Blonde Ops Read online

  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.

  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.<
br />
  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?

  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 fro
m 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.