Privileged (9 page)
“So this is what a cosmetics empire can buy, huh,” I marveled as we stopped in the gazebo to rest.
“Laurel was born poor, you know. She lived in a squalid coldwater flat in Paris. I’m sure you’ve read about it.”
“Actually, I haven’t.”
“She mixed her first shampoo in the hallway toilette and peddled it from salon to salon. She built Angel from nothing.” Marco motioned to the estate in front of us. “I quite admire that.”
“Do you think the twins have that same drive?” I asked. As if I didn’t know the answer:
Surely you jest.
“They’re wounded, you know.” He studied me a moment. “You’re very curious about them.”
“It’s just that I want to get to know them.” I felt a flicker of guilt. It didn’t last long. All I had to do was to picture Sage’s jeering face from the night before.
“That isn’t going to happen, my dear,” he said, not unkindly. “They are all about appearances. To them, you look like a ‘before’ photo in one of their magazines.”
I felt my face begin to flame, and I looked down. “I lost all my clothes . . . there was this fire in my apartment,” I mumbled.
He put a hand to his chest. “That wasn’t said to hurt your feelings, I assure you. Palm Beach can be a very superficial place, I’m afraid. To get along, one must fit in. To gain the twins’ confidence for your endeavor, they must believe you’re part of their world. Or at least look that way. You need to think of yourself as a living accessory.”
Being likened to a handbag did not make me feel bright and perky. “That’s ridiculous!” I laughed.
“Of course it is,” Marco agreed. “But you must understand: The rest of America is driven by money. Sage and Rose? Money is no object. So they are driven by appearances.”
“I am who I am,” I lamented, realizing the biblical allusion and not giving a damn. “And I look how I look.”
“Perhaps not. My VSO, Keith, is famous for turning Palm Beach’s wealthy sows’ ears into silk purses. Something for which they are quite willing to pay delightfully hefty sums that shall keep me in face-lifts until I’m gumming my food in a home. He’s Mr. Keith to those in the know.”
“What does he—Keith—do, exactly?” I asked Marco as he ran his hand along the gazebo’s white banister.
“Hair, makeup, wardrobe, everything, and anything.” Marco ticked off. “He’s booked a year in advance outside of the season, and two years in advance for the season.”
“The season is?”
“Dear God, child. Do you know
nothing
?”
I must have looked like the stranger in the strange land I was, because Marco took pity.
“The Season—capital T, capital S—runs from late November through the early spring. It’s when all the social balls are given, mostly for charity. The first event of The Season is tonight—the Red and White ball, darling. Everyone who’s anyone in Palm Beach does The Season, darling. And one cannot do The Season without looking The Season–worthy.”
I did a quick self-assessment. Un-The-Season-worthy clothes. Un-The-Season-worthy hair. Makeup? That was the biggest un-The-Season-worthy of them all, because it didn’t exist. Great. Palm Beach was heading into The Season, and no one was ever less prepared for it than I. Nor did I have the “delightfully hefty sum” I’d need to secure Mr. Keith’s services, even if he were available. I was destined to remain a “before” to the twins—I’d remain outside their circle and just out of reach of my story. So much for the inside scoop.
“Fifteen years ago, I was cooking in a diner in Point Pleasant, New Jersey, and wearing knockoff golf shirts from Wal-Mart.” Marco touched my arm gently. “How I got here is a story that I shall save for my scathing autobiography. Suffice to say that Keith helped me. Saved me, really.” He tapped a forefinger against his chin. “And now . . . he needs to save you.”
“But
how
? I really don’t have the money, and—”
Marco smiled. “There’s nothing Keith loves more than a good Cinderella story. And tonight will be your ball! Just think of me as your fairy gaymother!”
Choose the pair of words that most closely resembles the following analogy:
NATURAL BEAUTY : SOCIETY BALL
(a) intelligent : Paris Hilton
(b) unattractive : Brad Pitt
(c) earthy : Jennifer Lopez
(d) subtle : Anna Nicole Smith
(e) talented : Nicole Richie
I
think I’m going to barf.”
“Hang in there,” Keith urged, giving my knee a fraternal tap. “You look hot. The straight men will want you, the gay men will want beauty tips, and the women will want to scratch your eyes out. If that isn’t the stuff of fairy tales, I don’t know what is.”
