Roman was there, still on his couch. His dark eyes danced approvingly when he saw the new outfit.
“Well, well... didn’t you go all Judy Garland on me.”
Ack. “I remind you of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz?”
“No, sweetie, Esther Blodgett in A Star Is Born.”
“Oh.” Not bad. “Thanks.”
“You need a much bolder lipstick, though.”
“I’m not wearing any lipstick, Roman.”
“My point exactly.”
I sat down next to the food writer. “Listen, did you, by any chance, notice a young woman in cranberry bog boots tramping through here?”
“One can’t help but notice that girl. It’s her main goal in life.”
“Who is she?”
“Monica Purcell aka Breanne 2.0.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what they call her at the office. She’s a lot like Breanne—intelligent, audacious, driven—only she’s a newer version of the old model.”
“So you’d call her ambitious?”
“I’d call Vladimir Putin ambitious, sweetie. Monica I’d call something less flattering.”
“You don’t like her.”
“It’s a sticky situation for Breanne. Monica was a golden girl for years, but several months ago her work started slipping—too much partying, that sort of thing. Monica’s already a full editor now, climbed right over her colleagues to make it up the masthead, but she’s been bucking for senior editor lately, and Breanne won’t promote her again until she gets back on the ball.”
“How bad are things between them? I mean... could she have been the one who sabotaged Breanne’s fitting with that counterfeit e-mail?”
Roman shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do you know what exactly she brought to Breanne?”
“Pages from the magazine. Royally mucked-up pages.”
“I need more.”
Roman sighed. “Trend ’s doing this huge piece on Nunzio in the magazine’s next issue—”
“I know about that. It’s going to include a photo of his Lover’s Spring sculpture. Janelle and I are turning it into a Prosecco Bellini fountain for the wedding.”
“Believe me, honey, I know all about that already. Bree consulted with me on every detail. Especially the food. Who do you think gave the thumbs-up to your friend Janelle Babcock in the first place?”
“Janelle’s not exactly a slouch. She was the pâtissier under Tommy Keitel.”
Roman hung his head, giving a moment of silence to the death of one of his favorite American chefs. “I do miss the king. And I well remember Janelle’s desserts under his reign at Solange. Ambrosia. I can’t wait to taste her confections on Saturday.”
“So, anyway, about Monica Purcell?”
“Oh, yes, well... Monica’s in charge of the pages on Nunzio. And there have been all sorts of problems getting them composed. Bree’s in a state because Nunzio has final approval of the profile Trend is publishing on him. He’s dropping by this evening to review it.”
“Why wouldn’t he approve it?”
“Nunzio’s known for his artistic temperament. In a fit of pique, if he doesn’t like the pages, he just might put the kibosh on the entire piece. And, from what Bree told me at lunch, there are all sorts of reasons the pages might give him heartburn: bad typefaces, clashing colors, blurred photos, and typos galore. Last week, Breanne gave Monica all of her notes for corrections, but none of the changes were made. Monica claims she handed the notes over, and it’s the art department’s fault.”
“Is that a common thing? For the art department to ignore the chief editor’s notes for changes?”
Roman pursed his lips. “Let’s say it’s rare. If you want to keep your job under Breanne Summour, you do your job and do it right.”
“So what really happened? Did Monica not give them Breanne’s changes?”
“She claims she did. And Petra, the art director, claims she didn’t. So Breanne isn’t blaming anyone. But she is making Monica jump through hoops to get the pages in shape before Nunzio sees them this evening.”
I might have let all of this go as typical office politics—if it hadn’t been for that nasty e-mail sent from Breanne’s own box. Someone obviously had an ax to grind inside her office.
Leaving Roman again, I slipped back to the fitting room area. By now, Adele was busy with another customer, and I was able to casually move back to Breanne’s fitting room door.
“. . . and I still see typos, Monica, even in the pull quotes, for God’s sake. Get every last one of them fixed, do you hear me? Nunzio’s mother’s name is Rose not Pose.”
“Yes, Ms. Summour. What about the TK areas?”
“Nunzio knows there’ll be photos to come. He’s more concerned with checking over his biographical information and approving the cropping and layout of the photos taken at his workshop in Florence. Love’s Spring will be shot on Saturday at the wedding reception along with my rings.”
“Your wedding rings!” Monica exclaimed. “They still haven’t been photographed yet? But I thought they were already sent to you? Terri told me a package came a few days ago from Florence.”
“Nunzio’s bringing the rings from Italy personally. He should have them for me today.”
“Ooooh,” Monica gushed, “I’d die to see them!”
“I’m sure everyone will see them once they’re photographed.”
“I meant I’d die to see the actual rings.”
“I know what you meant. Just get those pages fixed and on my desk no later than four this afternoon. Got that?”
“Yes, Ms. Summour.”
I heard scuffling inside and quickly stood back. The fitting room door flew open again, and Monica’s thigh-high boots were off and running. I quietly followed her down the corridor, across the showroom, and through the boutique entrance. I intended to announce myself once we were outside, far enough away from Breanne that Monica wouldn’t have to worry about the woman overhearing. Then I’d ask her a few questions and gauge her reactions.
But the moment Monica hit the sidewalk, she pulled out her cell phone and made a call. I hustled along behind her through the crowds as she walked and talked, nearly colliding into her when she stopped on the edge of the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab.
The traffic was a snarl of buses, delivery vans, and SUVs. I bided my time, waiting for her to finish her call, when I realized the call itself was actually worth listening to: “. . . yes, Her Royal Bitchiness finally gave it up,” Monica told the person on the other end of the phone line. “Nunzio’s bringing the rings in to Breanne at six o’clock this evening... No. I don’t know yet... You were?... I’m sorry I missed you then. I would have arrived earlier, but I’m running behind today... Yes, she’s still at Fen’s, and they have tons of security there. I told you that already. But she’s going back to the office for her afternoon meetings... I already told you! I have no idea! I said I’ll get back to you about the damn rings!”
As a cab pulled up and Monica climbed in, I quickly backed off, checking my wristwatch to note the exact time. Given what I’d just heard, I decided to postpone my direct questioning of Monica Purcell. Since Breanne was taking me back to her offices anyway, I figured a bit of subtle snooping would be a whole lot smarter.
Less than an hour later, Breanne, Roman, and I piled into a cab and drove across town to Columbus Circle, an uptown traffic loop at the southwest corner of Central Park. In the center of this famous hub was a seventy-foot granite column holding a marble statue of Christopher Columbus.