THE FACE-OFF
Sitting at Marjorie’s desk was torture. Pure torture.
Emma’s whole body twitched, eager to get back to her studio and begin cutting patterns and draping her collection. She desperately needed to get her ideas out of her head and out of her sketchbook and onto Her Girls. Then she could see if she had anything with true potential. Once she had draped and pinned fabric onto the dress forms, Her Girls would let her know.
But the phone would not stop ringing. And Marjorie was doing a Houdini-disappearing act.
“Noah!” Emma called down the hall. Her dad insisted she use his first name when she worked the Laceland receptionist desk. “TableDesign on line three. Something about creases in the new series of tablecloths.”
Noah Rose stood by the entrance to the small kitchen alcove. “I was just going to heat up one of those toaster strudels.”
“Dad…” Emma warned. “Mom will have a fit.” Her mom had recently imposed a strict only-organic, all-natural rule in their apartment. She was proud of and quite surprised that her husband went along with it. But Emma knew the truth. It was easy for him to be healthy for several hours at home when the majority of the day he had boxes of Oreos at the ready. Her mom had no idea how much processed junk food was stored in the little gray cupboards at Laceland.
He paused, considering. “Oh, put them through. I guess it’s a sign.” Her dad pushed up the sleeves of his faded denim shirt and headed back to his office.
Emma linked the call through then turned to Charlie, who’d pulled up a chair beside hers. She swatted his green Converse. “Marjorie will amputate your stinky feet if she spots your sneakers on her desk.”
“No worries.” He leaned his chair back, nearly tipping and not moving his feet. “That woman’s coffee breaks are epic. Where does she go? To Columbia to pick her own beans?”
“I wish I knew.” It was true. Now that she had Emma to cover the desk, Marjorie’s afternoon breaks dragged on and on. “I need to get working.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking. You shouldn’t stress,” Charlie said. “I got you into this fashion show without asking and, aside from the clothes, I can totally organize everything. It’s all on me.”
“Aside from the clothes?” Emma faced him squarely. “Charlie, the clothes are everything.”
“Not as I see it.”
“There’s no fashion show without fashion,” she reminded him.
“But without a planned-out show, all you have is basically a closet—clothes hanging on hangers. Boring.”
“My clothes will not be boring,” Emma insisted.
“Emma, lighten up. I’m trying to help you here,” Charlie reminded her.
He was right. “Okay, I appreciate it. What’ve you done?”
“First off, I started with the models—”
The chime of the elevator followed by the swoosh of the doors opening diverted Emma’s attention. “Great! Marjorie’s back!” She stood, about to make her escape.
“Ciao!”
Emma dropped back into her chair at the sound of the lilting, thick Italian accent. So not Marjorie.
“Ho freddo, no?” An impossibly gorgeous young woman stood before them, trilling her r’s and pulling her black cashmere coat around her tall, slim body.
“Who’s Fred, Francesca?” Charlie asked. “Lucky boyfriend?”
“Freddo. He is no person. Freddo is brrr.” She chattered her small, perfect teeth for effect. Her garnet lipstick was meticulously applied and highlighted the creaminess of her complexion and the roasted-walnut color of her eyes.
“Cold,” Emma supplied. “She’s cold.” Working with Francesca was like living a Mad Libs, both of them forever inserting words in the wrong languages. Emma suddenly wished she’d thought to take Italian in school. Why had it never crossed her mind that she would one day have an assistant of her own who’d come straight from Milan? She grinned, imagining telling that to her advisor at Downtown Day. The woman would laugh her out of the building.
Yet here she was. Francesca Martinelli, daughter of Pietro Martinelli and heir, after three brothers and a sister, to the Martinelli Watch Company. Francesca came from big money and big style in Italy. Her connections had landed her a sought-after and short-lived internship at Madison.
