey realized she had met him once, and knew him only as “Turtledove,” a code name. Lacey watched them briefly through the store window, though she couldn’t get a clear view of the intruder. He trudged off morosely as Turtledove stood resolute, his arms crossed and a scowl fixed on his face.
Lacey turned away as a woman called her name. The woman approached with a studied nonchalance, but Lacey caught her taking a deep breath before speaking. For her part, Lacey made an effort to refocus on the fashion aspects of her assignment, while wondering what the hell Turtledove was up to. And who was the little intruder, what did he want, and was this a more interesting story than all the pretty dresses?
“Hi, I’m Yvette Powers. Sorry for the disturbance.” She put out her hand. “Welcome to Snazzy Jane’s. This is my store.” Yvette looked exactly like the prom queen who had made all the right choices in life. Or perhaps, Lacey thought, life had made them for Yvette. A silky sheet of straight ultrablond hair hung obediently to her shoulder blades. She wore a sleeveless deep-beige linen shift dress that emphasized her lean, athletic build and punishing beige stilettos. She was tanned the same shade.
Wow, she’s been dyed to match her shoes,
Lacey thought.
Pretty chic.
Nevertheless, Yvette looked tired, and makeup could not quite disguise the shadows under her eyes.
“Lacey Smithsonian. I write the ‘Crimes of Fashion’ column for
The Eye
.”
“
The Eye Street Observer
. Of course. And you’re the one who got, um,
involved
with that adventure with the House of Bentley. So nice of you to come.”
Lacey had to give Yvette credit for poise. Only the slightest rise of her eyebrows indicated she was less than thrilled that a reporter from
The Eye Street Observer
was here to interview Amanda, or that a crazed intruder had nearly made an entrance on her coattails. After
The Washington Post,
which everybody said they read, and its conservative counterpoint,
The Washington Times
, which fewer people admitted to reading, many people refused to acknowledge that they had ever heard of
The Eye
. However, its rising circulation numbers told a different story.
“How did you decide to showcase Amanda’s collection here first, at Snazzy Jane’s?”
Yvette gave a little wave of her left hand, indicating the store, as well as showing off a perfect two-carat emerald-cut diamond set in a platinum wedding band. “Oh, we’re old friends. We went to high school together.”
“You and Amanda Manville?”
“I went to school with both Zoe and Amanda.”
“So you’re all friends from way back?”
“Yes. I was actually in Zoe’s class. Amanda’s a year younger.” Strain showed on Yvette’s face. “Zoe and I always planned to do something exciting. And Amanda wanted to come back home to showcase her talents. Then the collection came together. And here we are.”
Lacey was about to ask how Zoe fit into the business, but Yvette said, “We’re so glad you could come today.” It was a dismissal. Yvette’s assistant arrived on cue. “Oh, there you are, Fawn. Please show Ms. Smithsonian to the interviewing area.” Fawn took over resignedly as Yvette turned and spun on her pointy high heels and nearly ran right into a third frazzled female. “Zoe! What are you doing out here? What’s the trouble now?”
“Amanda says she needs a few minutes. So it will be just a moment. Or two.” The woman shot apologetic looks at Yvette and Lacey.
With a shock, Lacey realized this woman must be Zoe Manville, the “pretty sister.” But between her sister’s famous makeover and the present, the blond and freckled former cheerleader had put on about fifty pounds. The weight had puffed out her features and given her an unfortunate set of jowls, only partially disguised by a voluminous Hermès-like scarf. She also wore a powder-blue sleeveless dress, something from the Chrysalis collection, Lacey presumed. A mistake: She had the arms to match the jowls.
“That’s ridiculous! She knows we have back-to-back interviews all afternoon,” Yvette snapped, and pulled her away from Lacey.
Zoe lowered her voice. “She just found another letter taped to her mirror and . . . um . . . had an episode.”
“Oh, my God. How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. We’re mopping up the damage now.”
“What the hell is that bodyguard for? I thought he was supposed to keep those things away from her.” Yvette’s patience appeared ready to snap.
Zoe shrugged helplessly. “I’ve called him back inside.”
At that, Turtledove wordlessly appeared behind Zoe. The three of them moved to the back stockroom. But before disappearing again, Turtledove caught Lacey’s eye and winked.
“Everyone’s a drama queen,” said the sweet-faced assistant, Fawn, who had also eavesdropped on the scene.
“What about the man who tried to get in? Who was he?” Lacey asked.
“Sorry. Must’ve missed that episode. Oh, darn.” Fawn smiled slightly. “Don’t worry; I’m sure there’ll be more.”
