Material Girls (22 page)

I stared at him, remembering Vivienne's message after the runway show. “Makeover?”

“Our vision for restructuring Torro-LeBlanc.” Felix smirked. “Vivienne was calling it a ‘manifesto,' but we thought that some rebranding might attract more people to the cause.”

They wanted to
make over
the company. I had a feeling this meant more than repainting walls and hanging new curtains.

“You, Miss Eco-Chic, may soon be in a position to make certain demands of your own,” continued Felix. “So we need to know if you're on board.”

“On board? I told you I was,” I said. “I think older people like us should still serve on the courts. It's not fair.”

“Ah. But in our makeover, there are no courts.”

Felix let his pronouncement sink in. He tilted his head toward mine and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You should read the demands”—he waved his Unum—“but I'll give you the gist. Torro, like all of the design houses, is massive. Monolithic. A very few people have creative authority, and a whole lot of others do the dirty work without much reward. Right?”

I had no idea what
monolithic
meant, but I didn't let on. “Sure.”

“So we want to dissolve the tiered structure and break up the giant house. Create a whole bunch of small studio divisions within the organization. The divisions will have specialties. They can be grouped by item—like a handbag division—or by aesthetic, or just by people who want to work together.”

I mulled over this idea. It was a drastic restructuring—but I admitted that it made some sense. Our own table sometimes felt like a mini studio, anyway. Of course, Felix would probably want to work with people who shared his aesthetic of tough, distressed-looking garments. That wasn't really my style. I could see it, though: a group of like-minded drafters collaborating. I wondered—maybe I could start my own “eco-chic” division? “Go on,” I said.

“One representative from each studio will be elected to a leadership team that meets regularly with Torro's Silents. All the reps will serve brief terms and rotate members.” Felix grabbed my mug and sloshed down some latte. I raised my eyebrows but didn't say anything as he handed the mug back to me with a grin. “Thanks. Your mother makes good foam.”

“Okay, so independent creative divisions,” I said. “Presumably, we wouldn't work on commission?”

“Nope. We'd set up a fair pay scale. I think there should be bonuses for high performance, but I haven't convinced Kevin yet,” said Felix, shrugging.

“And no courts.” The idea felt so foreign to me. “So what about sifters and selectors?”

Felix chuckled. “Vivienne didn't want children to be employed at all. She wanted the entry age to be eighteen.”

“We wouldn't tap?” I exclaimed. I lowered my voice. “That's insane. Torro would lose all the good talent to the other houses.”

“I don't know. I think the idea was that we'd get the other houses—and creative industries—to follow Torro's model eventually. Force reform from the chairman himself. But anyway, Viv lost that battle. We'd still tap. For the first few years, though, instead of sifting through sketches, children would rotate through a kind of . . . what did we call it?” He scrolled down his Unum face. “Apprenticeship program. The patternmakers actually have a good model where they shadow each other to learn techniques. We're going to make it companywide. Haven't you ever wanted to cut and drape your own patterns? And in case you haven't noticed, the patternmakers are desperate for creative input. There wouldn't be patternmakers and drafters anymore—there'd simply be
designers.

“Anyway, the new Taps would apprentice in everything so they could have varied careers at Torro-LeBlanc if they wanted. Real art lessons. Patternmaking workshops. They'd spend time with sales and marketing. They'd get a little writing and math, too, so some of them could go into the business side of things. I've tried to teach myself basic accounting and statistics, but it's tough to do on your own.”

I looked at Felix. Something clicked. His desire for a range of skills, his love of telling people what to do. “You're thinking you could run the place—Torro—someday, aren't you?” I said.

His scowl returned. “Well, why not? The Silents are practically mute—this place could use some real leadership from within. Like I say, people will always wear clothes. This makeover is about creating a design house where workers can be creative—and get paid for it.
And
have the opportunity to grow and lead if they want to.”

