Material Girls (21 page)

“The Torro-LeBlanc employees are going on strike soon,” Vivienne said suddenly.

“They're what?”

“They're going to refuse to go to work. If all goes well for us, the production of official eco-chic clothing will be slowed or stopped.” So that might explain it, Ivy thought. Fatima had spent the afternoon ordering a few things that could get Ivy through until they could shop properly. A recycled textiles site featured links to eco-friendly boutiques and repurposed clothing stores in the vicinity. After the success on
Hot with Hyman,
Ivy had hoped Marla Klein might be able to whip together some more great outfits, too, but she'd tried the designer's Unum all day without success. Was she refusing to design any more on account of the strike?

“I'm sure other design houses will hasten to fill the void,” Vivienne went on before Ivy could ask about Marla. “But there is an alternative. The whole world will wear what you wear, Ivy. You know this. So making an environmental impact is truly within your grasp. Slowing consumer spending, too.” A cunning smile crept over her lips. “And if that's not enough to convince you, while you're at it, you can make a certain competitor look absolutely villainous.”

The opening theme song of
Real Boys of South Brunswick
drifted in faintly from the living room. Ivy heard her nymphs' voices and wondered for a moment if one of them would wander into the kitchen for a snack. Apparently, though, the latest episode proved more interesting than food, and, to her relief, she and Vivienne were left alone.

“Go on,” Ivy said.

She listened to Vivienne's proposal. It involved even more renegade behavior. She didn't exactly want to turn herself into a crazy rebel or anything. Still, it wouldn't be hard to pull off, and if it worked, she could savor the victory for weeks. If it fell through, as Vivienne pointed out, she had little to lose.

“I'll think about it,” said Ivy. She bit her lip, trying to seem noncommittal.

“Good,” said Vivienne, standing. She picked up her Unum. “I should be going, then.” She turned the manila envelope over and pointed to a number printed on the flap. “That's my Unum, if you need to get in touch with me. I've got yours.”

“What about my brother?” Ivy asked.

“Right.” Vivienne looked at her solemnly. “Unfortunately, I don't think your brother has been feeling so great since being passed over in the Tap. He and a couple of other boys defaced a certain statue in Millbrook.” Vivienne tapped her Unum screen. “Your parents are paying to have it cleaned. I heard they also paid a guy who caught the three kids on video not to release the footage to the media. Here, I have a photo.”

She held her screen for Ivy to see. Ivy's first impression was of a boy who'd been in a paintball fight. But it wasn't a boy—it was the statue of Skip McBrody in the town square.
Obsoloser
was scrawled along the statue's base in red spray paint, just below the feet. Skip had a joker's wide smile painted over his lips and circles around each of his eyes. His body had been sprayed randomly with lines of paint, except—Ivy cringed inwardly—for a definite bulbous thing coming out of his crotch area. The sight of the marked-up statue, the monument that had always made her feel solemn and humble, sickened Ivy. What could have possessed her brother to do such a thing?

“I'm sorry you had to hear it from me,” said Vivienne, pulling her cap out of her pocket and adjusting it on her head.

“I have to call him,” said Ivy shakily.

“You probably should.” Vivienne tucked her Unum away and slid the manila envelope across the counter to Ivy. “One last thing. Production waste and cost are bad enough. But if your resolve weakens, take a look at these pictures. They show where your clothes are made, and who makes them.” She grinned. “My next task after the Torro strike is to unionize the Big Five's factory workers. I'll get the IGLF to bust down the factory doors. It's going to be beautiful.”

“The what?”

“The International Garment Labor Federation. They determine which companies maintain humane working conditions and pay employees living wages. They've called out the Big Five manufacturing plants in print, but no one reads those articles. It's time to take action.”

Her thoughts still with Constantine, Ivy nodded vaguely.

“We'll be in touch, then,” said Vivienne, extending her hand across the counter. This time, Ivy shook it. “Oh, and sorry about the flower-delivery ruse.” She pulled her cap down over her eyes. “I wish, for your sake, the bouquet really had been from someone exciting.”

