The Celebutantes (3 page)

“Hey!” Coco suddenly said. She bumped past Park and Lex, her head wobbling drunkenly. “I'd like to be sculpted. In fact, Elijah and I were talking about that before you guys interrupted us.” She hiccupped. “I mean, we were sort of discussing that. Or something like that. Or…” She glanced at her empty hands. “Hey, where's my drink?”

“It's gone, honey.” Lex took Coco's limp hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “Just bottled water for you from this point on. The last thing you want to do is puke on that dress.”

“Anyway,”
Madison said loudly, still fighting to salvage what was left of their introduction to Elijah Traymore, “I'm thrilled to hear that your fans have a new sculpture to look forward to. Can you give us a little hint about what inspired you?”

Elijah smiled—a gleaming, fake smile. “It's dedicated to my girlfriend—Tallula certainly has it coming to her.”

“Absolutely,” Madison answered. “Her paintings are just extraordinary. She must be your muse every minute of every day.”

“You could say that,” Elijah said. “Tallula's a unique person. I've known her for a few years and I can honestly say that she's more mysterious than anyone I've ever met. She's still upstairs getting ready. You'll meet her in just a few minutes.”

“I can't wait.” Madison gave her head another dramatic toss.

Elijah glanced at his watch. “I should go and give her a call. She's always late. It was a pleasure meeting all of you.” He dropped his steamy stare to Coco. “See you soon, I hope.”

“Thank you.” Madison touched his arm, hoping to distract him from her very drunk friend. “I'm looking so forward to seeing your piece, Elijah.”

“And I'm sure Elijah would love showing it to you,” Park said, managing to keep a straight face.

Madison's face flushed a vibrant shade of red.

Elijah Traymore turned and hurried out of the room.

“What a little creep,” Park said quietly. “The nerve of him, talking to us like that.”

“Totally,” Lex agreed. “At first I thought he was just coming on a little too strong, but if that was his way of introducing himself, I don't want to see what comes next.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree.” Madison gave the room a quick scan to make sure no one else could hear them. “After that introduction, I don't know what Tallula Kayson sees in him. How in the world did he manage to score her? He seems like the kind of guy who'll sleep with anything.”

“Thanks a lot!” Coco snapped.

“I didn't mean it like that,” Madison assured her. “I'm just saying that Elijah isn't the right guy for you.”

“He's cute,” Coco said. “And he's smart and funny and…a great artist. And we were getting along
fine
until you barged in on us.” She pointed down to her shoes. “And I even wore my Akiko Bergstroms. Five thousand dollars a pair, thank you very much.”

Madison made a sour face. “Please! As if he even noticed your feet. He practically jumped down Park's dress right in front of you. Not to mention the fact that he's very publicly involved in a very serious relationship. Did he mention that during your meet and greet?”

“Well…no.” Coco folded her arms over her chest and looked away. “But he
did
say that I have a nice body.” She hiccupped again. “And…I think he's smart and mature and very worldly.”

“That's just the alcohol talking,” Park said. “Sober, I can tell you that he's an immature twenty-two. And he likes himself too much. Trust me, Coco—I know his type. And besides, he's way too old.”

“But you said he's immature, right?” Coco quipped. The words should have sounded angry, but they came out slurred and thick, as if she were chewing a big wad of gum. She leaned against the bar as the last punch of vodka chugged through her blood. “That should even out the age difference, right?”

Not for the first time, Madison studied her best friend and felt a stab of pity. Coco had everything going for her—an adorable body, a beautiful face, a great personality—but she never recognized any of it. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a scrawny girl with a flat chest and big feet. The really hot guys never went for her. In the society pages, she was always photographed beside someone else. It was always
Hayden Panettiere with celebutante Coco McKaid, Emma Roberts with celebutante Coco McKaid, Princes William and Harry with celebutante Coco McKaid.
It was never just
Celebutante Coco McKaid in Zac Posen.
Even at St. Cecilia's Prep, Coco often found herself reminding classmates that
she
had just as much money as
they
did. The McKaid family owned the most successful wineries in the world, thank you very much. And so the result was a dangerously insecure sixteen-year-old who drank too much and gave herself over to the first guy who paid her enough attention.

Madison had tried talking sense into her on countless occasions. She'd sit her down and go through a list of things Coco had to be grateful for—her dress size, her flawless complexion, her parents' summer home on the French Riviera—but the confidence induced by these nuggets would only last a week or two. Before long, Coco would be back to her old self, searching for acceptance in all the wrong places.

