Poseur #3: Petty in Pink: A Trend Set Novel (17 page)

Man, every time he even
thought
those words, he got choked up. With shining eyes, he smiled at the closed bathroom door. Was there any finer music than the
sound of someone you love taking a shower? The squeak of the tap shutting off, the gargling drain, the shudder of the shower
door. The whisper of a towel, the creak of a cabinet, the secret clatters at the sink. For real, dawg…

At the same time, he wished he could strip them of privacy completely—broadcast quiet moments like this to the world. Maybe
then people would see the side of Vee
he
saw: the tender side, the
real
side, the side he saw the day they met, on the set of
Lord of the Blings
. It had been his first day back to work after his mother died. Pancreatic cancer. Diagnosed, and gone in three months. Needless
to say, the whole music-video thing had seemed a little pointless; that is, until Elijah, his director, trotted out a pack
of background dancers. There she was
—
towering over everyone else, violet-eyed, raven-haired, curvy as
duck—
and everything just snapped into focus. Hadn’t his mom always been on him to date Korean? Every time he had woman problems:
You no have problem with Korean girl! Korean girl take care of man!
Man, it was annoying. It wasn’t like he’d set out
not
to date Korean. Just hadn’t worked out that way. The
last
thing he wanted was to turn into one of those dudes who was always like, “Man, you ever been with a black chick? You ever
been with a Mexican chick? You ever been with a quarter-Portuguese quarter-Swedish half-Chinese chick?” Like they was trying
out ice-cream at 31 Flavors. Like they was ticking off boxes on a
list
.

Gave him the heebie-jeebies.

But then Momma Moon died, and he missed her tiny, junk-yard-dog-mean, disappointed-as-all-hell face so much he couldn’t breathe,
and—like he said—he looked up and
there she was,
standing by the wind machine, secret smile on her face, shining, wavy dark hair, like some kind of bootylicious Botticelli
bomb-shell, and he just
felt
his momma smiling, like a warm ray of sunshine closing round his neck, and he knew, he just
knew
: she was the one. And he was right. Not only was the woman
hot
, but she was fun and smart, exciting but
chill
—
and
she made him feel like the only brother in the room. Yeah, as he got to know her, she’d kind of revealed a high-
maintenance
side. And she and ’Lissa didn’t get along—that was distressin’. But, you know
—
that was just them learning to share
space
(not to mention
him
), and combine
that
stress with planning this off-the-hook engagement party? There was
bound
to be some tension. Once all the jangle passed and he and Vee sealed the deal at City Hall, the dust would settle and they’d
start getting along. They
had
to.

After all, they were the two lights of his life.

“Seedy, baby?”

At the sound of her beckoning voice, he padded his ratty Bugs Bunny slippers across the polished bamboo floor and pushed the
heavy oak bathroom door open. A whirling wall of lemon sugar-scented steam parted to reveal his six-foot-tall violet-eyed
queen. She stared into the mirror, raven hair swept into a pink towel turban thing, one long, long leg propped on the dark
gray marble sink, swirled her polished-red fingertips into a smallish tub of white cream, and dotted dollops on her thigh,
knee, calf, and ankle.

“Did you put this on?” she asked, referring to the delicate piano music wafting from the built-in shower speakers.

“Yeah.” Seedy grinned, watching her massage the dollops of cream into her perfect, tanned skin. “It’s that CD I asked Lena
to burn, remember? So I could learn to appreciate classical music…” He wrapped his arms around her waist and closed his eyes,
breathing in the steamy scent of her shoulders. “Like you.”

“Uh-huh,” Vivien shrugged, lowering her moisturized left leg to the polished slate floor. “Who’s Lena?”

“Who’s
Lena
?” Seedy laughed as she lifted her right leg to the sink. “The pianist we hired for the engagement party? Because you insisted
on classical music?”

“Oh, yeah.” Vivien giggled, dotting her bare leg with more dollops.

“What the heck
is
this dippity-doo?” Seedy grimaced, plunging his finger into the pot of cream.

“Seedy.”
Vivien’s jaw dropped in dismay. “That is Crème de la Mer!”

