Poseur #3: Petty in Pink: A Trend Set Novel (21 page)

“You’re doing good, baby!” she called, springing off her boyfriend’s body. Quickly, she remounted the stool, keeping her hand
on his shoulder for balance and following her precious little one with an anxious, emotional gaze. “You’re doing so good!”

Marco watched in amazement as, bursting with pride, she blew the shiny pink bag a kiss.

The Girl: Miss Paletsky

The Getup: Candy pink strapless jacquard dress with pleat detail and sweetheart neckline by REDUX: Charles Chang-Lima, fuchsia
patent leather bow-front flats by Miu Miu, scrunchie: confiscated

Bit by bit, the burbling crowd drifted up the polished concrete stairs and siphoned slowly through the main entrance to the
modern glass-and-concrete cliff-side house. It seemed to take an eternity for the pink carpet to clear, but when it did, it
seemed to do so in the instant. Twilight illuminated the consequences: the trampled lawn, strewn with crumpled foil wrappers,
grill-marked hors d’oeuvre skewers, plastic glasses sour with champagne, lipstick-stained cigarette butts, and the pink carpet,
stippled with stiletto marks, littered with stray sequins, one bent peacock-feather earring, and occasional crumbles of mud.
Hip-hop still blasted from human-size speakers, with no one save a few guards to hear it. The overall effect was eerie, as
though the guests had not slowly moved indoors but had been abducted, all at once, by a UFO.

The inside of the estate was a different story.

The largest room on the first floor had been cleared out and transformed into what can only be called a pink-frosted palace.
On either side of eight French doors, pulled back and tied in blush-pink silk ribbon, curtains of roses,
real
roses in pinks of every shade, cascaded to the polished white marble floor. In the center of the room, at the top of a triple-tiered
white granite fountain, an ice-sculpted Cupid poised his arrow and bow; beneath his frosted feet, water gently trickled and
swirled, stirring into motion a fleet of floating pink candles. Still more candles lined the marble mantels and side tables,
the tiny flames dancing as if in competition with the boutique chandeliers, which twinkled and twinkled with rose-colored
crystal. If twinkling wasn’t your thing, then indoor trees offered shade, their leafy branches strung with gilded bird-cages,
where baffled pink parakeets twittered and hopped. Dainty round tables dressed in palest pink linen offered more pink flowers—tidy
bouquets of peonies, hyacinth, and tulips—but they were overlooked for greater pink delights. On one table, savory prosciutto-wrapped
melon and smoked salmon sandwiches. On another, shrimp cocktails, tuna tartar, and piles upon piles of pink caviar. And then
there were sweets: pink lemonade cupcakes and sour cherry meringues, strawberry shortcakes and poached pink pear delight,
crystal dishes of pastel pink candy-covered chocolates, pink embossed truffles by French chocolatier Richart, and (for fun)
a glittering pink pyramid of chickadee Peeps.

In the corner of the room, on a polished pink grand piano, Miss Paletsky performed. Not that anybody heard. All around her
people laughed, confided, flirted, and schmoozed—the more pink grapefruit martinis they drank, the louder they got. She didn’t
mind. Seedy Moon had already stopped by to thank her, a beaming smile on his face. Unthinkingly, she thanked him for thanking
her, and he laughed, his eyes settling briefly on her face. “You look…” He laughed again and left without finishing, walking
close to the piano, keeping his hand on it until, at last, he let go.
He’s drunk,
she surmised.
He put his hand there for balance.
And yet, and
yet
… something in the gesture, the slow slide of his fingers, felt like a caress.
Stop fantasizing,
she chastised herself, and sternly resumed her playing. But every time she looked up from the board, the memory bubbled back,
and she found herself blushing with happiness.

Of all pinks in the room, that was the purest.

Charlotte Beverwil’s was the pissiest.

“Tell me this isn’t happening,” she breathed, on the opposite side of the crowded room. “Jules,” she snipped, shooting darts
that put Cupid’s to shame, “is that
piano
woman wearing the same dress as me?”

Her ponytailed paramour glanced up from his plate of miniature raspberry tarts and swallowed. “She
is
,” he concurred, shaking his slick raven head in disbelief. If he and Charlotte had one thing in common, it was following
fashion code. “But she”—his lovely, full lips turned down in distaste—“she is like a cheap rhinestone on a child’s dirty Barbie
shirt.
You
,” he stressed, “are the ruby.”

“I don’t believe you,” Charlotte hissed. “It’s humiliating and you know it.”

With a reluctant cringe, the handsome exchange student nodded.
He knew.

“I’m going over there to get a better look,” she groused, chlorine green eyes still riveted to the enemy, and handed Jules
her half-empty champagne flute. “I’ll be right back.”

