The Home for Wayward Supermodels by Pamela Satran

Author:Pamela Satran
Language: eng
Format: epub

When I got back to the apartment, Tatiana was still in bed, still not feeling well. Mr. Billings had sent his driver with a tub of chicken soup and a bottle of brandy, but Tati had touched neither. Nor had she, I was astonished to find, smoked all day. That made me feel worse for her—she must really be feeling awful—but definitely made things more pleasant in the apartment.

I’d left my cell phone home because I knew I wouldn’t be able to use it in the library, so right after I checked on Tati, I dialed Desi’s number, nervous about how I was going to break the news to her.

“I swear I didn’t do it,” I said, as soon as Desi came to the phone.

She laughed. “Do what?”

“I was in the library today looking for information about my father…”

“And what did you find?”

“Lots, Desi. There’s this one picture of my mom that I’ve seen all my life that it turns out he took. I have to show it to you. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What could be more important than that? Did something happen with Alex?”

“Not with Alex,” I said. “With you and me.”

I drew in a deep breath and started talking, so nervous my words were tripping over each other. “There’s a picture of me in Us Weekly. It says that I’m wearing a dress that I designed, but I’m really wearing a dress that you designed, except I misunderstood the question the reporter asked me. When he said, ‘Whose dress are you wearing?’ I thought he meant who owned the dress, and since you made the dress for me, I said it was my dress, but he thought that meant I’d designed it, when of course, you’d designed it…”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa,” said Desi. “Are you saying a dress I designed is in freaking Us Weekly magazine?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh my God. That is so freaking fabulous. Millions of people are seeing my design!”

I wasn’t sure whether her excitement was making this easier or more difficult.

“Desi, I’m not sure you understand. The magazine doesn’t say the dress is your design. It says it’s my design.”

There was a long silence.

“Us Weekly says Amanda designed the dress?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“And it says Desi…”

“It doesn’t say anything about Desi.”

A long silence. And then: “Oh.”

I heard her blow a frustrated burst of air through her lips.

“So my dress is famous,” she said, “but you’re getting credit for it.”

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

“It’s just that you’ve got everything, Amanda. You’re beautiful, you’ve got this amazing career, you even have somebody to love. And all I have is my design talent. And now you’ve even got that.”

“No, I don’t have that,” I said firmly. “I swear, Desi, I’m going to set this straight and make sure you get the credit you deserve. And the money.”

“How are you going to do that?”

I had no idea. But I knew Desi was my best friend in New York, and I couldn’t afford to lose her.

“Trust me,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I trusted myself.

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