Sloane Sisters (11 page)

C
ate tapped on the dressing room door with her midnight blue nails like she was playing “Chopsticks.”

“Sophie,” she singsonged. “Come out, I wanna see.”

She spun around, surveying the Marc Jacobs flagship store. A wall of purses stood in front of her, with more varieties than a midtown deli's all-you-can-eat buffet. She breathed in, loving the rich, leathery smell.

This morning had been like some sort of sick Upper East Side torture. First Cate had woken up to find Lola's creature vomiting fur pâté on her new Jimmy Choos. Then Stella had decided to go all sugar mama and take the group to Pastis for brunch, putting it on her AmEx gold card. Sophie and Priya had gone on for twenty minutes about how good the brioche French toast was—Stella's recommendation. They'd even tried to feed some to Cate, who had insisted (for the ten thousandth time!) that she hated sweets. Cate had spent most of the meal pushing her eggs
Norwegian around on her plate, determining just how she was going to top Stella's brunch.

She wasn't above bribing the girls, especially now that the pressure was on: The vote was today, at four o'clock. Cate had decided to take everyone shopping at the Marc Jacobs store in Soho. Cate and Stella had each asked Emma and Winston for a plus-one-and-a-half, so they could bring all the Chi Beta Phis to the wedding. Now they were picking out new dresses—
on Cate
. Who needed brioche French toast when you could have a gorgeous silk gown?

Sophie crept out of the dressing room in a short cocktail dress. The pink satin made her look like a giant slab of grilled salmon. She spun around once and squealed. “You look fabulous,” Cate pronounced. The color clashed with the rosy undertones in Sophie's skin, but Cate wasn't going to obsess over
minor
details. Sophie patted down her pin-straight light brown hair and smiled at her reflection.

“I don't know,” Stella said, strolling along the long rack of clothes, her two fingers walking along the fabrics. “Salmon feels a bit last season.” She scrunched up her nose like she'd caught a whiff of rotting fish.

“Not at all,” Cate said sharply, shooting Stella a dirty look. “
Metallics
were last season—salmon is in. Trust me, Sophie.”

Sophie looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the sales counter, her face twisted with worry. “Let me try something else on,” she mumbled, retreating into the dressing room.

Cate spun around and glared at Stella, her fists clenched tight. “Stop trying to sabotage me,” she growled.

Stella rested her hand on her heart, like a real American pledging allegiance. “What? I was just helping out a friend in fashion need.” She smiled sweetly, then sat down on one of the cream-colored leather couches and daintily crossed her legs.

Blythe ran out of the dressing room toward Cate. “This is the one,” she shrieked. A black checked fabric stretched over her new curves.

Priya trailed behind her in a pale pink shift dress with classic lines. “O.O.C.,” she cooed, running her fingers over the glittery jewels embroidered into the fabric. She'd started abbreviating “out of control” back in seventh grade, but it still hadn't caught on.

Stella eyed Blythe's dress, crossing her arms over her chest. “It doesn't do anything for your figure,” she said, shaking her head. “You want something that shows off your two new mates.”

“Are you kidding?” Priya asked. “That dress is
all
boobs.” Blythe admired her profile in the mirror.

Cate clasped her hands together happily and glanced at Stella. She was biting her lip dejectedly like someone had just thrown up a five-course meal in her Gucci Positano bag.

Priya twirled around. “On behalf of my closet—thank you,” she cried, pulling Cate into a hug.

Sophie came out of the dressing room in a strapless navy blue cocktail dress with gold lamé polka dots. “Thanks, Cate,” she seconded, leaning over to join the hug.

Stella picked up her Gucci bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I need some air,” she muttered. She walked past the long table
of shoes and sweaters, and out the massive black door to Mercer Street.

“What's with her?” Blythe asked, not taking her eyes off her own reflection.

“She's just jealous,” Cate replied, watching smugly as Stella, the green-eyed monster, disappeared down the street. The girls loved their dresses, and they loved Cate more than ever. Stella didn't have a chance.

 

Stella dropped her iPhone in her brown leather bag and strode confidently back into the Marc Jacobs store, a man in a cropped pin-striped suit following close behind her. She walked past the racks of gowns, the cool air goose-bumping her skin. Blythe had a shoe box under her arm and Sophie was trying on a pair of red open-toe pumps. Cate and Priya were browsing the wall of bags, examining a neon blue clutch.

Stella stopped in front of them and cleared her throat. “Are you guys done with your
off-the-rack
shopping?” She glanced around disgustedly, as though she had just walked into a Salvation Army. “If you are, we should all go upstairs to Marc's private showroom.” Stella smoothed down the skirt of her tan sateen shirtdress, waiting for the girls to process what she'd just said.