Now, as the drunken spell took a tighter hold, Coco looked like a little girl who had just lost her bid for emerald earrings at a Cartier fund-raiser. Her lips curled into a frown. Her eyes grew watery. And, in the most unladylike of gestures, she grabbed a cloth napkin from the bar and blew her nose into it; the accompanying sound was reminiscent of a gunshot. “I shwear,” she slurred. “Elijah liked
me.
”

Madison felt the last hour's tension drain from her body. How could she go on worrying about this damn luncheon when her best friend was looking lower than the ratings on the CW? It was silly to put so much importance on matters that were ultimately trivial. Ambassadors for the arts. Yeah, she loved the sound of it. She loved being on the art world's A-list. But in the end, Madison knew she was too smart to let superficiality overshadow her compassion. And she was already on enough A-lists to really care too much about one more.

She threw an arm around Coco and said, “You're just feeling down because you drank too much. And you didn't know Elijah Traymore long enough to actually like him. He's a sleaze, and you deserve someone with way more class.”

“You also look way too good in that dress for a guy like Elijah,” Park chimed in. “He was dressed like a goth kid from the East Village. But not even in a cool way—in a stuck-in-the-nineties way. Your wardrobe completely outranks his.”

“And you're going to inherit seventy percent of the world's wine-producing grapes,” Lex added thoughtfully.

When the moments of commiserating were over, Coco looked up and nodded slowly. She blew her nose again. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “I guess you're right. Maybe…maybe I did have a little too much to drink. I'm just going to go fix myself up in the bathroom.”

“I'll come,” Madison said, genuinely wanting to accompany her friend in her time of need.

“No, it's okay.” Coco stood up rigidly, balancing herself on those expensive heels. “Besides, I think Mayor Mayer is looking for you guys.” She gave her friends a weary smile, then trotted, a little crookedly, out of the room.

Madison was about to follow her drunk friend, just to make sure she got where she was going in one piece. But when Madison turned around, she saw Mayor Mayer wave a hand at her, then indicate the podium at the very front of the room.

“Well, it's about time,” Lex complained. “How long does it take the geriatric community to get a show like this on the road?”

Park couldn't help laughing at the comment. Looking at Madison, she said, “That was nice of you—offering to go with Coco. She really shouldn't have gone alone.”

“I know.” Madison drew a compact out of her purse and checked her complexion. “Thank God we came when we did. That oversexed biker was probably trying to convince her to join him for a roll across the red carpet.”

“So what's the plan, Madison?” Lex asked. “Once we're called up to the podium, do we each have to give some sort of speech?”

“No, just me. Follow my lead and smile a lot. It'll be in the Style section of the
Times
for sure.”

Ten minutes later, as Mayor Mayer was introducing them to the eager, albeit ancient, crowd, Madison did a quick scan of the room. She had everyone's admiration and her place in the art world's high society. Then it hit her.

Coco hadn't returned from the bathroom.

3

Painting the Town

I
n penthouse four of the Waldorf-Astoria tower, twenty-two-year-old Tallula Kayson was readying herself for yet another public appearance. Her fourth in just as many days. She was exhausted. The frenzied publicity schedule had left her feeling less than adequate. Despite the crowd waiting for her downstairs in the Conrad Suite, despite the fact that her newest masterpiece would at last be unveiled to a rapt audience, she wanted nothing more than to grab a pillow and fall asleep. She always loved a party, but for some reason, this luncheon felt more like a chore.

It was early afternoon. Sunlight filtered into the bedroom in muted shades of red and blue, creating a stained-glass mosaic on the hardwood floors. The delicate colors accentuated the room's ornate furnishings: a canopied bed with silk cream-colored sheets, a plush duvet, and half a dozen striped pillows; a mahogany desk; and a gilt-framed mirror that hung over the fireplace mantel. Just off to the left was a small nook occupied by an oversized chair. It was Tallula's favorite piece in the room. Trimmed in red and gold fringe, an exquisite patterned throw draped across one arm, the chair resembled something out of King Arthur's court. She had reclined on it several times since checking into the Waldorf four days ago. For some reason or other, it seemed to give her inspiration. When she rested her head against the soft upper pillow and closed her eyes, she imagined a blank canvas, big and square and empty. Then she imagined her hand guiding the paintbrush as she made the first delicate stroke on that field of whiteness. Soon, an image formed before her. Vivid blues and greens and yellows. The kind of painting that had made Tallula famous virtually overnight.

But there was no time now to relax in the wonderful and stately chair. The clock was ticking, and she had a packed day ahead of her.

Crossing the bedroom to the walk-in closet, Tallula ran a hand through her mane of blond curls. Her hair was still damp from the hasty shower she had taken twenty minutes ago. In fact, she hadn't even completely dried off underneath the terry cloth robe. The air-conditioning was too low. Sighing loudly—loudly enough that her assistant, Ina, would hear—Tallula quickly began toweling herself dry.

“Tallula? Is something wrong?”

Tallula smiled as she studied her assistant, who had appeared on the threshold.

