Material Girls (26 page)

Below me, I was surprised to see Randall make his way toward the elevator. I almost cried out to him, but the elevator door closed before he could board. Randall kept moving. He headed for a control panel to the right of the elevator and jimmied the cover off with what looked like a pocketknife. He pressed something that I couldn't see. Randall nodded at Felix, who hoisted himself on top of the table next to me.

“That ought to hold them for a minute,” Felix said. Whoa. Randall had stopped the elevator car. Now
that
was a useful trick.

“We want everyone to join us,” Felix continued. “Please take a look at the new organizational model we're proposing.” He went on to explain the creative studios and the elected representatives. Again, I was impressed with how perfect it sounded. The other drafters seemed to be warming. A few shouted questions, which Felix answered. “Let us know if you have ideas,” he finished. “This isn't one person's vision. Everybody has a voice.”

“And another thing,” I added. “Ivy Wilde has agreed to support us. If we strike, she'll refuse to wear Torro-LeBlanc. Publicly. Who knows what other celebrities will add their support?” I threw in at the end, hoping I wasn't getting carried away.

This news seemed to satisfy the drafters' final doubts.

“I'm with you!” one woman shouted.

“Me too,” I heard from all corners of the room.

“Let's go!” someone bellowed, and the room erupted in cheers and whistles. I felt goose bumps shoot up my arms. I couldn't stop smiling.

Felix was grinning too. We exchanged a look. “Okay!” he shouted, holding up his hands. “Those of you who have especially good relationships with the patternmakers, follow Marla. Go up to the second floor and get them to join us. Most of them have already been sent the makeover demands, so they should be ready to go. The rest of you, follow me. We'll start marching outside the building and block the entrance in case they decide to lock it. Got it?” The room cheered and stomped again.

Felix hopped off the table and offered me his hand. I took it and jumped down. “You shouldn't have any trouble. Just say what you said here. They love you.” Still holding my hand, he pulled me toward him. “You're a warrior, Klein,” he whispered coarsely. “I hope you know that.”

“Um, we'll go first,” I said giddily, nodding toward the stairwell entrance. “You follow.”

Felix flashed me the best smile in the world.

“I'm coming with you.” On my left, Dido slid an arm through mine. “Great speech.” Drafters swarmed around us as we walked toward the door, cheering and patting me on the back. With a final glance at Felix, I pulled open the door and began leading the crowd up the stairs. When I passed the first floor, I glanced quickly through the little window that revealed the elevator bay. I wondered how long it would take for someone to notice us snaking up the stairwell. The truth would be out soon.

Clayton and his entourage
finally paraded into Saltimbocca. Ivy watched the female heads turn in adoration as they passed. Even Jelly and Selma were whispering. She gave James a little smile as the satyrs sat down with her nymphs.

“You look prime,” Clayton announced when he joined Ivy in her booth. She heard a few cameras snap.

She thanked him and filled him in on the strange encounter with Bernadette. Over brunch, they talked more about his vacation. She told him how great the tan looked. He showed her pictures on his Unum. Ivy could feel the warmth of the water just by looking at its turquoise surface dappled with sunlight. The sand on the Isla Del Sol beaches was dove white. Clayton was right; it looked like paradise.

Shyly, she told him about her songwriting attempts. Clayton practically roared his encouragement; looking over her shoulders, she had to tell him to keep it down before they were overheard. “Do it, Wildness,” he whispered. “Even if they don't let you perform the songs, who cares? Write them if it makes you happy. You know, that's a good idea. In spite of all the performing, it never even occurred to me . . .” He trailed off into thoughtful silence.

When the bill arrived, Ivy nodded at Clayton, and the charade commenced. Ivy cleared her throat.

“Now, Clay, babe, you know we've had a lot of fun together,” she began. She said it loudly—unnaturally so—but this wasn't a private conversation.

“We sure have,” Clayton responded, also in a megaphone voice.

She sighed. “I've been thinking, though—it's kind of time for a fresh start. I know you've felt it too.”

“I'm glad you brought it up,” Clayton said, looking solemn. “I'll always love you and everything. But yeah. Things have run their course.”

