Charlotte Bennardo: Blonde Ops A Novel

But there was no need to worry. An older man in a well-fitted suit and fedora held up a sign with my name in a scrawl. I waved and he walked over, smiled, and took my carry-on, holding his free hand out for my laptop case.

“ Signorina , please, may I?” he said, and reached for it.

I shook my head—“No, that’s okay”—and pressed it closer to my chest. I didn’t like anyone touching my equipment. He shrugged and turned away.

Squished into the back of a Fiat, I gripped the seat edge with sweaty hands as he wove in and out of traffic on the highway, dodging a truck that looked too rickety to be legal, then daring to race a blue Ferrari. He had amazing reflexes for an old guy. I was relieved when we finally got on a road where he had to drive slower, a street called Via Portuense that ran along the Tiber River.

Despite the haze of exhaustion, I gazed out the window. We passed countless statues, fountains, churches, and temples that looked older than time. I was really in Rome . I’d been to Europe before with my parents but usually got stuck at the hotel while they were in meetings. I’d seen a little of Prague, got glimpses of Barcelona, Munich, and Cannes. I’d only flown by myself to and from boarding school over vacations.

I’m in Europe.

Alone!

How could they do this to me? I got into trouble at school. Aren’t they afraid of what I’ll do when I’m an ocean and two continents away?

Bright flowers popped out of window boxes, and terra-cotta roof tiles added warm color to the clear blue sky as we snaked and bumped over cobbled streets that were hair-raisingly narrow. Vespa scooters putt-putted next to us, the drivers gesturing or yelling if the Fiat got too close.

We pulled over in front of a row of pale stuccoed buildings that looked left over from the Renaissance. When I stepped out of the car, the driver handed me my bag with a small bow. I fumbled for my wallet and handed him a twenty; I only had American dollars.

He shook his head, smiling. “ No, signorina, buono, ” and he slipped back into the car and shot away before my brain remembered that grazie was the word for thank you.

He’d dropped me in front of a large house. A shiny plastic sign with “ Edge Magazine” emblazoned across it in bold black letters had been stuck to the door. Someone answered as soon as I knocked, a pin-thin girl in black skinny pants, a long-sleeved tee shirt in vivid geometrics that clung to her tiny frame, and outrageously high stilettos with wicked pointy heels. Her pale blonde hair was pulled away from a face with skin so perfect I doubt it had ever experienced a pimple.

Taking a sip from a bottle of mineral water, she said, “Rebecca?”

My name rolled off her tongue with a Euro-flourish of vowel. I liked the way it sounded.

“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.