“What?” Sophie cried, dropping a red pump on the floor.

“You're kidding.” Blythe squeezed the shoe box to her chest.

“Girls—meet Gerard,
Marc's
personal assistant.” Stella stared at Cate, whose face was flushed in anger. “My mum has been close with Marc forever—we went on holiday with him three years ago. He still plays tennis with my father when he's in London.”

“I thought your dad lived in Sydney now?” Sophie asked, tilting her head to the side. Stella bit her lip, feeling Cate's eyes on her. Yesterday Priya and Sophie had asked her what her father was doing. She couldn't say what she was really thinking—
Cloud McClean
—so she'd continued her lies and said he'd gotten a job in Sydney, and was buying Stella her very own condo overlooking Darling Harbor.

Gerard tucked his BlackBerry into the front pocket of his suit jacket, which looked like it had been shrunken in the dryer—the sleeves revealed six inches of tanned, waxed forearm. “Follow me, dolls. Marc just finished next season's collection.” He turned and started toward the front of the store, Stella and the girls following close behind. Sophie looked over her shoulder at Cate, shooting her a look to say,
Sorry…but it's the new Marc Jacobs line. I'd shave my head to see this.

Cate's head spun. The neon handbags seemed too bright, the fluorescent spotlights blaring. She bit her cuticle and looked at her Tiffany watch. There was only an hour and a half until tea at the Pierre. Stella had seen her Marc Jacobs dresses and raised her a designer collection.

As the girls followed
Marc
's assistant up a narrow white staircase, Cate crept up behind them. Stella was a total mole, sneaking around and plotting against her, but Cate still had to see the new line.

The stairs emptied out into a wide room with stark white walls and high white tin ceilings. Light flooded in from the wall of windows, giving the room an almost holy glow, as if the girls had died and gone to designer heaven. A few headless man
nequins were lined up in a row against the wall, a long rack of clothes next to them.

Gerard stopped in front of the first two mannequins. One wore a pale pink silk dress that resembled a nightgown, another a strapless floral dress paired with a structured military-style jacket in a crisp white. Sophie touched the silk fabric and smiled.

“Fabulous, yes?” Gerard cooed. “For his new spring collection Marc was playing with the idea of this youthful, angelic army. He's using a muted color palette of pale pinks, beiges, blues, and grays mixed with black and white. Take a look around and let me know what you'd like to try on.” He made his way past the row of mannequins and brushed lint off one's shoulder, resting his hand on its boob to hold it steady. Then he pulled out his BlackBerry and started typing furiously.

Priya rested her hands on the mannequin's neck stump and turned to Stella. “Veena is going to be
so
jealous when I tell her what I did today. Actually, I'm going to make her jealous
right now
.” She took out her iPhone and snapped a picture of the dress, sending it to her sister.

“I don't think you should try those on.” Cate tried to sound convincing. “They look so fragile…. If you rip them you're going to owe Marc Jacobs, like, a million dollars.” Cate knew that reason was lamer than BeDazzled Converse All Stars, but she was desperate.

Blythe turned away from a pale blue cotton dress with black zippers up each side, which looked too punk rock, like it could be accessorized with a studded dog collar. “Have you been sniffing glue with Myra Granberry? Who cares?” Blythe grabbed
Priya's arm and walked down the row of mannequins, pausing to admire each outfit. She leaned over and whispered something in Priya's ear.

“But there aren't even any dressing rooms!” Cate called at their backs.

“I don't think that's going to stop anyone.” Stella smiled sweetly. She was standing across from the mannequins, thumbing through a rack of clothes. “And anyway, it's not like Gerard fancies us.” Cate glanced across the loft space at Gerard, who was now leaning against the back wall, filing his nails with an emery board. Stella chose a hanger with a bubble gum–colored organza dress and walked confidently toward him.

Cate stared at the rack of clothes, torn. Sophie was thumbing through it, slinging dresses over her arm like she was looting the place.

“Cate!” she squealed, holding up a blue-and-white striped corset dress. “This would look great on you!” Cate studied it, then glanced across the room at Stella, who was talking to Gerard. Cate loved corset dresses, but she couldn't bear to let Stella know she was enjoying herself.

“Fine,” Cate agreed. “But only because I don't want Marc Jacobs to think I'm rude.” She tried hard not to smile as she strolled to the corner and pulled off her Anna Sui ruffle dress.

Across the room, Priya had tried on the strapless floral dress from the mannequin. “You could totally be a Marc Jacobs model,” Blythe cried, fawning over her.

Cate zipped up the corset dress and walked over to the mirror. It looked amazing with her deep blue eyes and dark brown hair.

Stella slinked over. “You know you love it,” she purred, eyeing Cate's dress.

