Where Beauty Lies (Sophia and Ava London) (16 page)

MM went after her, then Sven, then Sam.

“You will never experience this—knowing as little as you know, being as unscathed and unsuspecting as you are—again,” Lucille Rexford had called to tell them earlier. “Cherish it.”

She was right, Sophia thought. And no thoughts of any guy were going to get in the way of that.

“Ready?” she asked Ava.

“No.” Ava shook her head. “You?”

“Nope.”

Ava looked at her and winked. “Let’s leap.”

They stepped out of the limo and into a bright flash of bulbs that seemed to freeze the moment in time, etching it into Sophia’s mind. The two of them, smiling at each other, every kind of adventure ahead of them.

It was 7:08 when they stepped onto The Rug.

At 7:29 their world shattered.

LonDOs:

Synchronize your watches

Cherish what you don’t know

Lily’s sketches of the fashion show

MM’s styling for the party

Leap before you look

Eat before you leap

Mini hot dogs wrapped in puff pastry

MAC false lashes

The Rug

How cute Popcorn and Charming will be when they get back from the pet spa

LonDON’Ts:

Crying in limos

Staying trapped even if it’s easier

Defensiveness

Offensiveness

14

meanpacking district

Pinkies linked, Ava and Sophia walked up the main red carpet, then went left to The Rug, where all the reporters were arrayed against the long step-and-repeat backdrop.

It was like some kind of crazy forest, microphones and cameras and lights making little groves around each reporter. Celebrities passed through, guided by their publicists, toward one crew and away from another, while reporters would sometimes avert their gaze or turn to reapply their makeup if a guest they weren’t interested in appeared.

Sophia and Ava were sought out by everyone, because everyone was excited to discuss—and possibly expedite—their demise. They had dared to go up against Christopher Wildwood, an icon in the fashion world, and they were going to be made to pay.

The first question from their first reporter was, “Aren’t you embarrassed to be here when everyone thinks you’re frauds?”

“We’re excited to prove them wrong,” Sophia told her.

The same reporter followed up with, “Isn’t it madness to cast models without seeing them?”

This one was Ava’s. “Only if you’re afraid of what your clothes look like. If you think they’ll only work on models and can’t stand up to the challenge of being worn by real people.”

That pretty much set the tone for the first interviews, but Ava and Sophia were prepared.

“Ninety seconds per interview is the maximum,” Harper had explained to them earlier that day. “They’ll never use more than thirty-five seconds tops, so anything else is a waste. When you’re done, you have thirty seconds to get into position for the next one. So two minutes total, per reporter. No matter how bad it gets, it will never last longer than that. The Rug can be brutal, but it’s also quick.”

“It always reminds me of miniature golf,” Lily had said.

Harper had laughed. “If only it were that civilized.”

They’d run questions as they dressed, practicing timing with a stop watch. “My sister and I are so excited to share our collection with the—”

“Too long,” Harper had said, her eye on the watch.

Sophia started again. “Ava and I are so excited to show our—”

“Beep.”
Harper cut her off.

“Sophia and I can’t wait for people to see what we can do,” Ava tried.

“Four seconds,” Harper had reported. “Perfect, love.”

Their second interview was nearly a carbon copy of the first, except the reporter this time was a man, and at the end he added, “I just got done talking with the ridonculous Whitney Frost. She disclosed in an Exclusive”—here he made an E with his fingers—“that she is
the
celebrity model in Christopher Wildwood’s show. Does that stir any strong feelings given your shared Liam history?” He tipped his head to one side and looked at Ava expectantly, and Sophia found herself thinking that if this had been miniature golf, he would have been a gnome.

“As a fan, and a friend, I’m just glad Whitney is getting work,” Ava told the gnome with a big, genuine smile.

From behind the reporter’s cameraman, Lily gave her a thumbs-up.

Whitney Frost, Liam’s ex-girlfriend and Hollywood alternative it girl, had decided months earlier that Ava and Sophia were rivals and had gone out of her way since then to create drama where there wasn’t any. When they started on The Rug she was one person ahead of them, but by the third interview the other person had dropped out and they ended up right behind her.

