The Celebutantes

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  But there was no time now to relax in the wonderful and stately chair. The clock was ticking, and she had a packed day ahead of her.

  Crossing the bedroom to the walk-in closet, Tallula ran a hand through her mane of blond curls. Her hair was still damp from the hasty shower she had taken twenty minutes ago. In fact, she hadn’t even completely dried off underneath the terry cloth robe. The air-conditioning was too low. Sighing loudly—loudly enough that her assistant, Ina, would hear—Tallula quickly began toweling herself dry.

  “Tallula? Is something wrong?”

  Tallula smiled as she studied her assistant, who had appeared on the threshold.

  Ina Debrovitch was petite and pretty with delicate features. She was twenty-four but still looked like a teenager. Her red hair tumbled past her shoulders in curls. Her milk white skin was smooth and unblemished, save for the remarkable star-shaped birthmark on her chin. She had been born and raised in Romania, then immigrated to the United States at nineteen. She had worked first as Tallula’s housekeeper, but a quick eye and a sharp mind had earned her the assistant position. Ina was organized. She was discreet. She had good fashion sense. What was more, she had learned to decipher Tallula’s moods and didn’t ask insignificant questions. Wherever Tallula went, Ina went. It was Ina’s responsibility to run just about every facet of Tallula’s life, and she had done an excellent job of that so far.

  You wouldn’t have known Ina was handicapped unless you listened to her very closely; then, you might notice the way she slurred certain words, as hearing-impaired people often do. The word what often came out sounding like whaah, but overall, she had mastered the art of lipreading. She was never without her trusty hearing aid, and when she removed it before showering or going to sleep, she made certain to say so, because neither Tallula nor Elijah liked feeling as though they were being ignored.

  “It’s very stuffy in here,” Tallula said. “You know how I hate the heat—it makes me feel icky. Would you be a kitten and fix that?”

  “I’ll see that it gets cooler,” Ina replied. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the air-conditioning wasn’t turned up as high as you like it.”

  “I already feel out of sorts because of it.” Tallula sighed again. “Anyway, I don’t know what to wear, and I assume these Society of the Americas people will talk if I don’t meet their approval.” The thought annoyed her. She had never looked for anyone’s approval when it came to her fashion tastes. She had a wild sense of style, and on more than one occasion she’d appeared in public wearing completely over-the-top outfits: torn and tattered dresses with paint-splattered cowboy boots; skirts with mismatched blouses; men’s oversized suits that made her look ten pounds thinner. At a gallery opening in Santa Barbara last month, she had showed up in a black dress to which she had sloppily pinned several brightly colored bows. At an event before that, she’d worn a huge pink velvet top hat that made her look like a character from a Dr. Seuss book. Once, at a private gala at the Guggenheim, she’d dressed in a gold kimono and slipped a paintbrush through her hair. She hadn’t paid attention to what the tabloids said about her. She hadn’t given mind to the shocked stares either. She was an artist, and sometimes she felt the need to express herself beyond the canvas. And besides, her outfits always got attention, and Tallula liked attention.

  “The society is very conservative,” Ina said, having done her research. “Mostly older people. I think you should probably wear something professional, maybe a little understated.”

  “Oh, how fun.”

  Ina frowned. She put down the small notepad she’d been holding. “Should I look through your closet?”

  “Yes. And let’s do it quickly. I’m so tired. I swear, if I sit down on that bed, I’ll fall asleep.”

  “We don’t want that to happen,” Ina said gravely. “Everyone is waiting to see your newest painting. Lots of press downstairs.”

  “Anyone interesting?” Tallula asked.

  Ina was standing in the closet, shuffling through the few outfits she had packed for her boss. “Well, editors from Vogue and Cosmo will be present. The New York Times will be covering the event for the Sunday Styles section. Oh, yes—and the Hamilton triplets are here. They’ll be introducing you and unveiling the painting.”