We were stuck on South Ocean Boulevard, part of the long line of cars and limos approaching the pink walls and narrow stone archway of Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago resort. What the hell had ever made me think I could go to the first society ball of The Season and pass as one of them? I tried the deep breathing exercises that I vaguely recalled from the one and only hatha yoga class Charma had dragged me to. As soon as the instructor announced something called the upward-facing dog, I was out of there.
“Relax, Megan,” Keith instructed me. “Marco and I will have your back.”
It was more my front I was worried about. I was fully expecting some Palm Beach grand dame to take one look at me, point an accusing finger, and shout, “Impostor!” But I reminded myself that if Keith didn’t know how to make a girl pass, no one did. Keith Genteel—that was his real name, though here on the island, he was known as either Mr. Keith or
the
Mr. Keith, depending on how crucial he had been to one’s fashion rehabilitation—had grown up wealthy in a Charlotte suburb. But his mother had signed an onerous prenup that made money tight postnup, though she did get to keep the family manse. When other boys were playing sports or chasing girls, Keith was deconstructing and then reconstructing her gowns for each new social occasion so that it looked as if she had purchased something new and very expensive.
After four years at FIT in New York, he’d moved to L.A., where he’d become the most sought-after costume, hair, and makeup person in Hollywood—a bona fide triple threat who was the go-to guy for every major movie studio and director in town. When a well-known French actress had offered him an obscene amount of money and invited him to Palm Beach to prep her for the annual Red Cross ball, after which she’d merited a full page of photos in the
Palm Beach Daily News
—
The Shiny Sheet,
to those in the know—the legend of Mr. Keith had been born. In a town where appearance was everything, having style was a skill more valuable than the ability to perform open-heart surgery. I’d gotten most of this information from Marco, who’d been in a voluble mood when he’d driven me to his partner’s beachfront cottage at the south end of the island. The three of us had a quick cup of French-press coffee on a back deck that opened onto the beach, and then Marco left to return to Les Anges. Keith, who was dressed casually in khaki shorts, a white golf shirt, and leather flip-flops, looked me over carefully. He correctly guessed my shoe, dress, and, much to my chagrin, bra size, then uttered five fear-inspiring words:
The hair has to go.
“Bald is really not a good look for me,” I’d quipped nervously, but he was already leading me to a salon chair set up in what probably was once his den. He sat me down and spun me away from the mirror.
“It’s more fun if it’s a shock,” he explained.
Two hours later, he turned me back around. He was right. This was definitely fun. He’d cut three inches and layered bangs around my face, added butterscotch highlights, and blown it out.
“You look freshly fucked,” he decided, clearly happy with his work. “In the best possible way.”
If
freshly fucked
meant I looked as if God had blessed me with the world’s best hair, then I had to agree.
After a break for lunch—French bread, several types of cheese, sliced hothouse tomatoes, and duck confit—Keith started on my makeup. He ticked off the brands as if he’d invented them. Crème de la Mer moisturizer was followed by a variety of paints, powders, and creams from Angel (of course), Laura Mercier, Chantecaille, Paula Dorf, and NARS. I made mental notes.
The process took more than an hour. Again, Keith wouldn’t let me see until he was finished. I, a nonmakeup girl, expected the worst. Jack Sparrow in drag. So wrong. I looked . . . like me, only better. Cute. Make that
really
cute. My skin glowed, my eyes looked enormous, my eyelashes were Bambi-esque.
Sometime between my above-the-neck transformations, Keith must have made a few discreet phone calls, because people with garment bags began arriving during the final phase of my makeup transformation. Keith directed them all to the guest bedroom. When he led me inside, I saw what the visitors had left behind: a pale pink strapless cleavage-enhancing bra with matching silk panties. Five pairs of shoes nestled in their marked boxes. Jimmy Choos, Manolo, Gucci, and Stuart Weitzman. And a single fire-engine-red dress that Keith held up for me. “Zac Posen. No one else cuts like him.”
I frowned. “That will never fit.”
His only reply was a Cheshire-cat grin that revealed his dazzling white veneers. “Trust me.”