It took eighteen excuse me’s, thirteen thanks, and seven sorry’s to make it through the crowd, and only one word—
no!
—to identify her enemy. First, she froze, eyes wide with disbelief, and then, coming to, turned frantically to escape.

“Charlotte!” Miss Paletsky stopped her in her tracks. The French wench cringed, composing herself, then turned around with
an air of surprise.

“Miss Paletsky!” she sang, click-clacking toward the polished pink Steinway grand. “I didn’t see you.”

“Oh.” The teacher squinted, reached for her octagon eyewear, and slipped the glasses on, snapping Charlotte’s dress into focus.
“Oh,” she murmured in a different tone, the smile wobbling on her face. At least they were wearing different shoes, she noted—her
student’s small feet flaunted the fuchsia lizard-embossed platform Dior pumps Mr. Pelligan had insisted
she
wear. Thank God, she’d refused. She could only play piano comfortably in flats, a point Mr. Pelligan finally, after a long,
bitter struggle, conceded.

“I know!” The sixteen-year-old brunette laughed, valiantly pushing through the awkwardness. “Isn’t this
funny
?”

“Poor Charlotte,” Miss Paletsky clucked with sympathy, recovering her smile. “You
must
know, it was Mr. Pelligan who insists I wear. Even though, I
know
… on me it looks so stewpid. But on you!” She sighed her happy approval. “Beautiful.”

“Oh…” Charlotte breathed, melting with affection. “
Thank
you.”

At her student’s charming immodesty, the young teacher laughed.

“I
meant
, thank you for talking to Mr. Pelligan,” Charlotte quickly clarified with a blush. “That other stuff, I mean,
thank
you, but, you know… you look pretty too!”

“Enough,” Miss Paletsky shook her head in embarrassment, but Charlotte could tell she appreciated it.
And the thing was,
she thought, discarding Jules’s rhinestone critique,
it was true.
Without the distraction of so much old pleather and cheap polyester, Miss Paletsky had a pretty hot bod goin’ on. Her chestnut
hair, customarily clipped back into a frayed pony, shone from its stylish trim and expensive blowout, dropping cleanly from
a deep side-part, and swinging to her bare shoulders. Her makeup was flawless, her pink pearl pendant faultless.
If only we could do something about those glasses,
the budding style maven sighed.
And the please-like-me smile.

“So, what do you think of this party?” she asked, sliding in next to her teacher on the bench. “If you ask me,” she confided,
“it’s a little
gauche.
”

“I know, isn’t it
wonderful
?” Miss Paletsky sighed to Charlotte’s deep astonishment.
Did she
seriously
not know the meaning of
gauche
? Wasn’t that, like, not knowing the meaning of
apple
? Or
me
?
“Did you get your gift bag?” the oblivious teacher continued to gush, indicating the shiny magenta bag just above her keyboard.
“There are so many things, and a pink
nano
!”

“Seriously?”
Charlotte replied, managing to shake off her Socratic spell. But she could only feign enthusiasm for a nano for so long.
“So,” she smiled, and deftly changed the subject. “Do you think you’ll have an engagement party?”

“Oh…” Miss Paletsky gripped her face with one hand, covering her mouth, and stared down at her lap. Briskly, she shook her
head. “No.”

“Oh,” Charlotte swallowed, flushing at her social gaffe.
God… how does Janie
do
this all day?
“It’s just, I thought…”

“Oh, I was,” the Russian pianist assured her, glancing up and endeavoring a brave smile. “Just not anymore.”

“Oh,” she nodded, searching for the right words. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no!” Miss Paletsky pushed some air from between her lips, waving her garishly manicured hand. “Is
good
thing,
don’t
worry.” She smiled, patting her student’s jacquard-covered knee. “You should never be with someone you don’t love,” she advised,
still smiling. But her brown eyes were glassy. “There is
never
a good excuse.
Never
.”

Charlotte solemnly nodded, both wondering at her teacher’s words and allowing them to sink in. And then, just beyond Miss
Paletsky’s glossy chestnut hair, and seated on a low white couch by the window, she saw him—flanked by female admirers. They
tugged at his pink terry sleeve and demanded his attention, dissolving into
peals
of spastic laughter every time he opened his mouth. And even though he looked slightly bored (his admirers were, after all,
six years old), Charlotte had to admit.

She was beside herself with jealousy.

“I’ll be right back.” She excused herself from Miss Paletsky, rising in a stupor from the lacquered pink bench. Her heart
pounding, she pushed through the crowd without speaking. She didn’t need words; sensing her urgency, people simply parted,
watching her with amused, unsympathetic eyes
.
When, at last, she spotted Jules, he was exactly where she left him. He’d set her champagne flute on the mantel by a candle
and was running his hand through the flame with unflagging, childlike interest. The flickering light imbued his face in gold.