  Tallula perked right up and smiled. “Really? Ha! That’s great! I didn’t know I’d be meeting the Hamiltons today.” But the smile faded quickly from her lips and was replaced by a look of worry. “Ina, why didn’t you tell me they were coming? I would have asked you to buy me a few Triple Threat pieces. You know how I like to be prepared, and those girls practically eat and breathe fashion!”

  Ina came scurrying out of the closet, a pensive expression on her face. “It’s all on your itinerary. I left it on your desk at home weeks ago.”

  “How often do I sit at that desk?” Tallula snapped. “When I’m going to be in the company of special guests, I need to know beforehand, Ina. You should have just told me in person.”

  “But you were working in your studio—you’ve been in there for weeks,” Ina replied quietly. “And I’m not allowed into your studio. I’m sorry, Tallula. Truly, I am. It won’t happen again.”

  With a theatrical toss of her head, Tallula stared up at the ceiling. “As an artist, I have a tendency to lose myself in my work. Next time, just find me when I walk out of my studio.”

  “I’ll do that.” Ina cleared her throat. “But if it’s any consolation, you’re looking beautiful today, and I think I’ve found the perfect outfit.” She disappeared into the closet again, then came out holding a strapless vermilion silk dress; it was cool and summery, yet sophisticated. “Catherine Malandrino. One of your favorites.”

  “But I don’t have a tan,” Tallula remarked, studying the dress. “I’ll look so pale in that.”

  “You’ll look beautiful. Here, at least try it on.” Ina laid the dress down on the bed.

  Tallula threw off the last towel and stood naked before the mirror. She was pleased with her reflection. The past few days of stress had undoubtedly burned two or three pounds from her already thin frame, but she didn’t mind that at all. Growing up, she had been told repeatedly that she’d inherited “the fat gene” from her father’s side of the family, which meant the arrival of a huge butt and meaty thighs the day she turned thirty. She had every intention of fighting that dire prediction, so being underweight suited her just fine. Besides, thin always looked better in photographs. And lately, her life had become an encyclopedia of photographs. From New York and Los Angeles to Tokyo and Johannesburg, Tallula’s face had appeared just about everywhere. She’d been invited to several movie premieres in Los Angeles and London, countless art shows in Paris and Vienna, and a number of universities all over the country. In the middle of all that, she’d granted hundreds of interviews and sat for countless photo shoots. It seemed as if everyone wanted a piece of her.

  Tallula wasn’t a recluse. She didn’t seek seclusion from the world like most artists. She didn’t feel the need to weave a web of silence around herself in order to create. Her house in the upscale suburb of Greenwich, Connecticut, was large and drafty and set back from the main road, but she had plenty of company. She had Elijah. She had Ina. She had a handful of friends who lived nearby and visited every so often—a small, select group of people from high school. In truth, Tallula didn’t always enjoy seeing them because they inevitably reminded her of a time she wanted to forget. Her days at Alban Country Prep didn’t comprise happy memories. She hadn’t been beautiful then. She hadn’t been popular or particularly confident. She certainly hadn’t been famous. For the most part, she’d been the proverbial girl in the shadows, spending her free periods in the library and skipping out on extracurricular activities. Even art. She had wanted more than anything to join the school’s highly regarded painting club; there, at least twice a week, she would have been able to relish in the one act that gave her complete bliss. But Tallula hadn’t bothered asking her parents to sign the requisite admission form provided
by the art department’s chairperson. She’d known better than to ask.

  All those hours painting things that may or may not be appropriate? her father would have said sternly. Why, when you can dedicate that time to more important subjects? And of course, her mother would have agreed. End of story. It had happened like that nearly all her life. Strict parents. Harsh rules.