I looked at his heavy eyebrows, so often knitted in frustration. “You're right,” I said. I loved designing now—but who knew? Maybe someday I'd like to try something different. What was wrong with learning a few Adequate skills? I remembered the
Times
reporters buzzing around the newsroom. There had been furrows of concentration, but there had also been relaxed smiles and laughter. “I've started to wonder why there has to be such a lifelong division between Taps and Adequates,” I said. “I think the whole misery-of-Adequates thing might be a myth.”

“Exactly.”
Felix was animated. “So you're with us, then. Here, take a look at the demands.”

I put up my hand. “I'm with you in theory, yes. But I'm still hazy on how you plan to change the entire company. I don't want to lose my job.”

Felix groaned and leaned back in his seat. “Are you serious? Torro abuses us, and you—”

“I know,” I interrupted in a sharp whisper. “But I can't help it. I need Torro. Without them, I'm nothing. What am I supposed to do, design under my own label?”

“You could.”

I pursed my lips at the absurdity. “Well, then, I'd better like wearing my own clothes, because I'd be the only one buying them.”

“Ivy would buy them.”

I paused. “She asked me to make her outfit because she knew I was a Big Five designer.”

“That fear is what keeps us all in line.” Felix shook his head. “How are we going to make Torro listen? We're going ahead with the walkout. We won't have the upper floors but about a third of the drafters and patternmakers have told us they're on board. With a little more time, we'll bring the rest around. We'll contact the mainstream papers and all the gossip magazines. This thing will be a media maelstrom. Vivienne's been working around the clock, calling the Torro employees who've left in the last ten years, convincing them to join the march.”

I wondered if the protesters really would be a dense, angry mob—or if, when the moment came, everyone would get cold feet and Felix would end up addressing a scraggly, feeble bunch. It seemed so risky. “And how exactly do I fit into all of this?”

“Simple. Torro doesn't get you unless they agree to the makeover.”

“They don't
get
me?”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Aren't you listening? They don't get to lay claim to Marla Klein, the innovator behind the trend destined for outrageous popularity, unless they cooperate. You'll take your mad skills elsewhere. They'll be left with no drafters, no patternmakers, a sixth-place ranking, bad press, and no prime trend.”

“You're nuts. Eco-chic is not going to be that important.” But even as I said it, I remembered the news vans and the strange call from Belladonna. Did they really want me and eco-chic? Maybe a threat to leave wouldn't be empty after all.

“It already is that important,” Felix said. “In fact, when all is said and done, you'd better recruit me.”

“Huh?”

“To your studio. If famous ‘Miss Eco-Chic' will have me.” The tinge of sarcasm wasn't enough to mask the sincerity behind his words. He shifted his gaze to the window. “The trend isn't just clever. You'll make an impact. I want to design sustainable clothes too.”

“I figured you'd work with—” I began, but Felix spoke at the same time.

“I know sometimes I'm not the most approachable—”

Both of us stopped midsentence and laughed.

“You're as approachable as steel wool, Felix,” I said.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He shrugged. “But Ivy Wilde's outfit was prime. You're talented. You have been from your first day in the basement.” The sarcasm was gone. I could tell he meant it.

“Thanks.” I figured the door was open to return the compliment. “You know, I was on the court with people who were sweet on the outside but who turned into creeps the day I was fired. You're the opposite. You're steel wool on the outside, but underneath, you care about people a lot. About making their lives better. That's the best kind of person.”

The smile he gave me transformed him into a really hot kind of person too, but I kept that thought to myself. I handed him my travel mug and opened my briefcase. I removed the floral pin, cupping my hand to shield it from the other commuters. “I didn't know if I should wear this today.”

“Put it on. Everyone knows what you did anyway. Walk into Torro like you own the joint.”

I watched the petals catch the morning light and cast a prismatic pattern onto the train car wall. I thought of the endless parade of trends I had approved for production while sitting on the Superior Court. “I have a demand,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“To add to the makeover. Change the number of seasonal releases from twelve to eight. It's too crazy the way it is. Let each trend have the chance to live a little. If I like something, I want to enjoy wearing it for more than a few weeks before it expires.”

“I don't know,” said Felix. “The faster trends expire, the better for business.”

