Emma entered the well-lit but rarely used showroom, and her eyes immediately fixated on the unrolled bolt of lace on the glass display table. A light shone up from under the table, illuminating the exquisite petal-thin white design. The floral pattern was extremely detailed. This lace was gorgeous, so much nicer than any of the lace they usually had in the warehouse. It must be a special order, Emma thought, totally intrigued. It looks handmade and crazy expensive.
“It’s so pretty!” Emma exclaimed, before realizing that there were two people in the room with their heads bent over the other side of the table.
“It is, isn’t it? I told you to trust me, Paige. People will melt with envy when they see your dress. Complete and total meltdown,” gushed a short woman with caramel-colored skin, cropped black hair that grazed her jawline at a sharp angle, and cat’s-eye glasses. She wore a twill trench coat with silver metallic threads shot through it to give the material a subtle sheen. The nontraditional fabric was Emma’s tip-off that the coat must be a designer piece. She couldn’t help but wonder who had made it.
The cat’s-eye-glasses woman nodded encouragingly at the woman circling the display table, who was intently analyzing the lace from every angle. That woman, Paige, was also striking but in a very different way. Tall and elegant, with peachy-pink skin and long, black hair twisted and pinned up in that perfect-yet-messy style that Emma could never get quite right with her hair even after a zillion tries.
Paige bit her glossed mauve lip and finally let out a breath. “It’s good. The bodice will be amazing in this lace, right?”
The petite woman nodded furiously. “One hundred percent. By the time I’m done with it, it’ll be perfect. To-die-for gorgeous. They’ll be tripping all over themselves to get a photograph of you in this dress.”
Paige smiled slightly. “I just have to see it all myself. To be sure,” she explained to Emma and her dad.
“Of course,” Noah agreed. “It’s your wedding. Most important dress of your life.”
“Everyone thinks I’ve become a whacked-out, micromanaging bridezilla—even more of a perfectionist than usual, which is all very possible,” Paige confessed, smoothing the front of her slim-cut, gray knit minidress, which Emma thought was gasp-worthy. “But they’ll be positively vicious when I walk down the aisle. Everyone will want to find something wrong with my dress. You know they will, Lara.”
“They’ll have to look elsewhere,” said the smaller woman, whom Emma now realized must be Paige’s wedding dress designer. “Your choices are spectacular. They always are.”
“If they weren’t, Madison wouldn’t be the fashion bible, now would it?” Noah said, grinning warmly.
Wait…what did Dad just say? Emma wondered. Why did he just bring up Madison? It had always been Emma’s favorite fashion magazine, because it was the only one that truly focused on designers and their clothes. No silly articles about preventing wrinkles and choosing vacation spots or throwing flawless dinner parties. Noah knew that his designing daughter totally loved Madison.
“Oh, I’m late,” Paige suddenly announced, as her eyes darted to the wall clock above Noah’s head. “I’ve got to get back to the office. If anyone there knew I snuck out on personal business…” She grimaced, crossed her eyes, and made a slashing-of-her-neck motion with her forefinger. “Lara, can you figure out how they should get the lace to you? I desperately need to find a ladies’ room before I leave. It could take forever to get a cab at this hour.”
“I’ll take care of that with Ms. Suarte,” Noah said. “This is Emma. She’ll show you where to go, Ms. Young.”
Oh. My. God! Paige is Paige Young? She is the senior fashion editor at Madison! This was big. It was like a rock star appearing at a school chorus rehearsal. Or the President of the United States showing up at a student council meeting. And on top of that, Paige Young’s dress designer was Lara Suarte.
Emma remembered reading an article in Madison about her. She had recently become the go-to wedding-dress designer for Hollywood celebrities. So not only was Emma in the presence of a real fashion designer for the very first time, but also she was about to lead one of the most influential up-and-coming fashion editors to the bathroom!
“You okay, Em?” Noah asked, putting his large paw-hand on her shoulder.
“I kind of have to go now, if you don’t mind,” Paige pleaded, shifting from one slender stiletto heel to the other. “I just had a ginormous latte.”
