Material Girls (20 page)

On Sunday morning, I awoke to find two news vans parked on the street in front of my apartment complex. Walter told me reporters from the Pop Beat channel and
Prime
magazine had called from the lobby. They were requesting interviews while I was still in my pajamas.

“Get some makeup on!” Karen yelled to me, hastily singeing the tips of her own hair with a flat iron.

I stared at the vans from my window. I thought about stepping out into the gray morning and answering questions about my designs. Maybe being photographed for a profile in
Prime
. Enticing—but it was too great a risk. I remembered that Torro-LeBlanc had a little provision in its drafter contract that prevented just this sort of thing. After yesterday's messages from Julia, I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself.

“Drafters aren't allowed to give interviews,” I said to Karen.

She looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. “Well,
I'll
talk to them, then.” She applied a coat of gloss, flipped her hair back, and exited the front door.

I didn't hear the particulars, but it was a short interview. I watched the reporters and camera operators climb back into their respective vans. They camped out on the curb for two more hours before driving away.

Later, Winnie called, leaving a chipper message: “I saw the show. Congrats on the eco-chic outfit! Give me a call when you get this, okay?”

Then Godfrey. His message was the nicest. He didn't ask me to call back, just told me he'd adored the clothes. He said the materials were some of the most innovative he'd seen. He ended with a definitive “I'll see you on Monday.” I was tempted to call back and confirm that I was still employed, but I couldn't handle the bad news, even from him.

And the weirdest: Someone from Belladonna called. A crisply dressed woman wanted to set up an informational interview to discuss “lucrative career opportunities.” I knew it was illegal to poach design-house employees. Once you were tapped, you were contractually bound to the house that hired you. Besides, design-house loyalty was fierce. But if Torro fired me, I would need to work
somewhere
. . .

Finally, the administrative assistant to Torro-LeBlanc's chief creative officer, neither of whom I had ever met, began leaving messages. I burned with curiosity—but he was a youngish man who had a brisk, dominating way of speaking that intimidated me. Fed up, I decided to face the entire mess in person on Monday. I powered down my Unum and left it off for the rest of the day. Every so often, I glanced suspiciously at its dark face.

Ivy left her nymphs
in front of Sunday night's primetime lineup and once again hurried away to the music room. She was supposed to be rehearsing “My Love Is Evergreen,” a song the studio had rushed over. It was a potential opening number for her revised tour set list. Fatima and Jarvis hadn't wasted a moment. The venue sets were being reconstructed, and the choreographer was coming over in the middle of the week to work with her on some “environmentally inspired” dances. With amusement, Ivy wondered if she'd have to blossom like a flower or flutter like a bird around the stage. Both options were fine by her. Performing without chains or corsets was progress.

Sadly, the melody of “My Love Is Evergreen” conserved its resources, all right; it recycled the same three notes over and over. Ivy ignored it; she would sing it to death with her vocal coach later anyway. Instead, she tried to figure out the chord progression for a new song.

This time, she'd chosen a major key. The song was happy and upbeat. Four joyful, hummable lines of the chorus had come to her in a rush during dinner: “Forget yesterday / 'Cause today we escape / Come on, come on / Break free with me.” Since her appearance on
Hot with Hyman,
she really did feel freer. Tomorrow's brunch with Clayton was on her mind too; they were both kind of breaking free, weren't they?

She was experimenting with the verse melody when she heard a knock and saw a knob turning.

Naia popped her face into the crack of open door. “What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing.” Ivy folded her hands in her lap. “Practicing. What do you want?”

“There's a delivery for you. Flowers.”

Ivy's mind flew to her eco-chic debut the day before. She felt a warm flush creep over her as she sat on the piano bench. Could they be from Felix? So soon? No, it was unlikely. Still, unable to help herself, she strode toward the door with expectation, brushed past Naia, and spotted the massive bouquet in the foyer. A young woman in a jumpsuit with
Mercury Florist
embroidered on the pocket was carrying it in, her arms hugging the giant base as if it were a small boulder. With considerable effort, she heaved it onto a bare table and took a deep breath. She then began perfecting the arrangement, adjusting the stems and greenery with an artist's touch.

