Heart of Glass (23 page)

“What should I do? What should I say?” she’d asked Anna right before Lizbette arrived.

“Be yourself,” Anna advised.

Finally, Lizbette turned back to Cammie and Anna and gave a slight nod of her head. Then she turned back to Champagne.

“Champagne, could you excuse us for a few moments? Perhaps you’d like to go into the next gallery and look at the designers from the 1950s. Givenchy, Dior, Charles James? You may recognize the names.” Champagne took the hint and walked away, leaving Anna and Cammie with the cosmetics magnate.

“Champagne is a lovely girl, Anna,” Lizbette declared, once the girl was gone. “Truly stunning. A face that’s one in a million.” “We think so, too.” Cammie matched her enthusiasm.

“I’m thrilled that Anna sent me her photos and set up this go-see. You have an excellent eye for beauty and talent, Cammie.” Anna felt Cammie give her arm a little squeeze. She hadn’t anticipated that Lizbette would make her decision right here in the museum. Yet it seemed like that was exactly what was happening. Champagne would be beyond excited. Her life was about to change completely. How ironic that Anna and Cammie getting arrested and being assigned this particular community service could turn out so positively. Within a year, Champagne’s face would be in all the magazines, and probably on—“I love her. Absolutely love her,” Lizbette declared. “She’s beautiful, she’s charming, she’s innocent, and there are so many positives about her. But I can’t use her. She’s just not quite what I’m looking for.”

What?

“What?” Cammie asked incredulously.

“It’s very difficult to make these decisions. A choice made from the gut, oftentimes. Champagne will not be the face of my new cosmetics line, but I do envision a brilliant career for her and encourage you wholeheartedly in your efforts. Thank you for having me come to meet her. It was well worth it. I look forward to the show.” Anna hadn’t been much in favor of this whole modeling thing for Champagne, thinking that there were better things for a girl as smart as her to do with her life. But now that they had come so close, she found herself terribly disappointed.

“You knew from the minute we met you that you were going to turn her down, but you didn’t say a word.” Cammie didn’t raise her voice, but Anna could tell she was furious.

“Cammie, please. There’s a way to do this kind of thing. It is not the kind of thing one blurts out.” Lizbette tried to defuse the tension.

“Oh, really?” Cammie interrupted. “Well, maybe ‘one’ doesn’t know what the hell one is talking about. If you can’t see that Champagne is the face of the twenty-first century, it’s because your vision is stuck in the twentieth century. You are going to come begging to me—begging!—in a few years, desperate for Champagne to do a commercial for you. And you know what I’m going to tell you? I don’t work with uncreative anachronisms and neither does my model. So call PacWest, and realize you’re only getting second best.” Lizbette was obviously stunned but didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked away. As for Cammie, Anna couldn’t believe it. She was actually
smiling
.

“Do you know what you just did?” “Absolutely.”

“She’s going to hate you. And you didn’t do me or my family any favors, either.” Cammie shook her head. “You have
so
much to learn, Anna. She’ll respect me for fighting for my client. If I don’t completely believe in Champagne, then why should she?” This was unbelievable. Impossible. How could Cammie even think in this direction, let alone curse out the CEO of one of the biggest cosmetics firms in the world?

That’s exactly what Anna asked her.

“It’s simple, Anna. I am who I am, and where I am is where I came from. When she was talking, it was like I had a fucking
revelation
.” “Well, maybe you could fill me in.” Anna was already thinking about how she’d apologize later to Lizbette, at the fashion show. Or how she would explain when her mother called—which she inevitably would—to tell her that Lizbette had been treated horridly by a friend of her rude, ingrate daughter.

“Okay, first of all, you worry too much.”

Cammie motioned Anna to one of the wooden benches at the center of the gallery. “Second of all, you don’t know what fun it can be to say exactly what’s on your mind, instead of always fudging it.” Anna shook her head as they sat there together. “That’s not a sane way to approach the world.” “Maybe. Maybe it’s genetic.” Cammie brushed her hair off her face. “My mom was so fucked up she killed herself. Who the hell knows?” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” “Yes, you did, so stop apologizing. For the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking how much I’m like my mom, which, I guess, means maybe I’ve got her good traits
and
her bad traits. But when that idiot Lizbette was talking, I remembered that I am also my father’s daughter.
Big
-time. I just did what he would have done, and said what he would have said.” “I just—it goes against everything I was raised to believe.” “But you need to ask yourself: What do
you
believe? Who do
you
want to be?” Anna didn’t have an answer; at least not a handy one that she could package into some nice sentiment.

