Privileged

by Zoey Dean

  I tried. Felt like an idiot. Lost my balance. “Oh, that’s attractive,” I groused.

  “Well, for one thing, you can’t look at your feet. Head up. Shoulders back. You own the world! Try again.”

  Head up. Shoulders back. I own the world. I walked the length of the kitchen again. It was only a marginal improvement.

  “The sexiest part of your body, darling, is right here.” Marco pointed to his head. “Remember that, and all else follows.”

  Over the next couple of days, as the decorating and setup kicked into high gear, I practiced walking across my room like a model. I felt like a grace-free donkey each and every time.

  The second clue that Laurel Limoges was not to be outdone was the not-so-small army of workers who descended on the property in the days before the event. Several tents were erected around the property. One for the catering service, one as a changing area for the fashion show, one that was air-conditioned and mosquito-netted in the event of a hot and humid night, and one to house the blind auction for charity.

  I wandered through the blind-auction tent soon after it was set up. The array of merchandise could have stocked a Neiman Marcus. There were cases of wine, fur coats, world cruises, perfect Tiffany diamond earrings, a walk-on role on Grey’s Anatomy . . . and that was just one aisle. As for the auction of the gowns we’d be wearing in the fashion show, there were mannequins at the ready with poster-sized framed photographs of the gowns propped against them. The minimum bid for each gown was five thousand dollars.

  Every contingency for the party had been covered. Temporary moorings had been sunk in the ocean so guests might arrive by boat. In an effort to deflect traffic, only a limited number of parking passes had been issued to the crème de la crème of Palm Beach society, plus the majority stockholder of a company that Laurel was considering acquiring. Otherwise, limousine shuttles would run from the Breakers, Mar-a-Lago, Bath & Tennis, the Colony Hotel, and the Ritz-Carlton. There was a helipad, and a LifeFlight chopper was on duty in case any octogenarian Palm Beacher found the flesh around the twins’ pool too much for his or her heart.

  The third clue that Laurel’s New Year’s Eve bash was the event of The Season was seeing it before my very eyes.

  I came downstairs at nine-fifteen, and things were already rocking. The property was crowded with beautiful and famous and beautiful and not-so-famous revelers. I made my way down the pathways crowded with partyers, keeping a lookout for Will. We hadn’t spoken since I’d left him at the gallery. Maybe he wouldn’t even come. I did move aside for one person who stopped me in my tracks—the guy I thought of as the president walked past me with his daughter, preceded and trailed by Secret Service agents.

  And they say Democrats don’t come to Palm Beach.

  The fashion tent was already fairly crowded, though it was forty-five minutes before the models were due for hair and makeup. Scoop had covered the New York fashion scene extensively, so some of what I was seeing was familiar. There were steps leading up to the runway, its entrance masked by pink velvet curtains. To the left were the racks of gowns; a beefy woman in a security uniform stood over them. There were sixteen models in all—the twins and I were in group three. I noticed Faith Hill having false eyelashes glued on, Kate Bosworth under a hair dryer, and Julie Delpy talking away in soft French on her cell phone.

  I was modeling with them. Me. Megan Smith. Oh God.

  I sidled over to the clothes rack, smiled at the security guard—she didn’t smile back—and found my gowns. They were bigger than the others; I could tell even with them on their pink velvet hangers.

  Was I insane? Why had I been eating Marco’s risotto? What if the gowns didn’t fit anymore? I took the hanger from the rack and held the first of the two dresses up to myself as if I could somehow tell whether I could get into it and zip it by just looking at it.

  “If you’re wearing that, it’s going to look great on you.”

  I whirled at the sound of the voice. I knew that—

  Lily. She wore a shoulder-baring charcoal-silk column with her hair tied back in a simple and elegant ponytail. “Anna Sui.” She twirled for me. “Isn’t it to die for?”

  I flung myself into her arms. It was so good to see her. “Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “One of the models got the flu this morning, and they had to find someone with her exact measurements. They found me! I wanted to surprise you.” When she pulled out of my embrace, she took a good look at me. “God, Megan. You’re gorgeous.”

