by Jan Moran
Scarlett took her hand in hers. “Fianna, I know this is difficult for you. I’m here for you. Dahlia, Verena, and Penelope are, too. Whatever we can do for you, just ask. You’re always the first to help us when we need it.”
“As outspoken as I am, I find it hard to ask for help when I need it.” Another failing she’d have to work on. Since she’d left Ireland, her world had been on a downward spiral. How could she have worked so diligently for so many years, only to see her business crumble with the twist of a shoe? The Fitzgerald Flop was aptly named. “Tell me honestly, Scarlett. Will I lose the business?”
Scarlett drummed her fingers on the table. “Anything could happen. But if I were you, I’d be considering every alternative. I won’t lie to you, Fianna. It’s not good. Unless we can find out who did this and clear you, eventually I’ll have to bring in a defense lawyer, and they won’t be cheap. Even if we manage a partial settlement.”
Fianna sank her face into her hands.
Scarlett whispered to her. “Don’t turn around, there’s a paparazzi outside. Do you want to leave?” Their food hadn’t arrived yet. “We could get our lunch to go.”
How dare they follow me here? She’d had all she could take. She could give up and slink out, or she could stand and defend herself.
Fianna raised her head and threw her fiery red hair back. “No, not this time. I’ve had enough of this. I have every right to be here. In fact, remember what you said about negative publicity? I’m going to make them start working for me. If people want a piece of the Fitzgerald Flop, then that’s what I’ll give them.”
Scarlett lifted a corner of her mouth. “That’s the Fianna we all know and love.”
After lunch, Fianna charged back to her boutique on Robertson Boulevard. Evangeline was in the front, shooing away gawkers.
She stopped, planted her hands on her hips and struck a pose in her turquoise heels for the photographers. “Hello everyone. I’m Fianna Fitzgerald of the Fitzgerald Flop. Come back tomorrow at 2:00 pm, and I’ll have a surprise. You won’t want to miss it,” she added with a wink.
Evangeline hurried toward her, gesturing in frustration. “What’re you doing? These people hate us. They’re making fun of us.”
“Taking control, that’s what. We need money to find the truth behind this sabotage, Evangeline. Here’s what we’re going to do.” She quickly outlined a plan and gave Evangeline a list of tasks.
“Lock the doors. We’re closing down, going to work, and we’ll reopen tomorrow with a brand new attitude.” She picked up one of her design notebooks. “I’m going next door to see Elena.”
Fianna marched out and locked the door behind her. The jeweler next door was Elena Eaton, a good friend and one of the most creative women she knew.
And later, once the sun rose in Ireland, she’d call Niall.
Hours later, after an exhausting day, Fianna tapped a number on her phone at the stroke of midnight.
Within moments, Niall’s sleepy, husky voice shot around the globe. “Fianna, love. How I wish you were here beside me.”
“I’d love nothing more.” They spoke for a few minutes, and then Fianna told him what Scarlett needed.
“I used to perform at a ball the police force threw for charity. I know a couple of lads there fairly well. I’ll see what I can find out for you.”
They spoke a little while longer, and then Fianna hung up. As much as she would have loved to talk all night, she still had work to do. By tomorrow afternoon, she had to be ready.
22
NIALL EASED INTO a chair at the police station in Dublin nearest the hotel. The station was so crowded, few people took notice of him. He wore black jeans and a gray untucked shirt with dark sunglasses and a charcoal-colored fedora hat.
Detective Malloy, as identified by his plastic name plate, tapped on his computer keyboard. “Name?” he asked in a raspy, cigarette-laced voice.
“Niall Finley.”
“Sure and I’m Santy Claus. Tell you what, try again.” He coughed loudly.
Niall removed his sunglasses. “Niall Finley.”
The detective looked over the tortoise shell rim of his glasses. “Why it is you. Well why didn’t you say so?” His tone changed from one of disinterest to one of friendly animation. “Now what can I do for you?”