Ivy walked up to the florist. “Who are they from?” she demanded. Naia followed her, half curious, half drifting toward the sounds of
Playground Crime Scene
coming from the living room.

“There should be a card stuck in here,” the florist muttered, scanning the blooms. Her cap was pulled down so far over her eyes that Ivy didn't trust the woman's vision; she began looking herself. “That's funny,” the florist said, patting her uniform and sticking her hands into her pockets. “Nothing.” She glanced around the room awkwardly. “It probably fell out in the truck. I'll have to go take a look. I'm so sorry.” Ivy twisted her mouth in impatience.

“Let us know who sent them,” Naia called over her shoulder as she made her way back to the living room to join the other nymphs. Ivy stayed put as the florist headed toward the entrance. But instead of leaving, she paused at the door. She removed her cap and turned back to Ivy.

“Ivy Wilde,” she said in a different voice. “Do you remember me?” She stared at Ivy full on, her mascara-laden eyes severe and unblinking, her hair falling darkly around her face.

Ivy felt a flash of recognition. She knew she had seen this woman before, recently, in an uncomfortable situation. There had been others around too. Like a struck match, the scene in the Torro-LeBlanc runway-show dressing room blazed in her mind's eye. This was the crazy woman who had planted all those ink explosives on the seats. And had been fired on the spot. She was here, in Ivy's house . . . for what? Revenge?

“
Don't
call your nymphs,” the woman ordered, seeming to read her mind. “And don't touch your Unum.” She pulled out her own and held it up between her thumb and middle finger, shaking it slightly. “I know what your brother did, and I know how disturbing it must be for you. If you listen to what I have to say, I promise to keep his little secret.”

“Constantine?” Frantically, Ivy wondered what she was talking about.

The woman read her face and gave her a sad smile. “Ah. I figured you knew. I'll tell you in a moment. I want to talk first.”

Ivy began to tremble as the woman advanced toward her. “What do you want?” Ivy asked in a tight voice. “Are you here to kill me?”

The woman halted her approach and began to laugh. Ivy waited, deciding the laughter sounded amused rather than evil. Still, she remained tensed and ready to run.

“Sorry,” the woman said, wiping the corner of one eye and smudging her makeup. “We got off to a bad start, I think. My name is Vivienne Graves.” She stuffed her cap into her pocket and extended her hand, which Ivy ignored. The woman continued, undeterred. “I used to work for Torro-LeBlanc, as you no doubt remember.
No,
Evangeline Vassiliotis, I am not here to murder you. Quite the opposite. I think you have the power to make a difference in an important movement going on right now.” She glanced in the direction of the living room, where the young television stars' voices carried on a conversation about fingernail clippings. “Is there somewhere we can talk where we won't be disturbed?”

The tactical shift bewildered Ivy, as did Vivienne's use of her real name. She needed to proceed carefully. “The kitchen's this way,” she suggested, leading Vivienne down three steps and around the corner. With its open design, the kitchen felt safe enough. After she found out what was on that Unum, she could easily run to her nymphs if need be.

“Perfect,” said Vivienne, sitting down on one of the counter stools. She leveled her palms on the marble countertop. “Boy, does this remind me of drafting,” she said. “Sit with me,” she added, gesturing to a stool next to her.

“I'm good,” said Ivy, remaining on the other side of the counter. It felt better to have a slab of stone between them. She patted her pockets but remembered that her placidophilus pills were in the living room. “What do you know about Constantine? Is he all right?” she asked, glancing at the device next to Vivienne's hands.

“Yes,” said Vivienne lightly. “And I won't tell you any more until you listen to me. I promise, the sooner you hear me out, the sooner I'll leave. I want to talk to you about the eco-chic trend.”

Ivy's face crinkled in bewilderment. “Huh?”

Vivienne reached into her florist's uniform and pulled out a medium-size manila envelope, which she placed on the countertop. “I know Marla Klein designed the look for you. But tell me. Why were you willing to go along with it?”

