MARGOT’S HEART POUNDED in sync to t

MARGOT’S HEART POUNDED in sync to the driving beat of techno music as she led the parade of models down the runway. Her skin, spray-painted a shimmery bronze, prickled beneath the hot glare of the lights and the weight of hundreds of eyes tracking her every step. She hid her discomfort and fatigue behind a haughty mask—her expression, the angle of her head, as remote as a goddess’s.
It was the show’s finale, and though the platform felt like a never-ending highway and her feet ached inside her stiletto heels, Margot’s steps remained light and confident, her hips maintaining their I’m-too-sexy-for-you swing. As she neared the end of the catwalk, she lowered the feather-fringed silk wrap from her shoulders and revealed the dark gold appliqué of her vibrant pink evening gown. She paused, sent her smile into the dark sea of shadowed faces illuminated by brief flashes of camera strobes, and then twirled. The gauzy layers of the dress and wrap swirled about her in a cloud of color.
Over the music she heard the bursts of applause and her smile widened; the grueling past hour of frantic wardrobe changes and makeup adjustments, the near-manic frenzy of the assistants, forgotten. The knowledge that she’d helped win the critics over chased away her fatigue. The applause continued. Buoyed by the audience’s enthusiasm, she headed back up the runway toward the silver-threaded curtain that hid the barely controlled chaos reigning backstage.
Slipping behind the curtain she was swept into the ecstatic embrace of Carlo de Calvi, whose genius had inspired the collection. In the Italian designer’s excitement, English abandoned him completely, and though Margot had been flying the golden triangle of the fashion world between New York, Milan, and Paris for seven years and had learned enough of both languages to order a café au lait on the Boulevard Saint-Germain or an espresso on the Via Montenapoleone like a pro, she caught only about one-tenth of Carlo’s full throttle speech.
But she’d been on the runway; his words needed no translation. From the buzz in the air, it was obvious the critics loved the show, and the retailers were hungry to place their orders. In the past two weeks, the period during which Milan held its ready-to-wear fashion shows, Margot had modeled nearly twenty-five different collections. Of all of them, Carlo de Calvi’s cunning use of fabrics and colors, the drama of his ensembles, combined with his fine, craftsmanlike attention to details, had generated the most red-hot response. The spring collection was a hit and Carlo’s designs would be the must-haves for next season.
Carlo was still gushing and Margot still nodding and interjecting a laughing “Sì, sì,” when the other models, having finished their trip down the runway, joined them. Each arrival upped the level of bubbly euphoria. Everyone was kissing and laughing, the whole motley crew that comprised the backstage world—models, makeup artists, hairstylists, assistants, VIPs, even security guards. Pumped on the adrenaline of the past madhouse hour, they shared the fleeting moment of sweet success.
Then Carlo clapped his hands. “Come, girls, we show them how beautiful I make women one more time,” he said in heavily accented English.
His remark elicited groans of “Oh, God, Carlo!” and “Someone please explain why we’re always surrounded by men only a mother could love?” “Or another guy,” someone else chimed in.
“We mustn’t mind Carlo,” Margot said. “He hasn’t finished all his Berlitz tapes yet.” She gave his chin a playful chuck. “Carlo, sweetie, the thing to do is to thank us all for making your clothes look so darned good.”
“Ahh, yes! Mille grazie, belle,” he said, and his goateed face split into a wide boyish grin of apology. “You all were perfette.” He brought his fingers to his mouth and kissed them.
The girls laughed, their good humor restored. With a flourish, Carlo held out his arm to Margot. As the show’s featured model she had the privilege of walking down the runway beside him as he took his bows. Margot slipped her arm through his and as one they turned toward the curtain, only to come up short as Carlo’s assistant, Paolo, called out, “Scusi, Carlo. C’èper Margot—è urgente!” He broke through the throng, waving a cell phone.
Urgent. The word sent a chill through her. Not once in her eight years of modeling had she ever been interrupted by a phone call. She stared at Paolo’s leopard-print cell with an impending sense of dread. Reluctantly she took it, with Carlo and the other models looking on with rapt fascination. But then Anika, her apartment-mate and closest friend, stepped forward.
“We’ll give you some privacy, Margot,” she said, her kohl-lined eyes filled with concern. “Come on, Carlo. Come on, girls.”