“I appreciate the help you gave me with Champagne. I really do. But my father didn’t get to be who he was by holding hands and singing ‘Kumbayah.’ He did it by being himself. I say, learn from the best.” Cammie nodded, as if approving her own words. “Want to help me break the news to Champagne?”

“Honestly? No. But I’ll do it anyway.” “Know what? Don’t do me any favors.”

Cammie stood. Then, just as the princess had done moments before, she turned on her black Charles David heels and walked away.

Umm . . . What Goes Under This?

“M
r. Rittenhouse?”

There was a half hour until the show was to begin; Cammie had just spotted her favorite designer of the evening over by the backstage refreshment table. He was wearing a black tuxedo that was surely of his own design, with a purple polka-dotted bow tie and matching cummerbund, plus a thin black man-bag that was obviously more accessory than useful.

The designer turned around and offered Cammie a friendly grin. “Yes? That’s me.” “I’m Cammie Sheppard. One of the organizers tonight.” Cammie exaggerated only a little. “And one of the models. I just wanted to introduce myself.” Rittenhouse offered a hand as manicured as any Cammie had ever seen. Fortunately, he eschewed clear nail polish—a fashion disaster on any man. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. How did you recognize me?” “I’ve seen your photograph. I just wanted to say, I think you’re showing the best clothes of any designer in the show. In fact, it’s not even close.”

“I’m flattered,” Rittenhouse said. “Very flattered, in fact.” “No need to be. I’m sure you must already know it. But it’s not egotism if it’s true,” Cammie assured him.

The designer laughed. “I guess not. Will you be wearing any of my clothes?” Cammie shook her head. “No. But a—a girl I know will.” Whoa. She’d almost said, “a friend of mine.” That would have been overstating the case just a little bit.

“Pity. Well, perhaps someday you will.” “I hope so.”

Cammie swallowed, and glanced across the backstage area. Champagne was fifty feet away, over by the clothes racks. Now was the time. She’d had a setback with Lizbette. No doubt about that, no need to call it anything other than what it was. Yet her father had told her many times—if you get turned down on a project, make another phone call right away. It’s the only way for an agent to keep any dignity, because agents get turned down all the time.

Well, she was Champagne’s agent now. And this was the equivalent of making a phone call.

“Mr. Rittenhouse, I was wondering . . . if you would consider a model I represent, to do some work for you, in the future.” Rittenhouse raised his eyebrows. “Who?” Cammie pointed quickly toward Champagne. “Her.” Rittenhouse frowned. “She’s beautiful. But so short.”

Cammie was prepared for this. “She’s five-foot seven. She’d be perfect if you ever decided to do a petite line. You could call it . . . Martinette! That would be—” “No. No petite line,” Rittenhouse declared, in a way that closed the subject. “I’m still trying to establish myself in couture.” He looked at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to meet some friends who are waiting for me. Have fun tonight, Cammie. Thank you for the kind words.” As Rittenhouse moved off, Cammie sagged a little inside. It had been the longest of long shots. She hadn’t really expected Rittenhouse to say yes.

“Fifteen minutes, everyone! This is your fifteen-minute call!” Virginia Vanderleer bustled around the fashion show’s crowded backstage area in the museum gallery, making sure everyone knew how close they were to showtime. She’d given up on the ladies-who-lunch theme and donned a black taffeta Ralph Lauren skirt and gold brocade jacket.

The past three hours had been intensely hectic. So hectic, in fact, that Anna hadn’t had much time to think about Caine, who she hadn’t talked to at all since their encounter at the Firehouse.

She hadn’t called him, he hadn’t called her. Now he was standing in front of her, and they got through a quick hello before two of Mrs. Vanderleer’s assistants arrived. Caine had been hustled off to the guys’ changing area for some quick last-minute work on one of his outfits, while Anna was brought to the hair and makeup arena.