  The heat rushed to my face happily for once. “Really?”

  “Your hair, your face, that dress . . . you’re beautiful.”

  “I made a few changes,” I admitted. “And . . . I think I like it.”

  She grinned and took my hand. “Me, too. Come on, I want to introduce my baby sister to my friends—”

  I hung back. “Wait.”

  “What? You have to meet Drew; she’s such a riot, and—”

  “Lily,” I hissed, the reality of my sister’s arrival in Palm Beach dawning on me. “Listen to me.”

  “What?”

  I dropped my voice practically to a whisper. “The girls I tutor don’t know you’re my sister.”

  “Why not? That’s crazy.”

  Right. Even if I hadn’t told outright lies about who I was and where I came from, I definitely had used every misimpression to my advantage. Plus, I could not recall what, if anything, I had said about having a sister at all. I didn’t have time to fill Lily in, much less expect her to play along. People knew Lily. That was why she was here. If I said she was my sister, it was game over.

  I tried to explain it in a way that wouldn’t make her hate me. Which is so self-serving. But I was in too deep to dig my way out.

  “The twins have a lot of sister issues,” I explained. “I didn’t want to complicate things.”

  Lily rubbed her chin but finally nodded. “Oh, Megan, I think I get it.”

  “Not all of it. They think I grew up rich.” Okay, that one just came out. I wasn’t used to lying to my sister. Which is a good thing.

  I’d like to take this opportunity to say one more time that my sister is, and always has been, nice. If slightly condescending.

  “Okay, no problem, I’ll be Lily Langley all night. So how do we know each other, then?”

  I saw Sage and Suzanne enter the tent.

  Oh, no. I couldn’t even think straight.

  Lily must have registered the look of horror on my face, because she leaned in and grabbed my arm. “We both spent a summer studying French at the same girl’s school. In Switzerland.”

  “We what?” I looked at her, wide-eyed.

  “Megan, hi!” Suzanne called, then made a beeline for my sister. “Aren’t you Lily Langley? I was in New York over Thanksgiving with my parents, and we saw your play. You were so amazing.”

  “Thanks,” Lily said to her. “Who are you modeling tonight?”

  “Versace. She knows how to make the most of my assets. I already bid ten thousand for my first gown so that no one else will get it.”

  Sage tapped a finger against her pouty lower lip and looked from me to Lily and back to me again. “Okay, how weird is this? You two look kind of like each other. And you have the same name as her sister.”

  I laughed a little too heartily. Evidently, I had talked about a sister named—

  “Oh, sure, I met that Lily once. Megan’s probably already told you, but . . .” Lily leaned forward confidentially. “She is such a loser.”

  Choose the word that is most closely related to the following word:

  PINK

  (a)chartreuse

  (b)rouged nipples

  (c)blush

  (d)cerulean

  (e)M!ssundaztood

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Icould not feel my hands. Or my feet. Either I had just come down with a terrible circulatory disease, or I was so nervous about stepping onto the runway that I had simply lost all blood flow to my
extremities.

  I stood between the Baker twins backstage, where several big-screen monitors had been erected so that the models and show personnel could follow what was happening on the other side of the curtain. Right now the last of the plastic sheeting was being removed from the temporary catwalk.

  There were only two rows of chairs ringing the T-walk of the stage, for those guests whose age or status merited sitting. Everyone else stood, movie stars shoulder to shoulder with athletes, entertainers, and trust-fund kids. One special seat—large, regal, and pink—had been reserved for Laurel, and the crowd applauded as she took her place. She was dressed in a white satin evening shirt with a portrait collar and a long black chiffon skirt. As I watched her on the monitor, her shoulders and head held high, the queen of everything, I wondered if she ever thought of the poor Parisian girl she once was.

  All at once, the lights that had been set up around the property popped off, and spotlights hit the runway. Celestial instrumental music streamed from large speakers on either side of the stage. Two assistants opened the pink velvet curtains to reveal the first model. The crowd oohed and applauded when they saw who it was. Kate Bosworth began to strut down the catwalk.