  When she thought back on those tough years, Tallula was often overcome by a sense of amazement. She still didn’t know how she’d managed to develop her artistic skills. She didn’t know how she’d accomplished the feat of sneaking under her parents’ radar. Climbing up to the attic in the middle of the night with a flashlight and a sketch pad would have earned her a punishment of some sort, but she’d done it anyway. Time and again, she’d done it. Crouched under the garret’s slanted ceiling, drawing whatever came to mind. Pages and pages of sketches. Dozens of small canvases that she later hid under the floorboards in her bedroom closet. It was her escape, her therapy. In the mysterious act of creating, she lost and found herself completely. For a long time, she’d thought her art would be relegated to her own eyes—her parents would never have understood it, and she knew she couldn’t risk showing her work to a single soul with all those household rules on her shoulders.

  But then life took a dramatic and unexpected turn, and her entire universe changed.

  Tallula was nineteen when her parents died, courtesy of a drunk driver who smashed into their car on a rainy stretch of Connecticut roadway. It had been a stormy August night. Tallula had stayed home, readying herself for the trip back to St. Stephen’s College in Maine, where she was set to begin her second year as an undergrad. The phone call came just after eight p.m.

  In a matter of hours, Tallula went from being the daughter of restrictive, overbearing parents to being alone. Scared. Cut off from the cloistered world she had always known. She inherited a house and money and a thousand memories she wanted to forget. She returned to college, but it became immediately apparent to her that she wouldn’t be staying. Instead of going to class and paying attention to her assignments, she channeled all her energy into her art. One painting after another. Long nights spent perfecting her skills. She was mourning one loss and at the same time celebrating all she had found: freedom, confidence, friendships. There was no more hiding, no more worrying. She felt inordinately energized.

  And it was that surge of self-esteem that ultimately led her to Elijah Traymore. Like her, he was a student at St. Stephen’s College. Unlike her, however, Elijah had been raised in a liberal, highly educated family that encouraged artistic endeavors. He had a brooding and somewhat mysterious presence on campus. Everyone knew him as the Sculptor. That guy with the black hair and painted black fingernails? He’s strange. Spends all day in the woods with a bunch of clay and makes these statues that crowd his dorm room. He hates being here. He doesn’t speak to anyone. But he spoke to Tallula when she approached him one night in the cafeteria. The attraction between them had been instant and intense. Kismet. What followed was a whirlwind romance: days spent examining each other’s unique works of art, nights spent in heated conversation. Tallula felt as though she’d found her true soul mate.

  It was Elijah who encouraged Tallula to exhibit her paintings. She hadn’t expected much from her first showing—a small rented space in SoHo and only ten small paintings with ambiguous titles—but it had impressed the right people. In fact, it had utterly stunned a number of high-powered art critics and collectors. Who are you? they asked her over and over. How long have you been painting? Where did you study? Have you exhibited before? Tallula had been flattered by their collective enthusiasm. And she’d answered them with a little speech, the same speech she used today when addressing the press.

  I began painting when I was very young. Art is my passion, my lifeline. I had to hide it from my parents, who were very strict and private. They knew I was interested in art, but they never understood what it was all about. They never suspected that I’d been working in private throughout my teenage years. Dozens and dozens of sketches and canvases. Painting became an escape for me. I always thought I’d have to hide it, but eventually, the need to share my particular vision of the world eclipsed everything else. I take my inspiration from the great master painters. Sometimes I feel them speaking through me….

  A suitably dramatic monologue, but a sincere one. And the critics and buyers and public agreed: Tallula Kayson was a wunderkind. Her works drew comparisons to most of the modern masters. There was an internal vision to her abstractness, a mystery that both seduced and shocked. A unique use of color and light and shadow. She might have seemed too young to possess such talent, but the proof was there. A flurry of publicity followed that first showing; there were magazine and newspaper articles and brief televised clips. Headlines read Where Has She Been All These Years? and Twenty-Year-Old Artist and College Dropout a Genius and The Mystery of Tallula. Her first show in the little gallery in SoHo sold out, and the amount she walked away with was more than most people made in a year. She became an overnight sensation in the art world—and a bona fide celebrity.

  But fame wasn’t exactly a gift. She was learning that lesson more and more every day. Although being recognized and idolized made life fun and flashy, it also created roadblocks and changed the way things unfolded around you. There were petty little jealousies. There were egos. Try as she might, Tallula simply couldn’t keep a handle on everything. She couldn’t control certain forces…or certain people.

