Blonde Ops

by Charlotte Bennardo, Natalie Zaman

  “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 towards 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.

  “That’s Taliah.” He pointed to skyscra
per-girl from the photo shoot I almost ruined, now twirling around in a slinky fuchsia dress. I could see her skeleton poking through. Kevin’s fingers grabbed my shoulder and he swung me around to face several doors across the hall. “That office is Parker’s.”

  The one with the nameplate that says “Parker Phillips”? Thanks for the info.

  “The one to the left belongs to Serena and me. There’s the bathroom, and then the wardrobe and changing rooms. That last small door is a storage room.” He walked over to the balcony and leaned over, pointing. “Francesca is our receptionist. Toward the back is the kitchen, to the left is the common area where we edit copy and photos, write and fact check articles, do research and administrative work. It’s not a big place and there aren’t too many people. Even you won’t get lost.”

  “You mean like you did when we first got here and Serena sent you to look for the extra binder clips?” said a female voice, softly sweet.

  I turned around to find myself face-to-face with a pretty girl—red hair, creamy porcelain skin, and green eyes. She smiled. “We never have enough binder clips. Seems the models get thinner every season.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sophie.”

  Kevin looked like he was fighting being annoyed and amused. “Show her how to work the espresso machine. She’ll be using it. A lot.” With a final dark look at me, he turned and left.

  He so needed to chill.

  “Don’t mind Kevin. He’s a little high-strung, but he’s not so bad once you get used to him,” Sophie said when we were safely out of earshot.

  I didn’t plan on being here long enough to get used to him or anyone else. I followed her down into the kitchen. Thankfully there was a lot more than fruit. A large tray of sliced meats and cheeses rested on the counter, along with a basket of biscotti next to the monster espresso machine. I filled a plate while she worked.

  “Cappuccino?” Sophie asked, filling one of the filters with ground espresso. The rich smell of ultra-strong coffee snapped me awake. I could use a gallon of the stuff, I could feel jet lag settling in.

  Nodding, I said, “I’m Bec, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you. I hear you’re staying with Parker.” She snapped the filter into place and switched on the machine. “And that you’ll be interning here.”

  “That’s a surprise to me,” I said.

  She raised pale brows at me as she tipped two small porcelain cups under the spout to catch the steaming espresso. “You didn’t know you were interning?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She pressed her lips together into a sympathetic smile. “Well, it’s not so bad. I’m an intern too. I help Parker with the copyediting. She runs a tight ship, but she’s fair. I think you’ll like it here.”

  Francesca poked her perfect face into the tiny kitchen.

  “Make me a cappuccino. I was out all night and I’m so tired,” she said, then looked over her shoulder. “I’d do it myself but … I have to stay at the desk.” And then she was gone.

  “Like the models, Francesca can’t figure out how to use this thing, but she can work every free app and game on her cell phone.” Sophie made a face in the direction of the front desk. “Poor thing has to stay up front—unless Angelo is screaming for a model who’s late. Then she offers to ‘fill in.’” Sophie struck a model pose and blew a kiss. “She’s a little unfulfilled as a receptionist.”

  I giggled and Sophie joined me.

  “I can tell we’re going to be friends,” she said.

  Sophie spooned a thick dollop of frothy milk onto the top of each cup before handing me one and sipping from the other. For the first time since Dean Harding called me into his office, I started to relax. It felt good not to be alone.

  “Where are you from?” I asked, taking a sip.

  “Boston. I’m in Italy for a semester and staying with a host family not too far from here. What about you? What’s your deal?”

  The truth? I got kicked out of school and Mom banished me here because she knows Parker.

  “My mom and Parker went to college together. She had a long business trip and couldn’t take me along. Dad’s traveling too.” There. The truth, but only the part she needed to know.

  She eyed my whistle, dangling outside my shirt.“That’s an interesting accessory. What is it?”

  “A Cap’n Crunch whistle.”

  “You mean you got it out of a cereal box?”

  “Not exactly. It’s kind of like … an antique.”

  She squinted at it like she was trying to understand. “Does it work?”

  “Sure,” I said, and picking it up, blew a blast on it. A few people turned around. “Sorry!” I said. “But that’s not what it’s for.” How to explain … “Okay, so the frequency of this whistle was the exact same frequency the phone company used to route calls before everything went digital. If you blew the whistle into the phone when you dialed the operator, you became the operator.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. And I steeled myself for the inevitable eye roll and possible “You’re a freak” look that would follow, but she smiled and glanced at the nearest phone.