I gave him a fixed look. “That's my demand. And I know Vivienne would agree with me.”

Felix opened his mouth and closed it again, smirking. “Done. You drive a hard bargain, Klein.” He began tapping his Unum face.

A world without courts. Even hearing the persuasive case Felix made, I had difficulty imagining it. I didn't see how the idea could ever catch on. The world was full of people like my mother, who worshiped the judges in every industry. Still, maybe we could change things somehow. A little.

Wondering how it was all going to play out, I pinned the plastic flower to my lapel.

The elevator doors opened and I stared at the figures in front of me: Julia, flanked by two large CSS agents in gray uniforms. Felix stayed by my side, both of us barriers to the packed elevator. We stepped out, and I was aware of the other drafters trickling around us in two forked streams. I felt the sidelong glances as they passed.

Julia had squeezed her curves into one of Torro's short flapper numbers from the midspring line. Her arms were crossed, but when she saw me, she opened them in a warm gesture and smiled broadly. “Marla! There you are. I left you some messages this weekend, honey.”

Honey?
I almost choked on my tongue. Trying to act genuinely surprised, I stammered: “Oh—really? My Unum's been a little fritzy. Sorry.”

“Such a nuisance when they malfunction, isn't it?” Julia approached and wedged herself between me and Felix. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. She smelled like an orange grove—she had evidently bathed in
Le Jus,
one of Torro's signature scents. “I wanted to catch you first thing,” she intoned silkily. “Some very important people want to meet with you this morning.” Her eyes flashed to my lapel pin.

What game was this? She knew I'd gotten the messages. I knew she thought more of sidewalk gum than she did of me.

Stepping out from behind Julia, Felix gave me an
I told you so
glare
.
He then tilted his head toward a nearby table. In addition to the customary stacks of magazines, I noticed glossy photos of Ivy Wilde wearing my design. That was somewhat reassuring. Were Felix and my mother right? Was I actually on my way to being respected again at Torro-LeBlanc? I spotted my own table, where Randall and Kevin stood, watching us. Dido must not have arrived yet. In a gesture as quick as a lightning crackle, Kevin brought the fingers of one hand to his forehead and gave a tiny salute.

“Who wants to meet with me?” I asked, turning to Julia.

“Come,” Julia said, steering me toward the elevator door. The CSS agents approached.

“I'm going with her,” said Felix.

Julia stopped. With dainty fingers, she took the travel mug from my hands and held it out to him with a cold smile. “You'll stay in the basement.”

The hulking agents hovered. His face clouding, Felix grabbed the mug and took a step back.
“Remember,
Marla,” he said.

Julia made a rude noise, something between a snort and a cough, and said “six” at the voicebox. The doors whirred shut and he disappeared from view.

The sixth floor. I had never been there. No one I knew had ever been there. It was supposed to be where a bunch of Adequates crunched numbers and where the Silents had their offices. The doors parted to reveal a central corridor and two others leading left and right. As I stepped out of the elevator, my shoes sank into dense, rose-colored carpet. The decor was classic and old-fashioned, but somehow it managed not to look feeble.

Along the side corridors, men and women—Adequates, I presumed—sat at a number of sleek, wide office desks, arranged in pods of two or four. They were talking on their Unums or working on Tabulas. Natural light poured through broad square windows. As in the
Times
office, it was a lively, upbeat atmosphere—until they spotted Julia, at which point they lowered their heads and grew quiet.

Julia dismissed the agents, who disappeared down the right hallway. I followed her down the central corridor. On my left and right was a series of doors, whose gold labels had titles such as Vice President of Human Resources, Vice President of Manufacturing, Vice President of Recruitment, and Vice President of Operations. At the end of the corridor, two polished desks of dark wood faced each other. At the left desk sat a young woman; on the right, a young man I recognized from my Unum messages. It was the chief creative officer's assistant. They weren't incredibly young, but both were really good-looking, and both wore Torro's latest trends—though not torture, I noticed. The woman's hair was done exactly like the star of
Pillow Party
's, right down to the pink grosgrain ribbons.