CHAPTER 68 – Dress You Up

Culver City Sofitel’s lobby was corporate and bland, smelling of orchids and Aesop’s vanilla essence.

Stepping into the lobby, Eppie bestowed upon Zara the joy of checking them into their suites. After all, Zara was the adult in the room, and it wouldn’t do for a 15-year-old kid to be the face of their party. While Zara did her thing, Eppie sat in the lobby, knee-over-knee, thinking about Kel and Kellie and whether her paranoia was unfounded.

“Two keycards,” Zara returned after ten minutes. “We got a connecting suite. Eleventh floor. Oh, and the concierge says these are for you.”

Eppie took the manila package. “That’s probably the magazine…”

“The magazine?” Zara’s eyes glinted. “The one you’re in?!”

Eppie gave her a mysterious smile. The envelope was addressed to her, with Maddy’s unmistakable Comic-Sans-enthusiasm, the corner already a little crumpled from the courier’s carelessness.

“Should we open it now?” Zara eyed the package hungrily.

Eppie kept the package out of reach. “If you want to read it, come to my room.”

Upstairs, the suite was tasteful, expensive, and neutral to a fault. Zara burst into the room with their shared key.

Eppie handed over the package. Zara zipped open the red pull-string. A pair of magazines fell out. It was a copy of February’s Seventeen, cover-dated in advance of the newsstands.

“Oh, my God!” Zara cradled the cover against her throat. “EPPIE! You’re on it!”

Zara was, of course, dead wrong.

Eppie wasn’t the headliner; that was Lucia with her unmistakable, flawless smile. Eppie was a thumbnail to the bottom right, with the tagline “No.1 at Fifteen”. Zara squealed and flipped through the pages, trying to find her photoshoot.

Eppie picked up a copy as well, just to see for herself what the fuss was about.

The article was four pages and three spreads, written in appropriately jazzy prose. The first photo was of Eppie wearing Sony’s leotard in chiaroscuro, with a sepia filter and shallow focus, every strand of hair somehow razor-sharp despite the f/1.2 blur around her, her baby blues framed by flaxen hair. The second: the Almond Blossoms leotard, gold LAPA lettering catching the softbox as if it were lit from within. The third: candid, mid-laugh, caught between takes, just to make it seem like she was a real maniac-pixie-dreamgirl and not some performative persona.

Zara exhaled wistfully. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure.” Eppie read the article.

Eppie cringed so hard that goosebumps ran up and down her legs.
Zara’s eyes, scanning line after line while lounging on her queen-sized bed, were on fire.

Someone knocked on their door at 10:30. Their driver was right on schedule, a young guy in a vest who lit up like a light bulb as soon as he saw… Zara.

“Ms Fontaine, Ms Arriaga—car’s downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

Zara, nervous as all hell, was ready the moment she stepped into the hotel. Eppie was still wrestling with her shoes, because she was too lazy to undo the laces and elastic laces were still trash in the mid 2000s.

Their beetle-black limo idled under the portico, AC already running cold as per LA tradition. Eppie slid in first, Zara after her, and the privacy glass went up before the driver had even pulled out of the lot.

“You nervous?” Zara asked, watching Culver City slide past the tinted window with its soundstages and palm trees and studio backlots.

“About the planning sesh? Or the Grammys.”

“Both?”

“They said that Mirabelle is sending over someone for our costumes, so we’ll be fine in that regard. The Grammy? You’ll be fine.”

I’ll be standing between Kel’s fist and catastrophe. Zara reached over without comment and squeezed her hand once. Zara did that a lot.

“You’re not going to be fine?”

“I’ll be fine,” Eppie lied. I’ll be fine when Kellie shows up with her face intact.

The car turned onto a studio access road, gate already lifting, a young PA waving them through like they were VIPs—which, according to Curon, they absolutely were.

The fitting room for the studio’s newcomers was set up in a converted soundstage with partition walls, a luxury for no-names like Eppie and Zara, yet woefully insufficient for a MUA team from Vogue’s in-house wardrobe department. Nonetheless, considering that Curon was Sony Music and this was all a favour from Sony Pictures Studios, it was the best Eppie’s father could do without stepping on toes.

Ergo, both the MUA team and the starlets ignored the film work outside and the exposed pipework overhead, choosing to focus instead on making the best of their backstage boutique. Mirabelle wasn’t there, of course. It was absurd to think that, even as one of her self-proclaimed “mentors”, the Chief Editor would take time out from Vogue’s Grammy sesh to come and see her. Mirabelle’s taste, however, was fully present.

“There’s our songbird,” Marta looked up from a rolling case of brushes as they entered, guided by their driver. “Ah, and our other songbird. My word… There is amazing potential to be tapped! Tsk, tsk, Eppie, you have some growing to do!”

Her aide introduced himself as Benson. He appeared from behind a rolling rail, dressed in all black, with sleeves rolled, a tape measure looped like a stethoscope, and hair slicked back. “Mademoiselle.”

Ah, the guy who sent me my replacement clothes at Vaughan’s… Eppie recalled from [Memorisation]. Benson had excellent, if expensive, taste.

