Charlotte Bennardo: Blonde Ops A Novel

Parker looked surprised. “Didn’t your mother tell you?”

I stared at my half-finished plate, no longer hungry. “We didn’t have a lot of time to talk.”

“No matter. There’s so much to experience here. The designer boutiques, open-air markets. Every street has something historic if you’re into that. There’s always the usual tourist stops or a million other fabulous little places you won’t find in the guidebooks. This could be the most wonderful summer of your life.”

“Summer?” It was only late April! I thought Mom and Dad were going to be home in a few weeks.

Parker set down her goblet carefully. “She told me if things worked out, a little time away from home would be good for you— if there are no problems. I don’t have my full staff with me—not even my personal assistant—and these Italian segments are only one part of the September issue. Thank God for the locals and temps Serena managed to find to help us out.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Aldo, Ugi, and Joe, not to mention the models. This whole trip would be a disaster if it wasn’t for Serena. There’s so much to do that everyone’s pulling double and triple duty. You’re going to do a bit of everything. You may assist the photographers one moment, type copy the next, and then arrange meetings for me. After Rome, we’ll be back in New York. Are you up for it?”

Her dark eyes were direct and probing. I swallowed reflexively; I knew what that look meant. She kept a high-profile magazine running smoothly, navigated through a foreign city like a native, and agreed to take me in with my less than stellar reputation. She wasn’t afraid of anything.

I considered the alternatives. Run away? No. Cry to go to Belize with Mom? Not possible. Make an illegal dip into the credit card for a return ticket to Cali? Don’t even think about it! I was stuck here, though it seemed like an okay deal and Parker seemed pretty chill—“seemed” being the operative word all around.

“I’m in,” I said, not without reservations, though I hid them well.

She smiled, then yawned and stretched, almost catlike. “You don’t remember, but I stayed with your family once for a week. I believe you were just ‘excused’ from that private school in Massachusetts.”

The memory of the embarrassment from two years ago came rushing back—I’d been caught making unauthorized changes to my schedule.

Parker laughed. “Keyboarding class is overrated.” Then she grew serious. “None of that hacking stuff in my office, understand?”

“Okay,” I said—like I had a choice.

She nodded with approval. “So this will be home base for you. The entire hotel is rented out to the magazine. And we’ll be seeing some world-famous people pass through, starting with Theresa Jennings. She’ll be joining us here in three days.”

“The First Lady ?” I said, incredulous.

Parker laughed again then fixed me with a serious stare. “She’s coming to Italy for the Fashion Fights Famine gala, but she’ll be taking some time to do some photo shoots and an interview with us. Theresa Jennings handpicked Edge for this exclusive. She likes that we have a diversified staff—and I’m sure the fact that Edge is one of the few high-profile fashion magazines steered by a fellow African American woman isn’t lost on her.”

“That’s so cool.”

She nodded. “It is. And I probably don’t have to tell you that Mrs. Jennings—or any celebrity guest’s privacy—must be respected. You’re not to discuss magazine business with anyone outside the office.”

“I promise.” I kept lots of secrets—various PINs, access codes, how I broke into my parents’ telecom carrier to get more minutes on my data plan for free. I had enough secrets already to deserve a high security clearance—or be on a government watch list.

“Good.” She picked up her cell and dialed. “Eat,” she said while she waited for someone to answer. “Ortiz, will you and Nelson step in? Thanks.”

A few moments later there was a knock on the door and a woman and man stepped into the room. She had golden skin and dark, thick hair. He was stern-faced with brown hair buzzed very close to his head. They both wore basic black suits.

“This is Special Agent Maria Ortiz and Special Agent Bradford Nelson. They are the Secret Service advance security team for the First Lady. You will cooperate with them, understand? This is very important, Bec. We can’t have any problems with Mrs. Jennings coming here.”

I nodded vigorously. People like me, with slight “smudges” on their records, didn’t argue with the Secret Service. “Yes.”

Parker stood. “Thanks, Ortiz, Nelson. See you tomorrow.” They left and she turned to me. “Now, you need to catch up and reset your internal clock. Finish that glass of wine. There’s no drinking age in Italy, but I trust you won’t abuse it.” She tipped her glass at me, and I felt myself relax. I could do this.

“Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the office by ten.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Phillips.”

“Parker, please.” She gave me a warm smile.

Back in my luxurious room, I slipped into bed, immediately swallowed up by the down mattress.

It was.

So.

Soft.

I never did finish my wine.

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

A cell phone is a girl’s best friend. Running late? CALL—and make sure your gadget is as well-heeled as you are. A shiny, textured skin, studded case, or crystal charm will take your tech from geek to chic!

4

Hello Darling,

I landed safely and hear that you did too.

We’ll catch up soon.

xxx Mom

I read Mom’s e-mail out in the sitting room while the hotel maid was busy in my suite. I wondered if she sent the message when she knew I’d be asleep and unable to respond right away on purpose. Well, I guessed we were all where we had to be.

I found a note from Parker and a phone in a designer case on one of the tables. She must’ve put them there before she left. The note instructed me to have breakfast and then meet her at the office. The number for room service was scribbled on the bottom, along with walking directions back to Edge . After our dinner talk the night before, I was looking forward to getting to know her a bit better. Maybe with a couple more glasses of wine, she might spill some really good Mom stories.

Refreshed, I got a better look at my room. The ceilings were painted with a mural full of fat cherubs and bare-breasted women in opulent gowns and ribbons. The walls, covered in foiled and textured paper, were framed by scrolled and gilt woodwork. The furniture with its inlaid paneling and fluffy bedding and cushions looked like it belonged to a contessa. It was like living in a jewelry box.

Before I called room service, I customized my new phone and synched it with my laptop, then looked up an online English-Italian dictionary. If I was going to be here for a while, I’d better start learning the language. After a few listens to the autotranslate, I called in what had to be the worst accented breakfast order they’d ever heard. Then I took another shower to wash away the fuzziness of sleep. It was going to take me a little while to get over the jet lag and time difference.

I had just finished rebraiding my hair, noticing the blonde roots starting to peek through under the pink, when there was a knock on the door. I opened it up to find an attractive older woman in a stiffly starched black uniform.

“ Buon giorno ,” she said. “Good morning.”

Before I could reply, she slid a serving cart into the room and proceeded to pour espresso and uncover dishes for my inspection. There was a small plate of artfully arranged prosciutto, the meat sliced so thin that I could see the pattern of the china underneath; a cup of melon; and a plate with one golden, crescent-shaped roll that looked worth every bad-boy calorie.