“S-sure,” Emma stammered. She gestured for the fashion editor to follow her down Laceland’s long narrow hall to the bathroom, which was at the far end of the warehouse.
The two walked in silence. The only sound was Paige’s heels clicking on the bare wooden floors. Emma could barely speak, so she pointed at the ladies’ room door and turned on the light for her, since the switch was inconveniently located outside the bathroom behind some shelves. Paige waved her thanks and shut the door behind her.
Emma leaned against the wall to wait. She hadn’t said more than two words since Paige arrived. How can I get Paige to remember me? Emma wondered. I need to find something semi-intelligent to say before she’s gone, so I can make some kind of impression—as something other than the lint-covered girl who once walked her to the bathroom. But what?
Emma knew that Paige Young could make or break a fashion career. And even though Emma had many years of school and training ahead of her, Paige could be editor-in-chief of Madison by the time she was ready to show her designs. She couldn’t let this moment pass her by. If only her brain would start working…
They walked back to the showroom in silence. Emma felt her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity evaporating with every click of Paige Young’s stilettos. She ran through and rejected possibilities.
I design clothes. Who cares?
I want to be a fashion designer when I grow up. Could I sound any more like a pre-couture five-year-old?
I love clothes. Duh. Who doesn’t?
As they reached the reception area, Emma turned in an attempt to form words. She figured even a lame “nice meeting you” was better than being mute-girl. But Paige wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere!
Oh, no, Emma thought. I lost the fashion editor!
Emma raced back down the hall and into the dim warehouse. She retraced her steps to the bathroom, but Paige was nowhere to be found. Emma looked over toward her work space. It was the only area in the back of the warehouse that was lit up. Could Paige have thought that’s where the showroom was? Emma wondered. She hurried around the filing-cabinet wall. There was Paige! Emma breathed a sigh of relief.
Until she saw her standing by the three dress forms and staring at Emma’s three sorbet-colored dresses.
Paige reached out and touched the fabric of each dress with a light, practiced touch.
Emma’s heart began to pound so loudly she was almost positive that Paige could hear it. Charlie looked up and took off his headphones. Emma shot him a “please-keep-quiet” look. By some miracle, he seemed to get the message.
“Love!” Paige exclaimed. “They’re so…Tahitian Sunset!”
Had Paige Young just used the word “love” about Emma’s dresses?
Before Emma knew what was happening, Paige whipped out her digital camera from her oversized black leather bag and started snapping away.
“Who designed these dresses?” Paige asked without turning around.
Uh-oh. Now what? Emma couldn’t tell her she was the designer. Paige would probably laugh, or worse, pat Emma on the head and give her some lukewarm encouragement. And Paige clearly was up on all the latest work by real designers—after all, that was her job—so if Emma told her the dresses were made by someone famous she would most likely know Emma was lying. Besides, how would Emma explain why these pieces were in the back corner of this random lace warehouse?
Just as suddenly as it had started, Paige’s photo frenzy stopped. She faced Emma and put her hands on her hips. “I know you can speak. I heard you before.”
I’ve got to say something, Emma thought frantically. She racked her brain for an idea. She hadn’t been this nervous since the time she had to give her first viola recital. She hated viola and hated having to play it in front of people even more. Her Italian music teacher kept whispering, “Play allegra! Allegra!” An instruction Emma never understood. The word sounded more like a pretty girl’s name than a way to play the string instrument of torture.
“Allegra.”“Allegra—?” Paige asked.
Had she said it out loud? Now she couldn’t take it back! Her comatose brain was suddenly in sugar-rush mode. It wasn’t bad, she thought. Allegra. Some of the greatest fashion designers are Italian. Allegra works. I need a last name. A last name that also sounds Italian. Dolce, Gabbana, Pucci, Armani—every name that swirled through her fashion-obsessed mind was already taken. Her eyes desperately roamed her studio for inspiration, landing on a pretty red and white tin box that now housed her straight pins but had once held biscotti, a holiday gift sent by one of her dad’s customers.
