Material Girls (23 page)

In front of them, I suddenly felt like an awkward lump in my sweater embellished with feathers. I was pretty sure it had expired, though only just. I hadn't been trendchecking my own outfits as regularly as I used to, and in my rush this morning I hadn't bothered. I wondered if the flower pin helped or made the whole thing worse.

Julia turned to the young man, whose chiseled torso was wrapped in one of the superhero-trend bodysuits. “Are they ready for us?”

The assistant didn't answer her but looked at me. “Are you Marla Klein?” he asked.

“Yes.” I stood while the man evaluated me, pausing, as Julia had, on the lapel pin. He turned to Julia. “The Silents would like to see Miss Klein alone.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Happy to deliver her.” Although she recovered smoothly, it was clear Julia had expected to be involved in whatever was going on. She inclined her head toward the line of empty chairs next to the man's desk. “Should I wait, or—”

“They'll call you if they need you.”

It was a firm dismissal. I almost felt bad for her. Visibly gathering her dignity, she nodded at the man. “Very well. Tell them they can call me anytime this morning.” He nodded once in return. Without a final look at me, Julia headed back toward the elevator.

“I'll let them know you're here,” the man said to me. “Can I get you anything?”

“Uh—no, I'm fine, thanks.” My fingers traced the edges of the flower pin. Catching myself, I dropped my hand to my side.

The man pressed a button on his desk.

“Go ahead, Cam.” It was a deep male voice.

“Miss Klein is here,” said Cam.

“Wonderful,”
said the voice. “Send her in.”

Her hair styled but still
in her bathrobe, Ivy closed the door to her room. It was only nine fifteen—she had a few minutes to try Constantine before she had to dress for brunch. She called his Unum and listened to it ring, wondering what she was going to say. Maybe he would talk first.

The Unum rang five times and went to voicemail. She had a crazy thought that he'd seen who it was and ignored the call. Or maybe it wasn't crazy? Maybe he didn't want to face her?

“Christina,” she said into the Unum microphone.

Her mother answered on the second ring. “Eva! Hello! What a nice surprise.”

Even in her bleak mood, Ivy warmed at the sight of her mother's face. “Where's Constantine?” she asked.

A pause. “He's in school.”

Oh. Right. Of course he was in school on a Monday morning. He probably hadn't heard the call. Teachers tried to keep Unums out of the classroom—as best they could.

Ivy decided not to beat around the bush. “Why didn't you tell me about the statue?” she demanded. “Did you think I wouldn't find out?”

Her mother sighed. “Oh, Eva. Hang on a minute. George'll want to speak to you, too.”

They conferenced him in. George and Christina consoled her, apologizing for not calling, claiming they hadn't wanted to distract her before her tour. This outraged Ivy—she was sixteen, not a child—but her parents wearily informed her that they'd had their hands full. No, there wasn't going to be any trouble, as far as they could tell. Yes, she could try again tomorrow.

“But you might want to wait a bit,” her mother said gently.

“Why?”

“The therapist said there are a lot of cases of kids acting out after failing to get tapped,” George explained. “Constantine picking that statue was no accident, we think. We need to understand if he's not ready to speak to his . . . famous older sister.”

In a way, she was glad her father had said it so she knew she wasn't inventing things. It wasn't just the shock and tastelessness of the vandalism that bothered her. The attack felt so . . . personal. “Okay, yeah. I'll wait. But he's okay otherwise?”

There was a long pause. Her father pursed his lips together grimly. “He's skipped a little school.”

“Oh.”

“He stole some video games from the mall,” said her mother. “We've returned them. The clerk was very understanding.”

Ivy felt ill. Why wasn't Constantine taking the placidophilus pills? Had he run out already? She would send him more, but Christina was sure to open any package that came to the house. They couldn't be that hard to secure, even in Millbrook.

Wait—was that why he had stolen the games? To sell them for P pill money? Or did he want to play them in some twisted, post-Tap exercise in masochism?

“Tell him we're all taking a long trip to Isla Del Sol after my tour,” Ivy said. “Just the family. I promise.”

