Hostile Makeover by Ellen Byerrum Page B

next to a clear Lucite cube. She sat down gingerly. Perhaps designed to keep the interviews short, she thought. Lacey was rummaging through her bag for her trusty reporter tools when she heard a voice behind her.
    “Another scribe waiting for Amanda?”
    She glanced up at possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen. “Lacey Smithsonian, Eye Street Observer, ” she said, offering her hand.
    “Hi, I’m Tate Penfield.” He had glossy black hair and a beautifully sculpted chin and full lips. Lacey estimated his age at about thirty. A loud crash came from behind the stage. The sound of breaking glass made her jump. Penfield smiled. “Another mirror bites the dust.”
    “Do I need a bulletproof vest for this interview?”
    “Only if it comes from Amanda’s collection. Don’t worry, it was probably an accident.”
    Lacey noticed that Penfield was burdened with cameras and photo equipment.
    “You’re here to take photos of Amanda?”
    “Yeah.” He mounted a video camera on a tripod and set down a large bag of cameras and lenses. “Some stills, and also I’m filming a documentary on Amanda. Her life, her startling transformation, her fabulous career, that sort of thing. I’m always shooting extra footage.”
    “You’ve been around her awhile then?”
    “On this project, about six months.”
    “Sounds like a long time.” Miguel had told her that Amanda went through people like tissues.
    “Not for a documentary.” Penfield seemed rather distracted, trying to be polite and concentrate on his work at the same time. It gave her a chance to take another look. He wore blue jeans, Top-Siders without socks, and a well-worn fishermen’s knit sweater that was fraying at the sleeves, which were pushed up his arms. Somehow it looked perfect on him. If he had dressed more slickly he would have come across as a self-obsessed metrosexual. This way he looked comfortably male, even if absurdly handsome.
    “I like your sweater. Looks well loved.”
    “Thanks.” He stroked the sweater. “It’s a sentimental favorite.”
    “So, a documentary. You’re including Amanda’s life before the big makeover?”
    “I’m doing my best, trying to get something that she hasn’t said before.” He moved the giant photos of Amanda out of his field of view.
    “How long have you actually known Amanda?” Lacey asked.
    “And lived to tell about it, you mean?” He laughed. “A couple of years. When Amanda decided to come back home to D.C. for this career move, I thought it would make a good story, documenting her rise to the top. It’s a celebrity society. Everyone wants to be immortalized.”
    “And Amanda?”
    “Especially Amanda.” He adjusted the tripod. “So I’ve been working on this project and making money doing photos for the Chrysalis ad campaign.”
    “Then you know something about a stalker hanging around?”
    He shrugged. “A guy’s been writing her love letters. They’ve turned dark. And they show up in odd places. She’s come unglued.”
    “Is it the same guy who tried to get through the front door earlier?”
    “Someone tried to get through the door?”
    “Not on the list,” Lacey said.
    “I didn’t hear about that. Sort of an occupational hazard for people like Amanda. But the letter writer is probably some geeky little guy who imagines he’s in love with her. My theory, he’s trying to snag something personal of hers, like a pair of her shoes to wear. To sell on eBay maybe, or put under his pillow at night and stroke.”
    “Now you’re messing with me.” Lacey laughed.
    “Better to let Amanda tell you.” Penfield focused on her through his Hasselblad camera. He clicked the shutter.
    “Hey, don’t take my photograph. I’m a reporter, not a celebrity.” She remembered the whole battle with Mac over her photographs, then smiled ruefully. Penfield clicked again. “I didn’t say you could—” Again he snapped the shutter. “No more! I’m no model.”
    “No. You’re not.” He