introduce herself. âExcuse me, I am Sonya Iverson. And you are?â
A smiling Kirsten said, âThis is my dad, Giorgio Sacco.â Giorgio broke away from Wadeâs embrace to shake Sonyaâs hand.
As nicely as she could, Sonya asked Kirsten, âWhat are you doing here? And why did you interrupt me?â
âSorry. I didnât realize you were still taping.â Sonya could tell from the look in her eyes that Kirsten was lying. For how long had she been listening? What was she afraid that Wade was going to say? Why had she stepped in and stopped him?
âPack up your equipment and letâs go,â Sonya said to Perry. âThereâs nothing more for us here ⦠at least for now.â
Â
Chapter 9
T HURSDAY, 3:00 P.M.
Franklin fashion show, front row
Sonya looked down at her practical slingback shoes showing under her neatly pressed pants and felt an immediate wave of insecurity. The last thing they could be called was fashionable, let alone glamorous. Sheâd initially chosen them for their practicality, found they fit perfectly, and had gone back to the store for a second pair. In polished black leather, they had a two-inch stacked heel that increased her height to a commanding five foot eight. The comfortable round toes would, she hoped, decrease the likelihood that she would suffer from painful bunions, which had afflicted her mother for years.
The two fashionistas who stood chatting in shrill voices beside her wore minidresses, bare legs, and sandals with four-inch heels. They looked like Manolos to Sonyaâs discerning eye and probably cost as much as her motherâs budget for a month.
But no matter how ridiculous those women were, they had the power to make her feel insecure about her looks and even her life. At thirty-nine, that feeling was something she didnât relish. She looked across the runway to the line of faux blondes established in the front row and pulled herself together. From their long, bleached hair to the deep red polish on their nails, these women were pathetic copycats who relied on glossy magazines for direction. They hadnât the confidence to express their own tastes or senses of styleâassuming they had either. She laughed to herself. They were as insecure about fashion as she was.
âDonât those girls look great in their minis?â bubbled Kirsten in the seat next to her. âI wish my legs were as good. My dream is to own a pair of Manolos, they would make my legs look sexy.â She gave a giggle of happiness. âIâm so lucky to see all this.â
Yes, you are lucky, Sonya thought and you had better realize it. Donna had no right to insist that I bring you and give you one of these precious front seats. You should be sitting in the back. Your seat belongs to an important buyer or editor.
âEnjoy it while you can,â she snapped. âNothing lasts long in this business.â
To hide her irritation, she flipped open her program. Then she caught the uncertain look on the internâs face and realized she had touched a sore point. Kirsten wanted desperately to get a job at the network. And she was pulling every string to make sure she did. Sonya softened her tone. âWhat I meant was that it will be a short show. Just thirty-five numbers and with fast-paced models legging it down the runway itâll be over in less than fifteen minutes.â
She neednât have said anything; Kirstenâs attention had already been diverted by the latest arrivals.
âThat blonde in the red dress is the actress, Jayne Anne Haliday, isnât it?â she said. âShe had an abortion and pretended it was a miscarriage. She didnât know a photographer had gotten a shot of her coming out of a clinic.â She laughed. âBad luck, eh?â
Sonya froze. The fact that the actress had lied about the abortion probably meant that she was torn about making the decision. It was a
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