“That sounds lovely, sweetheart,” said her mother. Her parents promised they would encourage Constantine to call her when he was ready.

Ivy hung up. Poor Constantine. A trip away—they could all use one. What was her money for if not to help her family and relax a little bit once in a while?

A knock on the door cut through her thoughts. Hilarie poked her head in. “I have your new outfit,” she said. “Ready?”

“Come in,” said Ivy, again glancing at the clock.

Hilarie carried in a garment box and laid it on Ivy's bed. The box top said
Greenery
in flowery letters. Ivy liked the sound of that. Yesterday, when Fatima had placed rush orders at the independent boutiques, Ivy had overheard one proprietor exclaim through her publicist's Unum speaker: “‘Eco-chic' is nothing new! We've been selling environmentally conscious clothing for years.”

“Yes, yes, just get the samples here by tomorrow at nine a.m.” was her publicist's sharp response.

“Comfortable waists only!” Ivy had yelled at the device before Fatima hung up, flashing her an aggravated look.

Now, from the
Greenery
box, Ivy withdrew the clothes packed in brown tissue. Both items were soft, shimmery, and definitely comfortable-looking. She held the skirt up to her waist and looked in the mirror. “Prime, isn't it?”

Hilarie nodded. “It's pretty. I'll go get my stuff on. I think I'm in some kind of tea-length number.”

Alone, Ivy pulled on the outfit. She gathered her focus, checking her reflection in the mirror. Humming the chorus of the new song she was writing, she picked up the plastic flower from her bureau and worked it into the updo. The whole effect was a little fancy for brunch, but then again, the point this morning was to attract attention.

Trying not to let
the two assistants see, I wiped my sweaty palm on my skirt. I turned the knob to the office at the end of the sixth-floor hallway of Torro-LeBlanc.

It was a strange room. For starters, it was oval, with the door at one end of the thin tip. A row of sleek rectangular screens, each about a yard in length, encircled the entire room at eye level. They had been built into the walls. Most were black, but not the dull black of a dead Unum face—the live, crisp black of a screen powered on. In fact, three of them displayed the phrase
new message
in small red letters at the bottom.

Gray carpet covered the floor, and the walls behind the screens were a deep teal. In the center of the room, black leather chairs surrounded a rectangular granite conference table. The T-L company logo had been etched into the center of the polished gray stone and stood out in dull relief under a ceiling spotlight.

At the head of the table, facing me, stood a middle-aged man. Despite his light gray hair and the few lines on his forehead, his face was tanned and his features youthful. A blond woman and an older man sat to his right, their heads turned toward me. Surprisingly, the seated man was the only one of the three wearing trends.

“Come on in, Marla.” The standing man pushed back his chair and advanced on me with an easy smile. He held out his hand, which I shook. “Hugo LeBlanc, chief creative officer of Torro-LeBlanc,” he said. So this was the descendent of the original LeBlanc who had founded the company. An actual Silent. I couldn't believe it—he wore a black T-shirt, jeans, and dark gray athletic shoes. It was the approximate outfit Walter wore while repainting the kitchen ceiling, while my mother yelled at him not to get near the window in case someone in an adjacent building saw. These were the garments of choice for the man who ran Torro?

“This is Adele Nash, our board chair and chief executive officer,” he continued, gesturing to the woman. Adele reached across the table and shook my hand primly. Another Silent, I guessed. I was surprised to see that she wore a simple black sheath dress. It wasn't a trend, but I found that I liked it. It reminded me of Vivienne's prototype that I had defended in front of the Superior Court. “And Jonah Leavitt, our general counsel.” Counsel—that was a lawyer. Why was he here? Again, my mind spun with thoughts of contract violations as I shook his hand. He was dressed in a black studded jacket from the new punk line. It didn't quite close over his stomach bulge.

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” Hugo said, gesturing toward the chair to his left, opposite Adele and Jonah. I sank into the soft leather. Across the table, a Tabula was propped on a stand in front of Jonah. He was tapping something on it. “Have you eaten, Marla?” asked Hugo, easing himself into his own chair.

“I had breakfast at home.” I placed my briefcase on the chair next to me.

“How about something to drink?”

