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All That Glitters Is Not Gucci

Page 10

by Compai


  The Moon guesthouse was so luxurious that Miss Paletsky feared she was dreaming, only she knew she could not be; for she did not possess the imaginative capacity to conceive of such gorgeous design, such plush fabrics, such glistening surfaces, such magnificent artwork, such complete and utter unfettered luxury…. So this really was the guesthouse?

  Miss Paletsky’s new home was a microcosm of the main house where she had once played piano for Seedy Moon. It boasted the same slate-tiled floors, imported from Africa, the same original Warhols, and the same impossibly spare modern glamour that characterized Moon Manor.

  She headed for the bedroom to put away her floral-print rolling suitcase, and there she espied the most lush, regal bed she had ever laid eyes on. The all-gold bed was so high that one had to mount a custom-carved wooden ladder to reach it. It was a bed for a king! And yet it was a bed for Miss Paletsky. She ran her delicate, pale hand over the Frette duvet cover, and pressed gently. Her hand sank into the most decadent feather bed money could buy. Miss Paletsky felt like Dorothy when she wandered into the field of poppies, eyelids heavy. If she climbed that hand-carved ladder, if she peeled back those 400-thread-count sheets, if she sank into that foot-deep feather bed, Miss Paletsky feared she might never get up again.

  Before she could even entertain the idea of entering that pristine bed, she needed to take a shower. Miss Paletsky located the bathroom, which wasn’t hard, since the bathroom in its entirety was visible from the bedroom through a wall of barely frosted glass. Even the toilet! Miss Paletsky couldn’t help but blush.

  She bid the king-size bed adieu—but only for now!—and headed for the shower. As she crossed the threshold into the bathroom, the temperature changed rapidly from the perfect 68 degrees of the bedroom to a carefully calibrated 75. More comfortable for undressing, which Miss Paletsky promptly did. She stripped off her casual-Friday ensemble—a stonewashed denim skirt, a purple turtleneck sweater, and “suntan” L’eggs—and dropped it into a deep bamboo hamper. She stepped into the doorless, curtainless shower and turned the lever, releasing a torrential downpour from two bowl-shaped showerheads.

  Using a watermelon-size sea sponge, Miss Paletsky lathered her body with one luxuriant product after another. The shampoos and conditioners and salt scrubs and soaps, all aptly named “Bliss,” scented the room with sour lemon, cleansing sage, warm vanilla, tangy blood orange, and spicy pepper. As Miss Paletsky scrubbed and scrubbed, it was as though all of her sad memories and toxic stresses were disappearing into the invisible drain beneath the cedar planks. Gone was her past with Yuri, her pending return to Russia, her unrequited love of Seedy. For the first time she could remember, as the warm clear water stroked her tired body like a baptism, Miss Paletsky wept from happiness.

  She turned off the shower, stepped through the cloud of fragrant steam, and reached for the cleanest, whitest, plushest Egyptian cotton towel she had ever seen. Wrapping herself in the giant bath sheet was like the hug Miss Paletsky had needed so badly since her tumultuous arrival in America. And then she saw, hanging on a pink silk hanger, an impossibly beautiful white cashmere bathrobe. Miss Paletsky touched the sleeve of the garment and recalled with astonishing clarity the only other time in her life she had felt such softness. As a young girl, her mother had once taken her to a pet store, and she had held a bunny rabbit so soft and white that she refused to put it down until her mother forced her to, making her cry as they left the store.

  Could she put this bunny rabbit robe on her body? Miss Paletsky was ecstatic at the thought. But no! She quickly realized it didn’t belong to her. Miss Paletsky turned to leave the room, but the mere thought of leaving the robe behind almost brought her to tears. She had no choice. She slipped the lush fabric off of the silky hanger and wrapped her orchard-scented skin in the luxurious garment, cinching the belt around her slender waist.

  Clean, revived, refreshed, and giddy, Miss Paletsky wandered through the guesthouse. Beneath a several-paneled painting of Marilyn Monroe, Miss Paletsky found a remote control the size of a paperback, with a series of buttons, switches, and lights as varied and complex as the controls on an airplane. She flipped one switch, and heard a humming sound above. A panel of the ceiling rolled away to reveal the ink-black, star-splattered sky. A gust of crisp night air rushed in, chilling her warm skin so the dainty hairs on her arms stood up. Miss Paletsky found the brightest star she could and closed her eyes, like she had so many nights before. But for once, she could think of nothing to wish for. And so she only whispered, “Spasiba.” Thank you.

