clicked one more photo and stopped. “That’s a compliment, by the way. Beautifully real. I’m basically a freelance photojournalist. I prefer that, but this stuff pays better. For the moment.”
Lacey squirmed around on the horrible chair to see if the long-delayed Amanda was coming. She stood up and stretched. Penfield grinned and put down his camera.
“She’s usually late.”
“No problem, I love waiting for prima donnas.” Changing the subject back, she asked, “Have you sold anything to The Eye ?”
“A few assignments.” He seemed pleased by her interest. “I share some studio space in the city with a couple of news photogs who freelance on the side. Some of us still like darkroom work. You know one of them. He took photos of your 1940s hairstyles.”
“So Hansen freelances? It’s really amazing what we don’t know about each other.”
Fawn approached with a tray of delicacies and a single mug of tea for Lacey, which she set down on the Lucite cube, Snazzy Jane’s version of a coffee table. Lacey perched again on the edge of the evil gray chair and sipped her tea, and just when she thought she could wait not one minute longer, the stage lights came on. The music changed to something ethereal and New Agey. Layers of gauzy curtains were suddenly backlit, revealing a multitude of pale-painted silk wings, like so many butterflies caught in a web. They parted and the magnificent Amanda Manville emerged, wearing one of her Chrysalis designs. It was showtime.
Chapter 5
Really, I don’t need the theatrics, Lacey thought, I’m a print reporter. But she enjoyed them anyway.
Amanda stood still for a moment, as if posing for a horde of photographers, or perhaps it was merely for Tate Penfield. He was handsome enough, and he was the official documentarian. She smiled at Lacey, revealing the perfect porcelain veneers she had been given. As beautiful and polished as her photograph, Amanda had her hair sculpted in a short geometric cut, in a magnificent dark red mahogany color that emphasized her cheekbones. Her skin was as pale as a snowflake. And perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but her eyes looked very large and lavender. Tall and impossibly thin, Amanda wore a sleeveless panne velvet dress in imperial purple with gold accented braid. The material flowed over her torso, the waistline dipped low on her hips like a flapper’s, and the hemline flirted around her knees. At a towering six feet she didn’t need the four-inch height of her gold stiletto-heeled sandals, but she wore them anyway.
Her eyes grazed over Lacey and zeroed in on Penfield setting up another camera in the background. Her eyes went wide, her lips curled back, and she shrieked at him.
“Tate! What are you wearing?! Why on earth are you wearing that ratty old sweater?! Take that horrible thing off now !”
Lacey wasn’t ready for that entrance line. I can give Miguel a new Amanda story! Screaming Psycho Diva, scene one. Amanda’s screeching voice had a curiously flat, nasal tone to it that didn’t suit her exquisite looks.
“Chill out, Amanda,” Penfield said evenly, and went on maneuvering his lenses and props. “I’m just part of the furniture, remember?”
“It’s a disgrace, a total disgrace, and you’re a disgraceful excuse for—”
“Then don’t look at me. I like it.” He had a decisive tone in his voice, and Lacey wondered if that was the way to handle Amanda. The supermodel snorted with derision and turned away, scowling, from the handsome photographer. Then she took a deep breath and composed herself before gracefully taking a seat across from Lacey. She smiled coldly. Fawn scurried in with a mug of tea for Amanda and quickly scurried out. Amanda gave Lacey the once-over with her startling lavender eyes. Lacey met her gaze and hoped her great vintage suit would be her suit of armor against the Evil Queen.
“And what on earth are you wearing? Oh, please! Vintage?” Amanda sneered. “It is vintage,
Lacey squirmed around on the horrible chair to see if the long-delayed Amanda was coming. She stood up and stretched. Penfield grinned and put down his camera.
“She’s usually late.”
“No problem, I love waiting for prima donnas.” Changing the subject back, she asked, “Have you sold anything to The Eye ?”
“A few assignments.” He seemed pleased by her interest. “I share some studio space in the city with a couple of news photogs who freelance on the side. Some of us still like darkroom work. You know one of them. He took photos of your 1940s hairstyles.”
“So Hansen freelances? It’s really amazing what we don’t know about each other.”
Fawn approached with a tray of delicacies and a single mug of tea for Lacey, which she set down on the Lucite cube, Snazzy Jane’s version of a coffee table. Lacey perched again on the edge of the evil gray chair and sipped her tea, and just when she thought she could wait not one minute longer, the stage lights came on. The music changed to something ethereal and New Agey. Layers of gauzy curtains were suddenly backlit, revealing a multitude of pale-painted silk wings, like so many butterflies caught in a web. They parted and the magnificent Amanda Manville emerged, wearing one of her Chrysalis designs. It was showtime.
Chapter 5
Really, I don’t need the theatrics, Lacey thought, I’m a print reporter. But she enjoyed them anyway.
Amanda stood still for a moment, as if posing for a horde of photographers, or perhaps it was merely for Tate Penfield. He was handsome enough, and he was the official documentarian. She smiled at Lacey, revealing the perfect porcelain veneers she had been given. As beautiful and polished as her photograph, Amanda had her hair sculpted in a short geometric cut, in a magnificent dark red mahogany color that emphasized her cheekbones. Her skin was as pale as a snowflake. And perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but her eyes looked very large and lavender. Tall and impossibly thin, Amanda wore a sleeveless panne velvet dress in imperial purple with gold accented braid. The material flowed over her torso, the waistline dipped low on her hips like a flapper’s, and the hemline flirted around her knees. At a towering six feet she didn’t need the four-inch height of her gold stiletto-heeled sandals, but she wore them anyway.
Her eyes grazed over Lacey and zeroed in on Penfield setting up another camera in the background. Her eyes went wide, her lips curled back, and she shrieked at him.
“Tate! What are you wearing?! Why on earth are you wearing that ratty old sweater?! Take that horrible thing off now !”
Lacey wasn’t ready for that entrance line. I can give Miguel a new Amanda story! Screaming Psycho Diva, scene one. Amanda’s screeching voice had a curiously flat, nasal tone to it that didn’t suit her exquisite looks.
“Chill out, Amanda,” Penfield said evenly, and went on maneuvering his lenses and props. “I’m just part of the furniture, remember?”
“It’s a disgrace, a total disgrace, and you’re a disgraceful excuse for—”
“Then don’t look at me. I like it.” He had a decisive tone in his voice, and Lacey wondered if that was the way to handle Amanda. The supermodel snorted with derision and turned away, scowling, from the handsome photographer. Then she took a deep breath and composed herself before gracefully taking a seat across from Lacey. She smiled coldly. Fawn scurried in with a mug of tea for Amanda and quickly scurried out. Amanda gave Lacey the once-over with her startling lavender eyes. Lacey met her gaze and hoped her great vintage suit would be her suit of armor against the Evil Queen.
“And what on earth are you wearing? Oh, please! Vintage?” Amanda sneered. “It is vintage,
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