Ina Debrovitch was petite and pretty with delicate features. She was twenty-four but still looked like a teenager. Her red hair tumbled past her shoulders in curls. Her milk white skin was smooth and unblemished, save for the remarkable star-shaped birthmark on her chin. She had been born and raised in Romania, then immigrated to the United States at nineteen. She had worked first as Tallula's housekeeper, but a quick eye and a sharp mind had earned her the assistant position. Ina was organized. She was discreet. She had good fashion sense. What was more, she had learned to decipher Tallula's moods and didn't ask insignificant questions. Wherever Tallula went, Ina went. It was Ina's responsibility to run just about every facet of Tallula's life, and she had done an excellent job of that so far.

You wouldn't have known Ina was handicapped unless you listened to her very closely; then, you might notice the way she slurred certain words, as hearing-impaired people often do. The word
what
often came out sounding like
whaah,
but overall, she had mastered the art of lipreading. She was never without her trusty hearing aid, and when she removed it before showering or going to sleep, she made certain to say so, because neither Tallula nor Elijah liked feeling as though they were being ignored.

“It's very stuffy in here,” Tallula said. “You know how I hate the heat—it makes me feel icky. Would you be a kitten and fix that?”

“I'll see that it gets cooler,” Ina replied. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize the air-conditioning wasn't turned up as high as you like it.”

“I already feel out of sorts because of it.” Tallula sighed again. “Anyway, I don't know what to wear, and I assume these Society of the Americas people will talk if I don't meet their approval.” The thought annoyed her. She had never looked for anyone's approval when it came to her fashion tastes. She had a wild sense of style, and on more than one occasion she'd appeared in public wearing completely over-the-top outfits: torn and tattered dresses with paint-splattered cowboy boots; skirts with mismatched blouses; men's oversized suits that made her look ten pounds thinner. At a gallery opening in Santa Barbara last month, she had showed up in a black dress to which she had sloppily pinned several brightly colored bows. At an event before that, she'd worn a huge pink velvet top hat that made her look like a character from a Dr. Seuss book. Once, at a private gala at the Guggenheim, she'd dressed in a gold kimono and slipped a paintbrush through her hair. She hadn't paid attention to what the tabloids said about her. She hadn't given mind to the shocked stares either. She was an artist, and sometimes she felt the need to express herself beyond the canvas. And besides, her outfits always got attention, and Tallula liked attention.

“The society is very conservative,” Ina said, having done her research. “Mostly older people. I think you should probably wear something professional, maybe a little understated.”

“Oh, how fun.”

Ina frowned. She put down the small notepad she'd been holding. “Should I look through your closet?”

“Yes. And let's do it quickly. I'm so tired. I swear, if I sit down on that bed, I'll fall asleep.”

“We don't want that to happen,” Ina said gravely. “Everyone is waiting to see your newest painting. Lots of press downstairs.”

“Anyone interesting?” Tallula asked.

Ina was standing in the closet, shuffling through the few outfits she had packed for her boss. “Well, editors from
Vogue
and
Cosmo
will be present. The
New York Times
will be covering the event for the Sunday Styles section. Oh, yes—and the Hamilton triplets are here. They'll be introducing you and unveiling the painting.”

Tallula perked right up and smiled. “Really? Ha! That's great! I didn't know I'd be meeting the Hamiltons today.” But the smile faded quickly from her lips and was replaced by a look of worry. “Ina, why didn't you tell me they were coming? I would have asked you to buy me a few Triple Threat pieces. You
know
how I like to be prepared, and those girls practically eat and breathe fashion!”

Ina came scurrying out of the closet, a pensive expression on her face. “It's all on your itinerary. I left it on your desk at home weeks ago.”

“How often do I sit at that desk?” Tallula snapped. “When I'm going to be in the company of special guests, I
need
to know beforehand, Ina. You should have just told me in person.”

“But you were working in your studio—you've been in there for weeks,” Ina replied quietly. “And I'm not allowed into your studio. I'm sorry, Tallula. Truly, I am. It won't happen again.”

With a theatrical toss of her head, Tallula stared up at the ceiling. “As an artist, I have a tendency to lose myself in my work. Next time, just find me when I walk out of my studio.”

“I'll do that.” Ina cleared her throat. “But if it's any consolation, you're looking beautiful today, and I think I've found the perfect outfit.” She disappeared into the closet again, then came out holding a strapless vermilion silk dress; it was cool and summery, yet sophisticated. “Catherine Malandrino. One of your favorites.”

“But I don't have a tan,” Tallula remarked, studying the dress. “I'll look so pale in that.”

“You'll look beautiful. Here, at least try it on.” Ina laid the dress down on the bed.