  Miss Paletsky pressed another button, and a glass orb in the middle of the room filled with lush orange flames. Then she flipped a switch and heard the sound of a babbling brook. Was this sound coming from hidden speakers, or had Miss Paletsky just turned on an actual river? It was all so impossible that anything was possible! Another button caused a sixty-four-inch plasma screen to levitate out of the floor. But what use was there for television when life itself was such a fantasy?

  When Miss Paletsky wandered into the kitchen, the slate tiles felt warm against her clean bare feet. Was it possible that the floor was even heated? Miss Paletsky knelt and pressed her hands to the deep gray tiles. Her heart rose into her tiny palms. They were actually warm! Miss Paletsky felt so strange and silly and elated that she closed her eyes, laid her tiny chipmunk cheek against the heated floor, and laughed aloud. When she opened her eyes, she spied the edge of something shiny and black through the door, not unlike the water-slick river stones that bordered the shower. Curious, Miss Paletsky rose to inspect the next surprise. A shiny black sports car converted into furniture, maybe? A human-size bust of Seedy Moon, carved out of onyx perhaps?

  But once Miss Paletsky entered the room in question, she found something far more magnificent than a Lamborghini-turned-coffee table. She found a piano, and not just any piano: a Steinway grand. Whose was it? And would they mind if Miss Paletsky sat down on the glossy, smooth seat, just for a second? She didn’t even have to play it. She just wanted to sit on that seat. And what harm could that do?

  But once Miss Paletsky slid down the smooth, glistening bench, her hands seemed to lift the piano lid of their own volition, and soon enough, she was running her fingers over the gleaming white keys. And then, it was only a moment until…

  Ping!

  She pressed a single key. The note was perfectly pitched, beautifully clear; like an ivory elevator door in heaven sliding open. She couldn’t contain herself. As though possessed, Miss Paletsky pressed another key. Flawless. And another. Gorgeous! And before she knew what had hit her, Miss Paletsky was swaying amorously from side to side, her tiny hands dancing over the smooth white keys. She could have played forever. Miss Paletsky lost herself in the music and became so transported, in fact, that she did not even notice the gentle rap on the open front door. Or the way Seedy Moon crept inside and stood behind her while she stroked the keys. She did not notice, that is, until she did.

  “Oh!” Miss Paletsky called in fright.

  Seedy chuckled a low, steady laugh. “I’m sorry, Lena,” he said in that silky voice that was even smoother than the notes on the Steinway. (Seriously!) “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Miss Paletsky counted the humiliations:

  1. Seedy had caught her playing the piano without asking.

  2. Seedy had caught her wearing the bunny rabbit robe without asking.

  3. She was wearing a robe!

  “I just wanted to check up on you. Make sure you were settling into your new digs okay. How’s everything looking so far?”

  Miss Paletsky gazed into her stocky savior’s smiling eyes and forgot all about her gaping robe. “Everything is perfect,” she sighed. Then she remembered—and clutched it closed.

  “So, what were you playing?” Seedy asked.

  “Prokofiev.”

  “Huh. I’ve been struggling with the bridge for this new song I’m working on, and that tune you were playing kind of gave me an idea.” Seedy motioned toward the
empty space on the bench beside Miss Paletsky and inquired, always the gentleman, “Do you mind?”

  Do I mind? thought Miss Paletsky. Do I mind if traveled from class to class on a cloud of vodka vapors? But Miss Paletsky didn’t say that. Instead, she only shook her head no.

  Seedy smiled and slid onto the bench beside her. Miss Paletsky scooted over to give him space, but they were still close enough that they were almost touching. Then he reached his strong hands over the keys and began to play the opening bars of his latest tune. Miss Paletsky tried to focus on the music and not on the intoxicating closeness of this man, this tightly bound package of muscle wrapped in smooth dark skin whose mere proximity woke her up like a jolt of electricity. Breathe in, she reminded herself. And out. In… Out…

  “So, right here,” Seedy said, interrupting Miss Paletsky’s emotional combustions, “something like that Prokofiev thing. Not the first part, but the, ya know…” Seedy began to hum, and Miss Paletsky instantly recognized the melody he wanted. She nodded comprehension and played the bridge with her right hand.

