The Daughters (19 page)

And then the door suddenly opened.

“Todd?”

Ava stood in the doorway, wobbling on her snakeskin heels. Her saucer-shaped eyes looked glassy, her cheeks were flushed,
and her normally bouncing curls looked deflated and flat. Lizzie could smell the beer on her.

“What are you guys doing?” she asked suspiciously, her eyes darting from one to the other of them as she fingered her necklace.

“Oh, I just spilled something on Lizzie’s dress,” Todd explained, springing to his feet.

“Yeah,” Lizzie chimed in. “I was just getting a stain out—”

Ava’s injured glare stopped them both cold. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she snapped at Todd. “Can I talk to you?”

Ava lurched past Lizzie into the room. Lizzie had no choice but to step outside into the hall, and before she knew it, the
bathroom door slammed in her face. Through the door, she could hear Ava’s and Todd’s muffled voices. It sounded like they
were having a fight. A bad fight.

Oh my God
, she thought. Ava Elting was
jealous
.

She marched down the steps. Luckily, Hudson and Carina were waiting for her right at the bottom.

“We’re out of here,” Lizzie said, heading straight for the door.

“What happened up there?” Hudson asked.

“Nothing good,” Lizzie replied.

All she’d wanted to do was finally talk about Ava with him, instead of pretending that he didn’t have a girlfriend. So why
did she get the feeling that bringing her up had hurt his feelings? And why had she felt bad about it?

“Did you see Ava?” Carina asked as they walked out onto the street. “She can barely walk. She’s hammered.”

“Classy girl,” Hudson chimed in.

“I give that relationship two more weeks,” Carina observed. “Anyone want to bet?”

“Or maybe they’ll stay together forever,” Lizzie said cryptically as they walked to the corner. “I kind of hope they do at
this point.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hudson and Carina look at each other as they walked to Park Avenue. “Guess that’s the
last time we crash an Ava Elting party,” Carina said.

“Lizzie, honey? I was thinking, should we do that shoot with Andrea in London over Thanksgiving? Or do you have too much work
to do over the break?” Katia leaned past Bernard’s shoulder in the backseat, her diamond and ruby drop earrings glittering
in the dark. “I don’t want to overload you.”

The town car made a right onto Park Avenue, and Lizzie swayed against the door in a crunch of organza. “No, let’s do it,”
she said.

“You said that you were going to take this slow,” Bernard said, attaching a pair of mother-of-pearl cufflinks to his shirt.
“She should be at home right now doing homework.”

Katia patted Bernard’s knee. “We are taking it slow, don’t worry. I’m still not sure that signing with my agent is the best
thing for you, Lizzie. We need to find someone who specializes in what you’re doing.”

What she was doing was still a little unclear, Lizzie thought, looking out the window at the passing office buildings. She
had done the
Rayon
shoot and posed for the cover of
New York Style
, and now the offers were starting to pour in from advertisers and editors alike. Could she do a spread in
i-D.
magazine? Could she do a print ad for a new, eco-friendly face skincare line that was looking for a “different” face? Could
she do a spread for
Teen Vogue
about “real beauty”? Before this started, she’d never known how hot “real beauty” was. Now it seemed everyone wanted to do
a story on the New Pretty. And they wanted Lizzie to be the poster girl for it.

She still didn’t have an agent or a manager. She still hadn’t worked with anyone but Andrea Sidwell. And she still wasn’t
clear if she was getting this work because of her weird looks, or because of her celebrity pedigree. But Katia seemed genuinely
proud of her, and this made Lizzie happy. Over the past three weeks, ever since the
Rayon
shoot, she and her mom had gotten along better than they had since Lizzie was in the fourth grade. Katia had even invited
her to go tonight to the American Fashion Awards, the most prestigious fashion event of the year. It hadn’t even occurred
to Lizzie to say no.

“Do you want to walk with us, honey?” Katia asked as the car pulled up to the curb in front of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
“Or do you want to meet us at the entrance?”