Ava and Sophia were doing their best to ignore her, even though, as Lily pointed out, she was wearing the dress Ava had shown the oversight committee, but Whitney spotted them during her interview and began pointing in their direction.

Sophia was answering the question about what insanity it was for them to use real people instead of models for the third time, when Whitney pointed in their direction and said loudly, “Those two. The Londons. They’re precisely what I mean about the death of fashion, and what I’m trying to help dear Christopher to remedy. If I can do one thing in this life, I hope it’s save fashion from the likes of them.”

As they waited for their fourth interview to begin it took all of Sophia’s self-control not to laugh when she heard Whitney say, “No,
glam
ifarian. That means I consider fashion the prime material, the meat, the very marrow of self-expression. Fashion is the asterisk where art meets design, beauty meets courage, a true scholarly medium that can really only be grasped by the cognoscenti.”

“I wonder if those words make sense even to her,” Sophia mused.

Ava sighed. “It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t wearing a dress we designed.”

“It would still be bad,” Sophia said.

“Yes, but all her blah blah Glamifarian”—Ava shuddered—“wouldn’t be as hard to stomach.”

“I beg your pardon?” the reporter said. “Did you say the dress she’s wearing is your design? Because she told me it was part of Christopher Wildwood’s new line, the one we’ll be seeing her wear on the catwalk.”

Sophia and Ava’s eyes locked, each of them asking the other the same question. Sophia raised her eyebrows, which Ava knew meant,
If you want to.
Ava smiled, which Sophia knew meant,
You bet I do.

Ava turned to the reporter. “I did. The dress is our design. Only our version hangs better because—do you see, Sophia, how they didn’t get the back quite right?”

The cameras all swiveled to Whitney, who shot them a quizzical smile over her shoulder, then went back to her interview.

“The photos they stole the design from must not have shown the back,” Sophia said.

“That’s quite an accusation to be making here,” the reporter told them.

“Then you must be very lucky to have gotten it first,” Ava said.

The reporter asked them for more details, forgetting entirely to humiliate them or wonder aloud if they were crazy.

Their next interviewer opened with, “You’ve been referred to as frauds, hacks, and even thieves. Why should—” but stopped halfway through when she noticed that Ava’s eyes were somewhere beyond her. “You seem distracted, Miss London. Am I boring you? Is there somewhere you’d rather be?”

“I’m sorry,” Sophia stepped in to say, looking as contrite as possible. “My sister is just upset about Whitney Frost. Or I should say what she’s wearing.”

“It’s from the collection Chris Wildwood is showing this week,” the reporter said.

“But it’s our design,” Ava chimed in then. Only slightly—” She paused, looking for a word.

“‘Off’?” Sophia offered.

“Exactly.” Ava leaned close to Sophia and, apparently forgetting the reporter, said, “For one thing, they didn’t understand the placket. See? They just made it a pleat, totally missing that there is actually a pocket there at the waist.”

Before Sophia could answer, the reporter put in, “That’s one of the most common differences between an original and a knockoff. Things like pockets are hard to see in a photo, which is usually what the copies are based on. If someone has their hand in the pocket, okay, but if the dress was on a dummy when it was photographed, you’d never know it was there.”

“You’re right,” Ava said with keen interest.

“If you could locate a photo of your dress where that detail isn’t clearly shown, you might be able to trace how the design was poached,” the reporter went on enthusiastically.

“That’s a great idea,” Sophia told her. “Thank you.” She wondered if the reporter realized she’d essentially just told her audience that Christopher Wildwood was a thief.

The woman glanced at her questions and frowned. “Most of these don’t seem very relevant.” She thought for a moment and then said, as if paraphrasing, “Some people say that you are taking a risk casting unknowns without seeing them. I can tell you two have your own point of view. What would you say to your detractors?”

In their sixth interview they drew attention to the fact that the trim on the dress had been moved from the waist to the hem. “Just like we moved it three weeks ago,” Ava mused.