“Crème de la Nair?” he frowned, sniffing his finger. “What?”

Vivien grabbed his hand by the wrist and rubbed the cream off his finger and onto her face. “Do you even know how much this
stuff costs?”

“Okay, okay… ” Seedy chuckled. Hard to take her seriously with shiz on her face. She looked like some crazy crack-lady attempting
a Got Milk ad. “How much?”

Clutching the tub to her chest, Vivien narrowed her violet eyes. “One thousand three hundred and ninety dollars.”

The laughter died on Seedy’s lips. “Excuse me?”

“And worth every penny,” she breathed, massaging the cream into her face and neck.

“You think so, huh?” Seedy snatched the tub from her hand and dartingly escaped into the shower, quickly snapping the door
shut.

“Seedy!” His fiancée couldn’t help but laugh, smacking the corrugated glass.

“Better be made of pureed
dodo
droppings for that price,” his baritone voice echoed as he scrutinized the label. “Let’s see . . okay,
here
we go.”

Holding her breath, Vivien creaked open the shower door and lunged for the jar. “Ha-
ha
!” she cackled, taking possession. “You snooze, you lose!”

After a strained pause, Seedy cleared his throat. “You bet.”

“You
bet
?” Vivien repeated, mocking the vanilla phrase. And then, noticing the somber expression on his face: “You okay?”

“Yeah,”
he puckered his brow. “Just…” he winced his eyes shut, pushing a thumb and forefinger into the closed lids. “Got a sudden
headache, that’s all.”

“Well, lie down, would you?” Vivien admonished him, kissing him loudly on the cheek. “The last thing I need is you getting
sick on our big day.”

With a little salute, Seedy exited the bathroom, shuffling his shabby Bugs Bunny slippers toward the ebony platform bed. After
so much humidity, the bedroom air kind of chilled. He stretched out on the tautly tucked-in onyx satin coverlet, sank his
shaved head into the cool silk pearl gray pillow, and tilted his face toward the row of dark, double-pane windows. Half-moon
was still there, but he wasn’t smiling. Bed was still king-size, but he was no king. The first ingredient in Crème de la Mer?

Seaweed.

The Girl: Melissa Moon

The Getup: Sheer pink mesh Jewel babydoll chemise with ruffle-lace trim by Cosabella, black silk-satin and pink rhinestone
Not Tonight sleeping mask by Mary Green

Melissa was an early riser, but on Saturday mornings, in the name of beauty sleep, she forced herself to stay in bed
—
not waking until seven thirty, even eight a.m.

The morning of her father’s engagement party proved the exception.

All night, she replayed her disastrous phone call with Ted Pelligan in her head
—
the meeting had gone
perfect
, and it’s not like they’d all spoken since then, so then
what
? How in Brand’s name had they gone and messed this
up
? When finally, fretfully, she fell asleep, she
dreamed
about it. No answers there either. “Poseur is over,” the fashion tyrant intoned, and transitioned into cruel chant. “Poseur…
oveur… Poseur…
oveur
…” With a whimper, she wrenched awake, swiped away her pink-and-black satin sleeping mask, and whipped aside her sheets, burying
Emilio in a 400-thread-count avalanche. It could not have been later than five a.m. (but for patches of moonlight on the ceiling
and walls, darkness cloaked the room), and yet she couldn’t fathom going back to sleep. Quietly, she slipped out of bed. The
blanket mound quaked, and Emilio joined her, tumbling to the floor.
Had calling Miss Paletsky been a total exercise in futility?
Melissa squeezed her hands and began to pace. What on earth made her think a mousy high school teacher in pleated pants and
plastic pearls could
possibly
influence the founder of Los Angeles’s most fashion-forward store?

Unless the overwhelming scent of drugstore hairspray stunned the man into a state of submission, Miss Paletsky had no chance.

And what about her colleagues? When she called to share the disastrous news, she’d been considerably more pulled together
than she’d been with Miss P. “I’ll take care of it,” she told them breezily. “Just go on like everything’s normal and
don’t call me
. I’ll call you.” Ugh. How
confident
she’d sounded. How self-assured!

