Charlotte Bennardo: Blonde Ops A Novel

Parker exited her office, wrapped in a brilliant orange shawl and carrying a coordinating Birkin. I followed behind. Mostly everyone was gone—except Kevin and Sophie. They sat on opposite ends of the vast common area, bent over their laptops with papers and photos spread all around.

“You’re still here?” Parker said.

Sophie looked up. “Just going over these last edits.”

Parker smiled. “Kevin!”

He raised his head.

“In the morning, we need to go over the ad proofs,” she said to him, and slid an eye in Sophie’s direction. “Now, lock up and go out on a date or something.”

He looked stunned. And embarrassed. “But what about—”

“Kevin,” She threw up a hand and now looked directly over at Sophie as if the message was meant for her too. “It’ll get done tomorrow. You’re in Rome. Go fall in love, throw coins in a fountain or something.”

“But—”

“Go. Home.”

Kevin smiled tightly, and although he looked taken aback, nodded and said, “We’re leaving. See you tomorrow.”

I followed her outside. The sky had just started to darken, and the sun glinted gold over terra-cotta rooftops.

“My staff might be small, but they’re dedicated. And Kevin,” Parker sighed, “he’s so…”

“Intense?” I offered dryly.

She smiled at me. “That’s the word.”

Well-dressed men and women strolled by us as we walked to the hotel, nodding and smiling as they passed. The late spring air was warm and scented first with strong espresso and the sweetness of toasted hazelnuts as we passed a crowded café, then with the sharp snap of garlic that wafted out of an open restaurant door. My stomach rumbled. Parker kept up a steady stream of chatter as we walked.

“We’re staying at the Hotel Beatrici while we’re working on the September issue,” she said, keeping a brisk pace in what had to be three-inch heels over the cobblestones. At this point my brain was too weary and underfed to do more than keep one foot moving in front of the other, but I somehow managed to appear interested and paying attention. “We do the location photography on site except for some indoor shots. At the office we handle all administrative and editorial tasks.” She paused, giving me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, you’re tired and you must be starving. I called ahead for room service, so we shouldn’t have to wait too long.”

The Hotel Beatrici looked like a miniature palazzo with ornate, whitewashed colonnades, floor-to-ceiling windows, and elaborate lights that hung over the doorways like giant stars. The yellow stucco walls glowed invitingly in the golden aura of the lamps, and an impeccably uniformed doorman swung open double carved oaken panels letting us into a posh lobby with black and white checkered marble floors and high ceilings. I wondered if Mom had it so grand in Belize, but all of it, the elegant entryway, the crystal chandeliers, and Parker’s Italian banter with the concierge, blurred together into a muffled mash of sight and sound. I didn’t care about the architecture, the history, or the opulence. I just wanted to eat, shower, and sleep. Or sleep, eat and shower. Whatever order, it didn’t matter.

I barely registered getting into the elevator and following Parker into our suite like a tired puppy on a leash. When I stopped moving, though, I gaped at the room and let my bag and laptop slide gently to the floor.

“It’s…”

“Pretty magnificent,” said Parker, setting her things down.

Okay, I’d go with that, but ostentatious was the word that came to my mind.

We were in a small sitting room. Inlaid tables and delicate chairs with tufted velvet cushions in jewel tones were artfully arranged in the center and along the walls. Heavy jacquard drapes that matched the foiled wallpaper framed tall windows that looked out over the city, capturing the soaring columns of a centuries-old church across the street as if it were the central subject of a painting—but one that changed depending on the light. Each window offered a view of a different scene. I could’ve stood there for hours staring at each one, watching the light slip lower as it ran like fingertips over the tops of the buildings.

Parker laughed. “It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a quick shower while we’re waiting for the food. That”—she pointed at the door to my left—“is your bedroom. Towels and everything you need should be in your bathroom. I had Sophie run out and get pajamas, a robe, and a change of clothes for you. Your luggage should arrive tomorrow. Your mom made arrangements for it to be shipped from your school.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering what else Mom told Parker—about school and about me.

Inside, I found everything just as she’d said. I was glad Sophie had been chosen to go shopping for me; she had decent taste. She’d bought a knit dress and a pair of wedge sandals, both black—guess you couldn’t go wrong with that—and in the right sizes. There was also a hot pink silk scarf. On closer inspection I could see that the floral pattern was a photographic print; black and white images of circuit boards, wires, and other hardware—totally me. But how could Sophie know?

Mom must have talked to Tam, who talked to Parker, who talked to Sophie.

A little lump welled in my throat.

Mom.

I was overtired and choked it down, turning the shower on full blast.

The hot water was bliss on my grimy body and gritty hair, the shampoo delicately scented with lavender, the towels fluffy. Slipping into silky-cotton pj’s the same color as my hair, I sauntered out into the sitting room where a silver serving cart had arrived. It was laid out with dishes of sliced chicken, bread, salad, fruit, and a bottle of wine.

“Here.” Parker handed me a plate piled with a bit of everything and a glass of wine. “Shhh! No need to mention this to your mom. It’s an Italian custom, and our little secret.”

Trying not to wolf down the food was hard, but I forced myself to take human-sized bites. I sipped the wine slowly. It was dry and tasted like wood. I smiled weakly, not getting what people saw in the stuff. But it was followed by a mellow warmth that wasn’t so bad. I wasn’t a fan, but I swallowed. Several times. To be polite.

Parker’s intense gaze made me leery and I looked away.

Was she gearing up to lecture me about the thousand things I must have screwed up today at the office? With the dirty looks Kevin gave me all day, I was sure he handed her a list of my bads before we left. If things didn’t go well she could ship me back home …

And face Mom and Dad? Not my best option.

“Wine is supposed to relax you, not make you worried.”

My head snapped up; I must’ve looked as surprised as I felt.

“I’m around young people all the time. I don’t have any children of my own, but sometimes I can read them better than their own parents.” She took a sip of wine. Me too—for my nerves, of course.

Parker slipped off her heels and curled her legs up on the chair, swirling the ruby red liquid in her glass. “Your mom is one of my best friends, although we don’t get to see each other much anymore. We’re both too busy.”

I wondered why Mom didn’t talk more about her friends. Maybe then being here wouldn’t seem so weird, like I was dumped with a stranger. Although being dropped off at a boarding school wasn’t much different.

“Your mom’s always talking about how sharp you are. It doesn’t take long to see that.”

I could feel a “but” coming next.

“This is the deal, Bec. You’re not here for me to babysit. Besides doing your schoolwork, you’ll intern for me.”

“I will?” I asked.

I didn’t mind having a job, but please! Not one with demanding models, overbearing designers—and Kevin. Anything but that—but I didn’t have much of a choice. And what would I be doing all day, and for how long? Did Mom fill Parker in on my special skill set?