“But when the oversight committee showed us the pictures of Christopher Wildwood’s version, the trim was still in the old place,” Sophia reminded her. “Do you think one of them could have leaked our idea?”

“Are you accusing the oversight committee of impropriety?” the reporter asked, and Sophia had the uncomfortable idea she was licking her chops.

“Of course not,” Ava said earnestly.

Sophia gave the reporter a worried smile. “Sometimes we forget everything is on the record. It just seems strange, doesn’t it, that Mr. Wildwood would move the trim to exactly the place we have it, after they’d been to see it?”

“It’s sort of brave,” Ava said, “devil-may-care. He clearly thinks he’s going to get away with it.”

The finger-pointing went back and forth, Whitney saying in louder and louder tones that it was her responsibility as a style icon and Glamifarian to save fashion from the London sisters, Ava and Sophia meticulously documenting the mistakes in the dress she was wearing, acting more confidential with every reporter, letting each one feel like he or she was getting scoop.

“This is amazing,” their seventh interviewer said as she looked at a photo of their design on Sophia’s phone. “You’re right—every difference you’re mentioning could have come from copying a picture just like this. Do you mind if we film the image? I want to get this on camera.”

At 7:24 Whitney stalked off The Rug, saying she had a headache, but as if by some unspoken signal everyone had decided Ava and Sophia weren’t the enemy after all, and even without her dress to comment on, their next interviews were much friendlier than their first ones.

In their ninth, the question that had started off as, “Isn’t it madness to cast your show without seeing the models?” had become, “I know everyone is excited about your decision to cast your show blind, based on essays from your viewers. What would you say was the biggest challenge of that process?”

“Picking,” Ava answered, glad finally to have something interesting to talk about. “We got over five thousand entries and nearly all of them were outstanding.”

“When you say nearly all, which ones weren’t?” the male reporter followed up.

“The ones with headshots,” Sophia told him. “And the ones offering us money.”

After their tenth interview, Sophia turned to Ava and said, “Just to be clear, did that reporter refer to us as the future of fashion?”

“I think he did. Amazing what a difference”—Ava checked her phone and saw that it was 7:27—“nineteen minutes can make.”

The eleventh reporter was probably the most even-handed. “There was a lot of talk initially about the challenges of using real-girl models,” he said. “What do you see as the pluses?”

“Our entire approach is about teamwork,” Sophia told him. “Since we first started putting up vlogs, input from our followers has played a part in all our decisions. It’s like having a really big—”

“Opinionated—” Ava put in.

“
Smart
family.” Sophia gave Ava an amused glance. “Incorporating the people whose input has helped us into the launch of our line just feels right. Ava and I have designed all the clothes and made every prototype by hand, but we would be nowhere without our friends and supporters. Unlike other designers who promote themselves as if they are the brand, we know we are only as good as our collaborations, and we want to honor, not hide, their impact.”

Behind the camera, Lily made a heart with her hands

“It’s also going to make our show fun,” Ava said. “Real fun, not smile-for-the-cameras fun. Because when your models
are
your customers, the line between the show and the audience gets blurry. So we have to make sure that being in the show is as fun as watching it.”

“And vice versa,” Sophia said. “Although that might not be possible.”

The reporter said, “I’ve heard that from many designers over the years but with you two I’m— What the
hell
?”

A low rumble came from the direction of the main red carpet, a combination of shouts and shrieks, and the crowd splintered, scattering to either side of the carpet.

The commotion rolled toward them on a wave of screams and crashes as people threw themselves into the thicket of cameras to avoid the blurry object rocketing down the center of The Rug. Sophia dragged Ava to one side, but the object skidded to a stop in front of them. It was a bike messenger, who glanced at a notepad attached to his wrist and then at them.

“London, A or S?” he asked with a growl.

Sophia nodded. “Yes.”

He shoved a white business envelope into her hands and, without waiting for her to sign a receipt, took off.

A security guard barreled through the cameras and dived to grab the back of the bike, was dragged three feet, and let go, yelping as his chin caught the back tire before hitting the floor.