City Chicks

Chapter 18-1

Eighteen

“Buona sera,” Ferrero greeted. “Welcome to the Italian Express. Strap yourself in for a bumpy ride.”

The limo could have seated at least twelve, but only five others occupied the soft leather benches. Ferrero sat at the head of the limo, his back to the driver and the privacy window. Kelly sat to his very near right and Jawbreaker to his very near left. I had half-expected Jawbreaker’s husband to be there. She always made him sound like such a perfect doting husband. He worked a lot, I knew, but I figured this could have been a vacation for him.

The other two occupants, Gavin and Elliot, knelt on the carpet in front of the bar, carefully picking up shards of glass.

“Good evening,” I responded, choosing to ignore the tension and awkward glances all around me and whatever had resulted in a broken champagne flute. “How is everyone tonight?”

Though I was just making polite conversation, the question prompted Kelly to leave Ferrero’s side, climb gingerly over the two men on the floor, and plop herself on the seat next to me.

“Oh my god, Lydia,” she squealed. “Isn’t this just the most exciting thing ever?”

She threw her arms around me in a strangle hold, squeezing until I finally patted her on the back in reciprocation.

“I mean, not only is this my first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, but Milan? Milan? This is like my holy pilgrimage!” She could hardly keep her wiggling behind in the seat.

It was hard to believe she’d never flown before. Never been out of the country. Everything about Kelly screamed jetsetter sophistication. Dressed entirely in winter white, in her lightweight wool slacks and chunky knit cowl neck she looked like she belonged on a private Greek island.

Unlike the outfit Fiona had selected for me to wear.

Which Kelly suddenly noticed.

“You look amazing! Like you’re ready to step onto the runway.” Her grin faltered for a second before adding, “The fashion runway. Not the airport kind.”

All eyes in the limo—even the driver’s, since the partition was down—turned on me. A long, low whistle let me know that Elliot approved of my new look.

I had to fight the urge to tug at the ruffles of the pacific blue satin tank, wishing they covered just a little more than they revealed. Though I had to admit, the way the ruffles accented things that weren’t there and the way the bright blue made my eyes glow more than made up for the amount of flesh showing.

It had taken a lot of convincing to get Fiona to let me wear pants instead of a miniskirt. In the end, the statistics about the friction of bare skin on emergency ramps won out. To save my legs from third degree burns she had consented to a pair of tight black skinny cords. They had just enough stretch to let me move freely and shaped my butt into a perfect curve.

And then there was the face.

Fi and Beth had taken almost two hours applying my make-up. Both were experienced with professional make-up application—Fiona from working with make-up artists at the model agency and Bethany from working with make-up artists from the lines of cosmetics she sold in her shop. So, two hours later I really did look like a model.

Of course the worst of it was they expected me to remember how to recreate the look.

I probably could, as long as I mastered the eyeliner. How Fiona lined the inside of my eyelids was still a mystery. But when I looked in the mirror and saw Brigitte Bardot looking back I had to admit that my past make-up skills had been lacking.

Bethany had even managed to spray and tease my limp, straight hair into a mass of voluminous, sexy waves.

A pair of cat-eyes and pouting lips later, I knew that the old Lydia—the one who used an all-in-one kit full of neutrals to the exclusion of all other make-up—was long gone, a lone brown M&M sitting out in the rain, melting away into oblivion.

Hoping the cosmetic blush disguised the real color heating my cheeks at the attention, I managed a sincere, “Thank you.”

While Elliot couldn’t take his eyes off my screen siren face, Gavin’s gaze dropped to my feet. He had always had a thing—almost a fetish, really—for sexy heels. Boink me pumps, he called them. And the four-inch snakeskin stilettos I wore were as sexy as they got.

Of course, I had a pair of comfortable flats in my carry-on for the plane—it would defeat all the effort to get permission to wear the pants if I broke my ankle on my way to the emergency exit—but for the trip to the airport I wanted to feel the full effect of my new look.

The fire in Gavin’s green eyes was unmistakable when he finally met mine. But the fire banked quickly as Elliot crawled across the carpet to my feet and settled into the seat on my right.

Gavin quickly disposed of the last of the broken glass and filled two of the remaining flutes with champagne. Taking the seat next to Kelly, he handed a glass to her and I waited for him to make a toast.

Instead, he handed the second glass to me and smiled.

Though I half-expected Kelly to giggle and squeal, “Bubbles,” she merely raised her glass, indicating I should raise mine as well.

“To Italy,” she toasted.

“To Italy,” I echoed, my gaze dancing briefly over Elliot and Gavin before resting on Kelly. “And to new beginnings.”

As Kelly chattered on about Milan and all the things she wanted to do, I felt Gavin and Elliot’s eyes on me the entire way to JFK. I knew they each wondered which new beginning I was toasting. If I knew myself, I might have told them.

The plane touched down at 7:46 the next morning; almost twenty minutes early, but not a second too soon. Through some cruel trick of fate—or the fact that Kelly requested the seating assignments—she and I were seated next to each other in the last row of the first class cabin. Somehow, even the soft leather seats and fresh baked cookies couldn’t overcome the fact that I had to listen to her gushing for the entire seven hours and twenty-one minutes of the flight.

Jawbreaker, of course, took the seat next to Ferrero in the row in front of me, leaving Gavin and Elliot neighbors in the seats across the aisle in my row.

Needless to say, there was not a lot of conversation from the other side of the gray patterned carpet.