Ivy shook her head, trying to understand what Vivienne was asking. Her head felt woolly. “Um, because I needed a new look.”

“Why?”

She studied Vivienne, wondering how honest to be. “Performers need to change things up every so often. To stay relevant,” she said.

“I see.” Vivienne nodded. “Your single is number one on the pop charts for one week, someone else moves up the next . . .” She mimed the rungs of a ladder with her hands. “It's like a never-ending dance, isn't it? It must be hard work to stay on top.”

One of Ivy's
Laid Bare
tracks, “Me First,” had shot to the top spot yesterday, twenty-four hours after the Pop Beat exposure. Lyric Mirth was now sitting pretty at number three with “So Pure It Hurts.” That was where she could stay. Vivienne seemed to be trying to read her with those dark eyes. Ivy scowled. “Tell me about Constantine,” she said again.

“In a moment. I promise. What I'm really wondering is, why specifically did you and Marla decide on
eco-chic?
”

“I don't know. Because it's prime to care about the environment.”

Vivienne paused. “Eva—do you
honestly
care about the environment? Or is it just a convenient trend to take advantage of?”

“Of course I care,” Ivy blurted out. She thought about the song she had begun the previous night about the oil spill—if that wasn't proof, what was? “I care,” she repeated.

“Your outfit, the one you wore on
Hot with Hyman,
” Vivienne said. “Yes, it features recycled materials, but Torro is most likely in the process of mass-producing it. It will last as a trend for a few weeks and then something new will replace it.”

Ivy could feel her waiting for a response, but she didn't give one. Vivienne went on. “Putting aside production for a moment, let's talk about waste. What do you think happens to clothes after a trend passes?”

Ivy thought. What does happen to clothes? She remembered her mother keeping a donations box in their house. “They're donated.”

“Some of them are. Fifteen percent of textiles are recycled. Meaning they end up in a thrift shop, or are sold at a discount to other countries, or are turned into things like rags and upholstery stuffing. What happens to the rest?”

Vivienne wasn't looking at her unkindly, but Ivy felt stupid. “I hadn't really thought about it before. I don't know . . . they end up in the ground?”

“Yes. They're shredded and put in landfills. Or burned. In this country, we discard eleven million tons of clothes and shoes a year. That's seventy pounds per person—though
your
trendsetting contribution is four or five times that number, I'd guess.” Ivy heard the edge in her voice. “What kind of environmental impact do you think that has?”

Ivy grew defensive at Vivienne's words. It wasn't her fault that trends keep changing and that Fatima would only let her feature outfits once. But the image of Millbrook came back to her, the legions of cheering people dressed in the armed-forces trend. That trend was surely over by now. She imagined all that expensive clothing stuffed into a hillside, torn and dirty, never to be worn again. Her hankering for a placidophilus pill increased.

Vivienne chuckled bitterly. “Torro was always so proud of the way it recycled internally. It made everyone feel warm and fuzzy about corporate practices. So they wouldn't look too hard at the other ends.”

Ivy put her elbows on the counter and massaged her temples. “You think I don't care, but I do. I can't stand walking through my own closet sometimes. And shopping's fun, but sometimes I feel sick looking at the price tags. Where I grew up, people shell out cash for trends they can't afford. In part because of me.”

Vivienne sat up straighter, studying Ivy with her dark, deep-set eyes. “I underestimated you, Eva,” she said softly. “Yes, there is a considerable economic cost for everyone.”

Ivy suddenly remembered her conversation in the bathroom of the runway show. “So why did you design torture, then, if you're so against trends?” she demanded. “Marla Klein said those horrible clothes were your idea.”

Vivienne seemed to consider her reply. “I thought someone . . . important . . . might be brave enough to point out the ridiculousness of the trend,” she said at last. “And it might make people think harder about trends in general.”

Even though Vivienne was an intruder, Ivy was finding it hard to stay angry at her. Here was someone who was comfortable talking about the wastefulness of trends. Some who maybe thought one hundred fifty-nine dollars for a pair of tights was ridiculous.