Envelope in hand, Ivy followed Vivienne as she walked back to the foyer and disappeared through the front door without a backward glance.

“I'm going to bed!” she shouted toward the living room. Her nymphs called back their good nights.

“Who were the flowers from?” she heard Naia ask.

“Christina and George,” she replied, and headed up the stairs to her bedroom.

The door to her two-story closet was open, and she shut it firmly, not wanting to face the racks of clothes inside. She collapsed on her bed and looked at the clock. Was it too late to call her family tonight? Would Constantine even be awake? She decided to try them in the morning.

Shifting so her back was against the pillows and her legs crossed, she held the envelope Vivienne had given her and grabbed her Unum from her nightstand. She entered Vivienne's number into her directory, then bent the metal clasps of the envelope to release the flap. She pulled out a small pile of eight-by-ten photographs and studied them in her lap, one by one.

The workers were women and girls, some younger than she. The first shot showed them maneuvering mountains of fabric through sewing machines in a long row. The girl closest to the camera was focused intently on her work, her cheeks flushed pink and her brow moist. The neckline of her shirt was also ringed with sweat. Another photograph revealed women sleeping in bunk beds, two on either side of a small room. There were tapestries hung on the walls, but the effect wasn't all that cheering. Ivy noticed that the broken glass in one windowpane had been replaced with cardboard.

In another, a supervisor looked to be reprimanding a young girl of about ten, who sat in front of a table of buttons. A fourth showed a girl working a sewing machine with a bandaged finger. Her eyes drooped as she sewed a zipper onto a puffy silver garment. Ivy recognized it as the space-age jacket she'd worn to the Millbrook Tap. The girl herself wore a plain green T-shirt and small stud earrings—nothing remotely trendy.

Ivy stuffed the pictures back into the envelope. She knew what Vivienne was trying to do. She was supposed to feel bad for these girls who worked so hard to make everyone's clothes. And she did. It was just that their faces, their lives, seemed so far away from her own. They almost didn't seem real. She reclasped the envelope. She had so much to think about. Constantine, spraying paint all over a statue of a pop star. And then there was her brunch with Clayton. Her new songs. Lyric. Felix. She cared, of course, but she didn't have any more headspace to give to people she'd probably never meet.

Besides, her eco-chic image was already doing wonders. If Vivienne's plan worked, Millbrook's residents would take a nice shopping break from designer brands. Thanks to her.

Ivy tossed the envelope in the trash barrel by her bedside—then thought better of it. She didn't want to answer questions if Fatima happened to find it. She got up and stuffed it in her purse. She'd throw it away outside, later.

“Marla? There's a boy here
to see you.”

Karen's sharp call carried up the stairs to the second floor bathroom, where I was applying eyeliner. I paused with the pencil in my hand. A boy? At eight o'clock Monday morning? I hastily evened out both eyes and pulled my damp hair into a ponytail, teasing out some strands so that the mess looked purposeful. I'd get around to flat-ironing it again one of these days.

I grabbed the plastic flower pin Neely had helped me make and held it to my shoulder, judging the effect in the mirror. I took it away, then put it back. Pin or no pin?

“Marla?” my mother called again.

“I'm coming!” I shouted. I could decide on the train. I put the pin inside my briefcase next to my dark-faced Unum and latched it.

Half wondering if “the boy” was the creative officer's assistant who had called me yesterday, I descended the curved staircase. My mother was planted in the foyer with a travel mug in her hands. My father stood behind her, crumbs stuck in one corner of his mouth. From the doorway, a familiar face looked at me in relief.

“Oh, hi,” I said, surprised. “Um, Karen, Walter, this is Felix. We work together.”

“He told us,” my father said, cluelessly chipper as always. “We've got extra blackberry muffins, Felix—would you like one?”

“I'm good, thank you,” Felix replied.

Karen eyed Felix warily, then turned to me. “Is there something I need to know here?”

“What? No. Absolutely not. We just work together,” I blurted out. Felix loudly overlapped with “Like I said, I just thought Marla might want company on her ride in this morning.”

