Where Beauty Lies (Sophia and Ava London) (6 page)

The man with the silver hair clapped. “Bravo. Nicely done. Sounded authentic.”

Everyone turned to look at him. “No, really,” he said, playing with his ear. “That was a perfect way to handle it.”

“This is not a handle, I am serious,” the Contessa said. “Who is it that flatters us this way?”

“Best part,” the guy with the silver hair said, pointing at the Contessa. “She’s your star.”

Sven raised his hand halfway and whispered to MM, “I do not understand what goes on.”

MM shook his head. “No one does, sweetheart. Just get tense and stay that way.”

The woman in yellow made a face. “Enough grandstanding. The charges against you are very serious and, as you can see, the evidence is compelling.”

“Evidence of what?” Ava asked.

“That you stole your designs from Christopher Wildwood.”

The Contessa laughed, and Sophia thought she saw the crazy eyes peeking out. “That is absurd. This Christopher Wildman, he is a hacky sack.”

“It’s just ‘hack,’” the man with the braid told her condescendingly.

Her crazy eyes looked at him. “Oh? The thing you kick with your foot until is dust and cries for mercy like the small piece of garbage it is?”

“No, okay,” the man with the braid said, backing off. “That’s a hacky sack.”

The Contessa started muttering darkly in Italian, then turned to Toma and snapped her fingers for the translation.

“My mother says that even if Christopher Wildthing took male pills and grew a second head he would not be able to design such clothes.”

“And I thought all it took was kindergarten,” the silver-haired man mused, apparently to himself.

“These are ours,” Ava said, and her voice sounded lost and forlorn to Sophia. “We designed them. My sister and I. We have movies of us working on them. Give them your phone,” she said to Sophia. “Show them.”

Sophia put a hand on her sister’s arm to steady her. “That’s right. We document our process as we go along. I film it either on my phone or our iPad, which automatically register the date.”

“Easily faked,” the woman in yellow said. “Not conclusive.”

“Can’t you level the same accusation against Christopher Wildwood?” Sophia demanded.

Ava bounced to her feet then. “What if I could show you something new?” she asked, excited. “We’ve got a new piece we just started. That way you could see it’s ours.” Circling behind one of the workbenches, she pulled out another mannequin. “This is an extra look. I just got an idea a few days ago and decided to—” she whirled her hands around, “so it’s not far along but I can tell you how it came about.”

She tugged the mannequin closer to the couches. “I took the fabric and draped it, like this, first, then over here, and thought of a back that did this.” She gestured with her fingers, then turned the mannequin to show the finished project. “Originally, we had the crystal trim here”—she pointed to the waistband—“but then yesterday Sophia suggested moving it along here”—she showed it edging the bottom hem—“and it just popped.”

“It’s beautiful,” the woman in yellow said. “When did you say you started it?”

Ava looked at Sophia. “I remember it was almost sunny.”

“It was the day I went with you to Starbucks,” Sophia said, with a wink.

MM nodded. “And you were wearing the black leather shorts and over-the-knee boots with that silk top.”

“And we had tacos,” Lily said

“I had a fried muffin,” Sven announced.

“That was Tuesday,” Ava told them. “Two days ago.”

“
Bene,
you see,” the Contessa said.

“I do,” the woman in yellow said. “Because the designer bringing the charges did this sketch the day before.” She held out her tablet to show a drawing of a nearly identical dress, in a different fabric and with the trim around the waist in the first place Ava had shown them, dated Monday.

“That’s—that’s not possible,” Ava said.

“But our version, it is far superior,” the Contessa told them.

“It’s the same dress, with the trim moved,” the man with the silver hair said, staring up at the ceiling.

“How do you know he didn’t steal it from us?” Ava asked, and Sophia saw that she was shaking. “He could have written a false date on the drawing.”

The man with the ponytail said, “He could have. But why would Christopher Wildwood need to? He’s a pro. Whereas you—”

“Are brilliant newcomers,” Lily announced.

The man with the braid gave her a patently fake smile. “Exactly.”