The reporter across from them actually fell out of his booth trying to listen. Ivy focused on her fork so she wouldn't burst out laughing.

They continued, reminiscing about a couple of “dates” they'd had at nightclubs and concert venues.
Dates,
Ivy thought wryly. Why couldn't people see through the fakeness of it all? Wasn't it obvious that dates with the world looking on didn't count?

She could hear the camera clicks increase in speed. They upped the volume.

“So we're okay?” said Clayton. “No hard feelings, no regrets?”

“Definitely. I'm grateful for the times we've had . . .” They sounded like a soap opera. She bit the inside of her cheek. “And I'll never forget you.”

When it was over, they rejoined their respective entourages. Reporters bombarded them outside the restaurant.

“Miss Wilde! Mr. Pryce! Is it true your relationship's over?” they screeched, the now uninhibited camera flashes lighting up the foggy morning.
What bloodsuckers,
thought Ivy. What if I'd really just had a breakup?

Clayton put his arm around her. “Yes, but Ivy and I are going to stay friends.”

She chose her words deliberately. “Clayton is an amazing guy, and he's going to make someone very happy.” She kissed Clayton on the cheek, and the two groups parted.

Not wanting to relive the
Hot with Hyman
aftermath, Ivy had run the breakup by Jarvis and Fatima beforehand. Fatima threw up her hands and said there was so much image reinvention to manage she didn't care if Ivy decided to date a flagpole. Jarvis was less ambivalent; he liked the idea. “Your new persona is concerned with saving the planet, not hooking up all the time. It's better if you're single.” Ivy choked out her thank-yous. Being listened to was a new feeling.

Clayton had checked with his agent, Keane, as well, who was less than thrilled about severing the connection to Ivy Wilde just as Ivy's popularity was on the rise. But Keane had come around when Clayton began talking about staying more focused and balanced if he didn't have to fake a relationship. Still, Keane wasn't going to let him come out or date James openly—yet. “I think we both know that my career isn't going to last forever,” Clayton told Ivy, when they had made plans to meet at Saltimbocca. “I just have to wait it out. It won't be too long now.” Ivy wondered how he could so readily envision the curtain closing on his fame. The thought made her queasy. Seeing Bernadette that morning had only underscored the importance of keeping her own spotlight shining.

As soon as Ivy and her nymphs returned to the urban utility vehicle after brunch, Fatima pounced. “What were you doing talking to Bernadette Fife?” she demanded. Ivy wondered how she knew about their conversation. She'd been outside the entire time, hadn't she? “Bernadette's the plague. You'll catch career death, Ivy,” Fatima warned. “Stay away.”

Ivy ignored Madison's
I told you so
look. It didn't matter. She was single again, privately and publicly. The gossip magazines would blow the breakup out of proportion, of course. A friendly split didn't draw readers. They'd probably say that Ivy cheated on Clayton with Kev duPrince. Or that he couldn't handle her new image. So what. It meant that she was free and that Clayton no longer had to live a demeaning lie. She would definitely finish writing her song for them both. And maybe start a new song for someone else, who she hoped would be giving her a call any day now.

In the meantime, she needed to focus her attention on another matter. Namely, using the idea Vivienne Graves had given her to drive a nail in the coffin of a certain pop singer's feeble career.

As Dido and the other drafters
and I approached the second floor, I remembered how cautious Vaughn had been about helping me with Ivy Wilde's look. The patternmakers didn't make much money, but they also didn't work on commission like we did. Felix seemed confident, but would they really risk their jobs to join us?

I pushed open the door to Garment Construction. A surprising sight met my eyes. The patternmakers weren't scurrying about as usual. They stood clumped in a large mass in the center of the workroom. Each face turned to me expectantly as I entered with Dido and the mass of drafters behind me.

Everywhere, there were banners of fabric, some carried by four or six hands, some stretched between two poles in the air. On each, a slogan had been printed in some kind of paint or dye. I read:

LET PATTERNMAKERS DESIGN

WE SUPPORT STUDIOS

TIME FOR A MAKEOVER, TORRO!