There, she’d been done in the same radical sixties look as at Raymond’s salon, except that her stylist here—a plump, frizzy-haired, exceptionally enthusiastic older woman named Nicole—had actually drawn exaggerated lower lashes on the skin below her eyes, then showed her a photo of a skinny sixties fashion icon named Twiggy who had made the look popular. Close to the mirror, the inked eyelashes looked appalling, but from a distance of ten feet or so they gave her an appealing, wide-eyed look.

From styling, a dresser helped her into her first show outfit, by an up-and-coming Italian designer with the unlikely name of Guglielmo DiGiacomo. There were black leather pants, very wide at the bottom—evidently called “elephant bells”—with black velvet lace-up granny boots (although the nearly four-inch heel on them definitely did not scream “granny”) and a very fitted red paisley jacket with a Nehru collar.

Her second outfit would be by Martin Rittenhouse, a very short black satin dress tucked under the bust. Anna much preferred it to the DiGiacomo, though the Italian designer was far better known.

“Ten minutes! Ten minutes, everybody!” Mrs. Vanderleer was now running around like the town crier.

Anna’s stomach did a somersault. She was equal parts excited and nervous. On the heels of Mrs. Vanderleer’s announcement, the backstage stress level rose another notch—people were hollering, shouting, and bitching at each other. Anna opted for a quick pit stop in the ladies’ room. What could be worse than being caught on the runway with a desperate need to go?

Falling on her face. That could be worse.

Fortunately, the backstage area of the gallery had its own small restroom, so she hurried into one of the stalls and peeled out of her bellbottoms. When she was done, as she was washing her hands, she was surprised to see Champagne dart into the next stall. Anna could have sworn that Champagne was wearing the short black Rittenhouse dress that was supposed to be her own second outfit.

When Anna came out of the restroom, there was another surprise. Caine was just outside the door, wearing a black Lycra T-shirt under a Hugo Boss black jacket with a silk screen of a large skull on the back, and black jeans so tight that Anna wondered if they posed a threat to his reproductive future. So tight, it was difficult for her to keep her eyes on his face.

“How are you?” She winced inwardly because she sounded way too much like her mother—pleasant, cool, removed.

“Extremely uncomfortable, actually,” he admitted. “The jeans are a killer.” “So . . . you didn’t mention that you’d be here.”

“I’m kind of a last-minute replacement. You think I should have called you.” He gave her a half-smile.

“It would have been nice. But . . . I thought a lot about what you said the other night.” This wasn’t easy. Certainly her mother would have pretended that nothing had happened, that she hadn’t actually seen the guy with whom she was involved at a place called the Firehouse wearing jeans, suspenders, and nothing else.

“And?” Caine asked.

She looked at the wall clock. Five minutes to show-time. She couldn’t draw this out. “I decided you were right. You had no responsibility to tell me about your part-time job. I don’t own you.” She shrugged. “I don’t even know you that well,” she admitted.

He gave her a very direct look. “Do you want to?” “Really know you? I do,” she replied.

Caine smiled. “Good. You understand that this is no reflection on our relationship.” “I do.” The problem was hers, not Caine’s.

“Well, great—”

“Showtime!” Cammie hurried over to them. Her first runway outfit was a bottle green minidress with green fishnet hose, and brilliant orange satin shoes with a green platform and heel. She looked Anna up and down. “I will only say this once. You look hot.” “I’ll second that,” Caine said, giving Anna a sexy half-smile. He turned and nodded at Cammie. “You too.”

“Thanks, Tattoo Boy,” Cammie purred. “I barely recognized you with your shirt on.” “How’s Champagne doing?” Anna ventured.

“Depressed. Can you blame her?”

“Showtime! Showtime!” Mrs. Vanderleer was in shout mode again, waving her well-toned arms for all the models to line up—guys to one side, girls to the other.

“After the show?” Caine asked Anna, as Cammie moved off.

“I’d like that.”

She took her place with the other girls near the extension of the catwalk that penetrated from the audience side of the gallery under the red curtain and into the backstage area. Mrs. Vanderleer had placed assistants on both sides to send the models out when they were called. To make things go more smoothly, two big-screen closed-circuit TV monitors had been erected so everyone could see what was happening on the other side of the curtain. Right now, they showed a thick crowd of people trying to find their seats. Anna felt herself hoping that her father was out there. She rather doubted he would be, though, since he’d been more stoned than Gibraltar when he’d mentioned going.