A Fashion Felon in Rome Read online

  A

  Fashion Felon

  in

  Rome

  Anisa Claire West

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my mother:

  Fellow writer,

  Inspirational woman,

  & Italian chef extraordinaire

  Prologue

  West Nyack, New York

  Packing My Bags…

  Is there any reason why I can’t take my entire wardrobe to Italy? I perused my dresser full of vintage clothes, heartbroken to leave any of the gems behind. You’re only going to be gone for two weeks, dummy. I had to remind myself that my pending trip to Rome was strictly business, and I wouldn’t be in the Eternal City for more than a blink of time. Before I knew it, I would be home sweet home in New York.

  Still, I hated the thought of leaving my clingy bellbottom pants and white peasant blouse behind. Additional reminders to self: You are not attending a disco party in the 1970’s. You are flying into one of the most fashionable cities on earth to compete in a highly coveted design contest. I sighed, folding lime green jeans, a mauve tee-shirt and high heel boots into my suitcase. Fashion was meant to be flamboyant, not flat. Truthfully, I’d parade around in my goofy retro garb all day and then glide across a marble floor in a chic ballroom gown all night if I could. But for my business trip to Rome, the vivid denims and cotton tee-shirt would have to satisfy my craving for bold couture.

  “I’m going to miss you like crazy,” Richard’s deep voice interrupted my packing frenzy.

  “I’m going to miss you too,” I murmured absently, still peering into the abyss of a dresser drawer.

  “Stop packing for a second. Come here. Look at me.” Richard pulled me into his arms and forced my eyes to meet his.

  “Come on, sweetie. I’m only going to be gone a couple of weeks.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t want you flirting with any Italian men when you’re over there. I know the reputation they have…”

  “Oh stop!” I hushed him dismissively. “I’m all yours. And have been for almost a year.”

  “Is that a subtle reminder about our anniversary next month? Because I don’t need reminding. I’ve got something very special planned for us.” His hazel eyes gleamed with romantic mischief as my imagination wandered to all the possible surprises he could have arranged. Since meeting in the most unlikely of settings---a sports bar blind date arranged by mutual friends---Richard and I had stuck together like Krazy Glue.

  An inexplicable shock of fear coursed through me as I stared up into my boyfriend’s comforting eyes. Why did he have to be so sweet? I felt like I was leaving a giant security blanket behind and jumping naked into January-frigid ocean waters. The man loved me from head to toe, despite the fact that I wasn’t built even remotely like a fashion model. My curves were better suited to a lingerie catalogue than the runway, and Richard adored every fleshy inch of me.

  “Okay, enough of this dramatic goodbye. Two weeks and I’ll be standing here with you again trying to wrestle the anniversary surprise out of you.” I grinned at him despite the uneasiness that hung over me like cloud cover.

  Richard’s eyes crinkled at the corners with mirth. “Wrestle it out of me? Be my guest, Gianna.” He pulled me deeper into a bear hug as our lips fused.

  “I better get back to packing. My flight leaves in 5 hours and I have to be at the airport in 2,” I said gently as he reluctantly released me.

  “Why is this actress flying people in from all around the world just to design a dress for her?” Richard asked frowningly.

  “Because she can,” I called over my shoulder, zipping shut a compartment of my suitcase.

  “It just seems a little extravagant,” Richard continued.

  “Well it is. And so is she. Sophia Pucci is the highest paid actress in Europe. She can do whatever she wants. Just be happy for me, Rich. And wish me luck,” I urged, as butterflies somersaulted through my gut.

  “You don’t need luck, Gianna. You’ve got artistic talent. More than anyone I’ve ever met. That’s why you were chosen as a finalist from how many portfolios worldwide? 1,000?” he said solemnly as my cheeks flared with modesty.

  “Something like that,” I replied before declaring, ”I love you. Or should I say, io ti amo?”

  “Your Italian sounds way too sexy,” Richard groaned as I laughed.