OPPRESSING WORKERS IS
NEVER IN FASHION

One young woman in rainbow bell-bottoms near the front even carried a sign that proudly declared
I DESIGNED MY OUTFIT.
It hung like a flag from a yardstick. I wondered if these banners had been made in the last fifteen minutes or if they'd been stashed somewhere in preparation for this day.

I scanned the crowd and found Vaughn. He had one hand on the
LET PATTERNMAKERS DESIGN
banner. With the other, he waved at me.

To my left, near the lounge, a man sat on a rolling chair. His mouth was gagged with knotted fabric scraps. Scraps also bound his wrists and ankles to the chair. He struggled, rolling jerkily in one direction and another. No one helped him. The patternmakers had apparently made short work of their floor director.

The bell-bottomed woman stepped forward. “We've been ready for this for a long time. Is Vivienne Graves with you?” she asked in a husky voice.

“No,” I said. “She's calling the employees that Torro fired. They'll join us soon.”

“Good,” said the woman. “I'm Gwen Manning. When do we begin marching?”

“I'm Marla Klein.” This degree of cooperation threw me off-guard. I hadn't expected it. “So you've . . . read the makeover demands?

The woman snorted a laugh. “Read them? I helped draft them. We're ready. What's the plan?” Around her, the patternmakers nodded.

I thought fast. “Felix has a group guarding the entrance for us. We need to leave the building before they lock us in.”

“We want some signs too!” a drafter behind me shouted. There was a hum of agreement from the others.

Quickly, some fabric and brushes were produced, and the drafters got to work on banners of their own. I made my way to Vaughn, stepping over signs that read
NO MORE COURTS
and
FAIR PAY
. “I wasn't sure you'd risk your job for this,” I said quietly.

“And I never thought you'd be one of the ringleaders,” Vaughn replied, laughing. “Strength in numbers,” he went on. “That's the only way something like this will work. Gwen made sure it was all of us or none.” I nodded. We had probably left a few uncertain drafters in the basement, and we'd lost the ones in the elevator, but from the looks of the crowd in the room, not many were unsure here.

“Marla!” I turned to see a freckled patternmaker hopping over the signs toward me.

“Neely!” I gave her a hug and touched my flower pin. “Have you been following the Ivy Wilde stuff? Our pin is famous!”

“It's incredible,” said Neely. “We need to work together after all this is through.”

I smiled at her and made my way back to the front of the room. “Okay, we should go,” I announced. “Everybody follow Dido and Gwen down the stairs to the first floor.”

“Aren't you coming?” Dido asked me.

“Yeah, I'll be right behind you. I want to make two quick stops.” We'd spoken to most of the tapped employees . . . but not all of them.

“We need a chant,” Gwen announced, holding her flag high. “Something that captures what we're marching for.”

“How about ‘Kill the courts'?” someone yelled out.

“It's a little violent,” I said quickly.

“I agree,” Gwen said. “Let's keep it light. What about ‘Torro Needs a Makeover'?”

Around the room, the drafters and patternmakers approved the slogan. Almost immediately, the chant began. The rhythm of the line got everyone's feet moving, and Gwen took the lead down the stairwell. I followed the crowd through the door, but instead of heading down, I raced up a floor. I entered the third-floor Sifting Room, where the sifters sorted through hundreds of sketches on long rectangular tables. Selectors paced behind, overseeing the sifters and approving or vetoing their choices. I'd forgotten how young and small they were. The new additions from February's Tap were only twelve or thirteen years old.

My entrance didn't cause much of a stir, so I stood on a chair near the door and clapped my hands. “Could I have your attention?” I shouted. “You should know that Torro-LeBlanc's employees are striking. Walking off their jobs. Hundreds are gathering outside the main entrance right now.” I looked around at the faces that were frozen in puzzlement. I thought back to the bliss of those first few years of employment. Explaining to the sifters and selectors that life down the road got disappointing would be a tough sell. Instead, I said: “We're asking for better conditions and better pay, and we welcome you to join us. Even if you don't, there will be no need for you to work anymore, as no more sketches will be coming in, and there's no Superior Court to judge them. Your workday is over. You can go home.”