The committee pulled off to the side to consult, and when they came back the woman announced, “We’ve decided to recommend that your credentials be pulled, and your place in the tents suspended.”

Sophia felt like she was in a dream, like all the voices were coming from far away. She and Ava had worked harder on this than on anything else in their lives. They had dreamed up every inch of every garment. The fact that someone was stealing them and was going to get away with it—it was mind-bending.

“This isn’t a game,” she said suddenly. “You are all acting so casual but do you have any idea of how much work we’ve put into this? My sister and I?”

“I’m sure you think you have,” the man with the braid said.

Ava stepped in front of Sophia. Her voice was calmly curious as she asked, “Why do you believe him over us?”

“He has a track record, he has drawings, he’s been to design school,” the woman in yellow said primly. “And he never compared our profession to kindergarten.”

The man with the braid nodded smugly. “You need to learn not to bite the hand that feeds you. It has a tendency to bite back.”

“You wish to see the biting,” the Contessa said, crazy eyes blazing. “You want biting?” She picked up a pair of sheers and began snapping them toward the committee. “I bite you, all of you, into tiny pieces and then make gypsy stew.” She went up to the man with the braid and grabbed it. “And this,” she said, snapping the scissors. “This I cut right now. I make perhaps bracelets for my biffs.”

“Help!” he said, pulling away from her and rushing to the door. “She’s crazy. Get her away from me.”

The Contessa stood smiling at the two other committee members, opening and closing the scissors. The woman in yellow said, “Consider your certification revoked and your place in the tents gone,” and stomped out the door.

The man with the silver hair laughed, pointed at the Contessa, and said, “An absolute gem.”

LonDOs

Oreos

Our designs

Tear-proof mascara

Boyfriends who pay attention to you

The Contessa with the scissors

Friends who remember what you wore. And ate.

Cute guy at Starbucks with the sleepy eyes

Kitties that fit in your slippers

Puppies that lick you awake

LonDON’Ts

Wearing hot pink and yellow together if either of those is hair

Discussing kindergarten with reporters

Reporters with stupid Twitter names

Thinking anything will be easy

Whoever is stealing our designs

“Just being yourself” when it means that it ruins things for everyone else

Kitties who ate through the cord of the bedside-table lamp

5

did you hair?

“Run, braidy, run!” the Contessa called after the committee. She snapped the scissors twice more, then dropped them onto the table. “That was fun, yes? You see him fearing?” She laughed and looked around the table at Ava, Sophia, Lily, MM, Sven, and Toma.

Sven managed a tepid smile but everyone else just stared at her. “But what is this?” she demanded. “Why is everyone so frowning? We do not eat this picnic basket of lies. We fight. So they say you cannot play in our big box of sand blah blah blah.
Beh,
we will find our own box of sand to play in. This is all—” She snapped her fingers. “Warm breath. It means nothing.”

Lily nodded slowly. “That’s true. All you need is another venue.”

“It might be hard to get press coverage,” MM warned. “Writing about designers without credentials can get a publication in trouble.”

“The press is no problem,” the Contessa said, running her finger along the edge of one scissor blade. “I can make press coverage.”

Ava was staring into space. “I just don’t understand. How?”

Sophia shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Ava was pale. “The only people who have seen the work are in this room.” She looked around at Lily, MM, the Contessa, Toma, and Sven.

“And the three seamstresses,” Sophia said. “But they weren’t with us in LA, and most of the designs they stole would have had to be taken then.”

“Plus, I know these women a long time,” the Contessa said. “They work for my father. They would not do this thing.”

Sven raised his hand. “Perhaps the phone or the computer? They are turned into spies?”

Toma sat up. “Yes, this is possible,” he said. “I have medium-level encryption only. I am thinking no big deal for the clothes, but maybe the system is breached. I will erect a firewall with a hypersensitive perimeter and set a jelly can trap—” He stopped and looked at all of them with narrowed eyes. “I will not disclose it. Give me your phones and computers, I will make a trap with the follow bots.”

Ava leaned over to Sophia. “Is he speaking English?”

