Andie paced back and forth across her room, hugging a bright orange throw pillow to her chest like a life preserver. She hadn’t been so nervous since Ben Carter asked her to be his girlfriend last fall.
She looked at the piece of paper on her desk one final time. She had bulleted out all her points and memorized them, like she had for her history report last year. Technically she was supposed to be helping Emma pick out centerpieces, but there was no reason she couldn’t bring up her modeling career while comparing peonies and roses.
She would start by telling Emma how modeling was her destiny.
If Emma said she was too young, she’d remind her that she herself had been thirteen when she shot her first Calvin Klein ad.
If she said Andie was too petite, she’d argue that Kate Moss was five-foot six—short for a model!
If she said the business was tough, she’d tell her her skin was thicker than a vintage Yves Saint Laurent alligator purse.
She’d leave out the fact that she’d submitted photos of herself with her contact information to the Ford website and that they hadn’t called back. They probably never checked the site anyway.
Then she would ask Emma if she could go to Fashion Week at Bryant Park with her. Emma had been so busy running around with Gloria, deciding on tablecloths and what paper stock she wanted for thank-you notes, she was missing most of the week’s events. But she had to go to the Ralph Lauren show tomorrow afternoon. And with a little luck, Andie would be her plus-one.
The beige plastic intercom on the wall crackled. “Andie, Gloria is here with the flowers,” Emma’s voice cooed.
Andie raced down the stairs and into the kitchen. Emma was standing next to the granite island and talking on her cell phone. “I realize that,” Emma said into her phone, “but it’s an inconvenience.”
Andie stood in the doorway, frozen. No matter how many times she passed Emma in the hall or ate oatmeal across from her, she was always a little starstruck. It was like finding the Jonas Brothers in your bathroom.
The granite kitchen island was covered with flowers. An older woman stood next to Emma, running her mauve fingernails through her thinning brown hair. Her skin was bizarrely taut.
“Gloria Rubenstein,” the woman announced, taking Andie’s hand in her own. “They say I’m one of the best party planners in New York—and they are right.” Gloria let out a little laugh, her eyes wide open as though she were surprised.
Andie glanced at Emma, who was still on the phone. “Right,” Emma said, sounding annoyed. She pressed her finger against her temple. She set the cell phone on the counter and looked at Andie and Gloria apologetically. “I’m so sorry, I’m afraid we have to postpone this—apparently Winston and I have to be at a tasting at the boathouse in half an hour.”
Andie pulled at the hem of her skirt, disappointed. The Ralph Lauren show was less than a day away, and she’d been waiting all summer to talk to Emma about modeling. But every time she’d chickened out. Today was going to be the day. She stared into Emma’s face, the same one she’d seen on the side of every New York City bus during the Chanel No. 5 campaign. “No problem,” she said brightly, forcing a smile.
“Thank you for understanding.” Emma grabbed her cropped trench from off a kitchen stool. Gloria waved a hand, as if used to dealing with flighty, overbooked clients.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Emma promised Andie as she headed out the front door.
Andie trudged up the stairs, just as Gloria’s cell rang.
“Romando! Darling!” Gloria cried loudly. “Tell me you’re available to shoot Sunday. It’s Emma Childs’s wedding—you should be paying us.”
Andie walked upstairs and paced outside of Winston’s old office. The decorators had painted the walls a mustard color and put a queen-size bed by the window. The door of Stella’s closet was open, a pile of brown boxes stacked next to it like a giant Jenga tower.
“Stella?” Andie finally asked, her voice a little squeaky. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the Allure article with Stella—the girl who said Paulina was practically her aunt. If Emma couldn’t get her into Fashion Week, maybe Stella could. She crept over to the closet, where Stella was kneeling on the floor, opening a cardboard box that said STELLA HAIR PRODUCTS.
Stella sat back on her heels, holding two bottles of Frédéric Fekkai shampoo in her hands like barbells. “Bollocks,” she mumbled, glancing up at Andie. “I’ve gone through my entire room twice and I’m still missing two boxes—Beauty Supplies and Dress Tops Three,” she explained. “And I can’t find any of my charcoals.”
“Stella…” Andie said slowly, leaning against the door frame, “Last year I read that article in—”
“Did the movers put any boxes in your room?” Stella interrupted, pushing past Andie and digging through another box on the top of the stack.
