Dani chuckled as she cringed, feeling a little better. Her mother actually sounded proud of her. “Please, I can’t handle that story now.”
“Yes. Yes. Now stop this crying. Did you get the dress I sent you?”
“It’s too small.”
“Well, did you gain more weight?”
And that lovely feeling came crashing down. “I don’t know, Mother, I don’t weigh myself on a daily basis like you do.”
“Well, that designer runs a bit bigger, I thought it would fit.”
“I’m fat, Mother, get over it.”
“You’re not fat, you’re full figured. Lots of women would kill for your hourglass shape. Women are paying thousands of dollars to achieve your natural breast size, my dear. But now that you’re done with that backbreaking job you can go back to Pilates.”
Her mother’s personal trainer had almost killed her one summer. She’d only lost a pound.
“No, thanks.” Dani sipped a glass of wine, trying to ignore the fact that her mother still thought of her as someone who just needed to work out a little more and poof, she’d be a size four. “She called me fat.”
“Who did?”
“The hostess Andre is cheating with.”
“And did you tell that hood rat that she was just a sex toy?”
Dani laughed then. She knew her mother had issues about her weight, but she never allowed another person to say so.
“I’m glad you’re laughing. Now, pull yourself up and take one step forward. You’ll figure out what to do. I have to go.”
Dani frowned. “Early breakfast with that old Persian billionaire?”
“No, darling, that ended months ago. I’m on my way to Milan tomorrow.”
At the mention of Milan, Toni’s firm lips and lean body popped into her mind. She ran a hand over her hair and shook the vision away. “Oh. Why?”
“I’m in a campaign for Chanel. Ageless, timeless, something or other. It was a cat fight between Naomi and me, God forbid they have two African American models in the campaign, but they chose me.” She waited a beat. “I was the first black model to walk in Paris, you know.”
Dani knew. She’d heard all of her mother’s groundbreaking stories. Had seen all of the pictures of her slim, satin-skinned mother gracing magazine covers.
Her mother’s success had been a series of highs and lows, with more and more lows as the gracefully aging beauty got older.
“That’s great, Mom. Why didn’t you mention anything?”
“You know how this goes. I’ll get there and they may not even use me.”
“So it’s like a test thing?”
“Mmm...something like that.”
Dani couldn’t imagine the blow to her mother’s ego. It was a go-see. An audition.
“They’ll be idiots not to use you.”
“Yes. They would.” Her mother seemed to hesitate. “Would you like to come? It’s been a while since we were in Milan together. I can get us a suite at the Baglioni.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“Well...yes. Why not? You’re not working.” Dani blinked, intrigued, but unsure if that was a good idea. The last time Dani had been invited to one of her mother’s shows had been during Milan Fashion Week when she was eight. The nanny canceled and the hotel staff couldn’t watch her, so her mother had to take her along.
You do not make noise or speak, Francesca had insisted in the limo to the photo shoot. I’m going to put you in my dressing area. And if anyone asks you who you are, you do not say a word. You run and hide. They might think you’re a homeless Italian child and just leave you alone.
But I want to see the cameras.
No. Francesca had sent her a look that could melt steel.
Why?
Because your mother needs to protect her image. Dani hadn’t known what that meant, she’d just known Mom meant business.
As the pair ran unnoticed into the dressing room, Dani thought of the whole thing as a game. But when Dani had laughed a little too loud, she had seen that look on her mother’s face and shut it down. Dani didn’t know how long she had been in the dressing room by herself, but the thought of the cameras was too enticing. She’d tiptoed behind some tall equipment in her little Keds and ran into a king’s spread of food. Sandwiches, cheeses, grapes and...cookies!
Dani was stretched over the lip of the table when her mother’s makeup artist had found her with her fingers curled around a macaroon.
Bella? Dov’è tua madre? Dani had turned to run but she knocked over a microphone stand. Francesca, do you know this child? I asked her where is her mother, but I think she’s mute.
Heads swiveled between Dani and her mother. The little girl flinched when Francesca’s eyes sparked with split-second rage. Her mother turned to her makeup artist.
Robbie, do I look like I’ve had a child?
Roberto waved his brushes in the air. Of course not. I doubt your baby would be so...robust.
The room laughed.
That is just baby weight, her mother had quipped, but... I’m sure she must be with one of the production managers or something. She’d narrowed her eyes at Dani. Would you like an autograph, sweetie? How about you sit quietly in my chair over there and I’ll give you one when I’m done. Okay?
Roberto had left Dani by the table. You are so charitable, Francesca.
I try to give back whenever I can, Robbie.
Never would Dani forget that day, or ask to go to work with her mother again. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, maybe this time it would be fun.
“You’ll be able to see Marcello,” Francesca sighed. Dani heard the jealous sound of her mother’s voice. Not long after Dani’s first and last time going to a photo shoot, her mother again couldn’t find a sitter, and dropped Dani off in the hotel restaurant.
Chef Marcello Farina, her old mentor and owner of three-Michelin-star rated Via Carciofo where she trained, had found her in the corner, put her in a white coat and gave her odd jobs around the kitchen. She had loved it. Marcello was like a second father, and probably the reason she was a chef.
“Just say yes already. I have to sleep,” Dani’s mother said at the tail end of a yawn.
Maybe talking to Marcello would give her some perspective, Dani thought. What could it hurt? “Okay, I’ll go.”
New York
Toni sank into the back seat of the car service and watched out the window as they sped up the West Side Highway. The call he’d gotten from Louis, the manager of his Upper West Side warehouse, had been frantic, making it necessary for him to interrupt his trip to JFK Airport. He checked his Omega timepiece and estimated that he had a little over an hour to fly standby on the next flight.
Street vendors doled out coffee to groggy workers while children were dragged by the hand into prestigious-looking school buildings. It was a sharp contrast to the slick glittering nightlife where the drinks were