  “Our first gown is modeled by actress Kate Bosworth. It was designed by Vera Wang,” said the voiceover. “The sheer silk chiffon has horizontal pin tucks across the chest and skirt and raw chiffon ruffled shoulder seams.”

  Kate stopped at the top of the T, one hand on her hip, then spun full circle and strutted back as if she’d been doing it all her life.

  The numbness reached my wrists and ankles. This was insane! I was a writer, an observer, dammit! What the hell was I doing in a fucking fashion show? Models were about as observed as you could get.

  “Our next gown was designed by Ralph Lauren, and it’s modeled by the new toast of New York theater, Miss Lily Langley.”

  My sister hit her mark as the curtains parted, and the crowd applauded even louder than they had for Kate in an apparent effort to prove that they were in the New York know. Lily floated gracefully down the catwalk. Piece of cake.

  One by one, names were called, and one by one, models paraded onto the catwalk. The ones who had just come offstage were hurriedly changed into their second gowns by a pit crew of assistants. The stage manager was waving three fingers over her head, which meant that all the models in group three had to get in line. That included the twins, Suzanne de Grouchy, Precious, and me.

  I really, really, really had to pee.

  “Next, the lovely young women of Palm Beach . . .”

  Rose eased over next to me. “Megan?”

  “Yeah?”

  As discreetly as she could, she pressed something into my right hand. I looked down . . . and felt that familiar flush work its way up my neck to my jaw. She’d given me a pair of panties. They were utilitarian and flesh-colored—the opposite of the pink mesh La Perlas I was wearing.

  “That gown is kind of sheer. Sage and I think it would be smart for you to wear these. You don’t want to draw attention to . . .”

  I got it—I most certainly didn’t want to draw attention to that particular uncoiffed part of myself. I whipped on those panties in record time and thanked her profusely.

  The pink curtains parted. Sage stepped forward, clearly in her element. Once she cleared the curtain, she thrust out a hip bone and threw one hand over her head as if to say: Hello, world! Here I am!

  “Modeling a Daniel Dennison for Chanel gown is the lovely Sage Baker. Sage’s gown is sheer lemon polka dot over aqua silk, shirred under the bust. The hem and bodice are raw-edged.”

  Sage came off to huge applause. Rose was next. After her would be Suzanne and then me. I saw Suzanne adjust the cleavage of her electric-pink Betsy Johnson creation.

  “I’m so nervous,” I whispered to her. “Any last-minute words of wisdom?”

  Suzanne smiled. “When you hit a pose, do it at a slight angle, and put one hand above your hip bone with your palm open. It’ll take ten pounds off.”

  Like that made me feel better.

  Rose finished, Suzanne stepped out, and I was next. Oh God. I felt a warm hand on my forearm. It was Lily, already dressed in her next gown of copper sequins. “Break a leg,” she whispered.

  Yeah, I know this is the way you’re supposed to wish someone luck before she goes onstage. But in my current state, I didn’t need the subliminal suggestion.

  Suzanne came back through the exit curtains and placed her open palm just above her hip bone, reminding me about the look-ten-pounds-thinner thing. Way to screw with my already nonexistent self-confidence.

  “And now please welcome someone new to our community, the lovely Megan Smith, in a gown by Daniel Dennison!”

  The curtains parted. Bright klieg lights hit my face; I hadn’t been prepared for that. They made it difficult to see the audience at first, but maybe that was a blessing. I didn’t even attempt the walk-a-tightrope-strut that everyone else had made look so effortless. Instead, I just tried not to lose my balance in my three-inch Manolo heels.

  It was only when I reached the T that I could see the people seated below. Laurel sat next to my favorite ex-president and his wife. All three of them smiled at me. Maybe models are supposed to look as if they’re floating in a sea of ennui, but seriously, how could I not smile back?

  I turned—there was only eighty-five feet between me and backstage, also known as survival. Then, just beyond the seated dignitaries to my left, I spotted Will. Unlike the other encouraging expressions in front of me, his was icy.