“I'm actually a little disappointed,” Cate said sharply, keeping her eyes on her reflection. “This collection is kind of bland. I guess I just have more sophisticated taste than you,” she shrugged.

“Right, right.” Stella laughed, rolling her eyes. She floated across the room in her pink couture gown. “You guys look amazing!” she called to Sophie and Blythe. They were huddled in a corner of the room, admiring their dresses.

With every compliment, with every smile, with every passing minute Stella was getting closer to the vote. And closer to the end of Cate's reign.

S
aturday afternoon, Andie stood in the mirrored elevator of Ford Models beside Lola, dragging her Kate Spade wedge heels across the red carpeting. Her hands shook as she stared at the buttons, and she felt like she'd downed fifty cans of Diet Coke. Number five glowed, then six. Just eight more floors to go.

She'd looked at the Ford Models website almost every day for the last year, and now she was here, minutes away from meeting with Ayana Bennington. She'd dreamed about being represented by Ayana—the same agent who represented Kate Moss, Heidi Klum, and Tyra Banks. Ayana was said to take on only three new models a year—if she agreed to represent you, you were destined for high fashion.

Andie smoothed down her skirt. She'd spent all morning figuring out what to wear, finally settling on a sleeveless blue Juicy Couture dress with crocheting down the front. She almost always wore her hair in a ponytail or a bun, but today she'd blow-dried it. It was shinier and smoother than Frédéric Fekkai extensions.

Lola clapped her hands together lightly. “You're going to be famous.” Since the Fashion Week show, Lola had dubbed herself Andie's “manager” and was taking her duties very seriously. She even insisted on wearing a “power suit” to seem “professional,” but it was really just a black skirt and a cropped Juicy jacket she'd stolen from Stella.

“I hope so,” Andie murmured. Her heart beat faster and faster as the elevator hit the twelfth floor. She imagined Ayana Bennington, former-model-turned-agent, in a corner office overlooking Fifth Avenue. She'd hold Andie's face between her palms and just stare at it, falling hopelessly in love with every feature. Then she'd apologize for the trouble Andie had had with the website, for the fact that people hadn't seen her photo and called her immediately.
Idiots!
Ayana would cry.
Fools!
She'd slide a contract across the desk.
Welcome to Ford Models, Andie Sloane
, she'd say, shaking Andie's tiny hand.
We're happy to have you.

Ding!

The elevator doors opened to reveal a marble lobby, the walls covered with photographs of models on catwalks all over the world, framed advertisements of models awash in stilettos and luxury handbags. A slender young woman with bulgy fish eyes breezed past, and Andie recognized her immediately as Shiraz Artillion, the new face of Chanel. She grabbed Lola's arm and took a deep breath. Hyperventilating in the Ford lobby didn't exactly say Top Model.

The silver Ford logo hung above a chrome reception desk that looked like something out of an episode of
Star Trek
. A woman
with a Kool-Aid red pixie cut handed a folder to the male receptionist, who wore guyliner.

Lola strode across the room, Andie following close behind. “Hello, I'm Lola
Childs
,” she announced, putting emphasis on her last name. “And this is Andie. We're meeting with Ayana Bennington.” Lola tapped the toe of one of her Gap ballet flats against the marble floor.

The red-haired woman's whole body perked up. “We've been expecting you.” She smiled. “Let me show you in.” She held the door open and pointed to a giant gold office just inside the hall. A wall of windows overlooked Fifth Avenue. On the building across the way, a window washer was perched on scaffolding, drinking a Colt 45.

Andie looked at the desk. There, going through the latest edition of
Vogue
with a highlighter, was the mistress of her destiny. Her long hair was secured in a massive bun by three sets of black lacquered chopsticks. She stood when she saw them. “Ayana Bennington,” she cooed. “It's fabulous to finally meet you.”

“I'm Lola,” Lola said, shaking Ayana's hand.

Andie smoothed back her hair.
Be fierce,
she thought, channeling her inner Tyra.
Be fierce.
She straightened up and looked Ayana directly in the eye—just like all the modeling blogs had told her to do when first meeting an agent. “I'm Andie,” she said confidently, making sure to enunciate every syllable. (
Diction is done with the tip of the tongue and the teeth!
) Then she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her neck—
elongate!
—before sticking out her hand.

Ayana gestured to the two massive leather chairs in front of
her desk. Andie sat down in one, her feet barely touching the floor. Lola sat beside her.

Ayana clasped her hands together and leaned forward, her gaze shifting to Lola. “I saw you at Fashion Week. I should have known you were Emma's daughter—I'd recognize those beautiful green eyes anywhere.”

Lola adjusted her headband, her face a deep red.

