Page 18 of Make The Cut

I scan the front page of the document, my mind swimming with possibilities. “I agreed to work for him. I can’t just drop him because a better offer comes along.”

Rose simply gives me that same camera-ready smile, her expression coy. Cunning. She’s hiding something, and I don’t know what. “Your loyalty is admirable.”

I suck in a breath. I can’t tell if she’s being sardonic. “Thank you?”

“But I need an assistant just as much as Naoya needs a stylist. Well, maybe a little less. We both know the man can’t put together an outfit to save his life.” She scoffs, and I’m not sure whether to join in on her laughter. While I’ve voiced the same thought out loud to him, it feels different to make fun of him behind his back, with his ex-girlfriend. “Anyways, Poppy. Why don’t you consider taking on both jobs? I’d more than generously compensate you for your time, and you won’t have to choose between working for either of us, since we’re always on set together these days. It wouldn’t be for very long. Just three months.”

“What’s in it for me?” I say, wondering how far I can push the envelope before it snaps back and smacks me in the face.

“If you prove to me that you’re a good worker, I’d be willing to offer something a little higher up than an assistant position by the end of three months. How would you feel about joining the design team at Rose Inc.?” She tilts her head to one side, studying me. I feel like a guppy swimming in a shark tank.

“Are you serious?” Rose Inc. is Rose McCartney’s new lifestyle brand, carrying everything from suitcases to silverware to silk scarves. It’s been profiled inVanity Fair,Women’s Health, and evenLa Mode. I catch my gaffe and swallow. “I mean, I’d love that.”

“Great. You’ll find everything you need in the contract.” Her smile is still cold, still fake, but I sense that she’s not tricking me. After all, what could she possibly get out of duping me?

I’m nobody. I don’t even have a blog anymore.

I skim the next few pages of the contract. “When do you want me to start?”

“Tomorrow.”

I extend my hand for her to shake. “It’s a deal.”

* * *

“Hey, are you Poppy Black? Can you help me with something?”

My head jerks up from an almost nap despite being on my fourth cup of coffee at nine-thirty in the morning, thanks to being both Naoya’s stylist and Rose’s assistant for the past week. I’m beginning to regret my deal with the well-dressed devil–I mean, Rose McCartney–because it’s led to me sleeping less than I did during finals week. In college, I used to pull caffeinated naps for twenty minutes and then study all night. It seems my body is no longer willing to succumb to such tricks.

“Yes, I’m Poppy. What do you need help with?” I scan the girl in front of me: petite, with red hair and a smattering of freckles.

“I’m Colette Olivier, one of the fashion contestants. I was just wondering if you could help me with my sewing kit. I left it right here when I went to get lunch, and then when I got back…” Her voice trails off.

I get off the loudspeaker I was using as a seat and follow her backstage. Someone’s messed with her stuff; all the spools of thread are unwound and tangled, her sewing machine is missing the bobbin, and her rotary cutter looks like someone mistook it for a pizza cutter, meaning it’s ruined.

Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I shake my head. “This looks like sabotage to me.”

“I didn’t want to think that,” Colette says, a hint of a French accent in her voice. “But it seems like that’s what happened, yes.”

“I’ll get you another kit,” I promise her. Where I’ll find one on such short notice, I’m not sure.

“Are you sure? That would be so nice of you.” She rocks back and forth on the balls of her ballet flats. “I don’t want to bother you. I’m sure you’re, ah, busy with other things. You also write a blog, right?”

Muse Unmasked. Somehow, that ghost has haunted me even here. Then again, it’s a very famous—some might even say notorious—ghost. One that I can’t seem to shake.

“Not anymore.” Keeping my voice composed, I turn to go look for another sewing kit. We ordered more than we needed, but I just can’t remember where we put them… “I’ll get you another one of those right away, Colette.”

“You can call me Colie. That’s what all my friends call me, anyway.” She grins. “I didn’t mean anything by the blog comment… I used to read your blog every day back when you were still writing about Naoya Sugawa’s four-leaf clover tattoo.”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling awkward. A voice pricks at me insistently:can I trust her?After all that I’ve done to lie, defame, and betray others, how can I trust anyone not to do the same to me? Heck, how can anyone trustme?Tentatively, I say, “Thank you.”

She sighs. Something about the look in her eyes is soft and sincere. “Listen, I don’t think you’re a bad person. I probably would’ve done the same in your position. I mean, writing a blog about Cynthia Renaud? Everyone knows that woman is likeDevil Wears Pradacome to life.”

An unladylike snort breaks out before I can stop it. “Still, I really shouldn’t have written that blog. Or at the very least, not about my boss.”

“Well, even if it’s not much, I support you. I’d like to be your friend.”

Cocking my head to one side, I study her. The only friends I have right now are Sasha Romanoff, who is sweet but running so ragged as an intern that I’ve barely seen her lately, and Skye, who has her own life now. It wouldn’t hurt to make another friend, especially in the cutthroat fashion industry.

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