“Uh—Julia had me leave my latte downstairs.”

“That's ridiculous.” He pressed a button on the conference table. “Cam? Four lattes, please. One with sugar.” He looked at me. “I assume you take sugar?” I nodded. Who didn't? “Immediately,” he continued. “And, oh, some of those cinnamon buns and strawberry croissants, I think, too.” He released the button. “I know you're not hungry, but I always like a little something with my coffee in the morning.”

I tried to smile. So far, so good.

“So.” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the table. “We meet the creative genius behind the eco-chic trend.”

He didn't sound sarcastic, but I didn't trust my ears. “Sorry?” I said.

“How does it feel to be the girl of the hour? You drafted the outfit that everyone's been crazy for all weekend. Torro-LeBlanc's been flooded with inquiries asking if Marla Klein is one of our own.” He nodded at my lapel. “That's a smart pin you're wearing,” he added with a wink.

I glanced down at it. “I thought you might be upset,” I said carefully. “Considering it competes with torture . . .”

“A good trend endures in the face of competition.” Hugo's eyes grew playful. “I'm reminded of a certain shawl that featured prominently in the bohemian trend a few seasons back. It kept selling even as other trends matured. Remember?”

Of course I did. It was draped over the chair in my room these days. Hugo certainly knew a lot about me. I glanced at Adele, who gave me an impassive, tight-lipped smile. Jonah kept his eyes focused on his Tabula.

“Now
that's
a sharp eye,” Hugo went on. “An eye like that shouldn't be relegated to drafting.”

I remained silent. The office door opened and Cam appeared, carrying four drinks on a tray. “The latte with sugar,” he announced as he handed me the tall ceramic mug.

“Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. The flavor of the latte reminded me of those delicious concoctions I used to make on the fifth floor. The sixth floor no doubt had its own shiny gold machine. Cam finished serving the drinks and closed the door delicately behind him.

Hugo took a generous swig of his. “Good?” he asked, grinning. I nodded and took another sip.

“I'll get to the point, Marla,” Adele said, ignoring the steaming cup in front of her. “We convened an emergency board meeting yesterday. The Superior Court has unfortunately proven itself ineffectual, and we voted to place its current members in new positions within the company. To start fresh. We believe we have a unique opportunity to offer you here at Torro-LeBlanc.”

The whole court fired at once. I reeled from the news. Had this ever happened before, at any design house? Were Henry and Olivia now drafters? I felt a flash of glee. Whatever came next, this news healed a wound that had been stinging since I'd left the court.

“We'd like to create a new position,” continued Adele. “Chief justice of the Superior Court. There hasn't been a clear leader on the court, and we think it's high time one existed. We'd like to offer you this new position.”

I stopped breathing. The power was mine again, for the taking. Immediately, I hated myself for having the thought, after everything I'd been over that morning with Felix. I couldn't accept—could I? I reached for my cup and took a long, slow sip of latte.

Hugo leaned back in his chair. “The main perk is that you, as chief justice, will work with the court director to select the other judges. Whomever you like, Marla. We trust your judgment. We've heard that you're friends with a young drafter named Felix Garcia, and some others? Imagine them sitting next to you on the bench. Running the show at Torro. Shaping the seasonal lines.”

The fantasy materialized in front of me like a frost pattern blooming on a windshield. A court made up of friends, kind people who could work together to develop beautiful, wearable trends. Felix sitting next to me every day, no longer bitter and scowling, his hunger for power satisfied. My mother proud again. Prime seats at every runway show, movie premieres, studio parties . . .

“We also believe we may have acted hastily in the recent dismissal of a drafter named Vivienne Graves,” added Adele. “We'd be happy to extend employment to her once again, if you'd like her on the court.”

I almost laughed. They had gotten that one wrong. Vivienne the rebel would never sit on the Superior Court.
Yes, she would,
a voice inside my head seemed to tell me. I tried to focus on the preposterousness of the idea, but my thoughts seemed strangely jumbled. Suddenly, I had a mental picture of Vivienne on the court, her mascara actually tasteful, wearing trends and happily judging drafters' designs. I could talk her into joining. It wasn't so crazy, after all.