Poseur #4: All That Glitters Is Not Gucci (9 page)
The Nicarettes clutched each other, imperceptibly vibrating, and squealing at a frequency nobody—save bats and a few breeds
of dogs—could hear.
The Getup: About to get much better…
“I’d like to return this shirt, please?” Janie cleared her throat, holding the offending tank at arm’s distance like a dirty
Kleenex.
“Okay,” the Ted Pelligan salesgirl mumbled, plucking the silky green garment from Janie’s outstretched hand and shaking it
out. She was the same salesgirl as before, but her star-lashed amber eyes betrayed no sign of recognition, and so—instead
of complimenting her Afro, which twinkled today with glitter—Janie kept quiet, examining her nails.
She felt a little better already, just having that cursed green top out of her possession. ’Cause it was the exact same chlorine
green color as Evan’s eyes. Those eyes that had seemed so adoring that night by Melissa’s pool, that day in the projection
room; those eyes that had so
enraptured
her as they locked with hers.
God, how blind could one girl be!
Janie had actually thought Evan might like her, when all along, he was really just thinking about how
repulsive
it was to kiss her. Or maybe what Janie did with her mouth couldn’t even be
called
kissing. Maybe it was so gross that it didn’t even
classify
as kissing. But if Evan was so disgusted, why had he gazed at her like she was some kind of goddess? Oh God…
maybe that was just the way his face looked all the time! All milky and lovesick. Maybe that was the face he made no matter
what was happening, even when he was thoroughly repulsed. Like when he tasted spoiled milk. Or stepped in dog doo. Or kissed
somebody seriously repugnant.
Janie’s scuffed navy Samsung vibrated in the pocket of her Cheap Monday skinny jeans. It was Amelia. Pretty much the only
call she would answer right now.
“What a
jerk
!” Amelia erupted in greeting.
“Whatever,” mumbled Janie, picking at a frayed cuticle. “I mean… it’s not his fault I kiss like a, like a…”
“Stop!” ordered Amelia. “You do not kiss like that. And by the way, what straight dude talks to his sister about how some
chick kisses anyway? Seriously, Janie, that seems kind of gay to me. It sounds like he’s not attracted to girls, but since
he’s this manly surfer dude, he has to pretend he is, so to get out of having to be intimate, he makes up some weird lie about
the girl he’s dating and spreads it around to—”
“Spreads it around!” gasped Janie.
“Okay, scratch that part,” amended Amelia. “But seriously, Janie, he sounds gay to me. Didn’t you say his room was covered
in shells or something?”
“He’s not gay.”
“Then why does he spend all his free time paddling around on an eight-foot phallus?”
“
Melia
,” Janie pleaded, her lips forming something
vaguely resembling a smile for the first time all day.
“Seriously, Janie, screw Evan Beverwil. There are gonna be so many hot guys at the Troubadour on Friday, it’s gonna be obscene.
Like, it’s actually gonna be
disgusting
how many sexy, brooding, tattooed guys come out to this show. Older guys. Older
musician
guys. All you have to do is show up looking crazy-hot—which you always do anyway—and we will douche this douche nozzle out
of your system for good, alright? I will not permit you to get all sniffly over some dude who listens to
Bob Seger
!”
By now, Janie was full-on grinning. When it came to her particular brand of misery, Amelia was better than Prozac. “Can you
please consider a career as an inspirational speaker?” Janie begged. “Because you just made me feel approximately five hundred
percent better.”
Janie looked up from her ravaged cuticle to find that as her mood had skyrocketed, the salesgirl’s had nose-dived in equal
measure; she looked seriously miffed.
“Lemme call you back,” Janie said, and clicked the end button. “Sorry about that.”
“Yeah,” replied the salesgirl. “So, this tank you bought? It just went on sale, so you can’t return it. I can either give
you store credit or you can exchange it now.”
“I,” Janie announced, puffing up with a peculiar feeling of invincibility, “will exchange it now!”
The salesgirl looked at her like she was deranged, but
Janie didn’t care. She was royally hopped up from Amelia’s speech, and she was gonna find some ferocious new threads to wear
when she showed up to the Troubadour on Friday night and flirted with one of those brooding-tatted-musician guys Amelia was
talking about… or at least some ferocious new threads to wear while she gawked at them.
