Massie (7 page)

THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

SITTING ROOM

Wednesday, June 17
1:51 P.M.

Massie collapsed onto the navy-and-cream Italian silk sofa in the Blocks’ guests-only living room. She slipped off her Tory Burch flats and twirled her platinum necklace around her index finger until her finger looked white and strangled. “This must be how Isabella Rossellini felt when she got dumped by Lancôme.”

Bean took a running leap and landed on the matching ottoman. She nudged the latest copy of
Vogue
toward Massie with her wet nose.

“No, thanks.” Massie turned away. Not even seven hundred pages of bored and hungry models could cheer her up. Bean whimpered and collapsed in a ball on top of
US Weekly
, covering Rumer Willis’s ample head.

Just two days ago, Massie’s future had been bright. Bright purple, to be exact. She’d imagined leading the Pretty Committee into every three-star Michelin-rated restaurant in Manhattan, with the latest impossible-to-get bag by MJ, Prada, or Gucci slung over her tanned shoulder. One flash of her purple streak and the hostess would instantly show Massie to the best table, even if it meant asking some It chick to leave. Now things looked very different.

“Massie Block!”

Bean sprang off the guests-only ottoman at the sound of Kendra’s voice echoing through the foyer.

“I’m in here!” Massie stood and quickly smoothed the crater in the down pillow before it ratted her out for sitting on it.

Kendra pushed open the French doors and
click-clack
ed across the hardwood floors. She stopped in front of Massie and placed both hands on the waist of her camel Escada Sport stretch pants. A rose-colored Bottega Veneta tote dangled from one wrist, a Bliss Spa bag from the other. She looked like a mannequin in the window at Saks.

“What is it?” Massie sighed. Bean cowered behind her legs, peeking out every few seconds.

“I just spent the afternoon with Trini Neufeld,” Kendra said angrily, as if there was a bigger point to the story than just that. “And it seems as though—” She paused and tilted her head to the right, sensing the slight dent in one of the couch pillows. “Massie, what in the world possessed you to transform Ellie Neufeld into a Paris Hilton and then
charge
her for it?”

“Whadaya mean?” Massie asked innocently. She slid her Tory Burch flats back onto her Be Smooth–moisturized feet, preparing to make a run for it.

“That’s not going to work this time.” Kendra glowered at her. “Trini Neufeld is absolutely furious, and after the incident at the club—”

“What happened?”

“Trini was mingling at brunch this morning when Ellie, along with five of her little friends, sauntered by wearing Trini’s stilettos, gray eye shadow, and red lipstick, shouting, ‘Be brash,’ at everyone they passed.”

Lip stain,
Massie thought. Nawt
lipstick
.

“Why would you sell a ten-year-old girl three hundred dollars’ worth of makeup?”

“Have you
seen
her?”

“She’s
ten
!” Kendra shook her shopping bags in frustration.

But Massie didn’t defend herself. Not when her Visa was at stake. Instead, she dug her nails into her clammy palm and silently begged her mouth to stay out of it.

“Your job is to be a
makeup
artist, not a
con
artist.” Kendra squinted in disappointment. “Taking advantage of friends is completely unacceptable.”

Massie lowered her amber eyes, the way someone who felt bad would do. But how could she
really
feel bad when she’d saved Ellie from drowning in LBR quicksand? The girl obviously felt more confident or she wouldn’t have been
Be-ing Brash
at brunch.

Massie thought back to the afternoon of her one—and only—Be Pretty sale. Ellie had been a prematurely B-cupped caterpillar until Massie’s alpha instincts and good old-fashioned honesty turned her into a butterfly. And she’d done it without that corn-dog script from Be Pretty Cosmetics. In the words of Anastasia Brees, beauty
is
truth.

And then, for some reason, that phrase repeated itself over and over in her head, like the chorus of a song you just

can’t seem to shake.
Beauty
is
truth. . . . Beauty
is
truth. . . . Beauty
is
truth. . . .

Ehmagawd! Beauty is truth!

It was so obvious. All she had to do was tell her clients how sincerely ugly they were and they’d load up on product. Just like Ellie had. And then the silver card and the purple streak would both be hers.

Done, done, and done.

KEARNS ESTATE

FOSTER CROSSING

Thursday, June 18
10:22 A.M.

This time, when Frizzy Lindsey opened the smoky glass doors, Massie was ready.

“One question. Do you want to hang ten or
be
a ten?” She pushed past the surfer girl and marched straight into the stark-white, kitschy plastic furniture–filled home.