The red carpet at the AFAs was extra-long and extra-notorious, and walking it was almost the entire point of going. Every
fashionista, stylist, entertainment reporter, and fashion blogger breathlessly covered the carpet, making and breaking careers
based solely on people’s wardrobes. Lizzie knew that it would probably take Katia a good half an hour to get down it.

“I’ll meet you by the doors,” she said.

“You can hang with me, Fuzz.” Bernard patted her hand. “Thank God I finally have a date to one of these things.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Katia asked.

Lizzie gazed out at the gauntlet of paparazzi and cameras and wildly revolving floodlights. “I think I can handle this now,”
she said.

Her mom winked at her. Something had happened that day at the
Rayon
shoot, and now, it seemed, the two of them were a team.

Bernard turned to Lizzie. “See you on the battlefield, soldier,” he muttered.

Katia opened the back door of the town car. The usual flurry of flashes started, as did the chorus of voices. It was just
like Fashion Week.

“Katia!”

“Over here!”

“Katia!”

Her parents got out of the car and Lizzie waited inside, watching the flashes light up the open car door.

Here goes
, she thought, hauling herself and her long, purple, full-skirted Zac Posen dress out of the car with all the gracefulness
she could muster. She’d just need to get to the doors as quickly as possible. Out on the carpet, she squinted in the bright
lights, looking around at the sea of cameras when—

POP
.

A flash went off in front of her face. She blinked.

POP
.

Another flash went off.

POP. POP. POP.

Clickety-clickety-click.

Someone was taking pictures of her. She held her hand up to her face, shading her eyes so she could see.

Clickety-clickety-click.

A lot
of people were taking pictures of her. Alone. Just her.

And then she heard her name.

“Lizzie!”

“Straight ahead!”

“Over to the right!”

“Lizzie! Look to the left!”

She didn’t know where to look first. There were too many flashes.

“Lizzie! Who are you wearing!”

“Lizzie! Over here!”

In what seemed like half a second, she was swarmed.

“Lizzie! What’s it like to be the next big thing?”

“Lizzie! Did you always want to be a model?”

“Let’s get Katia!
Katia!
” someone called. “Can we get one with your daughter please?”

She couldn’t move. None of this could really be happening, she thought. Through the flashes, she saw Katia glide toward her
in her strapless red gown. Then she felt her grab her hand.

“That’s great!”

“Beautiful!”

“Mother, daughter, look over here!”

A female reporter with a frozen, swirly hairdo leaned out of the crowd and pointed a mic at Katia’s face. “What do you think
of your daughter’s success?” she demanded. “Did you ever think that she’d be a model?”

Lizzie watched all of this in slow motion. Over and over, she had to remind herself that this was really going on.

“Lizzie, I’m from FTV,” said another girl with a camera and a microphone. “Please tell us. Who are you wearing tonight?”

“Uh, Zac Posen,” she stammered, almost forgetting.

Then the midst of the frenzy her mother let go of her hand, and she was on her own. For a moment the clicking sounds of the
cameras called up the same panic of Fashion Week, that feeling of vulnerability, of exposure. And then she remembered Andrea.
How many times she’d put her at ease behind the camera. And then she relaxed.
It’s just like modeling
, she thought.
I can do this.

When she reached the end of the carpet, her cheeks ached from smiling, and shooting rays of light bobbed in her vision. Katia
and Bernard were waiting for her at the door.

“You okay?” Katia asked, putting her arm around her daughter.

Lizzie nodded. “I wasn’t really expecting that.”

“We weren’t, either,” Bernard said.

“You did great, honey,” Katia assured her, patting her shoulder. “Like a pro. Come on, let’s get inside.”

They walked up a set of steps into the high-ceilinged lobby and joined a stream of tuxedoes and swirling Technicolor gowns
headed for the ballroom. Lizzie caught up to her dad and took his arm. “That was seriously the craziest thing that’s ever
happened to me,” she whispered.

Bernard gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “I have a feeling that’s just the beginning, Fuzz,” he said.

They were almost at the ballroom doors when a familiar-looking man with close-cropped platinum hair and liquid brown eyes
approached them with his arms outstretched.

“Katia!” Martin Meloy cried, throwing his arms around her mother with desperate force. He shut his eyes as they hugged. He
was so small that he barely cleared her neckline. “Oh, darling, congratulations again on the line. I never had any doubts.”