  “Relax. It only sounds sexy to you because you’re American. Italians hear their language all the time! I’ll probably sound incredibly boring to them,” I giggled.

  “You could never sound boring to anyone. So remember, if anyone hits on you…”

  “I have a boyfriend in New York who loves me,” I finished for him.

  “Yes. But also, those guys could be your long lost cousins.” Richard raised an eyebrow and grinned.

  “My grandparents weren’t from Rome, honey. They came from Naples,” I tried to contain my laughter, but it popped from my throat like champagne bubbles.

  “They could still be cousins. Several times removed,” Richard insisted, continuing to shield his insecurity over my departure with downright silly humor.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll watch out for flirty Italian men. And inappropriately flirty cousins,” I promised lightly before grabbing his face in my hands and whispering:

  “Two weeks, just two weeks…”

  Chapter 1

  Rome, Italy

  Sheraton Convention Center

  Discreetly, I smoothed on a fresh layer of sheer lip gloss as people piled into the ballroom. My flight from New York had been exhilarating and marked the first time I had crossed the Atlantic Ocean. While others grumbled their way through Customs, I dove into the experience like a wide-eyed child, excitedly flashing my passport and beaming as it received its first stamp. Dumping my luggage at the hotel, I only had time to grab a pistachio gelato as a makeshift breakfast before taking a taxi over to the hotel where I would come face to face with the woman who held a vital key to my future: Sophia Pucci.

  Back home in the people-packed suburb of West Nyack, I had my own tailor shop where I specialized in altering clothes for curvy women like me. But a fashion designer running a tailor shop is a bit like a gourmet chef dishing out slop at a diner. Altering clothes was distantly related to the ridiculously competitive fashion design field I hoped to break into, but it wasn’t at all what I wanted to do with my life. Sophia Pucci, who had starred in countless leading roles over the past two decades, had the power to propel my fledgling career to dizzying heights.

  “Do you speak English?” An American-accented young woman with shocking blue eyes asked me as she approached from behind.

  “Yes, I do. I’m American too,” I replied, assessing her elegant navy jumpsuit and flawlessly matching velvet pumps. Suddenly, I felt inadequate in my curve hugging tee-shirt and equally snug slacks that probably revealed a roll or two of fat. Perhaps three rolls of fat after that extra creamy gelato I had inhaled for breakfast.

  “Oh good. I don’t speak Italian, so maybe you can help me,” she exhaled nervously and pulled a sheet of paper out of her purse. “Is this where we’re supposed to meet Sophia Pucci?”

  “Yes, as far as I know. But I don’t think she’s arrived yet,” I replied, glancing around the room, troubled by how many faces filled the venue. “Are you one of the dress design finalists?”

  “Yeah, are you?” The woman’s demeanor tightened as she perceived me as a competitor.

  “Yes. But I thought there were just supposed to be four of us. Who are all these
other people?”

  “Jewelry designers. And hairstylists. And make-up artists. To name a few,” a male voice with a decidedly English accent informed brusquely from a few steps away. “Ms. Pucci has flown in quite an entourage from all around the world. You two are lucky you made the cut. She didn’t choose any other Americans.”

  “And how do you know all this?” I inquired curiously, noting the man’s sleek dark moustache and arresting green eyes.

  “I’m Leonard Jilton. Ms. Pucci’s assistant. I organized this whole event.” He extended a hand that I accepted for a shake.

  “Oh yes, I remember seeing your name on the application papers. I’m Gianna Macchio.”

  “And I’m Denise Craylin,” my competitor interjected testily. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Likewise ladies. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for Ms. Pucci’s arrival. Feel free to help yourselves to some hors d’oeuvres and wine that we have on the tables over there.” Leonard Jilton pointed to an impressive buffet as my stomach rumbled.

  Eagerly, I made my way over to the buffet, wondering what the Italians would consider to be a main course. The “hors d’oeuvres” were a veritable banquet of eggplant parmagiana, baked ziti, and several varieties of crusty bread. The cool pistachio gelato had been sweet, but I needed to sink my teeth into some real food. Loading up a plate with half a baguette and drenching it with herbed oil, I took an ecstatic bite, trying not to make too much noise. As I was depositing another bankroll of bread into my mouth, the room suddenly buzzed with energy followed by a burst of applause.

