Material Girls (24 page)

The female administrative assistant, the one with the
Pillow Party
hair, entered bearing a tray heaped with golden-crusted croissants and buns drenched in icing. She deposited it on the conference table with a smile. The pastries filled the room with a buttery smell.

“Thank you, Kendra. Have one,” Hugo said to me, though he didn't help himself. “From Starling Bakery—delicious. Now, we've already started production on the garments you made for Ivy Wilde. We'll do them in a number of palettes. And the drafters are downstairs this morning with orders to take the ecological theme and run with it.”

The drafters were at work on eco-chic. Strangely, I felt a pang of envy. Even with all the risk, even with the potential for cruel rejection, I had to admit that dreaming up garments was the most gratifying work I'd ever done. Again, my mind clouded.
No, I was misremembering.
Telling other people whether or not their designs were good enough was the best part of working for a fashion house. Drafting was for obsolosers. I'd always thought so.

And yet, that didn't seem right. What was wrong with my brain this morning? I hadn't felt this addled since I'd chewed my mother's placidophilus pills in the bathroom . . .

My hand cupping the mug of latte froze. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed. Yes, I could just make it out. The faintest aftertaste of strawberries.

I stared at the drink, fighting to keep the horror off my face. There was no other explanation. I'd almost not tasted it over the sugar—they'd probably counted on that. I considered the tray of sweets. No one had touched them. Were they laced with placidophilus as well? Slowly, I slid my hand back from the cup and rested it in my lap.

“If I may?” Jonah, the general counsel, spoke for the first time. Hugo nodded in his direction. Through my haze, I wondered what it was like to be an Adequate working with Silents. How did they treat him? Did he have to ask permission to speak all the time? “Julia Atkinson acted rashly,” he said. His voice wavered, but I figured that could also be because he was so old. “We apologize, and we hope you'll continue here at Torro-LeBlanc. Have you spoken to another design house?”

I struggled to think clearly. My mind was starting to conjure up excuses:
They didn't mean harm. They probably figured you used already. They just wanted to relax you.
It was hard to resist the pleasant feeling that accompanied these thoughts.
Focus,
I ordered myself.

“I'm sorry, what?” I said, buying some time.

“Have you spoken to another design house?” he repeated.

Felix had been right. Torro-LeBlanc needed me. I could get away with asking for anything right now. And if I wanted to leave, Belladonna, and who knew how many other houses, would probably offer me a job. I needed to play this right. “I've been contacted,” I said with a casual shrug.

The Silents shared looks. I heard a dull beep and looked in the direction of the sound. Across the room, one of the screens in the ring, previously blank, now read
new message.

“We want you, Marla,” Hugo said. “We have a vision for what eco-chic could be, and we need you at our helm.”

He paused, and Adele jumped in. “Julia assures us that she has great personal respect for you and that the two of you enjoy working together. If, however, you feel differently, we'd be happy to appoint a new court director.”

They would be willing to fire Julia to keep me.
Once again, a charge from the power they were offering me crackled through my body. But no, the placidophilus was enhancing that feeling. I remembered the new company vision Felix had shared that morning.
Hold on to it,
I ordered myself. Imagine running a sustainable clothing studio. With Felix. And an end to drafting and judging as it currently existed.

“I need to think about it,” I said.

Adele's face fell, but Hugo kept grinning. “Of course, of course,” he said. “The thing is, we were really hoping to make an announcement today. Set the tone for the week, the month, the season, you know. Jonah has your new contract drawn up.” He nodded to Jonah, who turned the Tabula to face me. Under my name, I read
position: chief justice, superior court
.

I stared at the title. “I have to weigh my options,” I said, fighting the protesting voices in my head. “I want until the end of the day.”

“Why wait?” said Adele sharply. “Your decision won't change. What does your gut say to do right now?”

I looked at my lap, holding an image of Ivy Wilde's garments in my mind's eye. “I need time,” I mumbled.

“Adele, please,” said Hugo, waving his hand. “If our new chief justice wants the day, she can have it. Whatever you like, Marla. Look around—get an idea of whom you might like to serve on the court with you.” He chuckled. “
Under
you, that is. We'll expect you back here at five p.m. Come and see me anytime today if you have questions.”