“Oh thank you,” Katia said, unpeeling herself from his embrace. “You remember my husband, Bernard?”

“Of course, of course,” Martin said, vigorously shaking Bernard’s hand. “I love your column.”

Bernard shook back, but there was a cold detachment in his eyes. “Good to see you,” he said gruffly.

“And my daughter, Lizzie,” Katia said, putting a hand on Lizzie’s back. “I believe you’ve met?”

Lizzie stepped forward, bracing herself for a fake hello, or at least a severe lack of interest. But this time Martin Meloy
clasped his hands under his pointy chin and shook his head faintly, as if he’d just encountered a vision. “Well, hello, Lizzie,”
he said softly. “I’ve become quite a fan of yours.”

“You have?” she asked, thinking she’d misunderstood him.

“I saw the
New York Style
cover. Fantastic.” He reached down and took her hand. “
You
are a revelation.”

“Uh, thank you,” Lizzie said, almost numb. Going from invisible to revelation was quite a shock.

“I would love for you to come down to my studio,” he went on, his liquid eyes fixed on her. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Lizzie glanced up at her mom. She wanted to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming this.

“That’s very sweet of you, Martin,” Katia said, smiling tightly.

“It’s just that Lizzie has never seen my studio,” he said.

“We’re so flattered,” Katia said, placing a hand firmly on Lizzie’s shoulder. “But we’re just trying to take things one step
at a time. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, of
course,
but just think about it,” he said, pressing Lizzie’s hand. “It would mean so much to me for you to see the new collection
I’m working on.”

There was something odd about his persistence, but she couldn’t help but be flattered. Martin Meloy wanted her to see his
collection?

“It sounds kind of fun,” Lizzie said. “Can we?”

“Okay, then,” Katia said nicely. “We’ll come by after school tomorrow.” But her tone was unsettled, as if she was saying something
that she knew she might have to take back.

“Oh, wonderful!” he cried, clapping his hands with delight. “I look forward to it.
A demain
.” He did a little bow as he stepped back into the crowd, and then he was gone.

A headset-wearing assistant walked up to them and announced that she could lead them to their table. They followed the assistant
into the immense gold and crimson–colored ballroom, and past tables decorated with flaming votives set around an exploding
centerpiece of pink and purple roses.

Lizzie took her seat in between her parents and pulled the silk napkin out of its ring. Before she could say anything to her
mom about what had just happened, the skeletal editor of one of the fashion magazines swanned over to their table and started
air-kissing her mother.

“This is all kind of bizarre,” she said in her father’s ear.

“Tell me about it,” Bernard agreed, straightening the forks next to the gleaming china plates.

“I mean, about what just happened with Martin Meloy,” she said. “He’s never looked at me twice before.”

Bernard knitted his bushy eyebrows together and studied his water goblet. “Look, Fuzz. You’ve always been beautiful to me.
But sometimes it doesn’t take much to change people’s opinions. A shoot here, a cover there, a mention on Page Six in the
Post
…”

“And suddenly, someone’s cool,” she prompted.

“Exactly,” her dad said, smiling at her. “Just like in school. Things don’t really change, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “And from
what I can tell, that goes double for Martin Meloy.”

A man on her father’s left tapped his shoulder and started speaking to him about the stock market, leaving Lizzie to think
about his words. She stared at her name written in fancy black calligraphy above her plate. Of course her father was right.
There was something a little high school in all of this.

Under the table, Lizzie pulled her iPhone out from her clutch. Normally she would have rather done this with a gun to her
head—she never really enjoyed tabloid coverage, thanks to her daughter-of status—but now she googled her name, along with
the name of the cruelest, snarkiest celebrity gossip blog she could think of. She needed to see what came up.

“CHIA PET TURNS CHIC!” cried the headline, just over her cover photo from
New York Style
.

Underneath, the caption read:

Is it just us, or has our favorite supermodel-spawn gone from horrible to HOTTIE?

She dropped the phone back in her bag and a thrill ran through her.
She
was a
hottie
?