Carlo nodded vigorously. “Si, we go. Come, my beautiful girls, we go out and take our bows together, like one big famiglia.”
The other girls trailed after Anika and Carlo, casting curious glances Margot’s way. She barely noticed. Lifting the cell, she pressed it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Margot? Oh, thank God! I called your agent in New York. He gave me this number. I was so worried I wouldn’t—”
“Jordan?” The spurt of happiness she felt at hearing her sister’s voice—proof that she was okay—was short-lived. Even with the lousy connection she could hear the strain in it. Her mind raced as she tried to calculate the hour in D.C. It must be the middle of the night. “What’s the matter? What’s happened? Are you all right? Is it the baby?”
“No, no, I’m fine, we’re fine,” Jordan quickly reassured her. “Listen, Margot, it’s Dad and Nicole. There’s been an accident—”
“Oh, God! No!” she whispered. “What happened? Are they all right?”
“The Piper went down in the Chesapeake. Something must have gone wrong. Dad gave a Mayday signal just before it crashed.” There was a pause, then, “Margot, Nicole didn’t survive. She’s—she’s dead.”
Her stepmother dead. It couldn’t be. Dazed, Margot wondered if perhaps she wasn’t caught in the middle of some horrific nightmare. But the plastic contour of the phone biting into her hand and the sudden, salty sting of tears in her eyes were all too real.
“Margot? Are you there?” came her sister’s crackly voice.
She jerked her head and then remembered to speak. “Yes. It’s just—so terrible.” How appallingly inadequate the word sounded.
“I know.”
“And Dad?” The question was met with silence. She clutched the phone even more tightly. “Jordan, tell me. Is he—” She swallowed. “Is it bad?”
“Yes, but we don’t know how bad. A navy boat was in the area. They were able to reach Dad and airlift him to the hospital. The nurse I spoke with couldn’t tell me much, except that they’d rushed him from the ER into the operating room.”
Oh, Daddy! The mute cry tore through her, sending her reeling back in time. She was once again a helpless girl, grasping for the first time that her beautiful mother was never going to get better, that she might die. An uncontrollable trembling seized her. “I’ll be on the first flight to D.C.—”
“No, Margot, wait. There’s Jade.”
Jade. How could she have forgotten her half-sister? She must be what now, sixteen? Older than when she and Jordan had lost their mother, but still, how awful. Margot remembered Jordan telling her that RJ and Nicole had decided to send Jade to some prestigious boarding school in New England because none of the Virginia schools, not even Foxcroft, were good enough for Nicole’s daughter.… Nothing had ever been good enough for Nicole’s little darling. Margot winced, ashamed of herself. Jade had just lost her mother; this wasn’t the time to dwell on past wrongs or to think ill of the dead.
“Where’s Jade at school again?” she asked.
“Maiden Academy. It’s outside of Boston.”
“All right. I’ll go there and bring Jade home as quickly as I can.” Home. Rosewood. Despite all her years of exile, the stately old mansion was still the only place Margot considered home.
“Thanks, Margot. I’m leaving for the hospital right now. I’ll be able to get updates on his condition more easily if I’m on the premises. Once you’ve got your flight, call Richard here. He’ll have the school’s address and telephone number.”
“Isn’t he driving you to the hospital?” Margot asked.
“No, it’s better if he stays with Kate and Max. I don’t want the children more upset than they have to be. And Richard was stuck in the office until two o’clock this morning. He’s exhausted.”
Maybe, but you’re four months pregnant and most likely in shock, Margot was tempted to reply. But she bit back the words. She supposed her sister had a point. Kate and Max were only four and two and a half. Still, she didn’t like the idea of Jordan, pregnant and upset, driving alone at this hour.
“You’ll be careful?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about me. You know I hold the Miss Cautious title.”
She hated the note of self-deprecation in her sister’s voice, but before she could speak, Jordan continued, “I better get going. Thanks again, Margot. I knew I could count on you. Love you.”
Her throat tight, she whispered, “Love you back, sweetie.”

