Charlotte Bennardo: Blonde Ops A Novel

Sophie’s eyes widened. And I steeled myself for the inevitable eye roll and possible “You’re a freak” look that would follow, but she smiled and glanced at the nearest phone.

“Let’s try it!”

I laughed. “We can’t. Not anymore. Phone systems have changed a lot since this whistle was made.”

“What could you do, if it did work?”

I shrugged. “Make free long distance calls, get information…”

She gave me a knowing look. “So you’re a hacker.”

I grinned. “I prefer information vigilante .”

“I see. Well, your secret is safe with me, but for the record, I think it’s cool. You’ll have to show me something sometime.”

I gave a noncommittal nod. I didn’t hack on command, or to show off. Draining my cup I said, “You totally missed your calling.”

She made a dramatic pose, her long hair drooping seductively over one eye. “Model?”

“I was thinking barista. Or maybe comedian.”

She snorted. “I have enough material from working in this place to do a stand-up routine. Interning here is the price of getting my foot in the door to be a fashion writer.” She rolled her eyes at one of the models passing by. “There are days when I have to remind myself that I really want to do this work instead of being a dog walker.”

I spent the next four and a half hours fetching bottles of water, cell phones, and other items within two inches of each model’s fingertips. They came and went: in the door, into Ugi’s makeup chair, then to Joe for hair, and then in front of Angelo and Aldo and out the door again.

Around 4:30, Sophie looked at the clock and prodded me, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and there’ll be a delivery today.”

I was about to ask her what she meant when a buzzing hum tore through the open front window, louder than the usual traffic. I knew that sound. It was an open carburetor modified to let more gas into the engine, increasing the speed over what a vehicle straight off the assembly line could reach. Dad insisted on setting the one on his classic Harley bike the same way. The neighbors hated it when he took it for a ride.

“We just got lucky!” she giggled and dragged me over to see.

I looked into the street to see a green Vespa pull into an empty spot and idle down. Then the driver took off his helmet and holy cannoli , did I start to feel lucky.

Windblown blond hair, faded jeans, and a tight blue tee shirt outlined a totally delicioso body. He looked up, and catching Sophie’s eye, waved. Then his gaze shifted to me.

I. Melt.

Sophie leaned on the sill next to me. “He’s sooo hot! And sweet too. Come on.” She dragged me downstairs. Didn’t have to tell me twice.

The messenger-god walked into the downstairs area the same time we did, a fat envelope under his arm.

“ Ciao, Dante,” said Sophie, a bright lilt in her voice.

Dante. Like the poet. I was definitely feeling the inferno.

He smiled and winked at her.

Um … my turn?

Dante turned a glorious, blue-eyed stare at me. “ Sto cercando …” He looked at the package, “Rebecca Jackson?”

I didn’t know what the first part meant, but at least I recognized my name, and it sounded oh so luscious rolling off his tongue.

“That’s me.”

He smiled shyly and handed the envelope over. Promptly, I dropped it.

Laughing, he scooped it up from the floor and presented it to me as if it were bouquet of red roses. I dragged my eyes away from him and checked the address. It was from Dean Harding. Oh joy—my homework. He must have put it all together last week when he and my mother had their secret meeting.

Dante carelessly tossed his hair, but it slid right back, making a curtain over one sexy eye. I was thinking that things weren’t going to be so terrible, independent study notwithstanding. With a crooked grin that left me speechless, he turned and left.

Breathe, Bec.

“Such a waste,” said Taliah, moving next to me, a disbelieving look on her face.

I turned to her. “What?”

“Do you know how many times Angelo tried to get him to model? I’ve seen agents chase him down to put a business card in his hand.” She quickly peered over to where Francesca sat at the front desk flipping through a binder, fat with model photos. “She’d kill for an opportunity like that, but she’ll never get one—not with that beak.”

I tried not to stare at Francesca’s slightly hooked nose. It didn’t seem that bad. Other models had imperfections—a space between their front teeth, eyes two different colors, or a beauty mark—and that didn’t stop them from making it to the runway or a front cover.

Taliah shook her head and threw up her hands. “He could be making twenty times what he’s getting being a delivery boy. He won’t even date a model! So stupid.”

With an exaggerated swing of her hips, she strutted away. I glanced at Sophie who shrugged helplessly. I decided that messenger-god Dante was someone I wanted to get to know better.

“Bec!”

I looked up to see Kevin leering down from the balcony like a vulture.

“Parker wants you in her office. Now!”

“She’s here?” I gasped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

He looked bored. “She had important things to do. Hurry up.”

I tried to remember the many faces I’d seen during the day. One of them had to be Parker’s, but which? “Where?” I asked.

“You forgot already?” His voice was snide. “Maybe the door with the sign that says ‘Parker Phillips?’”

As I trudged upstairs, I thought it might be a good idea to learn some low-down, insult-your-mama Italian that I could use on Kevin.

Better yet, Dante could teach me.

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Color sends a message! Kick up your confidence in a pair of sky high RED heels, or exude an aura of mystery in BLACK. Share a little sunshine with a splash of YELLOW or your positive outlook (and love of luxury) with a big ol’ blast of ORANGE!

3

“Come in!” called a muffled voice.

I opened the door, steeling myself to meet Parker Phillips.

A petite dark-skinned beauty rose from behind a cluttered desk to greet me. Her hair was sleek and cropped close to her head in tight-set curls. She reminded me of a glossy blackbird, bright-eyed and quick.

“Hi, Bec. I’m Parker. It’s nice to have you here.” She stuck out a firm hand for me to shake. I took it, mine soft in her tight grip. “I’m sorry, I should have met you at the airport myself and introduced you to everyone, but things have been crazy.” She swung an arm around her office, which was crammed with a large desk; boxes overflowing with papers, photos, and fabric samples; and shelves stacked with back issues of Edge and other magazines. “Rome isn’t New York, no real office space to be had, so we had to rent this townhouse.”

“It’s homey,” I said, and I meant it. Definitely not a “corporate” type of place. I liked that.

She grinned. “Isn’t it? Maybe I can convince our publisher to change things up back home. First, though, I’d like to start with extending our stay here.”

I tilted my head at her. “Has anyone ever told you—”

“That I look like the First Lady?” She laughed and sat back down. “Yes, I get that a lot. Go get your things while I shut down my computer. Then we can talk on the way to the hotel.”

Finally! Mom never said anything about me working for fashionista fanatics. I hoped Parker would set this all straight. Maybe I’d still come back to visit Sophie, though—say, around 4:30 … when Dante stopped by.

I retrieved my backpack and laptop case from the corner where Kevin had told me to stash them. He was right about no one touching them. After spending an afternoon at the Edge office, I understood why no one there would have any interest in me or my gear. No labels. No leather. No logos. In other words: L. A. M. E.