Free Blonde Ops by Charlotte Bennardo Page B

From out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Agent Ortiz, but she got lost when a group of tourists passed by. She seemed to be looking for something or someone. Deliberately, I turned away. She was part of Candace’s crew, and I didn’t want to risk meeting her eyes and giving her the opportunity to tell me that I wasn’t allowed out of the office.
    â€œLet’s go,” I said, urging Sophie ahead. We walked down a street to a little sidewalk café and I didn’t look back to see if Ortiz had seen us or followed us.
    â€œYou’ll love this place,” Sophie gushed, “they have the best pranzo in town.”
    â€œ Pranzo ?”
    â€œLunch! Hope you’re hungry!”
    The meal was long and languorous. Sautéed chicken, fresh tomatoes, and basil tucked into tiny nests of angel-hair pasta came first, followed by a pile of zucchini flowers, golden, crispy, and stuffed with cheese. Mom would love the fact that I was dining out and not holed up in the hotel room in front of my computer with a bag of chips and a can of Red Bull. I glanced at my watch more than once. Candace had us all on a short leash, and I did not want to get on her bad side.
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Sophie. “She’s lunching with some Italian journalists, and you can’t hurry them through a meal. I promise we’ll be back before them.” She sipped her lemon water. “So, how do you like working at Edge ?”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said, not wanting to sound critical or admit even to myself that despite my initial resentment, I was starting to like being here. “But it’s not what I would have chosen for a summer job. What about you?”
    Sophie pushed her mostly empty plate aside and leaned back. “I thought I’d be able to write more, even if it was small sidebars and fillers, anything that could make an editor say, ‘You’re fabulous!’ The most writing I’ve done is photo captions.”
    The waiter brought the check. Ten euros each—not bad for all that food. We pulled out our wallets and paid.
    â€œSo, is that what you want to do? Write for a fashion magazine?” Inwardly I shuddered at the thought, but hey, not everyone could be a techno geek.
    â€œI’ve been writing since I was five and pulling outfits together since I was seven.”
    I could believe it. Sophie always looked good—in the way that you didn’t notice her outfit so much as her. Today she had on a simple white linen skirt, tee, and brown jacket, all perfectly fitted and accented with an ethnic-looking belt and gold earrings. Nude-toned pumps with a chunky heel made her long legs seem endless.
    â€œFashion is in the sky, the street.” She went on, “It has to do with ideas, the way we live, what’s happening. It’s the ultimate form of personal self-expression.”
    I nodded, considering. “That’s deep.”
    She smiled. “That’s Coco Chanel—paraphrased, of course. I love finding the connection she and so many other designers see between fashion and life.”
    I stood. “Come on, we have to get back. I’m sure Kevin is in the process of finding new ways to torture me, like assigning me to help Francesca do her job.”
    On the way back to the office, I spotted Ortiz again on the opposite side of the street. Where had she been? Not in our little café, but there were plenty of them all through the neighborhood.
    As soon as we walked in, Sophie was sent to run errands, and I got to take care of all the models’ clothes. Of course the skinny darlings dropped them all over the floor, turned inside out.
    Kevin pointed to a heap of sweaters I’d dumped in a pile with one of his pointed two-tone brogues. “What’s this?”
    It seemed obvious to me. “Those are the dirty clothes. Is there a laundry basket or bag to put them in?”
    He nudged the offending pile. “These are