“Allegra Biscotti!” Emma blurted. Emma could see Charlie’s eyes widen, but thankfully he didn’t laugh or snort or even blink.
“Allegra Biscotti,” Paige repeated slowly. “Is she around?”
She believes me! Emma thought, wide-eyed. “Uh, no, sorry. She’s not here right now. And I’m pretty sure she’s gone for the day,” Emma said, using her best answering-the-office-phones voice that Marjorie had taught her.
Paige pursed her lips and turned back to the dress forms. She reached out and touched the raspberry dress again, feeling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you know if this one is for sale?”
“Yes, it is!” Charlie piped in.
Emma shot Charlie an I’m-gonna-kill-you! look behind Paige’s back. But he just waved his hand a few times. Go with it!
“Are you sure?” Paige asked, turning back to Emma.
“I am,” Emma said, trying to unclench her teeth and speak normally. “Because, um, Allegra sometimes sells directly to private customers and we, uh, help her do that,” she attempted.
Paige seemed to buy that, too, because she said, “Well, the raspberry one is just bananas, it’s so good. I have to have it. I need to get in touch with Ms. Biscotti ASAP. How do I do that?”
That was a really good question. How did someone get in touch with a fake fashion designer who was actually a fourteen-year-old girl standing right there?
Paige’s cell phone trilled from deep within her oversized bag. “Got to pause,” she said to Emma as she dug for her phone and walked a few steps away to take the call.
Emma was about to ask Charlie what she should do, but Paige returned much faster than she expected.
“Now I really have to bolt. Major crisis,” she explained. “One of the rock stars we were shooting for our music issue borrowed the Chloe dress we photographed her in for a red-carpet event last night. She promised-promised-promised she’d return it by the end of today. Naturellement, she didn’t bring it back, and she’s leaving tonight to start her tour in Tokyo. Which means I have to go wrangle it back so I don’t get in trouble with the designer, who loaned it to us in the first place. Craziness, right? I swear, there is never a dull moment,” she said shaking her head. “So, about that contact info…?”
“Right! Right. I’ll write it down for you.” Emma plucked a scrap of paper off her worktable and signaled Charlie to hand her his pen. Heart racing, she scribbled down some numbers.
“Thanks!” Paige grabbed the piece of paper without looking at it. “That way out, right? I think I can find it. And please don’t forget to ask Ms. Biscotti about the dress. I happen to be a perfect size four, so it shouldn’t need any alterations. Ciao for now!”
Emma waited until she couldn’t hear the clack-clack of Paige’s footsteps anymore to finally let out her breath— which she suddenly realized she had been holding for most of the past five minutes. “Wow! I think I just made my very first sale—and to a major fashion editor! That really happened, right? You saw the same thing I did, didn’t you, Charlie? I didn’t just imagine it—?”
But Charlie was doubled over in laughter.
“Charlie! What? Why are you laughing? Was this some sort of prank?”
“No!” Charlie inhaled deeply to catch his breath. “No…I just want to…know…how you came up…with the name ‘Allegra Biscotti’!”
“I’m not sure. It kind of came out of nowhere. Besides, what’s wrong with Allegra Biscotti? I mean, other than the fact she doesn’t exist.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest.
“Nothing! It’s great.” Charlie still laughed.
Emma laughed, too. It was kind of funny. Crazy, really.
“And now you have your very first customer,” Charlie pointed out. “Well, Allegra’s very first customer but still. Awesome.” Suddenly, Charlie turned serious. “Wait. What phone number did you give her?”
“My cell. Is that bad? I didn’t know what else to do,” Emma explained.
“Bold choice,” he said. “But it sounds like she’s actually going to call you—I mean, call Allegra—to find out about that dress.”
“Oh, no!” Emma cringed. So not-smart. “When she calls that number, she’s going to hear Holly and me scream-singing a Black Eyed Peas song on my outgoing message.”
Charlie tossed Emma her cell phone from the table. “I’m thinking you might want to change that back to the generic greeting, Allegra.”