Emma wasn’t sure exactly what Francesca had done or hadn’t done to frustrate every editor at the fashion magazine, but when the beautiful, yet flaky, Italian watch princess landed in Paige Young’s leather-skirted lap, she passed her onto Emma. Emma needed a “face” for Allegra Biscotti, Paige claimed. Someone who could talk to the public, answer phones, and act as shield between Emma and the world. And who better than an unemployable, fashionable twenty-year-old with a killer Italian accent?
Francesca rested her python-skin hobo handbag on the counter and peeled off her black, perforated leather gloves. “I have come to model,” she announced confidently, shaking free her shiny chestnut hair from the collar of her coat.
“Francesca is our model?” Emma asked. There was no denying that she was pretty enough.
“Nifty, huh?” Charlie said. “Paige is still employing her to work for Allegra. Basically, what I’m saying is, she’s free.”
“Free is good,” Emma agreed.
“I have practiced my walk.” Francesca shrugged off her coat to reveal skinny, black leather leggings with a charcoal swingy cashmere sweater slit up the sides. “Guardami!” she commanded them to watch as she strutted down the hall, as if she wasn’t wearing four-inch smoky gray suede booties. Francesca pulled her shoulders back and kept her chin level, swinging her angular hips with exaggerated motion.
“Do I have an eye for undiscovered talent or what?” Charlie crowed.
Pivoting quickly, Francesca’s narrow heel caught on a loose loop of industrial carpeting. She skittered across the floor like a puppy on marbles. Eyes bulging in horror, she grabbed the reception counter, narrowly saving herself from a damaging face plant.
“E ‘tutta colpa mia,” Francesca apologized. “I will practice more.”
“There’s a reason some talent is undiscovered,” Emma reminded Charlie. What if Francesca fell at the benefit? She could see the fabric of a full skirt pooling around Francesca as she dropped dramatically to the ground. She could hear the crowd’s incredulous gasp.
Francesca held out her phone screen. “I have snapshots. This is Marina.”
A pale woman with jet-black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and cold gray eyes stared out at them. She was undeniably striking but also a little scary. She looks like an international spy who travels with a knife strapped to her leg, Emma thought.
“And this is Carmen.” Francesca scrolled to a photo of a raven-haired young woman with a slightly crooked nose and the biggest eyes Emma had ever seen. Half her face was taken up by her luminous eyes. “Carmen è alta in altezza. How do you measure it? Bigger than six feet, no? Six feet four inches.”
The girl’s huge, Emma thought.
“Perfect!” Charlie cried. “When can we see them?”
“See who? Who are these women?” Emma demanded. “What’re you up to?”
Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh. “Em, you need models, yes? Francesca here knows impossibly tall European girls who might as well be models,” Charlie explained. “And who will walk your catwalk for free.”
Emma reached for Francesca’s phone. She flipped between the faces of the assassin girl and the giant girl. The first scared her. The second she had no idea how to cut clothes for such a large frame. “I don’t know—” she began.
“Si, si,” Francesca patted her hand. “We will practice. Walk many times. No problemo.”
“Does Paige know about this?” Emma asked, although she knew she didn’t. Emma was the only one who ever contacted Paige. She hadn’t wanted to call until she could present her entire vision for the benefit.
“Why does she need to?” Charlie huffed. “I told you I have this under control.”
“What are you going to tell these women?” Emma faced Francesca in a sudden panic. “Have you talked to them yet? Did you tell them anything about Allegra? About me?”
“No, no,” Francesca assured her.
“I can’t let two strangers in on the Allegra secret,” Emma explained. “I promised Paige. She was furious that I told Holly, and she’s my best friend.”
“So then what do you want me to do?” Charlie asked. “We have no money to hire real models from agencies. I looked at their sites. Even ones with barely any experience expect big dollars. It’s kind of how the world works.”
“We could use you, Francesca,” Emma offered. She’d make sure Francesca worked on her pivots. “And what about Holly? She has nearly a model’s measurements, and we can trust her.”
“Holly’s fine, but you need more models. Two won’t do. It’s a quickie fashion show. No time for behind-the-curtain changes,” Charlie pointed out.
“I hate it when you’re right,” Emma grumbled.