“The tickets, Hugo,” Adele muttered.

“I almost forgot.” He snapped his fingers and withdrew two glossy stubs of paper from his pocket. “Passes to the
Creatures from the Fog IV
premiere. The first of many. Gabe Foxxman himself will be there.” He winked at me again. I stared at the tickets stupidly, then slotted them into my briefcase.

Hugo stood up and extended his hand, and the others followed. “Sure you don't want some pastries for the road?” Adele asked, lifting a corner of the tray.

“No. Thank you,” I said, shaking hands all around and heading for the door. “Stay young,” I said awkwardly as I turned the knob. In response, Hugo, who had reseated himself at the table's head, raised his mug to me in a toast.

Ivy slid into a cream-colored booth.
The reporters and photographers, feebly disguised as diners at nearby tables, craned their necks and snapped pictures of her without much discretion. The high white ceiling and yawning windows left few places to hide anyway. Saltimbocca was a place to get noticed.

The host had let her know that Clayton Pryce hadn't arrived yet, so she ordered an orange juice and looked around. Her nymphs were dining nearby at a separate table, with empty seats for Clayton's satyrs to join them. In one corner, Jelly Sanchez was in a booth with Selma Crisp, her costar on
Pillow Party
. They were dressed in designer pajamas. There was a giant ice cream sundae on the table in front of them; Ivy wondered how they could eat something so sweet first thing in the morning. But maybe they had ordered it for show. It sat between them, ignored, the whipped cream runny, while they balanced spoons on their noses. Each time one fell, they giggled and cameras flashed.

She was trying to figure out if the guy in the back was Johnathyn “Rottweiler” Dupree, a new hip-hop artist the Pop Beat channel had been featuring recently, when someone across the aisle spoke.

“Look at those little bitches. Don't it make you sick?”

Ivy turned sharply. A woman was sitting in the booth across from hers. She was dressed in a fancy maroon and black dress: lacy, low-collared, and accented with spangles and feathers. It wasn't anything from the feather trend, though; Ivy hadn't seen an outfit like that for a long time. The woman had a heaping plate of eggs and pancakes in front of her, but it was pushed to the center of the table. She was sipping a glass of Sugarwater and staring at Jelly and Selma with a surly look.

Even though the name Bernadette Fife came to her immediately, Ivy didn't believe her own eyes. This couldn't be Bernadette. Maybe it was Bernadette's mother. This woman looked as if someone had grabbed her scalp at the pinnacle of her head and yanked hard. Her eyebrows and eyes rose at the corners, and her skin was tight over her bony cheeks. And the mouth. Lips plumped like shiny balloons. Ivy had to work hard to keep the shock off her face.

“Bernadette?” she said tentatively.

The woman took a long sip of Sugarwater, then burped. She grabbed her glass and slid awkwardly out of her booth. Carrying her drink with care, she sidled into the seat across from Ivy, who was immediately aware of a pungent smell.

“If you order a hot fudge sundae,” the woman said, “I'm gonna have to kill you.” She slurred her words together:
hot fudge sundae
came out “hahfejsundie.” Her stretched face was even more grotesque close-up. It really was Bernadette. Ivy remembered listening to her nonstop as a child, her music a sassy blend of pop and country. She'd even seen her in concert twice. She quickly did the math—Bernadette couldn't be much more than thirty now. What had she done to herself?

Ivy searched for something to say. “How've you been?”

“Oh, honey,” Bernadette said. She hiccupped. “How
you
been, that's the question.” She wagged her finger at Ivy. “Everybody cannot stop talking about how Ivy Wilde's wearing trash.”

Ivy was taken aback. “It's not really—”

“Traaaaash,”
Bernadette said loudly, waving her hand in the direction of Ivy's clothes, as if wiping them away. “Now this,” she said, plucking one of her black shoulder straps, “was a
dress.
From the saloon trend.” She hiccupped again. “Skip's favorite.”