Tallula threw off the last towel and stood naked before the mirror. She was pleased with her reflection. The past few days of stress had undoubtedly burned two or three pounds from her already thin frame, but she didn't mind that at all. Growing up, she had been told repeatedly that she'd inherited “the fat gene” from her father's side of the family, which meant the arrival of a huge butt and meaty thighs the day she turned thirty. She had every intention of fighting that dire prediction, so being underweight suited her just fine. Besides, thin always looked better in photographs. And lately, her life had become an encyclopedia of photographs. From New York and Los Angeles to Tokyo and Johannesburg, Tallula's face had appeared just about everywhere. She'd been invited to several movie premieres in Los Angeles and London, countless art shows in Paris and Vienna, and a number of universities all over the country. In the middle of all that, she'd granted hundreds of interviews and sat for countless photo shoots. It seemed as if everyone wanted a piece of her.

Tallula wasn't a recluse. She didn't seek seclusion from the world like most artists. She didn't feel the need to weave a web of silence around herself in order to create. Her house in the upscale suburb of Greenwich, Connecticut, was large and drafty and set back from the main road, but she had plenty of company. She had Elijah. She had Ina. She had a handful of friends who lived nearby and visited every so often—a small, select group of people from high school. In truth, Tallula didn't always enjoy seeing them because they inevitably reminded her of a time she wanted to forget. Her days at Alban Country Prep didn't comprise happy memories. She hadn't been beautiful then. She hadn't been popular or particularly confident. She certainly hadn't been famous. For the most part, she'd been the proverbial girl in the shadows, spending her free periods in the library and skipping out on extracurricular activities. Even art. She had wanted more than anything to join the school's highly regarded painting club; there, at least twice a week, she would have been able to relish in the one act that gave her complete bliss. But Tallula hadn't bothered asking her parents to sign the requisite admission form provided by the art department's chairperson. She'd known better than to ask.

All those hours painting things that may or may not be appropriate?
her father would have said sternly.
Why, when you can dedicate that time to more important subjects?
And of course, her mother would have agreed. End of story. It had happened like that nearly all her life. Strict parents. Harsh rules.

When she thought back on those tough years, Tallula was often overcome by a sense of amazement. She still didn't know how she'd managed to develop her artistic skills. She didn't know how she'd accomplished the feat of sneaking under her parents' radar. Climbing up to the attic in the middle of the night with a flashlight and a sketch pad would have earned her a punishment of some sort, but she'd done it anyway. Time and again, she'd done it. Crouched under the garret's slanted ceiling, drawing whatever came to mind. Pages and pages of sketches. Dozens of small canvases that she later hid under the floorboards in her bedroom closet. It was her escape, her therapy. In the mysterious act of creating, she lost and found herself completely. For a long time, she'd thought her art would be relegated to her own eyes—her parents would never have understood it, and she knew she couldn't risk showing her work to a single soul with all those household rules on her shoulders.

But then life took a dramatic and unexpected turn, and her entire universe changed.

Tallula was nineteen when her parents died, courtesy of a drunk driver who smashed into their car on a rainy stretch of Connecticut roadway. It had been a stormy August night. Tallula had stayed home, readying herself for the trip back to St. Stephen's College in Maine, where she was set to begin her second year as an undergrad. The phone call came just after eight p.m.

In a matter of hours, Tallula went from being the daughter of restrictive, overbearing parents to being alone. Scared. Cut off from the cloistered world she had always known. She inherited a house and money and a thousand memories she wanted to forget. She returned to college, but it became immediately apparent to her that she wouldn't be staying. Instead of going to class and paying attention to her assignments, she channeled all her energy into her art. One painting after another. Long nights spent perfecting her skills. She was mourning one loss and at the same time celebrating all she had found: freedom, confidence, friendships. There was no more hiding, no more worrying. She felt inordinately energized.

And it was that surge of self-esteem that ultimately led her to Elijah Traymore. Like her, he was a student at St. Stephen's College. Unlike her, however, Elijah had been raised in a liberal, highly educated family that encouraged artistic endeavors. He had a brooding and somewhat mysterious presence on campus. Everyone knew him as the Sculptor.
That guy with the black hair and painted black fingernails? He's strange. Spends all day in the woods with a bunch of clay and makes these statues that crowd his dorm room. He hates being here. He doesn't speak to anyone.
But he spoke to Tallula when she approached him one night in the cafeteria. The attraction between them had been instant and intense. Kismet. What followed was a whirlwind romance: days spent examining each other's unique works of art, nights spent in heated conversation. Tallula felt as though she'd found her true soul mate.

It was Elijah who encouraged Tallula to exhibit her paintings. She hadn't expected much from her first showing—a small rented space in SoHo and only ten small paintings with ambiguous titles—but it had impressed the right people. In fact, it had utterly stunned a number of high-powered art critics and collectors.
Who are you?
they asked her over and over.
How long have you been painting? Where did you study? Have you exhibited before?
Tallula had been flattered by their collective enthusiasm. And she'd answered them with a little speech, the same speech she used today when addressing the press.