“Which is like 99.9 percent of the time.” Charlie grinned.
She did need more models. She chewed her lip then pulled out her special Allegra phone. Paige had insisted she set up a separate line and e-mail address for Allegra. She e-mailed Paige, outlining the fashion show opportunity and asking her advice about models.
I am out of the office at a shoot in Anguilla. If you need immediate assistance please contact Caroline Medy. Emma showed Charlie the automatic reply. “We’re on our own for now.”
“Francesca’s friends are worth a go-see,” Charlie said. “I mean, what good are all your designs if you have no one to model them?”
“Do you have other friends who look like models?” Emma asked Francesca.
“Si, many beautiful friends.”
What a stupid question! Emma chided herself. Of course, Francesca had tables full of gorgeous friends to call. These were the women that she met late every night at the über-chic restaurants. Francesca agreed to have the unbearably beautiful Euro-girls send pictures and measurements. Emma decided she’d figure it out from there.
“And what will us models be wearing?” Francesca asked, as Marjorie finally made her grand entrance and reclaimed her rightful perch at the desk.
“You want to see?” Emma was pumped to get to work.
“Em, you won’t believe the news I heard downstairs,” Marjorie began. Marjorie was the queen of gossip. She and her friends from the building took breaks in the lobby together to discuss everyone and everything.
“Can you tell me later?” Emma asked. Marjorie never told a short story.
“This you’ll—” Marjorie was cut off by the ringing phone. “Good afternoon, Laceland,” she answered and Emma gave her a quick wave.
“Everything is really just at a beginning point. Ideas, mostly,” Emma cautioned Francesca and Charlie. “Concepts and silhouettes, no details yet.”
“Si, si!” Francesca followed them back to her alcove studio.
Emma knew a lot of designers and artists wouldn’t show their work-in-progress, but she never believed in waiting to reveal the finished project. She liked input, even if she decided to ignore it. When she was excited about something, she wanted to share the excitement.
She cleared off her big table and arranged her sketches across it.
“I’m calling the collection Bead-dazzled,” she began. “Sparkle is the theme.”
“Sparkle?” Francesca wrinkled her nose. She was a very classic dresser—solid neutral colors and tailored silhouettes. She’d probably never worn a flirty, sequined dress in her life.
“Yes, sparkle and shine and glitter,” Emma said confidently. “Imagine twinkling stars or magical little white lights. Everything is better with a little bling. And I’m going to do a lot of bling!”
Then she explained the rain and the lights on bridge and the street and how they would translate into her designs.
“This here is just a simple tee with an intricate beaded collar. This silk tee will have beads sewn-on to look like the chains of a multi-strand necklace.” Emma pointed to each of her rough sketches.
“I like it,” Charlie said. “But it seems a bit…” he searched for the right word. “Simple?”
“I’m working up to the show stoppers. Building the suspense.” She pulled forward another sheath of sketches. There was a high-collared dress—a simple, flowing tunic—but the entire collar would be encrusted with beads. She had a pair of high-waisted pants with a wide leg and a beaded faux belt winding around the waist. She planned to show this with a cropped tank top with a spray of sparkle, under a simple, fitted jacket. She also showed off a page of re-purposed purses—old thrift store finds shaped like hat boxes, lunch boxes, envelopes—all with sparkly new beaded straps.
“This I like,” Francesca said, pointing to an asymmetrical skirt with beads lining half the hem. “Feminine but with an edge, no?”
“Exactly!” Emma exclaimed. “And everything can be dressed up or down.”
“I love it!” Charlie exclaimed. Then he frowned. “How are you going to make all these clothes? You have, like, twenty outfits here.”
“They’re all just ideas now. I need to work on the sketches to see what I like. Add lots more detail and figure out how to make the proportions work,” Emma said. “I’ll only end up making four or five outfits.” She eyed Charlie, who was now typing furiously on his phone. “Are you really taking notes?”
“Inspired ideas for the video shoot.”
“Video?” Francesca asked.
