Petty in Pink

by Compai

  “Got lost?” offered the dusky diva from her chair, pursing her voluptuous pout. The sylphlike blonde to her right elbowed her in the ribs.

  “More like distracted,” smiled the petite brunette, gritting her pearly teeth. (In fact, instead of waiting out the Crescent Heights stoplight, Charlotte had decided to cut across a parking lot, ran over an orange cone, and chucked off a piece of her car—a detail she was not about to divulge now). “I mean, did you see the Mary Had a Derek Lam display on the first floor? You’d remember if you had,” she blurted before they could respond, clutching her most professional bright vermilion Hermès grand modèle agenda to her light gray ruffled chest. “That display is an absolute work of art,” she breathed to Gideon. “Unlike some people, I can’t walk by a masterpiece without taking time to admire it.” Melissa’s jaw dropped in protest, but Charlotte ignored her, cloyingly offering her hand. “I’m sure you understand, Mr.—”

  “Peck,” replied the solemn assistant.

  “Fabulous to meet you!” Melissa nudged her frilly rival to the side, snatching Gideon’s fig-and-cassis-lotioned hand from her grasp. “Melissa Moon. And can I just say,” she continued, cocking a savagely gelled eyebrow in Charlotte’s direction, “I don’t think anyone who calls themselves fashion-conscious could possibly keep Mr. Pelligan waiting.”

  “He is… here, right?” Janie tentatively confirmed, allowing Charlotte and Melissa to lock in to a glare.

  “Of course,” Mr. Peck tipped into a quick, contrite bow, relieved to finally escort them up the gleaming marble staircase. As much as he abhorred their lowly emotional display, he also found it assuring. Miss Mary-Kate and Miss Ashley also bickered, and Teddy insisted it was a sign of talent.

  Up they went, heels clacking—that is, until they reached the landing. The plush oriental carpet muted their footsteps, pair by pair, and they looked around. In contrast to the modern bustle downstairs—all pulsing beats, polished floors, and enticingly arranged collections—Mr. Pelligan’s office brought to mind a centuries-old university or church. The vaulted ceiling gleamed like an empty eggshell, dark leather-bound books lined the hallway, and a gentle ticking filled the air. Two grandfather clocks—carved to resemble rockets?—flanked either side of Mr. Pelligan’s daunting office door. Just as Gideon reached for the handle, they released a deep, internal whir, loudly clicked, and burst into song. The girls startled in alarm. Gideon did not react. Quite calmly, he pushed open the door, revealing at first the massive mahogany desk, and then, directly behind it…

  The man.

  “Listen to me!” He sang in perfect harmony with his clanging clocks. “Don’t listen to me. Talk to me! Don’t talk to me. Dance with me! Don’t dance with me. NOOO… beep-beep!”

  The four girls huddled together. (During their respective car rides home, they would have to agree: of all WTF moments, this was the WTF-est. It was seriously, like, should they run?) Several well-heeled members of his staff stood at either side of Mr. Pelligan’s desk, hands behind their backs, staring straight ahead. It seemed Mr. Pelligan’s musical outbursts, though tedious, were no cause for concern.

  In fact, they were business as usual.

  “Beep-beep!” He swiveled his high-seated ergonomic chair, bobbing up and down, and excitedly paddling the air. “Oooo… bop. Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-fa! Fa! Fa! Fa! Fashion. Oooo… bop. Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-fa! Fa! Fa! Fa! Fashion.”

  The chiming melody ceased—but for a final reverberating note—and Mr. Pelligan settled back into his seat, sighing with satisfaction. “Those were a gift,” he explained as the clocks resumed the more traditional duty of striking time. “From Mr. Bowie himself. Aren’t they marvelous?”

  Janie bit the insides of her cheeks. Mr. Bowie? As in David Bowie? As in the Thin White Duke? Was he freaking serious?

  She could not wait to tell Amelia.

  “Ah! My haute couture hatchlings,” he greeted them at last, bulging his pale gray eyes. “Allow me to introduce you to my team.” Pushing his chair back, Ted Pelligan grunted to his shining shoes. He wore a suit similar to the one he wore the Halloween night they first met, but in a different color—a lime green seersucker paired with a tie of lavender silk, a crisp white shirt, and traditional Ferragamo two-tone wing tips. Unlike Gideon and the rest of his staff, who boasted mannequin-perfect proportions, Teddy was short-limbed and stubby, with a round, protruding middle and two impossibly tiny feet. “I’m a gummy bear!” he’d sometimes wail, glimpsing his reflection.