  That was all the distraction I needed. I felt my ankle start to turn, and I heard a gasp from the audience. It was sheer will that kept me from falling. It’s amazing what a great motivator fear of public humiliation can be.

  “Are you okay?” Rose asked as I wobbled through the curtain. Sage was beside her, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have said she looked concerned, too. They’d already been zipped into their second outfits—teal-blue silk chiffon with a fitted bodice and a full flouncy skirt. Sage’s was covered in sparkly skulls; Rose’s was adorned with hearts and butterflies.

  “I’m fine,” which was true, in that I was still mobile.

  A dresser carefully unzipped my gown while another set black velvet Laboutin open-toed pumps at my feet.

  Sage nudged me. “So it was fun, right?”

  “Actually, it was terrifying.”

  Sage sighed dramatically. “You cannot be a wuss your entire life, Megan. I mean, think about it. You just strutted your stuff with some of the most gorgeous and famous women in the world, including me.”

  That made me laugh. A short, squat dresser held my hand as I slipped into the new heels.

  “You know that bar in New York—what’s it called—where girls take off their bras and dance on the bar?” Sage asked.

  “Hogs and Heifers,” the dresser filled in. “I left my bra there once.” She moved off to help another model.

  “Right,” Sage agreed. “Well, see, even girls like her lose their inhibitions at that place.”

  “Is there a point here?” I asked as I smoothed the skirt of my gown.

  “Yeah.” Sage took me by the shoulders. “For the next ten minutes, stop worrying about whatever the hell it is you’re always worrying about, and go out there and be hot, you asshole! You’re a fucking supermodel now!”

  The assistant stage manager was motioning frantically for us to get in line for our second runway walk. Right before Sage and Rose went out onstage—they would model their similar gowns at the same time, per Daniel’s instructions—the music changed to Justin Timberlake.

  Rose and Sage made their entrance. I watched them strut to the music on the monitor, blowing kisses to the whooping audience at the end of the runway.

  Then it hit me: I could go out there and do what I always did—watch myself rather than be in the moment. Or I could go out there and enjoy it.

  The next thing I knew, I was out on the stage. The music was pulsing. I th
rew my shoulders back and thrust out my chest. I did the tightrope walk, one foot in front of the other, head held high. I threw my hair around as I did a turn, and let it brush over one eye sexily before I shook it off my face again.

  For the next thirty seconds, I was a fucking supermodel. I didn’t even look for Will. I was too busy seducing the entire audience with my fabulousness. And Sage was right; it was unbelievably, fantastically, once-in-a-lifetime fun.

  When I came off the stage, I felt euphoric. Rose threw her arms around me. “Oh my God, you were amazing!”

  I hugged her back. “I was, wasn’t I?” I cried gleefully.

  “Curtain call!” the stage manager shouted, making huge waving motions with his arms.

  All the models were hustled out onstage first; the designers followed. The audience stood and applauded. I was between Sage and Rose. We put our arms around one another’s waists and started an impromptu cancan as the audience cheered.

  “Remember, ladies and gentlemen, all these clothes can be viewed in the auction tent in twenty minutes. Happy New Year, everyone!”

  Backstage, I carefully handed my gown to a dresser, who would take it to the auction tent. Still on a high, I changed back into the pale pink tea-length dress I’d been wearing before. I, Megan Smith, had modeled with the rich, famous, and infamous and lived to tell the tale.

  Lily ran over to me. “How much fun was that?” she exclaimed happily.

  “I loved it!” I said, hugging her. “Let’s go have some more fun.”

  When we exited the tent, the first people I saw were the twins laughing with Will. His eyes met mine briefly, then went back to Sage and Rose. Well, I wasn’t going to let seeing him ruin my mood.

  “Who’s that with the Baker twins?” Lily asked, taking my arm.

  “Will Phillips. He lives next door.”

  “Hot,” Lily decided. “Right?”

  Ah, the irony.

  “He’s okay.”

  “Is he seeing anyone?” she asked.

  And the irony just kept on coming.