Intrigued, I quickly slipped my arms through the bra straps and reached back to maneuver the hooks into place. Again, it was like I wasn't wearing anything. The straps lay softly against my shoulders without cutting and the lacy cups provided support without the chaste appearance of full-coverage.
Only one test left to pass.
Eyes closed, I crossed to the full length mirror hanging on the back of my closet door, managing to avoid the dresser and the bed without incident. When I felt sure I stood directly in front of my reflection, I opened my eyes and ... marveled.
My first thought was that I looked like an underwear model. Without the ample chest, of course. The color and texture against my bare flesh—an awful lot of bare flesh, to be sure—made my fair skin look as smooth as cream. Rather than simply covered, supported, and protected my body looked—dare I say it—sexy.
Lifting my gaze to smile at myself in the mirror, I noticed that the colors made my eyes glow. I always knew that my hazel eyes changed depending on what I wore, but this was extreme. The three tiny patches of lace turned my plain eyes brilliant turquoise. And the gold accents brought out the golden flecks in the centers.
Nothing could deflate my grin.
"Come on, Lyd," Fiona called from the living room, "what's the verdict?"
I was not about to walk out into the living room virtually naked—even if these were my two best girlfriends out there. Quickly changing back into the jammies, I carefully folded the lingerie and placed it on the bed to be packed.
My grin still intact as I emerged, Fiona and Bethany smiled knowingly at each other.
Bethany stood and handed me the rest of the shopping bags. "Now you know Victoria's secret."
Knowing that you and only you know what goodies lie beneath the business suit or the ball gown. Knowing every guy would be panting at your feet if he only knew. That was the secret.
Bethany was right; now I knew.
"Have I told you guys how much I love you?"
Neither answered, but I found myself at the center of another group hug.
"Okay," Fiona said, her voice sounding suspiciously sniffy, "are you ready for The Extras, Part Two?"
Eyeing the make-up case warily, I had a pretty good idea what they had in mind. An image of Fi's lime green glitter eye shadow popped to mind, but I shoved it aside. Though they might each be outrageous in their own way, there weren't two people I trusted more.
"Do your worst."
Something reminiscent of absolute power glinted in Fiona's eyes. Hoping I hadn't just handed myself over to be Picasso's next project, I let them lead me to a stool at the breakfast bar.
"Just remember, I have to get on a plane with my bosses and my enemies in a few hours."
"Don't worry, you'll put them all to shame," Bethany assured. "He'll be at your feet."
I frowned. Gavin and Elliot would both be on that plane. "Which one?"
Bethany smiled. "Which one do you want?"
Saved from giving Bethany an answer by Fiona's order to close my eyes, I knew I would soon have to answer that question for myself.
"Where are you, Mom?"
The connection to her cell phone crackled and hissed before I finally heard, "Off the coast of South Carolina, dear."
"Wow, you've gotten far in four days." It was hard to picture my parents—especially Mom—roughing it on the high seas. I was glad they had chosen to stay close to land, following the east coast of the United States to the Key West before heading across open ocean to the Caribbean.
"What dear?" she shouted. "I can barely hear you. Hold on, let me plug in the antenna." There were a few moments of silences and the sounds of metal clanking against plastic before she spoke again. "There. Is that better?"
"Sounds fine to me. How is everything on the ship?"
A few moments of silence that could have been satellite delay, but sounded more like hesitation.
"It's not a ship, dear. It's a boat," she finally responded, avoiding my question.
"Fine," I amended. "How is everything on the boat?"
"Fine." Her voice was low and tight. "Everything is just fine."
It sounded like everything was anything but fine. But Mom had a tendency to keep her problems to herself. If she were ready to talk about it, then she would tell me.
"How's the deck hand working out?" I asked. I had been a little surprised and a lot relieved to find out they intended to hire experienced help for the voyage.
Not that I know the first thing about sailing, but I had a feeling there were a lot of things to do and a lot of things that could go wrong. Better they had someone to make sure that didn't happen.