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

MARGOT di jantung DITUMBUK sinkron untuk mengemudi mengalahkan dari musik techno saat ia memimpin parade model di landasan. Kulitnya, spray-painted perunggu shimmery, prickled di bawah silau panas lampu dan berat dari ratusan mata pelacakan dia setiap langkah. Dia menyembunyikan dirinya ketidaknyamanan dan kelelahan di balik topeng sombong — ekspresinya, sudut kepalanya, sebagai jauh sebagai seorang dewi.Itu menunjukkan finale, dan meskipun platform merasa seperti jalan Raya tidak pernah berakhir dan kakinya sakit dalam sepatu stiletto, langkah-langkah Margot's tetap ringan dan percaya diri, pinggul menjaga mereka yang saya 'm-terlalu-seksi-untuk-Anda ayunan. Ketika ia mendekati akhir catwalk, dia diturunkan berpohon bulu membungkus sutra dari bahunya dan mengungkapkan appliqué emas gelap nya gaun malam merah muda yang dinamis. Dia berhenti, dikirim senyumnya ke laut gelap teduh wajah diterangi oleh kilatan kamera strobes singkat, dan kemudian dililit. Lapisan gauzy pakaian dan bungkus berputar tentang dia dalam awan warna.Selama musik ia mendengar ledakan tepuk tangan dan senyumnya melebar; melelahkan melewati jam panik lemari perubahan dan penyesuaian makeup, hiruk-pikuk dekat manik asisten, dilupakan. Pengetahuan bahwa ia telah membantu memenangkan kritik mengusir kelelahan nya. Tepuk tangan terus. Didukung oleh antusiasme penonton, dia kembali menuju landasan menuju perak-ulir tirai yang menyembunyikan kekacauan nyaris tak terkendali yang berkuasa di belakang panggung.Slipping behind the curtain she was swept into the ecstatic embrace of Carlo de Calvi, whose genius had inspired the collection. In the Italian designer’s excitement, English abandoned him completely, and though Margot had been flying the golden triangle of the fashion world between New York, Milan, and Paris for seven years and had learned enough of both languages to order a café au lait on the Boulevard Saint-Germain or an espresso on the Via Montenapoleone like a pro, she caught only about one-tenth of Carlo’s full throttle speech.But she’d been on the runway; his words needed no translation. From the buzz in the air, it was obvious the critics loved the show, and the retailers were hungry to place their orders. In the past two weeks, the period during which Milan held its ready-to-wear fashion shows, Margot had modeled nearly twenty-five different collections. Of all of them, Carlo de Calvi’s cunning use of fabrics and colors, the drama of his ensembles, combined with his fine, craftsmanlike attention to details, had generated the most red-hot response. The spring collection was a hit and Carlo’s designs would be the must-haves for next season.Carlo was still gushing and Margot still nodding and interjecting a laughing “Sì, sì,” when the other models, having finished their trip down the runway, joined them. Each arrival upped the level of bubbly euphoria. Everyone was kissing and laughing, the whole motley crew that comprised the backstage world—models, makeup artists, hairstylists, assistants, VIPs, even security guards. Pumped on the adrenaline of the past madhouse hour, they shared the fleeting moment of sweet success.Then Carlo clapped his hands. “Come, girls, we show them how beautiful I make women one more time,” he said in heavily accented English.His remark elicited groans of “Oh, God, Carlo!” and “Someone please explain why we’re always surrounded by men only a mother could love?” “Or another guy,” someone else chimed in.“We mustn’t mind Carlo,” Margot said. “He hasn’t finished all his Berlitz tapes yet.” She gave his chin a playful chuck. “Carlo, sweetie, the thing to do is to thank us all for making your clothes look so darned good.”“Ahh, yes! Mille grazie, belle,” he said, and his goateed face split into a wide boyish grin of apology. “You all were perfette.” He brought his fingers to his mouth and kissed them.The girls laughed, their good humor restored. With a flourish, Carlo held out his arm to Margot. As the show’s featured model she had the privilege of walking down the runway beside him as he took his bows. Margot slipped her arm through his and as one they turned toward the curtain, only to come up short as Carlo’s assistant, Paolo, called out, “Scusi, Carlo. C’èper Margot—è urgente!” He broke through the throng, waving a cell phone.Urgent. The word sent a chill through her. Not once in her eight years of modeling had she ever been interrupted by a phone call. She stared at Paolo’s leopard-print cell with an impending sense of dread. Reluctantly she took it, with Carlo and the other models looking on with rapt fascination. But then Anika, her apartment-mate and closest friend, stepped forward.