“Huh?” Lindsey dried her hay-hair with a bleach-spotted green towel.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Massie gripped her purple makeup caddy with both hands and rocked back and forth on the heels of her red Prada wedge sandals.

Lindsey pointed down a blue-lighted corridor. Extra-long aquariums filled with exotic fish had been built into the stucco walls, reflecting rippling water onto the ceiling.

“Great. Let’s go.” Massie led the way, trying not to make eye contact with a creepy pink squid that followed her down the length of the hallway.

Barefoot, Lindsey follow-chased her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Massie stopped in front of a tank filled with bumpy starfish.

“The same thing a clean mirror and some natural light would do if you let them.”

“And what’s
that
?” Lindsey pushed the sleeves of her light blue GOT SURF baby tee over her peeling shoulders. She rubbed off a layer of skin and released it, letting it drift to the espresso-stained floor.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what I see.”

Massie let herself into what she assumed was Lindsey’s bedroom. Glossy posters of surfers charging cobalt blue waves covered every inch of wall space. Her canopy bed frame was built from shellacked wooden longboards, and strings of brown-and-white pukka shells surrounded it like a curtain. It was to the rest of the sleek, modern house as Lindsey’s hair would be at a Pantene convention —frighteningly out of place.

Massie set her caddy down on a pink corduroy beanbag and slumped below the porthole-shaped window. She triple-tapped it, inviting Lindsey to cross the room and join her.

When she did, Massie circled her twice, making mental notes.

“What?”
Lindsey released her green towel to a Mexican blanket turned rug.

“The ocean has given you a major case of high-and-dry.”

“What’s that?” Lindsey sat. The beans rustled and sank under her fit body.

“Surfing has toned you. Your butt is nice and
high
. But everything above it is d-r-y.” Massie handed Lindsey the purple Be Reflective mirror and eyed her blue-and-black board shorts with contempt. “I’m sure I speak for everyone on Long Island when I say I’d like to see less coverage on the bottom and
ah
lot more on top. Starting with your face.”

“Seriously?” Lindsey touched her scaly cheek like some post-op patient who’d just removed the bandages. “Is that why I’m always itchy?”

“And blotchy and uneven and often called Lizard Kearns behind your back? Yes.”

Lindsey stood. “What should I do?”

“For starters, how about a pair of bikini bottoms.”

Massie pulled several purple boxes from her caddy. One by one, she laid them out on a low bamboo magazine table. “When you start wearing bikinis, everyone will realize you’re a girl. And if you
look
like a girl, you should
feel
like a girl, right?”

Lindsey blinked her bloodshot eyes in agreement.

“So allow me to introduce Be Supple all-over body whip, Be Flawless foundation, and Be Silky conditioner. Oh, and let’s not forget Be Slick hot-oil treatment, which you need to apply to your scalp aysap.” Massie held up her hand and rubbed her fingers against her thumb. “Your hair is seriously sucking the moisture of this room. You should consider a humidifier until the conditioner kicks in. I’m finding it hard to breathe.”

“But I was planning on surfing later.” Lindsey scratched her sunburned forehead.

“Were you also planning on filing your nails with your lips? Because they are about as smooth as an emery board.”

“Wait! I know what you’re doing,” Lindsey narrowed her already-narrow green eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel bad about myself so I’ll buy your stuff.”

“No, I’m trying to make you feel bad about yourself so you stop looking
bad
. You are under absolutely no obligation to buy.” Massie handed her a tube of Be Slick. “Just try it. Wet your hair, rub it in, and rinse it out after five minutes. I’ll take it from there.”

Lindsey lifted her green towel off the floor and padded off to the bathroom. She returned shortly, with comb tracks in her blond hair and a smile. “Not a single tangle!”

“I told you.” Massie beamed. It felt good to put herself aside for a minute to help the less fortunate. Finally, she understood her mother’s addiction to charity parties.

“What else can you do?” Lindsey love-patted her wet hair.

“Hmmmm . . .” Massie folded her arms across her mother’s vintage red-and-orange Pucci shift dress. “I assume you like the natural look, so I’d like to keep it simple. Tinted moisturizer for extreme flakiness, cheek stain, under-eye cream, lid concealer, a palate of neutral shadows, blue eyeliner to reduce redness, brown waterproof mascara, cheekbone highlighter, lip exfoliator, lip quencher, lip gloss, brow remover, brow rebuilder, and rose-scented face mist to counteract the fishy smell of the ocean.”

