The show that night was at a small art gallery just down the street from the Eiffel Tower. By the time Zach and I had entered the gallery through the back door, nearly an hour late due to the hectic morning, photographers were already setting up their cameras inside while spectators and fashion journalists were lining up outside the front door, the queue nearly wrapping around the block.
Zach and I didn’t say much after the disaster that was the interrogation. We were both embarrassed, having been wrong again. I mean, I wasn’t new to messing up big time, but Zach (not surprisingly) struck me as a perfectionist who wasn’t used to being wrong.
He had phoned Fred from his mobile on the way to the gallery and told him about Christinne. For the first time, I could hear the emotional drain in Zach’s voice as he informed Fred that once again we had the wrong suspect. It was a helpless voice. Zach knew as well as I did that time was running out and we weren’t doing much to help the others.
“Emma, darling!” Madeline shuffled over to me, squeezing her way past the crowd of girls packed tightly in the makeshift dressing room.
I forced a smile as she neared me, her small stature barely reaching my shoulders. Her eyes sparkled excitedly and she had a magenta dress wrapped in plastic draped over her left shoulder.
With the free hand that wasn’t clutching pins, needles, and sheers, she directed me behind a curtain where I was safe to change, away from prying eyes.
I replaced my bargain-brand dress with the silky, short magenta gown that was probably worth more than my life. The fabric was smooth as it rested against my skin and billowed above my knees. Despite the beautiful outfit, I felt sick as I saw myself in the mirror. How was I going to pull this off?
“Bella Victorino is here,” Madeline whispered from the other side of the curtain.
I froze. Was I supposed to know that name? “Who?”
I heard Madeline sigh deeply. “The designer. Can you come out, dear?”
I stepped out from behind the curtain and Madeline’s face glowed brightly. “Beautiful. Hold still.” She pinched some of the fabric with pins.
I caught sight of an older woman, dressed entirely in black except for a flowing pink scarf wrapped around her neck. Her boots clicked with her every step as she ricocheted from model to model, fixing outfits personally before they were revealed to the world.
Madeline followed my gaze. “Bella Victorino is a…um. How do you girls say it today?”
I wanted to laugh but I was afraid I would puke, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering wildly. “She’s a bitch?”
Madeline snorted. “Exactly.” She lowered her eyes and studied the seams on the gown. “Speaking of the devil.”
Bella Victorino moved briskly towards us, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed behind a pair of fashionable, yet fake, wide-rimmed glasses.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice husky and low, how I always imagined beautiful French women to sound.
“I’m fixing the waist,” Madeline said coolly. She didn’t dare look at Bella.
“Are you blind? Perhaps too old for your job, Madeline?” She was raising her voice with every word, only moments away from causing a scene. Madeline’s hand tensed as it clutched the fabric. “Everything is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!”
I gasped as Bella took hold of the fabric at my waist, bunching it in her hand. She shook me like a rag doll.
“This is garbage! You think this looks presentable? I wouldn’t let the homeless man living on my street corner use this dress as a tissue, let alone let this girl display it to the entire city of Paris!” She roughly pushed me away from her and I stumbled into Zach who had taken to Madeline’s side as Bella’s tantrum unfolded. He caught me in his arms and held me there, safely out of Bella’s grip.
Bella, still fuming, sneered at all of us and wiped her hands on her dark pants, as if touching me would suddenly make her poor and ugly.
“Fix it,” she ordered before turning on her heel and walking away.
Madeline’s face was white and long. She examined the pins in her fingers, turning them as the lights in the room bounced off of the metal.
“You okay?” Zach whispered, letting go of my arms.
I nodded before facing Madeline. “She’s probably stressed,” I reasoned quietly, hoping to comfort the older woman. “She didn’t mean any of that.”
Madeline shook her head. “That woman has had it out for me since our first show together nearly thirty years ago.” She began to take her needles and thread through the waistline of the dress.
It was one of those moments in which I wasn’t sure whether or not to ask any more questions, if I should press the issue further. Zach raked his hand through his hair before shoving his fists in his pockets, his dark eyes studying Madeline the entire time.
It turned out I didn’t have to say anything. Madeline continued talking quietly.
“I simply changed a few of her patterns and designs around, made her outfits looks better and she gets jealous. She never did like people trying to outdo her.” She pulled the thread hard and the sound of it snapping broke the tense silence.
I stammered as I searched for words. “Madeline I didn’t expect you to be so rebellious.” I cringed. My lame attempt at making her smile came out as tense and awkward.
“I’m not as innocent as you might think,” she responded emptily. With a huff she took a step back and admired the dress. “Absolutely stunning, you are.” A wrinkled hand ran across my cheek. “To be young again,” she murmured wistfully.
Zach and I were left watching after her as she shuffled across the room, briefly examining the outfits of the other girls for any rips, pulls, or tears one last time.
I nearly ran. I couldn’t be a model. I could barely be a human being without messing up. Before I had time to move, Zach was in front of me.
“Don’t even try running away.” He folded his arms and smirked.
I could run away and call Fred. He could think of something to get me out of it before I not only made a fool of myself, but a fool of the entire Paris fashion industry. Being a model wasn’t my job. Being a spy was my job, though I wasn’t quite good at that at the moment either.
“Zach, I can’t do this.” I gestured around the room, but the move came out as more of a flailing motion.
“Yes.” He lightly took hold of both of my arms, either to comfort me or to make sure I didn’t injure anybody. “Yes,” he repeated, “you can.”
I adamantly shook my head.