“Yes. We need a rockin’ beat for the models to strut the catwalk, and we need graphic and somewhat mysterious images flashing on a screen behind them to set the mood.”
“What is Allegra’s mood?” Francesca asked.
“Allegra’s nervous!” Emma joked.
“No, not like that, the mood of the collection. Urban magic. The beading of raindrops. The swirl of wet color. The otherworldly pull of twinkling lights. All against the asphalt and craziness of the city.” Charlie ran his hand thoughtfully through the gelled spikes of his hair. “Or something like that. Can’t you see it?”
“I can!” Emma loved that she and Charlie were infected with the same excitement. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” She walked to the corner where she and Charlie had propped the bolts of scavenged silk and cotton.
“O dio mio! What is wrong with this fabric?” Francesca moved closer for a better look.
“Nothing. This is the good stuff,” Emma said.
“Tu sei pazzo! This is not good. This is ruined.” Francesca poked at the deep water stains. “Why you buy bad fabric?”
“I didn’t buy it—that’s the whole idea.” Of course, Francesca would never get that. She dropped two thousand dollars on a handbag without ever bothering to look at the price tag. Emma imagined the Italian watch heiress had a trust fund that could buy a small island or two—or ten.
“So this fabric is old?” Francesca now seemed truly confused.
“Not old, just no longer needed.” Emma explained its rescue from the flood. “Look beyond its flaws. Check out the quality. I’ll transform this fabric,” she insisted.
Francesca titled her head, not convinced. “How?”
Emma surveyed the yards and yards of discolored white silk. She’d spoken too soon. She really had no idea. No idea at all.
“It’s all under control,” she lied. “The event is all about recycling and upcycling, and I’m staying true to the idea. This is the first step. I saved this fabric from certain doom, and I will transform it.”
“Emma, my Papa, he will let me buy fabric for you,” Francesca offered, her warm brown eyes alight with excitement. “Something pretty, yes? Something not spoiled”
“I like this fabric,” Emma insisted again. Reaching for her fabric shears, she snipped a large square off one roll. She held it up to the light, inspecting its weave and its weight. “No matter how it’s cut or who wears it, this silk is going to fall beautifully.”
In her gut, she knew this fabric was a good choice. She just had to find a way to make it runway-ready. And not so stained.
“What about the beads?” Charlie asked.
“What about them?” Emma shot back. The fabric square suddenly felt unexplainably heavy in her hand. There was a lot to think about.
“Where are you getting them from?”
Once again, Emma had no idea. This many beads would cost lots of money, of which she had very little. Wasn’t it enough that she had spent all night sketching these amazing outfits that she would soon have to cut, drape, fit, and sew? It was like asking a famous chef to also grow the vegetables and slaughter the animals for a five-star meal!
“I’ll deal with the beads second,” she decided. “First I need to make the fabric work. Maybe by then the bead fairy will appear.”
“Yes, and she’ll ride in on a unicorn,” Charlie added, “along with mermaid models and a fairy band.”
“That would be so beautiful,” Francesca crooned.
Charlie rolled his eyes. Francesca never got his sarcasm. They’d often debated if it was the language gap or just a natural lack of intelligence. Either way, she was clueless.
“I will do this without magic spells,” Emma insisted, gathering up her many sketches. She was feeling super-positive. She had so many ideas. She knew she could make everything come together. “The collection will be awesome. There’s nothing I can’t do,” she bragged.
* * *
A half hour later she discovered the first thing she couldn’t do.
Francesca pointed her fingernail, always polished in Mademoiselle pink, at the computer screen. “How do I answer this?”
Emma scanned the request. Several months ago, Charlie had created an Allegra Biscotti website with a dedicated email address. Francesca’s main role was to act as the voice of Allegra on the telephone, but since the phone wasn’t ringing all that much she often helped out by cleaning out the junk mail.
“It’s from a guy named Billy Perez. He’s Director of Publicity for Save the Earth,” Emma read aloud so Charlie could hear. “He wants a photo of Allegra for the Goin’ Green program, and he wants to take me, well, Allegra out to lunch.”
