Page 17 of Make The Cut

Mitchell repeats the idea, stammering more this time.

Rose studies her fingernails. “I don’t have time for that. I’m going to be busy enough shooting for the show, not to mention planning my wedding.”

“Okay, I guess we’re back to the drawing board.” I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing them in slow circles.

Just then, Poppy walks in carrying what looks like a pair of jeans that’s been spray-painted more times than a back alley frequented by juvenile delinquents.

“Hey, Red.”

“Lucky.” She deposits the jeans on the chair next to mine. “Sorry to bother you, but—“

“Why don’t you get Poppy to do it?” Rose says, barely glancing up from her phone. She seems to have warmed to Poppy since the latter spilled tea on her by accident. “She’s your stylist, and shedoeshave a sizable social media following.”

“Do what?” Poppy asks, picking the jeans up and hugging them to her chest like they’ll protect her from whatever arduous task we’re about to request of her.

“Film the YouTube series with Naoya.” Rose arches an eyebrow. “Youdowant to work in fashion again, don’t you? Cynthia Renaud’s words got around, and since your firing, I’ve heard that you were blacklisted.”

A flash of hurt flickers across Poppy’s face but she quickly covers it with a smile. My fingers curl into fists at the easy way Rose tries to cut her down. “What kind of YouTube series were you thinking of? Because I’m not doing it if we have to, I don’t know, eat live tapeworms or something.”

“We’re not doingthat.”I glance over at Mitchell, who opens his mouth before quickly shutting it. “Right?”

“Nope, no, absolutely not. I was just thinking that based on the title,Make The Cut, you guys could go around L.A. rating different restaurants and things like that, and saying if they make the cut. You know, like an informal judging thing. What do you guys think?”

I expect Poppy to say no. Part of me is hoping she does. She’s been through enough with her blog, and part of me feels… almost protective of her. I don’t want to subject her to further fame and scrutiny. Rose’s expectant gaze lands on her, though, and whatever refusal is on her lips must die with it. “I’m interested. I mean, it sounds like fun.”

“Sure, why not?” I shrug. “But this is going to be as low-budget as possible, alright? I don’t want to go to any fancy places.”

Expensive restaurants bring back too many bad memories for me.

“Sounds like a deal.” Mitchell is already typing something onto a tablet. “I’ll arrange everything and send you two the schedule.”

“Great.” At least there’s one bright spot to doing this TV show and Rose’s recalcitrance.

Spending more time with Poppy.

Chapter Nine: Poppy Black

Rose McCartney, who already seemed like an icy diva in the tabloids and when I met her at the tea shop, is also physically flawless in person. Not a single freckle, mole, or acne scar mars her irritatingly perfect skin, her cheekbones are impossibly high, and her hair falls down her back in endless glossy, blonde waves. Her blue eyes are lined with sharp eyeliner, the wings so impossibly symmetrical that I wonder if she did it herself or had a makeup artist do it for her.

In short, her physical beauty leaves me feeling nothing short of a hot mess: hair badly in need of a cut, split ends up to my ears, and wearing an old vanilla-flavoured Chapstick that I found in my purse, which might have been there since freshman year.

Not exactly the most glamorous woman alive. But I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin when I stand across from her anyway. She called me in for a meeting but didn’t describe what it was for, leaving me wondering what she could have to say to me.

It’s so strange seeing someone you’ve pedestalized for so long on runways and magazine covers suddenly just sitting in front of you in person. I always expected her to look different in person than she does onVogueor her Instagram, but she doesn’t, as though she rolls out of bed perfectly posed in five-inch Louboutins, ready to rule the day.

Even if she is beautiful and could make heads turn just by walking down the street (I only did that once when I dropped three iced coffees despite having a tray), that doesn’t make me inferior to her. No matter that she’s a woman whose career I’ve obsessed over and someone who could very well give me the boost tomycareer that I so desperately need.

“Poppy, so nice of you to join me.” She smiles, that paparazzi-perfected pout swathed in Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillowtalk, and gestures for me to take a seat.

“Thanks for the invitation.” I cast an eye around her makeshift office on set: framed black and white photos of Marilyn Monroe hang on the walls, her desk is a round, glass-topped table on a golden pedestal, and the scent of rosewater lingers in the air. “What did you want to discuss with me?”

She fishes around in her Birkin until she finds a black leather folder. Rose slides it across the glass with a squeak, her first sign of imperfection. It makes me relax slightly, knowing she’s an actual human being. “I want you to be my assistant.”

“I’m already Naoya’s stylist,” I say automatically before kicking myself. Being an assistant to Rose McCartney, one of the biggest names in fashion, could be the leg up that I’m looking for.

So why am I acting like being Naoya’s stylist makes me unable to make decisions in my own best interest? It’s not like he owns me just because he signs my pay cheques.

“I know, and I’m willing to pay you double what he’s offering you.” She flips the folder open and taps her gold pen on the bolded line titled COMPENSATION.

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