Janie spotted an amazing gold sequined minidress on the mannequin. It had a dainty layer of white chiffon at the hem and neckline,
and a racerback, Janie’s favorite cut. She located the dress on a nearby rack and eyed the relevant tags: designer (Gryphon),
size (S), price ($570). She put it back on the rack. With tax, a $570 dress would bring Janie perilously close to her $1,000
spending limit. Plus, she still needed shoes, not to mention accessories. Janie’s vision of her first, super-cool entrance
at the Troubadour did not include her usual Converse and gummy bracelets.
Janie’s cell vibrated in her purse. She figured it was Amelia again and fished it out. She figured wrong. It was a text message
from Evan.
@ BAJA FRESH
At Baja Fresh?
At Baja Fresh?
Great! Here, Janie had thought she would be able to reclaim some shred of her dignity by “forgetting” to meet Evan in the
projection room, and the guy hadn’t even shown! He probably assumed Janie was in that dank little windowless prison right
this instant, just twiddling her thumbs like some simpering loser. She
pictured Evan sitting at Baja Fresh eating a stupid quesadilla with his stupid mold green eyes and his stupid frog-shaped
toes, making stupid jokes to his stupid friends and imagining that she was actually stupid enough to be waiting for his stupid
ass in the projection room.
Ooh!
A slinky sleeveless silver dress with an awesome tiered skirt and zip-up back caught Janie’s eye. Relevant tags: “Doo.Ri”;
“Size 4.” Irrelevant tag: “$995.00.” In her first act of reckless abandon since conception, Janie pulled the grotesquely overpriced
garment off the rack and tossed it over her arm. And once she’d broken that seal, there was no going back. Janie raced through
the store, as ravenous and giddy as a binge eater in an overstocked pantry. She grabbed a caramel-colored leather jacket by
Mike & Chris, a slouchy lace blouse by Stella McCartney, a leopard-print skinny belt by YSL, an asymmetrical bandage dress
by Rodarte, a velvet bustier by Marc Jacobs… it was shopping porn, and Janie was seriously turned on. Every time she filled
her hungry hands with another helping of couture candy, the salesgirl whipped over and transferred her booty to a nearby fitting
room, leaving Janie to stock up anew. She was on fire. There were so many options!
Finally, Janie headed for the changing room, snatching up a pair of knee-high, black Christian Louboutin spiked-heel boots
on her way. They were so beautiful Janie wanted to cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she tore off her pill-ridden
vintage V-neck sweater, kicked off her Steve Madden gladiator sandals, wiggled out of her Cheap Monday skinny jeans, and started
trying on the most luxuriant garments that had ever touched her pale white skin.
Twenty minutes later, Janie marched out of the dressing room cradling a pile of leather and zippers and studs. The telltale
red soles of the Louboutins dangled beneath the mound of fabric.
“I’ll take these,” Janie announced, heaping her dream wardrobe onto the pristine white counter. Then she motioned to the ocean
blue velvet bustier she was wearing. “This top, I’d like to wear out.” Janie had left her nubby old V-neck sweater—along with
her nubby old self—back in the changing room, suffocating under a faux fur vest by Rebecca Taylor.
The salesgirl snipped the tag off Janie’s new favorite shirt and scanned the remaining items, folding each with origami-like
precision and wrapping them in tissue paper before dropping them into a Ted Pelligan bag; the large one this time, with the
stiff cardboard bottom and the braided rope handle.
“This skirt is bananas,” gushed the salesgirl, folding a tiny square of black cotton into an even tinier pellet. “We just
got it in.” Janie was silent.
“That will be $3,480,” beamed the salesgirl.
Whatevs.
Dogfish handed over the card.