Ivy noticed Madison glaring at their booth. Madison gestured to ask if she should come over, but Ivy waved her off. She had always felt a small degree of connection to Bernadette because she and Skip McBrody, from Millbrook, had been girlfriend and boyfriend. Rumor had it that Bernadette had been the one who found him after his suicide. Ivy remembered the way she'd sobbed at the televised funeral. Funny—until now she hadn't put together that their relationship must have been manufactured. But maybe they were one of the rare celebrity pairings that had actually developed romantic feelings. The woman was wearing Skip's favorite dress in Saltimbocca ten years after his death—that said a lot.

“It's nice,” Ivy said warily.

“Damn right it is.” Bernadette gulped for her straw like a fish and finally managed to locate it with her sausage lips. Her sip sputtered into coughing, making her eyes water.

It dawned on Ivy what the sharp smell was. The coughing, the slurring, the rudeness—only one thing could explain it. That wasn't Sugarwater in her glass; Bernadette was drinking alcohol. Ivy's nose wrinkled. Alcohol had gone out of style before she was born. Who wanted to deal with puking and hangovers? Placidophilus pills were so much neater: you got a pleasant little lift, but you could still function perfectly well. Plus, they fit in your pocket. Sneaking alcohol into a Saltimbocca glass was as high on the obsoloser scale as calling your parents “Mom” and “Dad.”

“So whose idea was the trash?” barked Bernadette. “Your agent's? Or did it come straight from Miles Jackass himself?”

Ivy assumed she was referring to Miles Jackson, the Silent who served as executive producer of her record label. She'd met him only once, right when she'd gotten the green light to record her first solo album. He'd seemed very nice—not like a jackass at all. She wondered why Bernadette didn't like him. “No,” she said. “It was my idea.”

She could feel Bernadette straining to focus her gaze. “Your idea's garbage,” she deadpanned, then burst into laughter. Her head flopped down on the table; with her hair fanned out, Ivy could see her dark roots.

Madison appeared at the side of the table. “Everything okay?” she asked, frowning at the pile of hair.

Bernadette flipped her head back up and looked at Madison. “What do you want, nympho?”

“I think you'd better go,” said Madison.

Bernadette let out a cackle. “What, am I tarnishing your precious image?” she said to Ivy.

“Yes,” said Madison. “Now get up or I'll call security.”

Bernadette's face grew sullen. She sipped her drink. “Don't worry. I was just leaving anyway.” Ivy wondered if she was used to being kicked out of places. “I have a full day ahead. If anyone needs me,” she slurred, as she lifted herself out of the booth, “I'll be watching my old concert footage.” She picked up the glass and jiggled the ounce or two of liquid left at the bottom. “But first, I have to mix myself a nice, big Sugarwater.” She winked at Ivy.

“Bye, Bernadette,” said Ivy. “Take care of yourself.”

Bernadette leaned over Ivy's side of the booth, the alcohol sour on her breath. “See that?” she whispered, pointing to the lamp hanging above the table. “That's your spotlight. Enjoy it while you can.” She looked into Ivy's face, her freakish features as solemn as the face-lift would allow. “It goes out, you know.”

She left the restaurant, carrying her glass with her.

Madison turned to Ivy, lips pursed. “Why didn't you get rid of her right away?”

“I think I was in shock,” Ivy replied. “Did you see her face?”

Madison stared at Bernadette through the restaurant's front windows as she wobbled her way down the sidewalk. She shook her head. “Bernadette Fife is the obsoloser poster child. What a hag.”

Ivy felt repulsed by the encounter, but Madison's comment made her want to defend Bernadette. She was pitiful now, but she'd been talented once. Lyric Mirth had given Ivy a tiny taste of what losing your fame could feel like, and it had left her angry and frustrated. She could understand Bernadette's desperation—to a point.
She
would never go to such an extreme, drinking and carving her face up and living in the past. But Madison didn't get it at all.

Back in the sixth-floor hallway,
I walked past the Silents' assistants Kendra and Cam. I glanced at Cam's face, searching for recognition—or guilt, or something—over the drugged drink he'd served me. But he barely looked up from his Tabula as I passed. I wanted to shake him and ask him how he could work for such creepy people.