“No…” Andie said, pressing on. “I guess I just wanted to—”
Stella threw down a pair of Anlo jeans and put her hands on her hips. “Now is not a good time, C.C.,” she sighed. “I’m in crisis mode.” She disappeared back into the closet and lifted up a pair of Jimmy Choo heels, as if a cardboard box could be hiding underneath them.
Andie stepped back, stung. C.C. She had been hoping that was filed in the back of Stella’s brain, along with every other thing Cate had called her (midget, wannabe, poser, Munchkin). But apparently it was right up there, front and center.
She walked out of Stella’s room, defeated. She’d been silly for thinking she could talk to Stella about modeling—three days might have passed, but nothing had changed.
Stella sprawled out on her bed, staring at the ornate crown molding. Clothes and boxes were spread out on her floor, like her closet had thrown up all over her room. Not only did she have zero friends in New York, now she didn’t have any dress tops, either. Not that she felt like wearing them, anyway. She’d texted Bridget and Pippa five times, but it was nearly twelve o’clock in London, and neither of them had answered. She tugged at a golden blond ringlet until her scalp hurt.
Someone cleared her throat. Lola was perched in the doorway, scanning the room as though Stella were the victim of some horrible natural disaster. In her hand was a small bag from somewhere called Duane Reade.
“Does this look like your room?” Stella muttered, sitting up.
“Sorry,” Lola said quietly. She stared at the ripped cardboard box in the corner. “What are you doing?”
“Mourning the loss of my favorite Madison Marcus silk top.” Stella frowned. Then she narrowed her eyes at Lola. “Did you steal a box of mine?”
“No, no.” Lola shook her head. “I already unpacked my clothes.” She wandered into Stella’s room, stepping over a colorful pile of Chanel nail polishes. On Stella’s dresser was a framed photo of their family from Boxing Day. They all had thin paper crowns on their head in light green, purple, and pink. Lola pressed her finger into her dad’s grinning face, feeling like she’d swallowed a brick. It had taken a month before they’d found out about Cloud.
Lola smoothed down her frizzy hair and turned to Stella, chewing the ChapStick off her bottom lip. “Stella?” she asked. She wanted to tell her about the cab incident this morning, and how’d she’d eaten her lunch in the courtyard with Birdy, one of the Ashton security guards. She wanted to tell her how Kyle—geeky, I-shoot-peas-out-of-my-nose-at-dinner Kyle—was cool now. And more than anything, she wanted to ask how Stella could walk by that picture every day and not feel like she’d been run over by a tank. She set the frame facedown on the dresser.
Stella leaned back against her headboard, watching Lola’s freckled nose. It always twitched when she was about to cry. She knew that Lola hated talking about their dad—she hadn’t said a word about him all summer in Tuscany, and refused to talk to him whenever he called. It made it easier for Stella to be nice to him—Lola was mad enough for the both of them. Yes, he had made a massive mistake, but he was still their dad.
Just then Stella’s iPhone blared its techno ring. She picked up the phone and looked at the vibrating screen. Cate.
“Lola,” she said holding up one finger. “I have to get this, hold on.” She picked up her mobile. “Hello?” she asked. Cate had only ever called her once—and that had been three days ago.
“What are you doing?” Cate asked.
“Just unpacking my clothes—”
“Alone?”
Stella eyed Lola, who had walked back toward the door, swinging the red and blue Duane Reade bag around her thin wrist. “Of course I’m alone,” Stella muttered. “Do you have to rub it in?”
Lola stopped swinging the bag and looked at Stella, her nose twitching again. Stella tried to mouth the word sorry, but Lola stormed out of the room.
“Thanks for the intel before,” Cate continued. “I’ve decided you can hang out with us. But it has to be on my terms.”
“Fine,” Stella replied, not really sure what “my terms” meant. But before she could ask, Cate had hung up.
TO: Blythe Finley, Priya Singh, Sophie Sachs
FROM: Cate Sloane
DATE: Monday, 9:18 p.m.
SUBJECT: Democracy Now
Listen up, ladies!
As official leader of the Chi Beta Phis, it’s my duty to ensure that all prospective members go through a screening process more rigorous than the CIA’s. I refuse to have you subjected to any more shows on ice.
At our last sleepover, you asked if we could hang out with my stepsister, Stella Childs. Now, I’m answering: yes. For the next five days Stella will be “in trials.” I’ll give her a series of tasks to see if she is Chi Beta Phi material, and on Saturday (assuming she completes all her trials) we’ll vote to see if she should be in.
Be discerning!
Cate