  Elijah was proving to be her toughest battle yet.

  Reaching for the dress Ina had picked out, Tallula slipped into it and looked at the full-length mirror again. Yes. She did look good. No mistaking that. She stepped into a pair of strappy sandals.

  “Well?” Ina asked. “Do you love it?”

  “I do,” Tallula admitted. “You were right. But it needs something. It needs a little splash.” She turned, went to her suitcase, and riffled through it. She found her favorite bright red silk scarf—which totally clashed with the outfit—and carefully smoothed it out. Then she wrapped it around her head and knotted it just over her left ear, fashioning a wacky-looking bandana. “There,” she said, glancing into the mirror again. “That makes more of a statement. Now, Ina, would you be a dove and tell me how much time I have left?”

  “Just a few minutes.” A pause. “Um, Tallula? Do I…do I have to come with you today? To the luncheon, I mean.”

  Tallula stared at her assistant. “Of course you have to come. Why would you ask a question like that?”

  “I’m just not feeling too good,” Ina said quietly.

  “What’s wrong?” Tallula walked toward her, a look of concern on her face.

  Ina cast her eyes downward. “I think I have a stomach flu or something like that,” she replied.

  “But you look fine, and I need you, Ina. And I promise, we won’t stay long.” Her tone was firm, and that ended the possibility of Ina staying in the penthouse while the luncheon unfolded. Tallula walked back to the mirror and studied herself again. “Now, Ina, would you be a cookie and tell me what the rest of my day looks like? I’d like to go shopping while I’m in Manhattan.”

  Ina reached for her notepad and flipped through it. “You have an interview with Art in America at four-thirty, a telephone interview with the Chicago Tribune at five-thirty, and dinner with your agent at eight.”

  Tallula blinked, confused. “Dinner? Is that tonight? I wanted to eat in tonight.”

  “I can call and cancel….”

  “No, don’t do that.” Tallula reached for her purse. “I don’t want to upset anyone. Besides, I don’t plan on coming back into Manhattan for several weeks, so I guess I should keep the dinner appointment.”

  Ina smirked. “Everyone wants to meet you, Madam Famous Artist.”

  “I just wish I felt like meeting everyone.” She gave herself another quick once-over in the mirror. Then she shuffled through her purse for lip gloss and applied some. Trying to sound offhanded, she s
aid, “I haven’t heard Elijah, and he’s usually so noisy. Where is he?”

  “He left while you were in the shower,” Ina replied. “He said he was going downstairs.”

  “To the luncheon?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well…” Tallula gulped over her rising anger. “I wonder why he’d go without me? He knows I like making an entrance together.”

  Ina stayed quiet. She had learned long ago that silence was the best option when Tallula got mad.

  But in truth, Tallula was more hurt than mad. She knew it was visible in her eyes. She had never been able to hide her emotions, and this was especially true when it came to Elijah. No, he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t even always nice to her. He was, however, all she had. Lately they had been arguing more, and Tallula found herself having to stay quiet, to step out of his path when the threats came and her fear level spiked.

  Now she stared at Ina. “Let’s go, then,” she said quietly. “I guess we’ll meet him there.”

  “Of course.”

  Two minutes later, they were strolling through the huge suite, both clasping their purses, Ina cradling an appointment book and several press kits. Then they reached the foyer and a loud knock sounded at the door.

  “Who could that be?” Tallula asked no one in particular.

  Ina turned the knob, expecting to shoo away a reporter or photographer. But when her eyes met Elijah’s face, she stepped back and quickly let him inside.

  “Oh!” Tallula smiled. “There you are, darling. Why didn’t you use your key?”

  “I forgot it.” Elijah stormed past her, his expression dark, his movements impatient. He didn’t look at either of them as he headed for the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?” Tallula called back into the room. “It’s time for the luncheon.”