Hostile Makeover by Ellen Byerrum

powder-blue sleeveless dress, something from the Chrysalis collection, Lacey presumed. A mistake: She had the arms to match the jowls.
    “That’s ridiculous! She knows we have back-to-back interviews all afternoon,” Yvette snapped, and pulled her away from Lacey.
    Zoe lowered her voice. “She just found another letter taped to her mirror and . . . um . . . had an episode.”
    “Oh, my God. How did that happen?”
    “I don’t know. We’re mopping up the damage now.”
    “What the hell is that bodyguard for? I thought he was supposed to keep those things away from her.” Yvette’s patience appeared ready to snap.
    Zoe shrugged helplessly. “I’ve called him back inside.”
    At that, Turtledove wordlessly appeared behind Zoe. The three of them moved to the back stockroom. But before disappearing again, Turtledove caught Lacey’s eye and winked.
    “Everyone’s a drama queen,” said the sweet-faced assistant, Fawn, who had also eavesdropped on the scene.
    “What about the man who tried to get in? Who was he?” Lacey asked.
    “Sorry. Must’ve missed that episode. Oh, darn.” Fawn smiled slightly. “Don’t worry; I’m sure there’ll be more.”
    “Well, then, tell me this: Who’s the queen drama queen?”
    “Our celebrated supermodel diva of the day, but don’t quote me. Deep background,” she said, demonstrating to Lacey that in Washington, D.C., everyone learned how to play the media game young. Fawn wore a black miniskirt and turtleneck sweater with short-heeled ankle boots and a completely unnecessary Burberry scarf in that bland beige Burberry plaid that had seized D.C. by storm and still had it in a stranglehold. Fawn’s bed-head was a wildly layered haircut delivered by an out-of-control stylist with a dull razor; it made her head resemble a feather duster. Looking at her, Lacey positively longed for the not-so-distant days when the legendary Washington Helmet-Head haircut reigned supreme in the Nation’s Capital.
    Fawn led her upstairs and left her with a nice thick press packet, with photographs of Amanda and her clothing, and the usual puffery about how fabulous it all was. The press release revealed the hitherto unknown information that it was actually Zoe who created most of the designs, while Amanda oversaw the colors and fabric selection and personally approved each item. Reading between the lines, it was apparent that Amanda’s fame and connections got the Chrysalis Collection off the ground, not her talent.
    Fawn retreated, Burberry scarf tossed over her shoulder, as Zoe drew near. The “pretty sister” who had seemed so confident on TV approached Lacey almost shyly. “Hi, I’m Zoe Manville. Amanda will be just a few more moments. Do you have everything you need?”
    “No, actually, I don’t. Can we talk? I didn’t realize the designs were yours. Aren’t you the one I should be interviewing?” What Lacey really wanted to ask was, How does it feel to be the pretty sister all your life, then be pushed aside?
    A pained look crossed Zoe’s face. “It’s a collaboration,” she said. “But of course, you’re interested in meeting Mandy, not me.”
    True, Lacey was interested in meeting Amanda, who apparently was the Evil Queen from Snow White. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the supermodelest of them all?”
    “But I’m interested in your story, too. So you two design together? It must be great to have so much in common with your sister,” Lacey said. My sister and I are about as alike as Snow White and Rose Red. I’m Rose. “When did you decide to undertake this venture?”
    “I used to design clothes for my dolls, and my teddy bears, and then myself. When I was old enough, I took classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York,” Zoe said, then remembered to include her famous sibling. “Of course, Amanda is key. She has such a great eye for . . . for details and color combinations. It really has worked out. Wonderfully.” Zoe looked away and