I thought I heard a short growl.
"She's fine, too," Mom bit out a little too sharply for me to believe her. "I'm fine. Your father's fine. The bloody boat is fine. Fine and dandy."
Wow. That sounded like anything but fine.
I was about to probe deeper when I heard a female voice say something in the background about Charleston and deploying fenders. That must have been the deck hand. She sounded competent.
"I have to go, dear. We're docking."
"Alright, I'll call you when I get to Ita—"
The phone clicked and I was talking to dial tone.
For several long moments I just stared at the receiver, uncomprehending. My mom had just hung up on me. Again.
Clearly, everything was not fine.
"Miss Vanderwalk," Howard announced over the intercom, "the limo is here to take you to the airport."
A shiver of excitement tickled up and down my spine. The same shiver I got every time I traveled, but this time it was much, much stronger. Like an iceberg parked itself on my back. There were so many things this trip signified. The start of a new career—whichever one I ended up choosing. Maybe the start of a new relationship—or the renewal of an old one. And in some ways, the start of a whole new me.
"Wow," I breathed to no one but myself.
Bethany had taken Dyllie with her when she left this morning, graciously volunteering to dog-sit for the duration of the trip. Both girls had left me with identical orders to enjoy myself in Italy.
And I didn't think they meant with my sketchpad.
Handle of my Tumi rolling Pullman in hand, I turned and surveyed my apartment one last time. Everything was neat, clean, and put away. Sterile came to mind. Mom always made sure we cleaned before going on a trip so the house would be nothing but welcoming when we returned. Somehow, that had become a mainstay in my life—that everything be sterile so I would never have to face a mess.
Well that had worked out just swell. It seemed like everywhere I turned in my life I faced a mess on top of a mess. Since everything else in my life was changing, this might as well change too.
Marching into the kitchen, I grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with pineapple Fanta, took a single sip and dumped the rest right down the drain. As I set the dirty glass in the sink I smiled.
My life was changing; starting on the inside.
I said goodbye to my apartment—mess and all—from the front door. With a whoosh of the door and a click of the lock I bid farewell to neat and plain Lydia. The woman with a mess in her sink and an MTV-worthy wardrobe in her suitcase was taking over. And about damn time.
But as I waited for the elevator, I looked longingly at the black metal door with gold-toned numbers and matching peephole. All I could picture was that dirty glass and all the ants and roaches it would attract during the next few days.
By the time the elevator finally arrived I had added rats and feral cats to the image. Maybe a girl can't change all her stripes in one day.
My heart pounded and I knew I couldn't do this. Mental Post-It: send Danielle an email about the glass.
Decision made, my pulse calmed down to near normal as I crossed the lobby and emerged into the city night. While Howard and the driver struggled over who would load my suitcase in the trunk, I absorbed the magic of New York at night.
Other par
ts of town might be crazy with seas of people going clubbing, eating out, or just trying to get somewhere else, but my neighborhood saw only a few couples and families out for an evening stroll. A taxi cab dropped off an elegant looking woman clad in fur and heels across the street. My imagination pictured her knocking on her sweetheart's door, unwrapping her fur to reveal nothing but lingerie and stockings underneath when he answered.
A commotion from the limo drew my attention. The sound of raised voices and the shattering of fine crystal.
Trying to ignore whatever was going on I turned to the driver. "Do you have many more to pick up?"
"No, ma'am," he answered in a heavy Brooklyn accent, "you're the last."
Taking advantage of the driver's distraction, Howard jerked my suitcase out of his gloved hands and carefully set it in the trunk. "There you go, Miss Vanderwalk." He threw the driver a scowl, as if he had been planning on personally destroying my luggage. "All set and ready to go."
"Thank you, Howard. Have a good week."
The driver took my hand and lowered me into the back seat of the limo. Into the fashion world version of Animal House.
19
Q: What did the fork say to the spoon?
A: Who's that sharp guy next to you?