Melissa curled up on the floor just left of her gold-trimmed champagne princess desk and whimpered in despair.
Nothing left to do but pray,
she realized as her tan-and-white Pomeranian yawned, flopping into the warm crook behind her knees.
But pray for what?

“Please…,” she murmured, fluttering her worried eyes shut. “Just give Miss Paletsky the power to make Mr. Pelligan change
his mind.”

The Gent: Ted Pelligan

The Getup: White calf leather Parigi moccasins by Salvatore Ferragamo, watermelon pink-and-white-striped organic cotton long
johns pajama suit from Hanna Andersson

After a day and a half’s hesitation, Mr. Gideon Peck quietly suggested to Mr. Pelligan that he come up to the roof garden
to rest and relax, and Mr. Pelligan, quick to condemn his assistant’s “relentless,
shameless
harassment,” nevertheless obliged. He’d spent all of yesterday slumped behind his massive mahogany desk, stabbing his Pimm’s
Cup with a cucumber spear, and glowering into space;
something
had to be done.

Gideon tucked his superior into a white wicker wheeled chair and creakingly pushed him outside, refusing
—
despite Teddy’s protests—to leave him in the shade. “It might behoove you, sir,” he advised, unfolding a pair of green tortoiseshell
cat-eye sunglasses and fixing them to the seated man’s jowly pink face, “to get a little sun.”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Pelligan muttered, still clutching his Pimm’s on his blanket-covered lap. “Don’t you fret, Giddy. I’ll be on
my very best
behoovior
.”

With a concerned sigh, Mr. Peck headed for the ivy-draped exit, leaving Teddy to bitterly resign himself to the “loathsome
task” of communing with nature. On either side of the stylish tycoon, purple pansies trembled in their pots. Their delicacy
and nervousness annoyed him. He preferred the topiary—hardy little shrubs pruned into pretty, manageable shapes—or the miniature
Greek statues—steadfast tributes to beauty, youth, and physical perfection. Contrary to his earlier admonishments, he also
preferred the sun—how it warmed his cheek like a Marc Jacobs muff, how it sparkled inside his Pimm’s like a Bob Mackie Oscars
gown. He never realized it before, but, for a distant ball of burning gas, the sun had
impeccable
style.
Ah,
he mused, settling into his white wicker wheeled chair.
If only it were possible to take yonder Great Star under my wing. To mold that raw talent into something graspable, something
grand. Why, under my care, the sun could be fashion’s next big thing!

The idea tickled him, and he chuckled to himself, swirling the ice in his Pimm’s—but a moment later the feeling passed. The
sun had ducked behind a gathering of clouds, chilling the garden in its absence.
Of course
. The smile withered upon his exfoliated and moisturized lips.
As soon as you put your faith in people, pffft! They disappear.

Why should the sun be any different?

“Sir?”

“Yes, Giddy,” he murmured, not bothering to turn around. A quiet moment passed, and he felt the weight of his assistant’s
hand on the back of his chair.

“You have a visitor,” Mr. Peck informed him in a sympathetic tone.

“I’m afraid I’m like Zac Posen’s fall collection, Giddy.” He grimly stared ahead.
“Not meant to be seen.”

“A distraction might do you good,” his assistant insisted, wheeling him around. At the rooftop’s ivy-bordered door, a diminutive
brunette dressed in what could only be described as a poly-fester
nightmare
(among its atrocities, the shapeless rhubarb sack included a ruffled chiffon turtleneck, shoulder cutaways,
and
an asymmetrical hemline) offered him a tremulous smile.

“Why is she wearing that?” he whispered, tugging Gideon’s sleeve.

“She’s on her way to the Pink Party,” he replied flatly.
As if
that
made any sense!

“Ch’ello!” The nightmare moved her painted mouth. “I am Lena Paletsky, Special Studies adviser at Winston Prep.”

Noticing Teddy’s bewildered expression, the solemn assistant explained. “I believe she mentors the young ladies of Poseur,
sir.”