“Well, then, tell me this: Who’s the queen drama queen?”
“Our celebrated supermodel diva of the day, but don’t quote me. Deep background,” she said, demonstrating to Lacey that in Washington, D.C., everyone learned how to play the media game young. Fawn wore a black miniskirt and turtleneck sweater with short-heeled ankle boots and a completely unnecessary Burberry scarf in that bland beige Burberry plaid that had seized D.C. by storm and still had it in a stranglehold. Fawn’s bed-head was a wildly layered haircut delivered by an out-of-control stylist with a dull razor; it made her head resemble a feather duster. Looking at her, Lacey positively longed for the not-so-distant days when the legendary Washington Helmet-Head haircut reigned supreme in the Nation’s Capital.
Fawn led her upstairs and left her with a nice thick press packet, with photographs of Amanda and her clothing, and the usual puffery about how fabulous it all was. The press release revealed the hitherto unknown information that it was actually Zoe who created most of the designs, while Amanda oversaw the colors and fabric selection and personally approved each item. Reading between the lines, it was apparent that Amanda’s fame and connections got the Chrysalis Collection off the ground, not her talent.
Fawn retreated, Burberry scarf tossed over her shoulder, as Zoe drew near. The “pretty sister” who had seemed so confident on TV approached Lacey almost shyly. “Hi, I’m Zoe Manville. Amanda will be just a few more moments. Do you have everything you need?”
“No, actually, I don’t. Can we talk? I didn’t realize the designs were yours. Aren’t you the one I should be interviewing?” What Lacey really wanted to ask was,
How does it feel to be the pretty sister all your life, then be pushed aside?
A pained look crossed Zoe’s face. “It’s a collaboration,” she said. “But of course, you’re interested in meeting Mandy, not me.”
True, Lacey
was
interested in meeting Amanda, who apparently was the Evil Queen from
Snow White. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the supermodelest of them all?”
“But I’m interested in your story, too. So you two design together? It must be great to have so much in common with your sister,” Lacey said.
My sister and I are about as alike as Snow White and Rose Red. I’m Rose.
“When did you decide to undertake this venture?”
“I used to design clothes for my dolls, and my teddy bears, and then myself. When I was old enough, I took classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York,” Zoe said, then remembered to include her famous sibling. “Of course, Amanda is key. She has such a great eye for . . . for details and color combinations. It really has worked out. Wonderfully.” Zoe looked away and caught her reflection in a nearby mirror. She looked slightly dismayed and smoothed a wrinkle where the skirt crept up over her ample hips. “I’ll just check on Amanda,” she said, running for the back of the store.
Lacey was left to linger at the balcony and enjoy a view of the Georgetown sidewalk scene, a parade of wealthy foreign tourists, university students, and the ladies who lunched. The occasional panhandler crossed into view, equal parts despair and salesman-ship, asking for dollars, not change, and being polite, as required by D.C. ordinance. With a bird’s-eye view of the action, Lacey noticed a man stride boldly into the salon as if he owned it. In fact, Brad Powers did own it, with his wife, Yvette. Lacey recognized him from his photos in the social and business pages.
Belying his expressive blue eyes, his shiny shaved head and his silk suit gave him the air of an expensive thug. His skull had the first hint of a five-o’clock shadow: From the balcony Lacey could see exactly where his receding hairline stopped.
Powers called for his wife and took her by the arm. Lacey could not hear them, though their gestures and expressions betrayed an argument. She noticed that he and Yvette were the same buttery-tan color.
Dyed to match,
she thought.
The fashionable postmodern couple.
They moved out of view.
She turned her attention to the delicate wisps of fabric that fluttered from their hangers, the chic little dresses of Chrysalis. They were arranged in small artistic groupings and equally small sizes. It was October outside, but it seemed to be some sort of springtime of the mind inside. Chrysalis, of course, was the perfect symbol for Amanda Manville, the pupa transformed into a butterfly. The colors ran from pale pinks, blues, and lavenders to jewel colors of sapphire blues and deep greens, in velvets, silks, and polished cottons. Many of the dresses were cut on the bias, a mixture of velvet and chintz, offbeat yet with a winsome charm.
The clothes were affordable, Lacey supposed, if you were a Georgetown University student with a very healthy allowance. Or a TFB, a trust-fund baby, like so many Washington interns and staffers. And heaven knew, there was no dearth of wealthy university students and interns. They could be seen everywhere, networking on their cell phones in their Volvos and BMWs. A skirt that cost $300 and a simple cotton dress that topped $550 were nothing to them, though it would certainly strain a reporter’s paltry budget. At least a reporter who worked at
The Eye
.