“With a hint of Operating System,” she said. “Could Toma be—”

“My little
angelo
hacker.” The Contessa said, beaming. “Of course you do this. But be careful, no? I do not want this to be like what happened in Spain. Such beautiful carpets the men from the security force destroyed during the raid.”

“Do we want to know?” Sophia asked Ava.

Ava shook her head definitively.

Sophia’s phone, which had rung at five-minute intervals for the last half hour, rang again. She was aware of the Contessa glancing icily at her every time but there was nothing she could do about it. Hunter had a routine he liked to follow, with boxes for everything—running at 8:00
A.M.
, breakfast at 9:15, meetings, golf, lifting—all precisely planned. When his schedule said Talk to Sophia, he wanted to Talk to Sophia, and would keep calling until he got her.

Which was nice, she knew. That he wanted to talk to her. That he called “just to hear her voice.” Only a fool would complain that her boyfriend paid her too much attention.

The next time her phone rang, Sophia said, “Excuse me,” and moved slightly apart to take it. But she and Hunter had barely gotten through the opening act—

HIM:
Where have you been, princess? I missed hearing your voice.

HER:
Sorry, in a meeting.

—when Ava began frantically waving Sophia back to the table. She promised to call him back in a few minutes and went to rejoin the others.

“What’s wrong?”

Ava said, “Toma needs your phone to amp up the security.” Her eyes moved, refusing to meet Sophia’s. “And one of our models just pulled out.”

*   *   *

By three thirty, when Harper Harlow, their PR woman, arrived, they’d lost four models to various infections that required them by doctor’s orders to stay in bed until the day after the AS show.

Harper always wore the same thing, a gray dress, black platform pumps, a large diamond on her middle finger, and her phone earpiece. Her dark hair was twisted into a chignon. She double kissed everyone and said in her cool English accent, “Well, children, this is clearly a disaster.”

Ava nodded glumly.

“Which means, there’s only one thing to do.” She pulled three folders out of her shoulder bag.

“What?” Sophia asked.

“Go to parties. You two,” Harper handed one of the folders to Sven and MM, “will be doing art parties with the big collectors and the hip after-parties to get the buzz going. The details are in the folder. Your job is to sell the story that the girls are being targeted because they’re different, young and new, that it’s jealousy of the old establishment because your girls are so good. Your second message is that their show is going on and is going to blow everyone’s mind. Got it?”

“We just tell the truth then, yes?” Sven said.

MM pulled him close. “How I adore you.”

Harper handed a folder to Lily. “You’re doing the private house parties, society types, ladies who lunch, people on the board of the museum. You’re there to reach the people who own and run the magazines, and start building sympathy for our side. Make them think of the girls as their daughters and nieces.”

Lily scanned the paper. “Shouldn’t be hard. I think I’m related to most of these people.”

Harper handed the last folder to Ava and Sophia. “You’re hitting the main parties. Your job is to say you’re shocked and saddened by the allegations, you have only the utmost respect for Christopher Wildwood but you have never nor would ever steal anything in your lives, and you take what you do very seriously.” She looked around. “Does everyone know their part?”

“And for me,” the Contessa said, holding out her hand.

Harper pointed a finger at the Contessa. “You I am not speaking to. Do you have any idea what my phone looks like in the wake of”—she took it out, thumbed down—“scissorgate? Young Green has just had his braid insured for a million dollars.”

“What is Young Green?” The Contessa made a face. “Sounds like the medicine for influenza.”

“It’s the name of the man you threatened.”

“Not him, his hair,” the Contessa corrected. “It is quite beautiful I will say. Would make a very nice scarf. But okay if you say to me not to take the scissors to a party, of course I won’t.”

Harper shook her head. “No, love, I’m saying you are going to sit at home and think about what you’ve done.”

As far as Sophia and Ava could tell, Harper was the only person who could say things like that to the Contessa and expect her to listen.

Eventually.

The Contessa shook her head back. “I will not.”

Harper nodded and chucked the Contessa under the chin. “Yes, you will. Because otherwise I quit.”