Hand-Me-Down

“A little.”

“The swimsuit model?”

“Is there another Charlotte Olsen?”

“Not in my life,” he said.

Mine either.

CHAPTER 03

Early evening. I sprawled across the bed and painted my fingernails with Charlotte’s blue polish.

“Not that,” Charlotte said, from her palatial walk-in closet. “It’s so last season.”

“It’s Hard Candy. I like it.”

She shook her head, but didn’t push me. Charlotte never did. “Well, on you, it still works.” She rummaged in the closet and held up a satin blouse and velvet jeans in a gorgeous powder blue. “Here, these’ll match.”

“I don’t think so, Charlotte….”

“They’re Gucci.”

My jaw tightened. I loved Gucci. She knew I loved Gucci. But I had my principles. Or at least I had my single solitary principle: not to wear my sisters’ hand-me-downs. “Why don’t you wear it?” I said, with a straight face.

She was eight months pregnant, and a honker. She was wearing a black tank top, a long knit skirt and a belly like an overinflated beach ball. “Because it’s not a size seventy-two.”

“Give it to Emily then.”

Charlotte snorted. “God knows what she’ll show up in. I wish she’d let me take her shopping.” She held up a cream linen dress. “How about this?”

I ignored her. I was sticking to the white blouse and jeans I’d bought with my discount at Banana. “Speaking of Emily.” I screwed the cap back on the polish. “Guess who we ran into today?”

“Ian Dunne. She said you invited him.”

“Well, it sort of popped out….”

“She also said you were putting on quite a show dressing the mannequins. You know, if you want to dress models I can introduce you to a stylist.”

I looked at Charlotte. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, Annie.” Her natural pregnancy-glow doubled in wattage. “And I know just the woman. She dressed me for my calendar.”

“I meant, you don’t mind that I invited Ian. And it’s exaggerating to say you were dressed for your calendar.” Charlotte was America’s favorite swimsuit model. She’d won the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue two years in a row. Her calendar sold a zillion copies and I’ve seen her naked looking more modest than she did in some of those swimsuits.

“Why would I mind about Ian?” Charlotte smiled. “Do you remember how you asked him—”

“I remember.”

“It’ll be fun to see him. I can’t wait for David to meet him.”

David was Charlotte’s husband. She’d always dated gorgeous men, because they were the only ones with the egos to think they deserved Charlotte Olsen. Then she’d met David. A shy, unassuming anesthesiologist who looked like a young Billy Crystal. It was love at first sight.

“When’s he get home?” I asked.

Charlotte glanced at the clock. “An hour. And InStyle should be here soon.”

“I still don’t know how you convinced them to shoot Emily’s book party.”

“It wasn’t that hard—The Nation did name Emily one of the ten most dangerous young minds in America.”

“Yeah, number seven,” I said dismissively, because having two famous older sisters was more than I could bear. I’d thought Emily was safely obscure, but as a new Ph.D. at twenty-seven, she’d rocked the feminist world with her dissonant thoughts on pornography. Wonderful. “Somehow I don’t see InStyle caring about dangerous minds.”

Charlotte became suddenly fascinated by the shoes she was holding. “I can’t even wear normal shoes. I have hippo feet.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something with InStyle?”

She lowered her bulk into a velvet boudoir chair. “I had to promise People, which is owned by the same parent company, exclusive pictures of me and the baby after the birth.”

“Charlotte!” She always tried to keep her personal life out of the spotlight.

“Well, you know. For Emily. David said it would be okay.”

“For that, they should put her in the ‘50 Most Beautiful’ issue.”

She inspected the shoes more closely.

“You asked and they said no?” I said.

“Don’t tell Emily.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

When a model breaks out like Charlotte had, agents start looking at her sisters—same genes, right? Her agency offered to test shoot me when I turned fourteen. I was tempted, despite them wanting me to lose fifteen pounds, but Charlotte and Dad said no. I sulked, but was secretly pleased. I do look vaguely—very vaguely—like Charlotte. Except in front of a camera, her light hair shines, her tawny skin glows, and her smile blinds unprepared passersby. In front of a camera, I just look like me. Plus, I like to eat.

Nobody ever offered to test shoot Emily.

Dad showed up before David or InStyle, and immediately headed for the buffet.

I knocked a taquito from his fingers. “Wait till the guests arrive.”

“I’m starving. I held off lunch for this.”

“And if Emily catches you?”