“You can chase a guy through the streets of Paris. You can break into a surveillance room. You know how to ride a moped. You can fight a suspect three times your size. You charm everybody you meet.” I caught my breath. “You can do anything. Prancing up and down a runway should be nothing compared to what you can do.”
I stared at him, biting my lip. Was he telling the truth? He was so hard to read. “Really?” I mouthed because I was suddenly unable to speak.
“Emma!” Clipboard Girl was waving frantically as the other models began to line up. “Come on!”
Zach gave my arms a gentle squeeze. “You got this.”
“Good luck, Emma.”
Zach and I both froze as the sounds of the familiar voice lingered in the air.
Christinne hovered anxiously, a safe few feet away. At first I wasn’t even sure if it really had been her who wished me well, but she stared at me, her lips parted and her eyes wide as she waited for my response. Her thin eyebrows creased.
Zach’s hands fell numbly to his sides. He was just as dumbstruck as I was.
“T-thank you,” I stuttered. I waited for the catch, for the cruel joke or hurtful jab, but none came.
Christinne nodded and turned.
“You too!” I shouted as she began to walk away.
Slowly she faced me once more. The nervous expression on her face gave way to a slight smile.
“Someone clearly had a change of heart,” Zach whispered. The interrogation really scared her into her place. It was about time she realized she couldn’t treat people so cruelly, though a part of me wondered if her newfound kind demeanor was simply a way to keep her far away from the list of suspects.
I joined the other models in the line. They chatted excitedly, their words annoying buzzes to my ears. The bustling in the room, the bodies wildly moving back and forth, was making my head spin. Through my blurry vision I caught sight of a group of policemen beginning to take their places. It was a grim reminder of what really was at stake.
Loud music began to pound, shaking the ground beneath my feet. One by one the girls were ushered to the runway. I watched them from my place backstage, hoping I could learn a few last-minute skills.
They walked confidently, with their shoulders back and their heads high. They never smiled, but pouted as they reached the end of the runway, a look that screamed “I’m gorgeous, even if I am wearing an awful outfit modeled after a twentieth-century trapeze artist!”
A rough arm pushed me forward and before I knew it I was on the runway. I froze, gawking at the blinding camera flashes.
“Go,” Clipboard Girl hissed.
Instantly I moved forward, stumbling in my tall heels and my vision blurred by black spots. I quickened my pace to keep up with the music, counting the tempo in my head.
I suddenly realized I was so nervous I couldn’t remember how to multitask. Even breathing became a struggle as I walked. Breathe. Step. Head up. Shoulders back. Don’t look down, Laura! Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!
My face collided with the floor and a gasp went up among the audience. It took me a moment to realize I had fallen over my own feet, but when it finally registered I wanted nothing more than to lay there with my face squashed against the hard ground.
I pulled myself up and prayed my nose wouldn’t start bleeding.
Suddenly the audience applauded. It was a subdued applause, a polite response, but it wasn’t the jeers like I had imagined they would give me.
I reached the end of the runway and looked out at the crowd. Dylan’s fire-red hair caught my eye. He whooped loudly and snapped a picture with his expensive camera hanging safely from around his neck.
My face aflame, I turned around quickly and watched the runway in front of me until I was safely backstage where I was once again greeted with chaos as girls changed into their new outfits.
Clipboard Girl’s mouth was ajar. “What the hell was that?”
“I-I-I-” I choked.
She shook her head. “Save it!” she screamed before storming away.
Zach bit his lip as he neared me. “So maybe you can’t do anything…”
I nearly collapsed onto the floor in a dramatic heap. “Please don’t make me do it again!”
His voice was soft. “Just one more time.”
I changed into my second and final outfit hurriedly, nearly ripping the lace sleeves as I flung my arms into them. I was far from under-the-radar. I was making a total fool of myself.
I stole another glimpse at a policeman guarding the back door. He caught me staring and nodded slowly. Nothing wrong, not yet anyway. I returned the nod. We were a team.
I sighed heavily as I lined up once more. A soft, warm hand cautiously rested on my shoulder.
I spun around, nearly jumping out of my own skin.
“It’s just one foot in front of the other,” Christinne whispered as Clipboard Girl took count. “That’s all it is.”
She removed her hand from my shoulder and stood back.
Being a suspect in a murder investigation really did change some people…
I didn’t have time to respond as I was ushered to the runway once more. I could feel the audience’s eyes on me, almost waiting for me to fall again. Two times in one show, I was sure that had to be a record.
I found myself taking Christinne’s advice to heart. I smiled, though it was shaky and forced.
“One foot in front of the other,” I muttered from behind clenched teeth.
I reached the end of the runway and paused, giving the photographers a chance to capture Bella Victorino’s design. I tried to look over their heads, not making eye contact. As a spy, I wasn’t accustomed to being in front of people.
I pivoted and walked back, Christinne’s guidance playing over and over in my head.
I let out a sigh of relief as I reached backstage, a breath I had been too afraid to let out as I walked down the runway. I never wanted to do that ever again.
Christinne exited the stage behind me.
“Thank you,” I said as she passed, her blonde hair swinging behind her.
She froze. I watched as her back tensed and then rose as she breathed slowly. Finally she looked at me over her shoulder. “Can’t have you making a fool out of all of us, can we?” Her posse joined her and a roar of laughter went up around them. “Let’s go to the Moulin Rouge,” a man shouted to a bunch of cheers from the group. Together they made their way out of the room.
But not before Christinne turned around once more and winked.