The Model Spy

Chapter 17 - Showtime

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.