  (Before meetings, Gideon made sure to cover the mirrors.)

  “My divine and diligent staff!” Mr. Pelligan beamed as his employees arranged themselves in V formation, Giddy at the head. “My faithful flock of Pelligans. Mr. Peck,” he declared, indicating the solemn assistant, “you’ve already met. And, em”—he turned to the next employee in line with a blank, befuddled look—“em…”

  “Brian, sir,” the young man politely assisted him.

  Mr. Pelligan gave him a cheerful slap on the back, moving on to the next in line, a stunning yellow-eyed girl with violet hair swept into a chain-metal chignon: “This is Dancer, and over here we have Prancer, Dasher, of course, Blitzen, Comet, and finally, yes”—he paused, returning to the young man with a dismissive sniff—“the unforgettable Brian. With his nose so bright.”

  A clap of his tidy hands, and all but one—a petite brunette, the woman he’d introduced as Prancer, who looked exactly like Natalie Portman, except with a lazy eye—filed through the exit. Sitting in a corner wing chair, she stared into her lap and proceeded to fold a piece of pale pink paper.

  “Wunderbar!” The heavy wood door closed with a resounding boom, and Teddy flopped into his office chair, belting his hands across his belly. “Now.” He swiveled around. “Can any of you tell me, what, thus far, you have learned?”

  They hesitated, freezing into a line near the pin-striped fabric wall. How, exactly, were they expected to respond? Thus far we have learned that you, Ted Pelligan, are totally head-over-butt-heels crazy? And maybe, with our relative lack of quirk—with our bland, predictable sanity—we’ve already bored you to tears?

  Janie had the sudden urge to throw a lamp, just to prove him wrong.

  “Just look at them, Giddy!” Mr. Pelligan stopped midswivel, touching his assistant’s arm. “Timid as titmice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What you have learned!” He bounded to his miniature feet. “Is the third rule of Fashion. The first, of course, which you so exemplarily displayed this afternoon, is to never arrive anywhere on time.”

  “We’re so sorry,” Janie interrupted. “We—”

  “The second!” he whispered, raising a finger to his lips. “Never apologize! And the third, which I so exemplarily displayed for you mere moments ago”—he bobbed two perfectly groomed silver eyebrows, an apparent signal to Mr. Peck, who quietly left the room—“ forget people’s names.” He circled the stunned quartet, popping his gray eyes for emphasis. “As soon as you meet someone—pfffft! That name should go flying out of your head. And if it hasn’t, by all means, pretend otherwise!”

  “But”—Petra paused, wondering if Mr. Pelligan’s mushroomy shape had anything to do with his hallucinatory affect—“why?”

  “Because that’s fashion, my pouting pet!” Gesturing to a hanging black-and-white photograph of him and Madonna, he declared, “I’ve been calling that one Debbie for eighteen years. The woman bloody worships me. Copies my every move! You think she just decided to wear a nude satin conical bustier out of nowhere?” He tapped a fingernail against Madonna’s young glass-framed face and narrowed his gray eyes. “I beg to differ.”

  Petra, Melissa, Janie, and Charlotte shared an uneasy glance. No doubt a change of subject was in order, but all they could do was just stand there, like, lamely racking their brains. Wonky-eye Natalie was no help; she remained in the corner, staring into her lap and folding yet another piece of pink paper. When Gideon returned to the room carrying two lavender-striped hatboxes, the girl
s sighed their collective relief.

  The dude’s timing was impeccable.

  “At last!” Mr. Pelligan brightened. A flutter of feet propelled him toward the corner of his massive mahogany desk where Gideon had placed the two hatboxes. “So,” he winked. “Now that you know the rules”—he pried the top box open, dancing his fingers about the rim—“we may begin… the game.”

  He lifted the lavender lid high into the air, shaking it like a tambourine.

  “The Trick-or-Treater!” Melissa gasped, recognizing the little handbag at once. And why wouldn’t she? It was, after all, Poseur’s first and only couture creation. Per Mr. Pelligan’s request, they’d given it up for adoption. Even though he assured them the arrangement was temporary, in the back of their minds they wondered: would they ever see it again? Charlotte, Janie, and Petra gathered around as Melissa cradled the bag in her arms. It was all there: the electric-blue bamboo-silk material, the compact square Starburst shape, the board-short lace-up detail, the interlocking gold P clasp.