“Why?” Charlie asked.
“He says it’s a get-to-know-you meal, so he can write a piece for the program.” Emma tucked the stray strand of hair that was forever escaping from her ponytail behind her ear. “I don’t want to get-to-know Billy.”
“And he doesn’t want to have a meet-and-greet with you either,” Charlie quipped. “He wants to dine with Allegra, the sleek and mysterious Italian designer.”
“I can’t pretend to be Allegra, and I can’t give the guy a photo of Allegra,” Emma cried. “I mean, my school photo—forget framing, forget pinning to the fridge—my mom stuck the big one in a drawer and trashed the sheet of wallet-sized ones. And now I’m supposed to take a portrait and pass myself off as a glamorous, worldly woman?”
“Do you think…” Charlie nodded his chin toward Francesca.
Francesca would totally take a glam photo, but something about it felt wrong. “We’ve never made it out that Francesca is actually Allegra. We’ve only said she’s her trusty assistant. That’s it,” Emma countered.
“One of my friends, perhaps, could take the photo,” Francesca suggested. “Marcella, she has bellissima face—”
“No,” Emma jumped in. It wasn’t just Francesca taking the photo that felt wrong. It was anyone. Allegra was a made-up person, she knew that, but to Emma, Allegra wasn’t completely pretend or just a name. Allegra was her. Even though she couldn’t float her own photo as Allegra, that didn’t mean she wanted someone else filling the role.
Her role.
“We can’t pass off a real person as Allegra,” she told them. “Once the photo is out there, it’s out there forever. Nothing disappears. And then we have to keep using this same person. I mean, what if you go back to Italy, Francesca? Or what if your friend Marcella becomes famous herself for something totally different and then there’s this face out there for Allegra, but she also is in the paper for winning a mathematics prize?”
“Marcella is no good at maths,” Francesca said.
“Whatever, you get my point, right, Charlie?” Emma asked.
Charlie nodded. “We started in the fictional. We’ve got to stay in the fictional.” He pulled the laptop toward him and began scrolling through different images. “I say we create Allegra.”
“Create? Like some mad scientist?”
“Sort of. We download a random pic of some lady from the Internet, and then I use photo software to play around with her features.” He clicked on the face of a woman in her late twenties with soft shoulder-length auburn hair, high cheekbones, and fuzzy eyebrows. “See, we change the shape of her eyebrows. Make them thinner and more arched. And darken her hair and make it longer. Not that long. Okay, fixed that. And angled at the ends. Then make her lips redder and her skin paler.”
“It’s Cruella de Vil!” Emma shrieked.
“Allegra is witchy,” Francesca agreed.
“Okay, not my best work. I can do it better. Less harsh,” Charlie said. “Anyway, this way we’re not stealing the photo of some woman we don’t know.”
Emma stared at the fantasy woman with the piercing eyes and scornful brows on the screen. “There has to be a better way.”
“Em, I can do this on the computer,” Charlie began. “Just let me—”
“No photo. At least not now.” Emma sighed, exasperated.
“When?” Francesca asked.
“I don’t know when.” Couldn’t they understand that every mark of her pencil and every stitch of thread were tied to her?
“E-mail the guy back,” Charlie instructed Francesca. “Say Ms. Biscotti is in someplace like Milan, so she’s not available for lunch. Apologize and all that. About the photo, well, push him off. Say you’re searching out a photo for him to use.” His pale eyes brightened. “We could pretend Allegra has a fear of being photographed.”
“That’s a whole lot of pretending,” Emma replied. All of a sudden, the enormity of this fashion show and bringing Allegra out in front of so many influential people hit her. She felt like a little girl playing dress up in her mother’s heels. “How long can I really get away with being a secret, undercover fashion designer?”
“If you play it right, a long time,” Charlie said confidently.
Emma hoped she was playing it right. The rules to this game were getting a lot more complicated than she could’ve ever imagined.