— Laffy Taffy Joke #67
"Buona sera," Ferrero greeted. "Welcome to the Italian Express. Strap yourself in for a bumpy ride."
The limo could have seated at least twelve, but only five others occupied the soft leather benches. Ferrero sat at the head of the limo, his back to the driver and the privacy window. Kelly sat to his very near right and Jawbreaker to his very near left. I was surprised that Jawbreaker's husband wasn't coming. She always made him sound like such a perfect doting husband. He worked a lot, I knew, but I figured this could have been a vacation for him.
The other two occupants, Gavin and Elliot, knelt on the carpet in front of the bar, carefully picking up shards of glass.
"Good evening," I responded, choosing to ignore the tension and awkward glances all around me and whatever had resulted in a broken champagne flute. "How is everyone tonight?"
Though I was just making polite conversation, the question prompted Kelly to leave Ferrero's side, climb gingerly over the two men on the floor, and plop herself on the seat next to me.
"Oh my god, Lydia," she squealed. "Isn't this just the most exciting thing ever?"
She threw her arms around me in a strangle hold, squeezing until I finally patted her on the back in reciprocation.
"I mean, not only is this my first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, but Milan? Milan? This is like my Mecca!" She could hardly keep her wiggling behind in the seat.
It was hard to believe she had never flown before. Never been out of the country. Everything about Kelly screamed jetsetter sophistication. Dressed entirely in winter white, in her lightweight wool slacks and chunky knit cowl neck she looked like she belonged on a private Greek island.
Unlike the outfit Fiona had selected for me to wear.
Which Kelly suddenly noticed.
"You look amazing! Like you're ready to step onto the runway." Her grin faltered for a second before adding, "The fashion runway. Not the airport kind."
All eyes in the limo—even the driver's, since the partition was down—turned on me. A long, low whistle let me know that Elliot approved of my new look.
I had to fight the urge to tug at the ruffles of the pacific blue satin tank, wishing they covered just a little more than they revealed. Though I had to admit, the way the ruffles accented things that weren't there and the way the bright blue made my eyes glow more than made up for the amount of flesh showing.
It had taken a lot of convincing to get Fiona to let me wear pants instead of the miniskirt she wanted. In the end, the statistics about the friction of pantyhose and bare skin on emergency ramps won out. To save my legs from third degree burns she had consented to a pair of tight black bootcut cords. They had just enough stretch to let me move freely and shaped my butt into a perfect curve.
And then there was the new make-up.
Fi and Beth had taken almost two hours applying my make-up. Both were experienced with professional make-up application—Fiona from working with make-up artists at the model agency and Bethany from working with make-up artists from the lines of cosmetics she sells in her shop. So, two hours later I really did look like a model.
Of course the worst of it was they expected me to remember how to recreate the look.
I probably could as long as I mastered the eyeliner. How Fiona lined the inside of my eyelids was still a mystery. But when I looked in the mirror and saw Brigitte Bardot looking back I had to admit that my past make-up skills had been lacking.
Bethany had even managed to spray and tease my limp, straight hair into a mass of voluminous, sexy curls.
A pair of cat-eyes and pouting lips later, I knew that the old Lydia—the one who used the Bobbi Brown all-in-one kit to the exclusion of all other make-up—was long gone, a lone brown M&M, sitting out in the rain and melting away into oblivion.
Hoping the cosmetic blush disguised the real color heating my cheeks at the attention, I managed a sincere, "Thank you."
While Elliot couldn't take his eyes of my screen siren face, Gavin's gaze dropped to my feet. He had always had a thing—almost a fetish, really—for sexy heels. Boink me pumps, he called them. And the four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos I wore were as sexy as they got.
Of course, I had a pair of Tod's driving mocs in my carry-on for the plane—it would defeat all the effort to get permission to wear the pants if I broke my ankle on my way to the emergency exit—but for the trip to the airport I wanted to feel the full effect of my new look.