  “Oo-oh,” Melissa whinnied. “I’ve missed you so much!”

  “Impossible,” argued Mr. Pelligan, shuffling through a crisp stack of papers. Melissa gasped, clutching the handmade handbag to her chest.

  “Believe me,” Petra gave a roll of her tea green eyes. “She’s missed that thing.”

  “My delightfully duped demoiselle,” Mr. Pelligan sniffed. “I’m afraid I must insist—she did nothing of the kind.”

  Before they could continue arguing, a brief rustle of lavender tissue paper pulled their attention toward Gideon. “Perhaps this,” the solemn assistant proposed, exhuming the second box’s contents, “is the object of her yearning?”

  The girls gaped in amazement, for Gideon had presented (it couldn’t be!) the Trick-or-Treater. Was it some kind of magic trick? Had he pickpocketed Melissa’s handbag from under her MAC-powdered nose, leaving in its place a twitching white rabbit?

  “I—” Melissa looked between the Trick-or-Treater in her arms and the one in Gideon’s hand, dumbfounded. “I—”

  “My thoughts precisely!” agreed Mr. Pelligan, clasping his hands to his chest. “It’s quite the little copy, if I say so myself. But, then again, I say everything myself.” He giggled, quickly collected himself, and handed them each an official-looking packet from his desk. “As soon as we have your permission—and I do mean signing this contract, my legally-bound lovelies—we’ll begin production, manufacturing not one handbag, not two handbags, but”—he turned to his solemn assistant with a flutter of eyelids—“Giddy. What was our final number?”

  “One thousand, sir.”

  “One,” Janie rasped, clutching Charlotte’s cashmere-covered arm for support, “thousand?”

  “Chin up, up!” Mr. Pelligan clucked. “In time, we’ll be producing them by the tens of thousands. Isn’t that right, em”—he pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped his small fingers—“you there!”

  At last, the Natalie look-alike looked up (well, at least one eye looked up—the other stared fiercely to the left). Quickly, she got to her feet, forgetting a collection of three or four pink origami cranes that spilled from her lap to the floor.

  “Em…” Teddy grimaced, snapping his fingers.

  “Birdie,” she piped up, following him with her good eye as he drifted toward his desk. “Birdie Pelligan?” she clarified, hoping to ring a bell.

  “Oh yes, yes, Birdie. Apple of my eye, fruit of my loins.” He brushed her off, picking up the phone. “Do your jobbie, won’t you, darling?”

  With a resigned sigh, Birdie nodded, refocusing on the four girls (that is, her right eye focused; the other kind of veered off to gawk at a stained-glass Tiffany lamp). “Please,” she said with a brave smile, indicating a group of four British colonial cushioned wicker chairs. “Sit.”

  They sat, sharing their umpteenth wondering look. Wonkyeye was Mr. Pelligan’s daughter? Maybe he’d adopted her from Romania or something. Or assumed the form of a bull and raped a tree branch, like Zeus.

  “The Trick-or-Tritterer,” she began, winced, and darted a worried eye toward her father. But he was already absorbed by his phone call, oblivious to her blunder. “The Trick-or-Treater,” she breathed a sigh of relief, starting again, “if handled well—and we at Ted Pelligan handle everything well—will positively shake the fashion industry. But before the big shake, we need the shimmies. Fashion foreshocks, if you will. How, you ask? We’d like to propose a celebriteaser.” Noting their baffled expressions, she paused. “Are you, um, familiar with that term?”

  Janie, Petra, and Charlotte glanced Melissa’s way. She was their Director of Public Relations, after all; wasn’t it her responsibility to know?

  Melissa arced a cocky eyebrow, and cleared her throat. “Eeyea… no.”

  “Wow,” Birdie breathed, grinning at the floor. She wasn’t used to knowing more than other people. It made her feel funny inside. “Don’t worry.” She looked up, still grinning. “Celebriteaser is an easy one. It’s just, like, famous people—that’s the celebrity part—who show off the latest whatever-it-is before anyone else—that’s the tease part. Take Kate Moss,” she suggested, getting into her stride. “When she appeared in a pair of wide-leg vintage Chloé jeans—and this at the height of skinny jean popularity—everyone had to know: What are they? Where are they? And importantly, how soon can they be mine?”

  “I bought a pair,” Charlotte admitted, omitting the small detail that she never wore them (they totally gave her elephant butt). “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Me too,” Petra confessed.