  “That’s it!” he exclaimed. Miss Paletsky blushed, giddy like she’d won a prize. “Play it again,” he instructed, and Miss Paletsky’s fingers flew across the keys. While she played her part, Seedy closed his eyes and nodded, absorbing the tune. “Again,” he whispered when she reached the end, and Miss Paletsky played the bar again. Seedy, still nodding, reached for the keys and began to riff off of her, his low notes diving into her high ones and bringing them down to earth. When they reached the end of the tune, Seedy kept playing, improvising in low, sultry notes. Feeling brazen, Miss Paletsky chimed in with some high notes, and a slow steady smile crept across Seedy’s face while he continued to play. He led. She followed. He hung back. She took the reins. He followed her lead. Then, drunk on the moment, Miss Paletsky lurched into the low register just as Seedy reached for a high note. Their arms touched, the keys mashed—ching-ka-plunk!— and Miss Paletsky jumped back, embarrassed.

  But Seedy didn’t look embarrassed.

  “That was cool,” he nodded.

  “Yes,” agreed Miss Paletsky. “And the song you wrote is very beautiful. What is it called?”

  The song was called “What You Done.” It was the last installment in Seedy’s latest trilogy about Vivian’s betrayal: “What You Do,” “What You Did”, and “What You Done.” When he turned to answer her question, Lena was so close he could almost smell her. Like orange tree leaves and cinnamon. Wow. Like morning.

  “It’s called ‘What You…’” He trailed off. Miss Paletsky gazed into his eyes.

  “Yes?” she prompted. He inhaled. Cupcakes. Exhaled.

  “Uh… ‘What You…’ doin’ for dinner?”

  The Girl: Vivien Ho

  The Getup: Mourning garb: black Diane von Furstenberg feather-embellished Thane dress, black Wolford tights, Yves Saint Laurent Tribute platform sandals, oversize black-on-black Fendi shades, and the omnipresent Ho Bag

  The sushi platter was positively prismatic. A thick slab of ruby red tuna drooped over a warmish cube of sticky white rice, three hunks of yellowtail sashimi glistened like rose quartz, and a dainty ribbon of seaweed surrounded a pile of translucent yellow fish eggs, which glistened like just-cut amber. The thick blob of wasabi, of course, was the color of money.

  A wooden chopstick plunged toward the decadent spread and impaled a quivering baby octopus. It then lifted the briny morsel to a collagen-injected kisser, slathered needlessly with BlingFusion After Hours lip plumper. The grease-slick lips belonged to none other than Vivien Ho. Contrary to popular belief, Seedy Moon’s infamous ex was alive and well. Or she was alive at least; the jury was still out on the well part.

  Ever since the six-foot Korean stunner with the violet eyes (which she swore were not color contacts) and the yard-long stick-straight shiny black hair met rapper-cum- producer Seedy Moon on the set of his “Lord of the Blings” music video, the pair had been inseparable. Vivien was a backup dancer, but she managed to strategically place herself to catch Seedy’s eye, and soon enough, she was engaged to the hip-hop heavy and living in his Bel Air palace, with everything she’d every wanted within snatching distance. She started her own handbag line—Ho Bag—which had already branched out into apparel, and her memoir, The Audacity of Ho, had just been released in paperback. A perfume—working name Just Ho — was in the sniffing stages, and her manager was shopping around a reality show about Vivien’s newlywed years with Seedy (although he didn’t know that yet). She’d had it all.

  And now it was all gone.

  Vivien masticated the baby octopus slowly, her violet eyes far away. Her shopping bags, however, remained close by. She had popped into Neiman Marcus on her way to Urasawa that evening for yet another dose of Rodeo Drive retail therapy, but no matter how many chinchilla shrugs she charged to her Visa black card, no matter how many jewel-encrusted Manolo Blahniks she acquired and then promptly forgot about, no matter how many size 8 Dior cocktail dresses she bought and then had her assistant sew in a size 4 tag, nothing could console her.

  Vivien missed Seedy Moon so bad it hurt.

  And now, just because she’d played an innocent little trick on his daughter, Melissa, Vivien was stuck alone at Urasawa, with nothing but a $250 platter of sushi to catch her tears. If she ever happened to shed any.

