“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.
chapter 19
“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 hi
s 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?
Her father was definitely right. People were too easily swayed. But was it bad for it to feel wonderful?
The orchestra started to play at the front of the room, and the first awards presenter walked stiffly out onto the stage. She leaned back in her chair and smiled. At last, she wasn’t on the sidelines anymore.
chapter 20
“Martin Meloy?” Hudson repeated. “Martin MeLOY?”
Lizzie smiled as she popped the lid off of her hot chocolate and licked the dollop of whipped cream on top. She should have been spending her free period going over her algebra homework from last night—she had barely finished it after getting home from the Waldorf—but filling her friends in on last night was so much more fun.
“Yep,” she said, blowing on her hot drink. “We’re going over there after school.”
“I can’t believe it,” Hudson said, pulling her collar closer against the chilly October wind blowing down Madison. “Martin Meloy’s studio! Nobody’s allowed in there. Not even the Olsens.”
“Wait, I thought you said he was a creep,” Carina broke in, tearing open a Balance Bar with her gloved hands. “Or a tool.”
“Well, he is a little fake,” Lizzie conceded. “But they all are.”
“And you still want to work with him?” Carina asked skeptically as the wind blew the ends of her blond hair.
“C, this is a huge deal,” Hudson piped up on Lizzie’s other side. “You could be the face of his line! His muse!” Her ivory coat matched the color of her teeth as she smiled. “Do you know which campaign you’re doing?” she asked breathlessly. “Fragrance? Accessories? Clothing?”
“Hudson, I don’t even know if I’m doing a campaign.”
“And you’re gonna get such a great discount,” Hudson gushed. “And free stuff. You better give me whatever you don’t want. What does your mom think? Is she psyched?”
Lizzie took a big sip of hot chocolate, unsure how to answer. Katia had seemed a little cool toward Martin’s invitation. “I think so. But she wasn’t jumping for joy or anything.”
They walked into the school building and took the steps two at a time past a slow-moving group of middle schoolers.
“Maybe she’s jealous,” Carina said. “She’s only human.”
“Oh, come on,” Lizzie said. “She’s the World’s Most Perfect Woman Ever.”
“Yeah, but maybe she doesn’t see it that way,” Carina said.
Lizzie didn’t say anything. The thought of her mom being jealous of her was almost too ridiculous to think about.
Hudson’s phone rang. “Private number,” Hudson said, looking at the screen. “Whoever this is, they’ve been calling me all morning.” She put the phone to her ear. “Hel-lo?” she answered. Then she hung up. “Nobody there again. Weird.”
“Maybe it’s your lov-ah,” Carina joked.
They walked up the stairs, and Carina and Hudson headed off to Spanish. Lizzie was on her way to the lockers when she heard Mr. Barlow call out from his office.
“Miss Summers? May I see you, please?”
Lizzie grabbed her French books. “Yes?” she asked, coming to stand in the doorway.
Mr. Barlow sat at his desk. The glow from his banker’s lamp cast a green shadow over his white-blond hair. “Your story’s about five hundred words too long for the contest,” he said. “Two thousand words is the cutoff point. Just trim it a little and turn it back in. But it’s very good. I think you have a shot at winnin
g this.”
“Really?” she asked. In all that had been going on in her personal life, she’d almost forgotten about the contest. “I was afraid it might be a little too… realistic.”
Mr. Barlow shook his head. “Don’t be afraid of that. The best writing always comes from your own experience. Even if you’ve never cut your hair to look like your mother’s,” he added with a smile as he handed the story back to her. “And how’s the project going with Mr. Piedmont?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she said. She and Todd hadn’t spoken since Ava’s party a week and a half ago, but luckily they’d split their screenplay up into two parts—the same scene, told both from the boy’s and the girl’s point of view. Lizzie hoped that she could just quietly write her half and skip any more awkward study sessions.
“Well, look who’s here,” Mr. Barlow said, looking past her into the hall. “Mr. Piedmont! Would you come in here, please?”
Todd loped into the office. From the quick sideways glance she stole of him, Todd looked a little more rumpled than usual, as if he’d slept in his navy-blue jacket and tie.
“I was just speaking with Miss Summers about your project,” Mr. Barlow said. “Are you two making progress?”
“Sort of,” Todd mumbled, looking briefly at her.
“Sort of?” Mr. Barlow barked.
Uh-oh, Lizzie thought.
“You know I think we have it under control, Mr. Barlow,” she offered. “If we need to get together again—”
“You are required to meet twice for this assignment,” Mr. Barlow pointed out. “Which, I may remind you, is due on Monday.”
“Then I could get together tonight to work on it,” Todd offered, sounding slightly defeated. He turned to her. “What do you think, Lizzie? You free tonight?” She couldn’t help but notice that his hair was adorably messed up and the knot of his tie was askew.
“Yeah, that’s fine. Tonight can work,” she said coolly.
“Today’s Wednesday so you two better get moving on it,” Mr. Barlow said, unfolding himself creakily from behind his desk. “I was just giving Lizzie back her story. She did a very good job on it. As did you, Mr. Piedmont.”
The Daughters Page 15