  “Oh, Miss I-Never-Buy-Designer,” Melissa chided her.

  “They’re vintage!” Petra blushed, but she knew as well as Melissa: the excuse was pretty weak. “I don’t know what it is,” she moaned. “Kate Moss has this, like, power over me.”

  “I know,” Birdie intoned, widening her good eye. “She has that power over everybody. When Kate wears a Ted Pelligan original, our sales spike through the roof. But fashion-wise, she’s entirely independent—can’t be bought, won’t do favors. Believe me, I’ve tried.” The Pelligan marketing director sighed, clasping her hands. “Once, I prayed.”

  “That’s our promotion strategy?” Melissa worried aloud, still clutching the Treater to her lap. “Praying to Kate Moss?”

  “Heavens, no.” Birdie wonked her eye open. “Kate Moss is the exception, but most celebrities have a price. And we at Ted Pelligan are willing to pay it. Your bag on the right starlet’s arm?” She clucked her tongue, and smiled. “Poseur could be the biggest P since Prada.”

  Janie, Melissa, Charlotte, and Petra shivered with excitement, grinning with anticipation. It was Prada, after all, who’d all but banned them for life from their Rodeo store (okay, so they’d happened to host a launch party that got the teensiest bit out of control). That Ted Pelligan was going to carry one thousand Treaters was freakin’ crazy enough. But snagging Prada’s crown as fashion’s reigning Queen P?

  It was almost, like, too P to picture.

  “I think I speak for the rest of us that a celebriteaser is the right way to go,” Melissa blurted, breaking the dream-filled silence.

  “Do you know who it’s going to be?” Janie turned to Birdie, almost too thrilled to speak. Quickly, she checked her dorktastic enthusiasm, pursing her lips like the poor man’s Posh.

  “We’re working on that,” Birdie assured her, checking in with Mr. Pelligan. Noticing her inquisitive glance, he raised a well-buffed hold-a-moment finger.

  “Darling,” he said into the phone. “I say this with absolute love—white is not your color. Yes, I know it was your wedding. Well, you looked positively contagious. Yes. Yes. Well, you’ll know better next time, won’t you? All right. Love you, too. Kiss-kiss. Ciao-ciao. Ciao.”

  He clattered the old-fashioned ivory receiver into the polished gold cradle and wiped his hand on his lavender pant leg, eyeing the phone with disdain. “Yicchh!” he lamented. “An absolute nightmare!”

  Bi
rdie beamed, always thrilled by her father’s ire (as long as it wasn’t directed at her). “Jessica?” she guessed.

  “Messica,” he groused in reply. Gideon chuckled softly to himself, crouched to the floor, and pinched a pink paper crane into his lap. The girls, meanwhile, surged with curiosity. Jessica who? Jessica Alba? Jessica Simpson? Jessica Biel? Or maybe, due to Mr. Pelligan’s nasty industry habit, her name wasn’t Jessica at all. Oh, who was it? And most important…

  Was she their celebriteaser?

  “So,” Mr. Pelligan launched his ergonomic chair backward and swiveled around. “Birdie’s apprised you of our plan for takeoff?”

  “They want to know who,” his daughter jumped in before they could respond. “I said I’d have to check with you first.”

  “We’ll make our decision in precisely one week.” Mr. Pelligan got to his feet and stretched. “Friday, as they say, is fly day. We’ll have to secure the right stage, of course.”

  “Stage?” Melissa piped up, eyes shining. As with any exhibitionist, the word “stage” had a near physical effect on her. Like saying “open bar” to an alcoholic or “playground” to Michael Jackson.

  “Of course a stage!” Mr. Pelligan harrumphed. “If Kate Moss had worn her Chloés in the privacy of her own opium den, do you think we would have ever known the difference? Of course not! Celebriteasers need to get out, out. Into the public eye—and by eye, of course, I mean lens.”

  “Paparazzi,” Birdie explained, succumbing again to that funny, secret feeling. “That’s what a stage is. Any place with paparazzi.”

  “No stage but the world stage will do,” Mr. Pelligan emphasized. “I won’t rest until the Treater’s featured in every magazine from US Weekly to Bosnian Vogue!”

  “Omigod!” Melissa gasped, clapping a manicured hand to her mouth. “Sorry, but… I have the perfect event.” Belting it out like Oprah, she exclaimed, “My dad’s engagement partyyyyy!”

  “Your”—Ted Pelligan fluttered his silver lashes in abject distaste—“dad?”