  But even though Vee lacked the ability to cry or otherwise express human emotion, she was still all torn up inside. Here’s how it all went down, as anybody who had visited a single gossip blog in the last week already knew: Vivien’s soon-to-be-stepdaughter Melissa couldn’t come up with a name for her fashion line (and how hard was that, really? Vivien Ho had thought up the ingenious name Ho Bag without outside assistance), and so Melissa and her little “colleagues” included a Name Our Label contest as part of their launch party. For reasons that continued to evade Vivien, over one hundred people showed for the bash. Each and every attendee scrawled a potential name on a clothing tag and dropped it into the huge clear globe that served as the centerpiece for the soiree. Later on, when nobody was around, Vivian snuck in and changed every last submission to the word “Poseur.”

  Melissa threw a fit when she cracked open the globe and discovered the stunt, and so Seedy set out to apprehend the saboteur. He hated to see his little girl upset. Vivien wasn’t worried though. She’d covered her tracks perfectly; or so she thought. Eventually, and against all odds, Seedy had managed to crack the code. His Koreatown private eye took on the case and found traces of sea kelp on every last tag reading Poseur. Sea kelp? Seedy thought his K-town wizard was losing his magic at first. Until he caught a glimpse of the ingredients in Vee’s lotion one day, that is. Numero uno: Seaweed. Seedy didn’t want to believe it, but in the end he had no choice; at the famed Pink Party, in front of everybody they knew and plenty of people they didn’t, he called off the engagement.

  First, Vivien attempted denial. But when that failed, she caved, confessed, and begged Seedy to see her side of the story. She explained that it had all been a misunderstanding, easily attributable to temporary insanity, brought on by an excess of acid in the system. You see, Vivien had been on the Master Cleanse Diet for two weeks when she sabotaged Little Miss Princess’s little contest, meaning she had subsisted for fourteen days on nothing more than lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and maple syrup. Sure, one could drop twenty pounds in two weeks from the acidic bevy, but one could also go mildly insane. It was a seriously serious diet with totally legit health risks, both physical and mental. So you see, Vivien had not been herself at all when she pulled that little prank on Lissa. She’d been a woman under the influence.

  As somebody who had never done the Master Cleanse, however, Seedy was tragically unsympathetic. He kept insisting that even if Vivien was temporarily insane from her diet, she still should have confessed to the sabotage after the fact.

  But how could Vivien confess after the incident when she had no recollection of the incident! Because along with temporary insanity, yet another (u
ndocumented) side effect of the Master Cleanse was amnesia!

  Vivien felt so sorry for herself she could cry. That is, if she could cry. Seedy would not listen to reason, and had insisted that Vivien had pulled the prank because she hated his daughter. His little princess. His Melissa. Which, of course, was ridiculous.

  Vivien stared unblinking at another baby octopus, trying to will herself to cry. She affixed her gaze to the small, spiny tentacles and her vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of burnt orange and cinnamon brown. When her sight refocused, however, eyes still dry, Vivien was horrified. The octopus had Melissa Moon’s face on its teeny-weeny brain head! And all eight tentacles were waving into the air, like “Talk to the hand, talk to the hand, aha-ha-ha-ha!”

  Vivien speared the tiny bulb like a medieval warrior.

  “Excuse me,” called a nasal voice. Vivien snapped her violet eyes to the left to find a thirty-something blonde with rock-hard double-D’s leaning toward her from a neighboring table. “You’re Vivien Ho, right?”

  It was Jocelyn Pill Brickman, studio mogul Bert Brickman’s ex-wife. Today, like so many days, the former Miss December and Playmate of the Year had spent the afternoon trolling the shops of Beverly Hills with her two besties-since- forevies: Pepper and Trish. The threesome was celebrating Jocelyn’s fabulous appearance on The View that morning to promote her new book, The Afterwife: You’re Divorced (Not Dead!), and so they’d eschewed their usual single glasses of cabernet and gone for the bottle. Thus, Jocelyn was pretty far gone by the time she leaned over to the six-foot-tall black-clad stunner.

  “Yeah, so?” Vivien replied. For once, she just wanted to blend in. In the days since the Pink Party, Vivien had been skewered by the media, and cast as some sort of evil nemesis to Seedy and his “poor unsuspecting daughter.” (Access Hollywood’s words, not hers.) In an attempt to repair her tarnished image, Vivien had even hired Lil’ Kim’s courtroom stylist, hence the seriously somber duds she was wearing today. Black, black, and more black. And not an inch of visible skin. To Vivien, any top did not allow her breasts to “breathe” was comparable to wearing a burka, but she had obeyed the stylist’s advice. There was nothing Vivien wouldn’t try right now.

 

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