As the plane taxied through the runways of Milan’s Malpensa Airport—an unfortunate name for an airport, roughly translating as “badly thought”—and Kelly oohed and ahhed at the Gothic spires and Romanesque bell towers, I gathered my belongings back into my carry-on.

I had resisted the urge to pull out my sketchpad and work during the flight. Feedback from Kelly was not on my birthday wish list.

Electing not to change out of the oh-so-comfortable-and-yet-still-fashionable driving mocs, I checked on the carefully tucked away heels before zipping the bag shut. I would just have to rely on my dove gray pashmina to exude my jetsetterness.

We emerged into the insanity that was Italy in the morning.

“We go this way,” Jawbreaker called when I headed for the sign with a suitcase on it, beckoning with the promise of baggage claim.

I frowned. “Shouldn’t we—”

“We have a car waiting,” Ferrero interrupted. Spying a young Italian man wearing a black suit and muted gold tie and casually holding a sign that read Ferrero Couture, Ferrero made a beeline and immediately pushed his nearly empty briefcase into the man’s arms. “I am exhausted. I need a siesta before the shows begin at ten. The hotel will arrange for the luggage.”

The driver, clearly used to the eccentric temperament of Americans—fake Italian accent or no—simply shrugged the briefcase onto his shoulder and led the way to the car.

Following closely behind, I had a feeling Fiona would have enjoyed the view. The car service did not skimp on their drivers. Fi would already be enumerating the boundless opportunities provided by a hunky chauffeur and an empty limo.

But, rather than push me backward into the car for a steamy interlude, the driver politely held the door as we all climbed in and then closed it softly behind us.

“Here is a rough schedule.” Jawbreaker handed out a stack of papers printed on Ferrero letterhead. Tasteful gold embossed ivory stock.

What should my letterhead look like if I started my own line? More fun, definitely. Maybe a bright lilac paper with blue lettering that matched my top. Ooh, and maybe something sparkly—

“Did you hear me, Lydia?”

“Wh—” I returned from my brief daydream to find all eyes on me. Jawbreaker’s, weary and above purple-smudged sags, looked tired. “Um, sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“The first show is a ten o’clock, but we should be able to relax and unpack a little beforehand since the hotel is only a couple blocks from the catwalk venue.”

“Oh, yes,” I said mostly because I felt like I needed to contribute something, “that’s convenient.”

As she looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hands I almost thought Jawbreaker rolled her eyes.

“Do you even know where we’re staying?” she asked.

If she didn’t sound so tired and run down, I might have taken offense.

Before I could shake my head, she answered her own question. “Hotel della Regina, in Via di Modo.”

“Oh,” I answered quietly, “thank you.”

Why did I feel like I had done something very, very wrong?

“This is gorgeous!” Kelly exclaimed, not subtle as we stepped into the elegant Renaissance lobby of the Hotel della Regina.

“That’s an understatement,” Gavin concurred.

Elliot let out another low whistle as he came up at my side and slipped his arm around my waist. Exhausted from the long journey, I laid my head against his shoulder and sagged into his embrace. A growl resonated against the polished marble, emanating from the vicinity of where Gavin stood.

I was too tired to get in the middle of the testosterone contest. Instead, I pulled away from Elliot and walked away from them both.

Drawn to a beautiful oil painting of the hotel’s façade, I was leaning in for a closer look at the brush strokes around the windows when Jawbreaker tapped on my shoulder.

“I understand there’s some conflict about the sleeping arrangements.” When I only looked confused she explained. “Gavin and Kelly have requested separate rooms. Something about only being friends and Kelly’s use of counter space. Do you and Phelps need separate rooms as well?”

Across the lobby I could see Gavin and Elliot glaring at each other from about ten feet apart. If looks could wound there’d be blood all over the pristine white floors.

I weighed my options.

To request separate rooms would be a clear indication that I didn’t want to be with Elliot. Not necessarily meaning that I chose Gavin, but a definite message that I had not chosen Elliot. A choice I was not ready to make.

I couldn’t make either decision without knowing more about both of them. Sharing a room—for a week instead of just a weekend—would be enlightening. And if Gavin had a problem with my exploring my options then he could go hang.

“No,” I declared, “we’re fine the way we are.”

Jawbreaker nodded and turned to the front desk. I went back to studying the painting until I was again interrupted.

“And Lydia?”

I turned around at her uncharacteristically soft spoken question.

“I ... I apologize for snapping at you earlier.” She massaged her temples wearily. “There’s just so much going on and ... there’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Something about the despondent look on her tired face—shockingly bare of make-up, I noticed—made me ask, “Is something wrong?”

“No, n-nothing.”

She protested, but the moisture in her eyes was unmistakable. When I laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder a single tear dropped from each eye.

“Carmello left me. He—” She wiped brusquely at the tears, smearing them into oblivion. “—he went back to his ex-wife.”

“Janice,” I soothed, her true name coming out without thought, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can—”

“No. It’s fine. I just—” Patting my hand, she smiled gamely. “He could have chosen better timing, is all. I’ll be fine.”

I watched in awe as she shook off the momentary display, strode purposefully across the lobby, and checked in. There weren’t many women who could suffer a husband’s leaving right before a gargantuan career event and rise to the occasion. I felt something tickling at my stomach that felt disturbingly like respect. For Janice. Jawbreaker! I meant Jawbreaker.