  I craned my neck towards the entrance where Sophia Pucci was walking grandly into the ballroom. Regally tall, she shimmied through the door, clearly enjoying the cheers that erupted all around her. As she sauntered closer to my corner of the room, I noted how she appeared older than she did on screen. And all natural, I acknowledged happily. Her bosom, while full, didn’t stand at a military salute. And smile lines proudly etched across her olive-toned skin. Unlike so many American actresses, Sophia Pucci obviously hadn’t had any “work” done. Taking a liking to her before she even opened her mouth, I hastily swallowed my bread, horrified when a chunk got caught in my throat, causing me to cough raucously.

  Sophia glanced over at me as I clenched my hand to my heart, willing the coughing fit to cease and desist. What a first impression. Indelicately, I pounded my chest, feeling like everyone in the room was gawking at me as though I were an alien. Mildly horrified, Sophia watched as I smacked a napkin against my lips, trying in vain to cover up my cough that sounded like a donkey stomping through a barnyard. At last, the cough subsided and Sophia looked away as my eyes filled with tears from the oxygen loss. Damn it. I’m going to have to design a dress worthy of Vera Wang to recover from that blunder.

  Denise regarded me haughtily from across the room as Sophia Pucci finally spoke in flawless English. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. Grazie for joining me here in Roma. As you know, you have been chosen to audition to be part of my style team for the Cannes Film Festival.”

  Audition? Yeah, she really was an actress. I listened with rapt attention, chills running through me at the mention of the glittering Cannes Film Festival held annually on the French Riviera.

  “Four of you will compete in each category. There are sections designated throughout the ballroom where you can meet your competitors. Today is only round one. The dress designers will each sketch an original idea for a gown that will complement my figure.”

  I swallowed anxiously as I learned that I would have to sketch a design cold, without any preparation or visual aid. My jet lag threatened to set in as I contemplated the performance pressure. Migrating over to the section labeled Dress Designers, I stood at a distance from Denise and inspected our other two competitors. Not surprisingly, one was male, with an untamed rush of wavy black hair and searing brown eyes. Powerfully built, he didn’t resemble the stereotypical wispy male fashion designer and looked more like a Spanish bullfighter. My instincts weren’t far off target as he introduced himself to the group.

  “I’m Tomaso. From Barcelona. Where are you ladies from?”

  Denise and I took turns introducing ourselves as the fourth member of our group piped up. “And I’m Evelyn Flowers. From London if my accent didn’t already give me away.” She smiled amiably for the group, lingering just a beat too long on Tomaso’s face as he reciprocated with a toothy grin of his own.

  Blank sketch pads and sharpened pencils were laid out for our “auditions.” Ringing reminiscent of a schoolyard bell reverberated through the ballroom, indicating that we could begin drawing our concepts. I closed my eyes, envisioning Sophia’s mature hourglass body and what style would best flatter her curves. I opened my eyes, glancing at my twiggy female competitors and brawny male one. If anyone amongst us knew how to dress up a curvy woman, it was certainly me. Inspired with confidence, I sketched the silhouette of a model and overlaid a long, mermaid-style gown with a cleavage-enhancing sweetheart neckline. Selecting a ruby colored pencil that would highlight Sophia’s olive skin, I filled in the lines of the dress, adding beadwork detail to the top half and leaving plenty of room for accentuating jewelry.

  Like a student cheating on an exam, Denise looked over at my sketch pad as I protectively turned away to shield my idea from her view. Evelyn’s pad was conspicuously blank as she made constipated expressions, apparently trying to drum up an idea. Tomaso, meanwhile, was furiously sketching his design onto paper and utilizing a rainbow of colored pencils. Judging his design as too intricate, I felt confident in the simplicity of my idea. Just from 15 minutes in Sophia’s presence, I intuitively felt that she was gregarious enough to desire a red gown but sufficiently elegant to prefer a classic design.