“Do you have anything to make my lips look fuller?”

“How full? Garner full or Johansson full?”

“Johansson.”

“How much time do you have?” Massie raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Well, since I’m not surfing today . . .” Lindsey peeked at her hula-girl wall clock. “Until bedtime.”

A few hours later, Massie could hardly recognize the girl in front of her. Lindsey’s sparkling green eyes shimmered. Her skin glowed in all the right places and, with the help of various blushes and brushes, her cheekbones had emerged from hiding. The wild frizz had been tamed into glossy blond tendrils that bounced just above her shoulders and framed her now-pretty face.

“Can I look?” Lindsey squirmed under Massie’s translucent powder brush.

“Almost.” She gave Lindsey’s nose a final tap.

“Now?” Lindsey bobbed up and down on the beanbag.

“Now.” Massie handed off the Be Reflective mirror with pride. “You look so good for you.”

Lindsey gasped. “How can ever I repay you?”

“Visa works.” Massie grinned.

THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

THE BACK LAWN

Sunday, June 21
10:17 A.M.

Word spread quickly after Massie rehabilitated Lindsey’s face with her unique “Truth Is Beauty” philosophy. For the last three days, Massie had been pounding the pavement like a pair of clunky Ecco clogs, giving free physical evaluations, drying tears, and selling thousands of dollars’ worth of Be Pretty Cosmetics.

Encouraging “congratulations” and “keep up the good work” e-mails from the company flooded Massie’s inbox. And promises that she was on Anastasia’s radar fueled her drive. But purple streak aside, the last seventy-two hours were starting to take their toll. Dark circles had formed on the tender tissue beneath her eyes, and her hair was losing its luster. Her lips were dry from hours of fake smiling, and her tweezing hand was starting to cramp. It was time to fast-track her sales, cash out, and retire early.

Her solution had been to invite every girl between the ages of twelve and sixteen—with authorization to sign her parents’ Visa—to a Be Made Over party. And all thirty-eight of them had showed.

They mingled on the elegant lawn, drinking antioxidant-rich Bossa Nova açai drinks and nibbling on sushi-grade salmon rolls packed with skin-beautifying Omega 3s. Waiters in purple lab coats offered complimentary straw hats to keep the sun from burning the girls’ product-free faces. Star-shaped Be a Star mirrors hung off the branches of the big oak. Five lavender satin–covered tables were packed with products that had been overnighted from the SoHo office. But no one dared purchase a thing until she had her free consultation with the hostess.

Massie, feeling confident in a lime green silk Marc Jacobs dress and silver woven Tory Burch wedges, sat in the leather wing chair in the center of the lawn. All the guests were wearing Be Pretty name tags that spelled out their names in purple glitter. Except Massie. Everyone already knew who she was.

She applied a final coat of Be Nude peach gloss—her Piña Colada Glossip Girl was safely hidden away until the customers cleared out—lifted her legs onto the matching ottoman, and crossed her ankles. It was time. “Line up, ladies!”

Instantly, the girls raced over and arranged themselves single file as if visiting Santa at the mall.

“Welcome to the Be Made Over party.” Massie smiled humbly while everyone applauded. “One by one, you will approach the chair so I can analyze your face. I will give you instant feedback and tell you what products to buy. Everything you need to look
Be
-yoo-tiful is on one of those tables behind me. Grab what you need, and Isaac will check you out.”

The driver, decked out in a purple lab coat and dark Versace sunglasses, smirk-waved from behind a white Mac PowerBook.

“Let me remind you, this is not for the thin-skinned.” Massie took off her white MJ push-lock sunglasses and replaced them with a pair of sophisticated antique silver Chanel frames from her mother’s vintage closet. The prescription-free lenses gave the illusion that she could detect all flaws, no matter how tiny. “Prepare yourselves,” she said to the eager faces staring back at her. “I am going to be brutally honest, because truth
is
beauty. So if you’re not ready to hear what I see, help yourself to a complimentary sample packet and go home to your mommy. No hard feelings.”

Girls began biting their brittle nails, twirling their dry hair, and lowering their undefined eyes. But no one left.

“Okay, is everyone ready?”

Just then, a low-flying helicopter circled overhead, kicking up a wind that blew the tree mirrors and made them clang like a stack of bangles. The girls gazed up at the blue sky and clutched their straw hats. The helicopter swooped toward the ocean, and the girls shrugged off the interruption. It was probably just the Seinfelds.