“We’ll give you some privacy, Margot,” she said, her kohl-lined eyes filled with concern. “Come on, Carlo. Come on, girls.”Carlo nodded vigorously. “Si, we go. Come, my beautiful girls, we go out and take our bows together, like one big famiglia.”The other girls trailed after Anika and Carlo, casting curious glances Margot’s way. She barely noticed. Lifting the cell, she pressed it to her ear.“Hello?”“Margot? Oh, thank God! I called your agent in New York. He gave me this number. I was so worried I wouldn’t—”“Jordan?” The spurt of happiness she felt at hearing her sister’s voice—proof that she was okay—was short-lived. Even with the lousy connection she could hear the strain in it. Her mind raced as she tried to calculate the hour in D.C. It must be the middle of the night. “What’s the matter? What’s happened? Are you all right? Is it the baby?”“No, no, I’m fine, we’re fine,” Jordan quickly reassured her. “Listen, Margot, it’s Dad and Nicole. There’s been an accident—”“Oh, God! No!” she whispered. “What happened? Are they all right?”“The Piper went down in the Chesapeake. Something must have gone wrong. Dad gave a Mayday signal just before it crashed.” There was a pause, then, “Margot, Nicole didn’t survive. She’s—she’s dead.”Her stepmother dead. It couldn’t be. Dazed, Margot wondered if perhaps she wasn’t caught in the middle of some horrific nightmare. But the plastic contour of the phone biting into her hand and the sudden, salty sting of tears in her eyes were all too real.“Margot? Are you there?” came her sister’s crackly voice.She jerked her head and then remembered to speak. “Yes. It’s just—so terrible.” How appallingly inadequate the word sounded.“I know.”“And Dad?” The question was met with silence. She clutched the phone even more tightly. “Jordan, tell me. Is he—” She swallowed. “Is it bad?”“Yes, but we don’t know how bad. A navy boat was in the area. They were able to reach Dad and airlift him to the hospital. The nurse I spoke with couldn’t tell me much, except that they’d rushed him from the ER into the operating room.”
Oh, Daddy! The mute cry tore through her, sending her reeling back in time. She was once again a helpless girl, grasping for the first time that her beautiful mother was never going to get better, that she might die. An uncontrollable trembling seized her. “I’ll be on the first flight to D.C.—”
“No, Margot, wait. There’s Jade.”
Jade. How could she have forgotten her half-sister? She must be what now, sixteen? Older than when she and Jordan had lost their mother, but still, how awful. Margot remembered Jordan telling her that RJ and Nicole had decided to send Jade to some prestigious boarding school in New England because none of the Virginia schools, not even Foxcroft, were good enough for Nicole’s daughter.… Nothing had ever been good enough for Nicole’s little darling. Margot winced, ashamed of herself. Jade had just lost her mother; this wasn’t the time to dwell on past wrongs or to think ill of the dead.
“Where’s Jade at school again?” she asked.
“Maiden Academy. It’s outside of Boston.”
“All right. I’ll go there and bring Jade home as quickly as I can.” Home. Rosewood. Despite all her years of exile, the stately old mansion was still the only place Margot considered home.
“Thanks, Margot. I’m leaving for the hospital right now. I’ll be able to get updates on his condition more easily if I’m on the premises. Once you’ve got your flight, call Richard here. He’ll have the school’s address and telephone number.”
“Isn’t he driving you to the hospital?” Margot asked.
“No, it’s better if he stays with Kate and Max. I don’t want the children more upset than they have to be. And Richard was stuck in the office until two o’clock this morning. He’s exhausted.”
Maybe, but you’re four months pregnant and most likely in shock, Margot was tempted to reply. But she bit back the words. She supposed her sister had a point. Kate and Max were only four and two and a half. Still, she didn’t like the idea of Jordan, pregnant and upset, driving alone at this hour.
“You’ll be careful?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about me. You know I hold the Miss Cautious title.”
She hated the note of self-deprecation in her sister’s voice, but before she could speak, Jordan continued, “I better get going. Thanks again, Margot. I knew I could count on you. Love you.”
Her throat tight, she whispered, “Love you back, sweetie.”