  Sophia circled the room, peering over shoulders to glimpse the early stages of what would become her persona for the Cannes Film Festival. “Is she receiving a special award or something?” Tomaso wondered aloud as he chose yet another colored pencil to complicate his design.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, grinning at how similar his reaction was to Richard’s. Men, fashion designers or not, simply couldn’t understand the importance of a woman’s attire.

  “There’s going to be a red carpet,” Denise cut in. “Actresses from all over the world will be there, and most of them will be younger than Sophia.” She lowered her voice to a shrill whisper. “The cameras will be flashing, and she needs to look good.”

  “Exactly,” Evelyn concurred, giving Tomaso a look of blended amusement and appreciation as she flipped her sunny blond hair. Glancing at her hands, I noticed a sizable diamond on her left ring finger. She was quite the coquette for an engaged woman.

  “So what do you do in Barcelona, Tomaso?” Denise jumped in foolishly.

  “Um, I design clothes,” he deadpanned. “But in my spare time, I like to take my speedboat out on the water.” His eyes sparkled with practiced charm.

  “Speedboat?” Denise parroted. “Wow!

  “I love boating,” Evelyn added. “It’s always been my dream to own a yacht.”

  “Yeah, I think a lot of people dream of owning a yacht,” I said sarcastically, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the women’s vapid chatter.

  Casting a feline glare my way, Evelyn persisted, “How long have you owned the speedboat?”

  “Since my 18th birthday. It was a gift from my parents,” Tomaso revealed as Denise and Evelyn bordered on salivating. So the guy came from money? So what? I’d take my hard working project manager Richard any day over a spoiled pretty boy like Tomaso.

  Mercifully, Sophia glided over to our station, saving me from the mind-numbing emptiness of the conversation and wearing a poker face as she examined our sketches. “Hmm, very nice,” she said to no one in particular. “Write your names at the top and then leave the sketches on your chairs,” she instructed like a school marm.

  “Are we finished?” I asked with surprise.

  “For today, yes. Round two will
take place next week when I eliminate one of you and have the other three work with fabric to bring your designs to life. And even if I don’t ultimately choose your dress to wear to the festival, I may like it enough to wear elsewhere.” She dangled the possibility like an intangible golden carrot. I didn’t really care where Sophia wore my dress design. She could wear it to the grocery store for all I cared as long as she wore it somewhere. That way, I would receive international exposure and be able to shut down my tailor shop. In its place, I could open up my dream boutique, selling nothing but evening gowns for the gloriously full-figured woman.

  Placing my sketch face-down on the folding chair, I rose and bypassed the buffet table, even though I was craving more “hors d’oeuvres.” After my explosive coughing fit, I would never eat anything in front of Sophia Pucci again. No, I wouldn’t even drink a glass of water. I needed her to think of me as a competent professional, not a bumbling moron.

  Hailing a cab to take me back to my hotel, situated near the shimmering Fontana di Trevi, I exhaled with relief that I had jumped through my first hoop in Italy. I would call Richard later to share everything with him, but for now, all I wanted was to fall into a deep sleep.

  ***

  I spent the next week as a happy-go-lucky tourist, exploring all of Rome’s treasures from Il Colosseo to Piazza Navona. Frequently missing Richard, I thought how much more fun I would have with him by my side, experiencing the Italian wonders with me. Indulgently, I filled my belly with greasy pesto pizza, heaps of pasta swimming in naughty cream sauces, and enough gelato to fill an Olympic size swimming pool. Feeling about 5 pounds heavier at the end of the week, I waddled back to the convention center to face my next challenge.

  A hush fell over the entire ballroom as I entered, imagining that everyone was thinking, ‘Ugh, it’s that crazy woman who almost choked to death!’ Ignoring the stares, I walked over to my designated area and joined my fellow designers. Denise’s expression was solemn as Evelyn stared down at the carpeted floor.