“I was there too!” Andie offered. “I loved Alexander's fall collection,” she added, ready to gush about the metallics and clean lines.

“Yes, that's right.” Ayana nodded. “I remember you now.” She eyed Andie carefully, and Andie kept her chin high and her neck long. “You must look more like your father.”

“Actually, Andie's my stepsister,” Lola corrected. “Or, well, she will be, really soon,” she said quickly, shooting Andie a smile. “Our parents are getting married tomorrow!”

Andie tried to smile back, but her face was stiff, like her nana's after a round of Botox injections. No, she didn't have bright green eyes and blond hair, but was it
so
ridiculous to think she could be related to Emma Childs?

“Well, Lola…” Ayana scanned Lola's body. “You're stunning. Exquisite bone structure.”

Andie dug her fingernails into the black leather chair. What?
Lola
was stunning?
Lola
was exquisite? Andie pinched Lola's arm, waiting for her to tell Ayana why they were really there.

Lola focused on a potted plant next to Ayana's desk, a little embarrassed.
Stunning, exquisite, stunning.
No one had ever said those words before—at least not when talking about
her
.
Dorky,
clumsy, bowlegged
. Those were words you used to describe Lola Childs.

“I'm sure you hear that all the time.” Ayana folded her thin arms over her chest.

Lola sat frozen, the compliments swirling around her head like snow in a snow globe. This whole week she'd felt like a circus freak in a Bloomingdale's catalog. She'd half expected Cate and Stella to put her in a cage and charge admission to see her. It felt good to hear Ayana Bennington—agent extraordinaire—compliment her.

When Lola lifted her head, Ayana was staring at her, waiting for a response. “Right,” she said in a small voice, the tiniest smile creeping over her face. “All the time.”

Andie clenched her hands into fists and let out a deep breath. This was supposed to be
her
moment,
her
big break. This is what
she
had been studying and practicing and hoping for. She kicked Lola under the desk, trying to get her attention, but Lola just rubbed her leg.

“How old did you say you were?” Ayana pressed. She took one of the chopsticks out of her hair, which stayed miraculously in place, and tapped it lightly against the glossy desktop.

“I'm interested in modeling too,” Andie blurted out.

Ayana scanned Andie's tiny frame and pressed her lips together. She put her fingers to her temples, as if Andie had just spoken Portuguese and her brain was slowly trying to translate it. “Well,” she began, “you have a beautiful complexion. Delicate features. There's a real warmth to your look, especially your eyes.”

Andie straightened up in her chair and blushed happily. Ayana was talking about
her
. Forget Shiraz Artillion—
she'd
be the new face of Chanel, clutching a bottle of Coco perfume against her cheek, her hair slicked back.

Ayana rested her chin in her hands. “You have a more…
commercial
look. When Emma comes in we should discuss catalog work. We could start with JCPenney, Sears, Kohl's.”

Andie felt her eyes welling with tears. Catalog work? In the modeling world, Ayana might as well have told her she should do dog food commercials. She wanted to go to bed, curl up under her red duvet, and not come out until she was five-foot seven…if she ever
was
five-foot seven. She was starting to feel like she belonged on
Little People, Big World.

Ayana placed a hand on her computer mouse and pulled up her calendar on the screen. “I'd love for you to come in for some test shots,” she said, peering over the desk at Lola—gangly giantess Lola, with ears that Andie could've used for extra shoe storage.

Lola clapped her hands together excitedly. “That would be brilliant!” she cried. She'd never thought about modeling before, but actually, it really
would
be brilliant. She and Andie could
both
be models. Every Ashton seventh-grader would worship her, whether she wore days-of-the-week knickers or not. Cate and Stella would seethe with jealousy over her billboard in Times Square. And if Kyle didn't fancy her now, he definitely would then. Forget the rehearsal dinner—she'd bring him to every Ashton Prep formal for the next six years. As her
boyfriend
.

Andie sank lower in her chair. She wished she could disap
pear, that she could suddenly just be somewhere else—a
Star Wars
convention, a medieval torture chamber—anywhere but here.

This was all Lola's fault.
She
was the one who'd e-mailed Ford.
She
was the one who'd let Ayana ramble on and on about how
stunning
she was. And now she was agreeing to do test shots!

Andie saw herself posing next to a jungle gym in Oshkosh overalls, her hair in pigtails, while Lola graced the cover of
Teen Vogue
,
CosmoGirl!
, and
Seventeen
. She saw the Chanel ad again, but this time it was
Lola
clutching the bottle of perfume—
her
hair slicked back, exposing her massive ears.

Andie closed her eyes and let out a sigh. After everything, she'd been right: Modeling
was
her destiny. Modeling for
Sears.