“Hi Ben! Marta!” Eppie did the thing where she happily hopped about, then held their hands for a shake. It was cringe, but it was expected. An actress must always be connected to the fitter and the MUA on a spiritual level to achieve the harmony of skill and vision.

“Ms Fontaine.” Benson bowed, then pointed to an elevated stool for measurements. “If you may step up?”

Eppie did her thing first, just to show Zara that it was perfectly fine to have a somewhat androgynous young man breathe an inch next to one’s neck while the tape measure expertly looped and slipped from chest to waist, to hip, from shoulder to thigh.

Zara hovered near the racks, running a thumb along a row of fabric swatches with the cautious curiosity of someone afraid to see a price tag. Luckily, no such thing existed in Marta’s inventory. If someone had to ask, they couldn’t afford it.

“The Miu Miu is Eppie’s,” Marta caught her admiring. “Yours is still in the bags. We haven’t measured you yet, so we’ll choose once that happens.”

Benson circled Eppie like a car inspector, mumbling measurements into a recorder clipped to his vest. Marta did the same for Zara, walking round and round and nodding to herself until the Spanish girl blushed furiously.

“Alright.” Marta clapped. “Five-ten, lean, size 6. Benson, suggestions?”

“Pertegaz B in Shiraz, ma’am.” Benson led Eppie from the platform by hand, then offered the same to Zara. “Ms Arriaga.”

“Good choice,” the MUA clapped.

Zara stepped up, timid as a fawn.
Eppie looked up at her giantess, covering her eyes so the stage lights from above didn’t blind her.

Benson stifled a smile while Marta laughed out loud.

“Eppie, come here,” Marta pulled her to the left of the room while Zara was bodily scanned by a tailor for the first time in her life.

Marta pulled Eppie’s dress free from the clear garment bag with the ceremony of a high fashion assistant pulling out a Westwood wedding dress.

The dress came out in a single pull. As promised, it was not Givenchy this time, but Miu Miu.

Eppie’s breath caught in her throat.

The burnt-orange silk!
The subtle bodice!
The knee-length cut!

PARIS WHEN IT SIZZLES?! Her memories jumbled all at once. There was a Hepburn in her present world. Eppie had read about the actress, famous for her privacy. Still, the lady’s filmography had crossed over to Jane Fonda’s territory, becoming iconic for bridging pulp and fashion, rather than couture and Golden Era glam.

“It’s a bold choice of colour.” Marta pursed her lips, teasing Eppie by placing the dress over her petite body. “I dare say no one, but Mirabelle, would dream of putting you in sundrenched citrus.”

Eppie agreed. The dress was perfect. It was eye-catching yet subtle.
It was old school Givenchy, updated for a new world.

“This is an atelier production?”

“Naturally,” Marta’s smirk told her everything. “I should inform you that Vittoria Conti offered herself for this occasion. Not for you, of course, but for you.”

“For Mirabelle.” Eppie understood the contradiction.

Marta continued. “Vittoria was originally from the House of Givenchy. Now she’s trying to recreate some of that old magic. Who better than Mirabelle’s mentee to show off her artistic direction? She saw the photo of you and Lady Mirabelle from the Christmas gala—the one running in the March Vogue—and got it into her head that you gave off the right vibe. Even if you’re five-one.”

“Oh…” Eppie wiggled her toes. March Vogue? “I am not the usual model for this dress?”

“Adriana Levitte is five-eleven.”

“Ah…” Eppie nodded. Valorie sized. Ironically and interestingly, Val was too scandalous for high fashion. As for herself… Ergh… Eppie stopped herself from overthinking. Whatever came naturally, or as the system saw fit, would be her canvas.

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“Anyway,” Marta slipped her out of her theatre blacks and slipped the dress over her head, then proceeded to work the bodice. “Vittoria gets to dress Lady Vaughan’s protegee, Mirabelle gets credited, Vogue has multiple talking points of interest, and everyone downstream gets paid. Oh, and you get to loan a one-of-a-kind Vittoria Conti atelier.”

Marta moved to the side table, returning with the rest of her fit balanced on her forearm: a pair of ivory Chanel heels, a small white clutch with a diamond clasp, and tiny encrusted diamond earrings catching the clip-lights.

Eppie did her best as Marta’s sentient dolly.

“Hmm…” Marta stalked her body, tugging at fabric here and there, making Eppie arch her back without slouching. “I’m thinking bangs. Bangs and a clean pile. French manicure. Clean, finished, couture.”

Zara stepped back into view. Her face was the hue of a beetroot. “So you’re basically a walking advertising campaign?”

Looking at Eppie in orange, her friend sighed dreamily.

“Apparently.” Eppie grinned, then turned, slowly, moved by Marta like a dish on a lazy susan, her silks catching the light. “Whoa. This is an amazing dress.”

“Indeed. Now get out of it,” Marta sent her off to Benson, who stood guard at the partition while she undressed. He was on guard to receive the Miu Miu, not the elfin shortie behind the bifold. With twenty-four hours to go, the girl could be fixed, the dress could not.