Niall was used to this. He began in a gracious manner. “I’ve been given a power of attorney for Fianna Fitzgerald. Here’s a fax from her attorney in Los Angeles.” He slid a piece of paper across the worn desk. “We need information about the investigation of Fitzgerald’s runway show where several models were injured.”
“Ah yes, the case of the sabotaged shoes.” Detective Malloy guffawed.
“With all due respect, it’s no laughing matter. Several young women were seriously injured as a result. One had multiple fractures and had to have a pin inserted into her leg. She’s out of work and is facing a long, painful recovery.” His eyes were drawn to a family photo behind the detective’s desk “What if that were one of your lovely daughters?”
“Right you are.” The detective tapped the keyboard and pulled up a file. “Actually, we have a suspect. He had motive and opportunity. And we have him on film.”
Niall leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
The detective tossed his glasses on the desk. “He’s in custody now. Just came in.”
Niall sat back, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Can you tell me his name?”
“Sure I can.” He put his glasses back on and spun the computer screen around. Recognize him?”
Niall was shocked. He sure hadn’t seen that coming.
“Anything else I can help you with?”
“Not today.” His attorney would handle the rest with Scarlett. Niall’s eyes roved back to the family photo. “I sure appreciate your help. How about I sign something for your girls?”
Detective Malloy broke into a wide smile. “That would be grand. Are you sure you don’t mind troubling yourself?”
“Put the velvet rope on this side.” Fianna turned to Evangeline. “We’ll bring the line through the front and out the side. I’ll be inside signing shirts, hats, and photos.”
Evangeline consulted her clipboard. “Tiffany’s classmates will arrive soon. Some will set up with lights and cameras outside, and there will be another film crew inside. The website with T-shirt sales is set up, and all the press has been alerted. Finally, a food truck with a new sandwich called the Fitzgerald Flop will be outside.”
“Well done.” Evangeline was so experienced and organized; she often ran the boutique while Fianna was designing. “Now let’s check on those shirts and hats.” Elena had sketched a Fitzgerald Flop logo and design for her, and she’d found a T-shirt printer in the garment district who opened his shop and printed overnight for her. Tiffany was busy ripping and embellishing the shirts as Fianna had instructed. “These will be couture rags. Think Eurotrash meets runway,” she’d told her intern.
“How’s it going?” Fianna glanced around, impressed with the speed at which Tiffany and her team worked. Her classmates at FIDM were excited at the chance to work for Fianna and be involved in the launch of the new Flop line, a casual Euro street look. Several had volunteered to messenger T-shirts and hats to Los Angeles television studios and radio stations. Another batch was being sent overnight to New York. Her publicist was working overtime for her.
Tiffany held up a shirt she was working on. They were ripping necklines and attaching remnants of lace, chiffon, and other fabrics. “I love these! They’re so hot.” Tiffany’s black kohl-rimmed eyes glittered with excitement.
“Excellent, just as I envisioned.” Fianna had scoured her workroom, digging through all her short lengths of leftover fabric and embellishments. Her friends in the garment industry had given her more of their leftover end pieces.
Fianna turned toward the music player. Niall’s voice was low, but she recognized it at once. “Turn that up, please,” she said. She snapp
ed her fingers and swayed to the music. “I want Finley Green blasting all day.”
The interns looked at each other and burst out laughing. Tiffany said, “We saw the gossip online. Is it true? You’re dating Niall Finley?”
As long as it was out in the open, she might as well admit to it. “That’s right,” she said, her heart aching for him. She wished he could see all this and watch her creativity at work. How would they ever manage this long-distance relationship?
“I’ll sketch up a couple of other designs. Let’s mix it up.” She hurried to her sketch table.
More than anything, she wanted to take care of the models who’d been injured. Scarlett had talked about a settlement offer. Fianna picked up a pencil and chewed her lip in thought. If only she could raise the money to do that and stay in business.