Karen studied us both in the silence that followed. She walked over to me, handed me the mug of latte, and put a hand on my shoulder. “This is a big day for you, honey,” she said, looking me in the eye. “Don't let
anything
distract you. Okay?” I had shared only the good eco-chic press from Dido with my parents. They knew nothing about the contradictory messages regarding my job. Karen squeezed my shoulder. “Good luck. I'll be waiting.”

“I know. Thanks,” I said as politely as I could. “We should go.” I half pushed Felix out the door. I didn't look behind me to see if my parents were watching us make our way toward the elevator.

“Sorry,” I said, once we were outside. “Karen's a little intense.”

“Well, showing up first thing in the morning is strange. She probably thinks I'm either stalking you or trying to steal your thunder.”

“The joke's on her, then,” I said, glancing up at my apartment building. “There's not going to be any thunder to steal.”

Felix looked at me quizzically.

“I might be getting fired.” I told him about the onslaught of messages and the red-lettered addition to my contract.

Felix laughed. “Are you crazy, princess?” I gave him a deep frown and he added quickly, “And I call you that only because you're about to become Torro-LeBlanc royalty again. Julia obviously made a mistake and was trying to backpedal. You drafted
the
couture piece that's started a huge trend. The creative director doesn't want to get in touch with you to fire you. Torro wants to claim ownership.”

“But I ended torture. They can't be happy about that.”

Felix drew his Unum from his back pants pocket and grinned. “No kidding. Did you see the piece the
Financier
posted yesterday?”

Marla shook her head.

“Let me find it.” He touched the screen. “It was about the anticipated losses at Torro from torture changing overnight like that.” I pushed him around a fire hydrant as he navigated his Unum. “Thanks. Here we go. They predicted first-quarter profits for the top fashion houses and ranked them. Take a look.” He held out the screen for me.

I scanned the list:

1. Rudolfo
   

2. Zhang & Tsai
   

3. Bancroft House
   

4. Belladonna
   

5. Hidaya
   

6. Torro-LeBlanc
   

I gaped.
Hidaya.
If we mentioned the design house at all, it was only to make condescending comments about it. Every so often its court would get lucky with a trend, but it remained solidly second tier. Or so everyone thought. “Oh, God. Torro's not in the Big Five anymore?”

“They still are for now. It's just a prediction, but the lost revenue from torture is going to sting, and the
Financier
knows that. Torro's Silents must be steaming!” Felix's usual scowl was nowhere to be found. He looked as if he'd just stepped off the world's best roller coaster. Quite the improvement—not that I could appreciate it right now with my life coming apart around me.

“Then I'm definitely going to get fired—screw that,
sued,
” I said, walking up the stairs to the train platform. “I've violated the non-compete clause in a million ways.”

“No. Listen
. Ivy Wilde
ended torture. We saw it. You invented the one thing that gives Torro any chance of getting back in the game. They can't lose you now.”

I wasn't convinced. But I didn't say anything as Felix stepped aside so I could pass through the turnstile ahead of him. We stood together on the platform, listening to the animated conversations around us. I caught snatches of “torture” and “eco-chic” emerging from the lips of the commuters. Just when I'd thought I'd managed to avoid getting recognized, I locked eyes with three Torro-LeBlanc drafters at the other end of the platform. They waved and began making their way toward me.

The arriving train saved us. “This way,” I said, steering Felix into the rearmost car. We slipped into two facing seats and rested our briefcases in our laps. I was aware of my knees hovering an inch away from his. I took a gulp of latte and swallowed.

“So . . .
are
you stalking me?” I asked.

Felix's look turned mischievous, and I wondered for a second if the conversation was going to head someplace complicated. “Maybe,” he said. “This morning the stalking happens to be work related. I had to see you before the Torro brass got to you.”

“Why?”

Felix again took out his Unum and poked around the screen. “You remember Vivienne's idea? She and Kevin and I, and a couple of the patternmakers, talked last night. We tried calling you but couldn't get through. It's time. The company's vulnerable, and we can organize successfully even without the Superior Court's support. In a couple of weeks, we'll be ready to present the demands for our corporate makeover. And that's where you come in.”