“Let’s get started,” Massie said to the first girl in line, and checked the name tag stuck to her multicolored polka dot –infested tank. It said BE MARIN. “Hi, Marin.” She removed her legs from the ottoman, inviting the girl to sit.

“Hi.” Marin blushed. “Thank you so much for—”

Massie lifted her palm. “I need total concentration,” she insisted as she leaned forward and analyzed the strawberry-hued thirteen-year-old. The girls were silent, probably anxious to know if the rumors about Massie’s tough-love sales technique were true.

“I feel a little nauseous.” Massie covered her mouth and leaned back in the white leather chair.

Marin offered a sip of her of Bossa Nova.

“Drinking won’t help.” Massie quickly recovered. “But a good foundation will.”

“Huh?” Marin crinkled her freckle-covered nose.

“I see dots on your face and dots on your shirt, and the whole thing together is making me dizzy. You need some Be Flawless to even out your complexion. You also suffer from a bad case of newborn-gerbil eyes. I recommend Be Bold mascara to bring out your lashes, unless of course you
want
to look like Richard Gere.” She scribbled something on her Claire Fontaine graph-paper pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to her first customer. “Enjoy your beauty. Next.”

Marin lowered her head and hurried over to the products table before anyone could tell if she was crying or not.

Be Cathie sat next, and in the interest of time, Massie got right down to business.

“Blackheads
and
whiteheads? Gawd, I am so sorry.”

Cathie cupped her swollen nose.

“It looks like someone threw salt and pepper at your face.” Massie handed her a sheet of paper. “Get Be Clear face wash and the entire Be Clear line. I’m talking exfoliator, toner, foundation, concealer, and blush. It’s noncomedogenic, so it won’t clog your pores. But before you use it, see Porsha for an extraction facial and Dr. Miller for a nose job. Their numbers are on the back. Enjoy your beauty. Next!”

A ghostly pale girl named Angelica sat down.

“Be Rosy and Be Bronze. Aysap.” Massie handed her a sheet of paper. “And check the family history for anemia. Your see-through skin tells me you’re low on iron. Eat a steak. Enjoy your beauty. Next!”

A girl covered in makeup hurried onto the ottoman. Her lids were heavy with green shadow, her brown eyes lined with blue, her cheeks caked with terra-cotta blush, and her lips stained cherry red.

Massie peeked at her name tag, then back up at her brought-to-you-by-Crayola face.

“Um, Noelle, did you get trapped in Sephora during an earthquake?”

Everyone in line giggled except Noelle, who simply shook her head no as she tooth-scraped the waxy color off her bottom lip.

“You need a complete make-
under,
” Massie insisted. “Go get four bottles of Be Clean makeup remover and then everything marked Be Natural. When I’m done here, I’ll be glad to show you how to apply it. Hurry! Before someone accuses you of binge-eating melted M&M’s. Enjoy your beauty. Next!”

“Hey there.” Kimmi Redmond smirked, her overly glitter-dusted face winking flecks of light at anyone who dared look at her head-on. “Enjoying your
job
?”

“It’s nawt a job—it’s a
jobby
,” Massie insisted, just as the helicopter returned. The low rumble of the whirling blades reverberated in her chest. “Probably an
US Weekly
photographer!” she shouted over the deafening noise.

The girls nodded in agreement as the helicopter circled the estate with undeniable interest. Hats and napkins blew across the pristine lawn. Massie noticed her parents standing on the back patio.

At first she assumed they were concerned by the high- flying intrusion, but she quickly changed her mind. They weren’t looking up at the sky or chasing after windswept debris— they were lovingly watching their daughter outperform any other Be Pretty Cosmetics sales rep in the company’s six-year history. And that was
almost
better than a limitless Visa and an all-access hair streak.

Almost
.

Finally, the helicopter tilted left, scattering iridescent flecks into the air. As quickly as it had come, it zipped away, leaving a purple sparkle–covered lawn in its wake.

Giggle-gasping, the girls shook out their hair and brushed off their outfits.

“Kimmi!” Massie said to her glitter-covered lap, “this is why you have to tone it down. One gust and we’re
all
living in a snow globe.”

“It wasn’t
me,
” Kimmi insisted, her blue eyes wide with innocence.

Massie glared at Kimmi, silently accusing her of lying. Until she realized . . . Kimmi abused gold, silver, and pink glitter.

Not purple.

Massie’s heart soared. Without another word she removed her fake-prescription glasses and lifted her eyes. The sky was empty and silent. But if her alpha instincts were right, it wouldn’t stay that way for long.