  “Let’s try it!”

  I laughed. “We can’t. Not anymore. Phone systems have changed a lot since this whistle was made.”

  “What could you do, if it did work?”

  I shrugged. “Make free long distance calls, get information…”

  She gave me a knowing look. “So you’re a hacker.”

  I grinned. “I prefer information vigilante.”

  “I see. Well, your secret is safe with me, but for the record, I think it’s cool. You’ll have to show me something sometime.”

  I gave a noncommittal nod. I didn’t hack on command, or to show off. Draining my cup I said, “You totally missed your calling.”

  She made a dramatic pose, her long hair drooping seductively over one eye. “Model?”

  “I was thinking barista. Or maybe comedian.”

  She snorted. “I have enough material from working in this place to do a stand-up routine. Interning here is the price of getting my foot in the door to be a fashion writer.” She rolled her eyes at one of the models passing by. “There are days when I have to remind myself that I really want to do this work instead of being a dog walker.”

  I spent the next four and a half hours fetching bottles of water, cell phones, and other items within two inches of each model’s fingertips. They came and went: in the door, into Ugi’s makeup chair, then to Joe for hair, and then in front of Angelo and Aldo and out the door again.

  Around 4:30, Sophie looked at the clock and prodded me, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and there’ll be a delivery today.”

  I was about to ask her what she meant when a buzzing hum tore through the open front window, louder than the usual traffic. I knew that sound. It was an open carburetor modified to let more gas into the engine, increasing the speed over what a vehicle straight off the assembly line could reach. Dad insisted on setting the one on his classic Harley bike the same way. The neighbors hated it when he took it for a ride.

  “We just got lucky!” she giggled and dragged me over to see.

  I looked into the street to see a green Vespa pull into an empty spot and idle down. Then the driver took off his helmet and holy cannoli, did I start to feel lucky.

  Windblown blond hair, faded jeans, and a tight blue tee shirt outlined a totally delicioso body. He looked up, and catching Sophie’s eye, waved. Then his gaze shifted to me.

  I. Melt.

  Sophie leaned on the sill next to me. “He’s sooo hot! And sweet too. Come on.” She dragged me downstairs. Didn’t have to tell me twice.

  The messenger-god walked into the downstairs area the same time we did, a fat envelope under his arm.

  “Ciao, Dante,” said Sophie, a bright lilt in her voice.

  Dante. Like the poet. I was definitely feeling the inferno.

  He smiled and winked at her.

  Um … my turn?

  Dante turned a gl
orious, blue-eyed stare at me. “Sto cercando…” He looked at the package, “Rebecca Jackson?”

  I didn’t know what the first part meant, but at least I recognized my name, and it sounded oh so luscious rolling off his tongue.

  “That’s me.”

  He smiled shyly and handed the envelope over. Promptly, I dropped it.

  Laughing, he scooped it up from the floor and presented it to me as if it were bouquet of red roses. I dragged my eyes away from him and checked the address. It was from Dean Harding. Oh joy—my homework. He must have put it all together last week when he and my mother had their secret meeting.

  Dante carelessly tossed his hair, but it slid right back, making a curtain over one sexy eye. I was thinking that things weren’t going to be so terrible, independent study notwithstanding. With a crooked grin that left me speechless, he turned and left.

  Breathe, Bec.

  “Such a waste,” said Taliah, moving next to me, a disbelieving look on her face.

  I turned to her. “What?”

  “Do you know how many times Angelo tried to get him to model? I’ve seen agents chase him down to put a business card in his hand.” She quickly peered over to where Francesca sat at the front desk flipping through a binder, fat with model photos. “She’d kill for an opportunity like that, but she’ll never get one—not with that beak.”

  I tried not to stare at Francesca’s slightly hooked nose. It didn’t seem that bad. Other models had imperfections—a space between their front teeth, eyes two different colors, or a beauty mark—and that didn’t stop them from making it to the runway or a front cover.

  Taliah shook her head and threw up her hands. “He could be making twenty times what he’s getting being a delivery boy. He won’t even date a model! So stupid.”

  With an exaggerated swing of her hips, she strutted away. I glanced at Sophie who shrugged helplessly. I decided that messenger-god Dante was someone I wanted to get to know better.

  “Bec!”

  I looked up to see Kevin leering down from the balcony like a vulture.

  “Parker wants you in her office. Now!”

  “She’s here?” I gasped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”