She quickly sketched a simple line drawing. One thing she’d discovered in Los Angeles was that if there was a velvet rope and a film crew, people would quickly line up, clamoring to be a part of whatever it was. Insist on numbered slots, and they’d even buy them to get in line. It was crazy, but scarcity sold. Soon more of Tiffany’s fashionable friends would line up, act excited, and the public would follow. Other friends would manage the line.
Fianna gathered her thoughts. Her publicist was busy promoting through social media, and she had created a special hashtag. A couple of celebrity models had volunteered to wear her shirts in support of models on national talk shows they’d been booked on. Many models suffered from anorexia, bulimia, and depression, and they often didn’t have health insurance. The industry often pressured models to become even thinner than they were. Size zero was difficult to maintain. This was an opportunity to make a statement for her industry. A percentage of the proceeds would go to support models who were having health issues and financial difficulties.
Fianna was slender, but by model standards, she’d be too large for runway work. She fully supported a healthier model look, and in her shows she had cast models that looked healthy and normal. She completed another sketch and raced to deliver it to the T-shirt team. There was no time to waste.
If she could shift the paparazzi lens to a worthwhile project, then she’d done the best she could. And if she lost everything, at least she could be proud of her efforts.
“Fianna!” Dahlia was rushing toward her, shopping bags in her arms. “I’ve got the Runway perfume samples. My graphic designer took Elena’s logo and created a mock-up bottle. You can start taking pre-orders today.”
“Thanks, Dahlia, this is magnificent.” She opened a sample vial. “I really love this, the jasmine is so sensual. How did you get Camille to agree to this?” She applied the sample to her wrists and neck.
Dahlia arched a brow. “She didn’t agree.”
“Then how did you manage this?”
“I’ve decided to create my own indie line. It’s time for me to make my mark in this industry. I want to show people what I can really do, outside of my family’s business.”
Fianna hugged her. “That’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“If it flops, then we flop together.” Dahlia laughed, though Fianna could tell she was nervous, too. They both had to step onto the stage and take a chance that people would like what they’d created. Fashion and fragrance were highly subjective, and timing was everything.
Fianna hoped she had the timing right for this. Or the media would soon be touting her as the Queen of Flops.
While Dahlia set up, Fianna went to change. She put on one of her new over-sized T-shirts. The neckline was frayed, vintage lace angled down one side, and chiffon peered from beneath the torn hem. On the front was emblazoned “Flop by Fianna Fitzgerald,” with a line drawing of a trio of models, and a broken heel. The T-shirt colors were vivid. She wore lime green to set off her hair, while Tiffany had chosen deep purple, and Evangeline wore fluorescent pink. Young, haute, hip. That was the message.
It was almost time.
Fianna slipped on an ivory pair of Dolce & Gabbana booties made of lace and suede, knotted the T-shirt over slim cream-colored jeans, and fluffed her wild mane to maximum volume. Today was no time for half-measures. She added an armload of bangles.
She glanced at the time again, gulping breaths to calm her nerves.
“Ready?” Evangeline tapped on her door.
“Come in.” Fianna adjusted the zipper on the back of her shoe. She would not have any footwear mishaps today.
“The line stretches down the block now.” Evangeline’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Fianna, this was genius.”
“Hold that thought. Let’s see how Flop is accepted.” She’d been in this position before. She’d triple checked everything at the hotel, and yet the worst had occurred. Anything could happen. What if Flop flopped?
Fianna straightened to her full height and then strode into the boutique. Dahlia had changed into an orange Flop top and her perfume counter was organized and ready. The publicist stood by the door, ready to funnel media her way. Fianna gave a thumbs-up sign. “Open the door, and let’s rock.”
At once, pandemonium broke out. The crowd outside surged and people were shoved through the door. Two young women tumbled onto the floor. Fianna’s heart pounded as she raced to aid them, recalling the disaster at the fashion show. “Let me give you a hand,” she said, helping them to their feet and hoping they were okay.