He was right. Which was why I was now in the passenger seat of his Rolls, wearing the exquisite lingerie, the black Gucci pumps, and a dress so beautiful, I felt it should be hanging in a museum rather than on me. It was strapless, with chiffon layers gathered at the waist. A cowl back exposed a red silk boned bodice so fitted, I’d needed power assistance to be zipped in. The fabric fell in graceful folds to just below my knees. Long gowns, Keith decreed, were much too stuffy this year. And besides, according to
the
Keith, I had great legs. Who was I to argue?
“Remember, Megan,” Keith began, “sip a single glass of wine or bubbly. That demonstrates breeding. But do not, under any circumstances, eat.”
I nodded. No need to ask why. If my diaphragm expanded by a centimeter, the gown’s rigid corset would not expand with it. Tomorrow’s
Shiny Sheet
headline would read: “Baker Tutor Boned to Death.”
“Okay, darling, we’re here. You have my cell?” Keith asked. “And Marco’s? For an emergency?”
I nodded, fearful to make any movement below my collarbone.
“Lip-gloss check,” Keith ordered as a valet opened my door. “Smile.” I did. “You’re good to go, princess.”
A white-gloved hand reached for mine. I swung my legs out, careful to keep them together, and managed a graceful departure from the Rolls. “Welcome to Mar-a-Lago.” The valet flashed a movie-star smile.
Keith came around the Rolls—he wore a black tuxedo and a ruby stud in his shirt, since the Red and White ball had asked that everyone wear one or both colors—and offered me his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”
“We shall,” I agreed. We stepped forward onto a path strewn with red and white rose petals.
Right before we reached the imposing doors, my eyes darted to Keith. He squeezed my hand. “You will fucking own the place.”
Many years earlier, Lily and I had rented
Pretty Woman
, which she loved and I despised. You, too, can be a hooker and end up living happily ever after. Lily said I was taking it too literally—it wasn’t supposed to be real life, and everyone knew it. Well,
of course
it wasn’t real life. In real life, Cinderella did not get transformed and then—
poof
—get to go to the ball.
Color me shocked when it happened to me.
There I stood, at the top of the grand stairway that led down to a massive ballroom of gilt and ivory, lit by what seemed like hundreds of ornate crystal chandeliers. It was wall-to-wall with some of the most beautiful and wealthiest people on the planet. They ranged in age from young to doddering. At the far end of the ballroom, on a raised stage, Valerie Romanoff’s Starlight Orchestra was playing “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”—I kid you not—and a few dozen couples were dancing. There were four bars and four different buffets, plus white-tuxedoed waiters passing around food and drink.
“Straight through the crowd to the middle, then turn to the bar to your left,” Keith instructed. As we started down the steps, I felt eyes swing in our direction.
Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip
, I told myself.
We hit the hardwood floor, where Keith escorted me through the throng of Palm Beach royalty. All around us, people whispered as we passed.
“Who is she?”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“That gown.”
“That hair.”
“I saw her in Torremolinos last spring!” And then Pembroke stepped in front of me, wearing a tux so well cut that it camouflaged his seven-month-pregnant middle. “Megan?” His eyes dropped to my cantilevered cleavage as if he were hoping the dress would somehow melt from the force of his heat vision. “
Damn.
”
“Thanks,” I said. “Pembroke Hutchison, Keith Genteel. Keith, Pembroke.”
Pembroke laughed. “I know Keith. He does my mother. Not literally, of course. So how do you know Keith, Megan?”
“She’s a friend of a friend.” Keith grinned devilishly, then kissed my cheek. “I’m going to find Marco. You’re fine?”
“More than,” I assured him. It was ridiculous, I know, but Pembroke’s
damn
had provided a wave of confidence.
As Keith moved off, Pembroke insisted on getting me an apple martini. He took my arm as we moved toward the bar. We didn’t get more than ten feet before I heard my name again.
“
Megan
?”
It was Sage, in a long crimson gown whose neckline was cut down to her diamond-stud-pierced navel.
“Oh, hi, Sage.” No shocker that her sister was right behind her, in a stunning halter-neck floor-length white gown. With her was diminutive Precious Baldridge, from my swimming-pool humiliation, wearing a spray-on tan and a lipstick-red silk dress cut low in the back. Sage gawked at me. So did Precious.
“What are you
doing
here?” Sage could barely get the words out.
“The same thing you’re doing: helping to raise money for NARSAD,” I replied.