The Getup: Gray twill vest and trousers by Penguin, lavender-and-white-striped button-down by Paul Smith, navy boat shoes
by Sperry, pink paisley ascot with matching pocket square, colorless mani/pedi
Wendy Farrish was… bemused. Sitting beside her, in one of the lushly upholstered green velvet chairs in Ted Pelligan’s Melrose
office, was Bud Beverwil, the ultimate multi-hyphenate. Not only was Bud an Academy Award–winning actor, but he also wrote,
directed, and produced. Plus, he just so happened to be an avid art collector, a triathlete, and the impossibly glamorous
husband of the impossibly glamorous, chlorine-eyed ex-model Georgina Malta-Beverwil.
Georgina Malta-Beverwil sat in a cushioned wicker chair at her husband’s side, fishing for something she never seemed to find
in her quilted Chanel tote.
What movie had Wendy seen her in back in the eighties…?
She couldn’t quite remember. And neither could anybody else. But that didn’t really matter, because for the last decade and
a half, Georgina had been playing her most famous role to date: Bud Beverwil’s wife.
Today, however, Georgina had come
to Ted Pelligan not as Bud Beverwil’s wife, but as Charlotte Beverwil’s mother. She was here, with Charlotte’s classmates’
parents, to talk to Ted Pelligan about the launch of her daughter’s latest little hobby.
So what was her plastic surgeon doing here?
Yes, Georgina was positive that was Dr. Greene hunched behind the antique maple highboy, tapping away on his BlackBerry Storm.
Dr. Greene’s wife, Heather, appeared to be as far from her husband as space permitted, leaning against the wall near the polished
wood door.
Heather had panic attacks sometimes, and standing near exits calmed her down; she liked knowing she could escape quickly,
should the need arise. But Heather didn’t think she’d have to make a break for it today. She’d popped half a Xanax on the
car ride over, and plus, Ted Pelligan: Melrose was her sanctuary. She spent at least two days a week shopping here. She actually
bought the lavender Juicy Couture sweatsuit she was wearing today at Teddy P’s. After the meeting, Heather planned to reward
herself with some lite shopping downstairs, followed by a Bloody Mary in Ted Pelligan’s shady outdoor café. There was no place
she felt more at home, including, tragically, her actual home. Heather pulled a turquoise elastic off her bony wrist, swept
her ash-blond hair into a high ponytail, and gazed amorously at Seedy Moon.
Now, that’s a man….
Seedy Moon was looking as dashing as ever, dark smooth skin contrasting handsomely with his white-on-white Adidas tracksuit.
The amber ceiling light glistened softly against his just-shaved head, and Seedy smiled a small peaceful smile,
like he had found some secret to joy that nobody else knew.
Dr. Robert Greene was not feeling quite so serene. “Hey, folks, how ’bout we get this show on the road, huh?”
That’s when a dreidel-shaped man with a pink paisley ascot popped out from behind the tall velvet curtain.
Wendy Farrish, who was sitting closest to the curtain, gasped in surprise. Georgina Beverwil clapped her manicured hands,
amused.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the jowly newcomer. “I am Ted Pelligan.” And with that, he wobbled over to the massive mahogany desk. With
his unplaceable British-ish accent, immaculate silver eyebrows, and vintage pocket watch, Mr. Pelligan seemed transported
from another time. But he looked perfectly at home in the aggressively antique office. In stark contrast to the spare modernity
of the store downstairs, Ted’s office—from the finely bound, never cracked first edition books that lined the ceiling-high
bookcases to the antique maps mounted on the eighteenth-century fleur-de-lis wallpaper-lined walls—was an absolute time warp.
“You must be Petra’s parents,” Ted intoned, eyeing the man with the Blackberry and the woman in purple terry pants. “Your
daughter is a rare and beautiful bird. You,” he told Bud and Georgina Beverwil, “must be Charlotte’s parents. Your daughter
reminds me of Audrey Hepburn, before I made her who she is today. And you!” he told Seedy Moon. “You must be Melissa’s father.
That girl has more fire than
a dragon with a vendetta.” Then Ted noticed the lady in the turquoise cat’s-eye glasses. “And you…” he began, crinkling his
freckled forehead so his long gray eyebrows met in the middle.
“Janie—Janie Farrish’s mother,” Wendy said.
“Yes, of course!” Ted replied, with a dramatic “silly-me” slap to his blotchy forehead. “Jamie’s a lovely swan. A lovely,
lovely swan, I tell you.”