The two women stood and brushed off their jeans. “We’re not hurt, but can we have your autograph?”
Fianna had never been asked for her autograph. Thankfully, Evangeline came to her assistance and quickly formed a line. Her publicist rushed over with several media crews, who began to set up equipment to film Fianna’s statement.
Tiffany and her team helped manage the line and get T-shirts, hats, and perfume samples for people, while Evangeline rang up sales. Dahlia was busy sharing the perfume tester with people.
Fianna scrawled her name on hats and T-shirts with a gold permanent marker made for fabric. Once the film crews were ready, she rose to speak.
“Welcome to the debut of Flop, a new casual line inspired by street fashion in Europe and my native Ireland. As most of you know, I recently had quite a flop in Dublin. Some of the shoes were rigged to give way when the models walked the elevated runway. I was devastated, so I had to figure out how to make lemonade from the proverbial lemons. I’ve embraced my professional flop, and I hope you will, too.”
She went on to explain her new Flop concept, and how a percentage of funds raised would benefit the injured models and others with health issues. “Modeling is considered a glamorous profession, but there’s a darker lining to the industry.” She finished her presentation, and then she took questions from the reporters.
A man’s hand shot up. “Do you have a comment about Doyle O’Donnell?”
Fianna was bewildered. Why would he be asking about Doyle? “He’s been an old family friend for years.”
“What was his motive?”
“I beg your pardon, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Doyle O’Donnell was just arrested and charged for the shoe sabotage.” The reporter shoved a handful of photos toward her. “These are shots from the security surveillance film. Evidently he bribed a housekeeper to let him in the dressing room the night before. Now do you have a comment?”
“Since I knew nothing about it until now, I can’t comment.” It was all she could do to keep her composure. She flipped through the photos. Doyle, arrested? Impossible. And yet, there he was in the photo she held. And in another, with a female housekeeper. She studied the photos in disbelief.
Finally, she lowered the photos. Doyle was a jerk, but this action was utterly despicable. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such a devious plot to injure others. Did he do this because she’d spurned him? How horrible. But here was the evidence. She’d have to call Scarlett later. She dragged her attention back to the next question.
After fifteen minutes of questions on topics ranging from bulim
ia, to her new line, to her relationship with Niall, she wrapped it up. The reporter who’d asked the first question had already gone, but she still had the photos he’d given her. She placed them under the counter before sitting at a table to sign shirts and hats for customers who’d been waiting in line.
They were nearly at the end when they ran out of the merchandise they’d made, so they switched to pre-orders for the next batch.
Fianna and her team worked as long as there were people in line. When they finally closed the doors after dark, she kicked off her shoes. Dahlia, Evangeline, Tiffany, and the other interns did the same.
Fianna raised a hand to get everyone’s attention. “You all know what I’ve been through, and I can’t thank you enough. Wonderful job, everyone. Now it’s time to celebrate!” Everyone started clapping, and she raised a bottle. “Who wants champagne?”
She popped the cork and everyone cheered. As Evangeline poured champagne, Fianna thought about Niall, wishing again that he could have been here. She had no idea about how they would handle a distance relationship, or even if they could. She’d left in such haste. Now that she was home, her time with Niall seemed like a dream. Is that all it would ever be?
And yet, she was thankful to have known him. She was also grateful that her hasty line had been well-received today. No telling what might be printed in the tabloids, but Scarlett had been right about negative press. Sometimes it could be used to an advantage. They’d done well today.
Despite feeling bone-tired, Fianna smiled as she watched her team laugh and enjoy their camaraderie.
A photo dropped to the floor, and she bent to pick it up. It was one of Doyle the reporter had given her. He was coming out of the dressing area with a housekeeper, and he was holding her arm around her bicep. Something clicked in her memory. She squinted, held it to the light, and sucked in a breath.
This isn’t correct. Not at all.