The fire in Gavin's green eyes was unmistakable when he finally met mine. But the fire banked quickly as Elliot crawled across the carpet to my feet and settled into the seat on my right.
Gavin quickly disposed of the last of the broken glass and filled two of the remaining flutes with Veuve Cliquot. Taking the seat next to Kelly, he handed a glass to her and I waited, expecting him to make a toast.
Instead, he handed the second glass to me and smiled.
Though I half-expected Kelly to giggle and squeal, "Bubbles," she merely raised her glass, indicating I should raise mine as well.
"To Italy," she toasted.
"To Italy," I echoed, my gaze dancing briefly over Elliot and Gavin before resting on Kelly. "And to new beginnings."
As Kelly chattered on about Milan and all the things she wanted to do, I felt Gavin and Elliot's eyes on me the entire way to JFK. I knew they each wondered which new beginning I was toasting. If I knew myself, I might have told them.
The Alitalia plane touched down at 7:46 the next morning; almost twenty minutes early, but not a second too soon. Through some cruel trick of fate—or the fact that Kelly requested the seating assignments—she and I were seated next to each other in the last row of the first class cabin. Somehow, even the soft leather seats and fresh baked cookies couldn't overcome the fact that I had to listen to her gushing for the entire seven hours and twenty-one minutes of the flight.
Jawbreaker, of course, took the seat next to Ferrero in the row in front of me, leaving Gavin and Elliot neighbors in the seats across the aisle in my row.
Needless to say, there was not a lot of conversation from the other side of the gray patterned carpet.
As the plane taxied through the runways of Milan's Malpensa Airport—an unfortunate name for an airport, roughly translating as "badly thought"—and Kelly oohed and ahhed at the Gothic spires and Romanesque bell towers I gathered my belongings back into my carry-on.
I had resisted the urge to pull out my sketchpad and work during the flight. Feedback from Kelly was not on my birthday wish list.
Electing not to change out of the oh-so-comfortable-and-yet-still-fashionable driving mocs, I checked on the carefully tucked away Choos before zipping the bag shut. I would just have to rely on my black cashmer
e pashmina to exude my jetsetterness.
We emerged into the insanity that is Italy in the morning.
"We go this way," Jawbreaker called when I headed for the sign with a suitcase on it, beckoning with the promise of baggage claim.
I frowned. "Shouldn't we—"
"We have a car waiting," Ferrero interrupted. Spying a young Italian man wearing a black suit and muted gold tie and casually holding a sign that read Ferrero Couture, Ferrero made a beeline and immediately pushed his nearly empty briefcase into the man's arms. "I am exhausted. I need a siesta before the shows begin at ten. The hotel will arrange for the luggage."
The driver, clearly used to the eccentric temperament of Americans—fake Italian accent or no—simply shrugged the briefcase onto his shoulder and led the way to the car.
Following closely behind, I had a feeling Fiona would have enjoyed the view. The car service did not skimp on their drivers. Fi would already be enumerating the boundless opportunities provided by a hunky chauffer and an empty limo.
But, rather than push me back into the car and climb in after me, the driver politely held the door as we all climbed in and closed it softly behind us.
"Here is a rough schedule." Jawbreaker handed out a stack of papers printed on Ferrero letterhead. Tasteful gold embossed ivory stock.
What should my letterhead look like if I didn't accept Ferrero's offer? More fun, definitely. Maybe a bright lilac paper with blue lettering that matched my top. Ooh, and maybe something sparkly—
"Did you hear me, Lydia?"
"Wh—" I returned from my brief daydream to find all eyes on me. Jawbreaker's, weary and above purple-smudged sags, looked tired. "Um, sorry. Could you repeat that?"
"The first show is a ten o'clock, but we should be able to relax and unpack a little beforehand since the hotel is only a couple blocks from the catwalk venue."
"Oh, yes," I said mostly because I felt like I needed to contribute something, "that's convenient."
As she looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hands I almost thought Jawbreaker rolled her eyes.
Eye Candy Page 18
