The Celebutantes

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  She drew back the curtains and stepped away. She scanned the studio for the hundredth time, noting the dozens of paintings set against the walls, ready to be shipped off to the auction house. Her favorite, Brunch in Paris, was a small canvas done in oil. It would take a lot to part with it. The blue and pink pastels weren’t her usual style, but the painting was magnificent, a hodgepodge of shapes and strokes reminiscent of a perfect sunrise in Paris. It didn’t look like brunch or Paris, but that was the beauty of modern art: everything was in the eye of the beholder. Beside it was The Italian, a striking painting of a long black line that was meant to represent a human figure; around it were small flecks of purple, and in one corner sat a small gray bird.

  Tallula loved all of them. She knew they would sell, and her agent had already left her two messages—one was a condolence, the other was a polite reminder that last night’s missed dinner would have to be rescheduled sometime in the near future.

  Like maybe in a year or two, Tallula thought bitterly. The last thing she felt like doing was sitting around a table making small talk. Whenever she unveiled new works to her agent or gallery, she had to go through all the usual explanations, pointing out that the paintings didn’t look particularly “new” because she’d completed most of them several years ago when she’d been a teenager. Just talking about that dark period of her life made her weak. She tried to avoid it at all costs, but sometimes it was necessary. A number of the paintings had to be retouched because the small space under the floorboards of the house where she’d been raised had been damp and musty. She’d hated dropping her paintings and sketches into that god-forsaken little hole. Shortly after selling the house, she had cleared everything out and kicked in the floorboards, never wanting to see them again.

  Tallula closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. She listened as the birds chirped outside in the oak trees. It was usually such a pleasant sound, but today it grated on her nerves. In fact, being here in her studio was proving less peaceful than she’d thought it would be. The studio had always been her sanctuary, a private realm that no one else dared enter. Ina wasn’t allowed in here. And Elijah—when he’d been alive—had known the rule as well.

  An artist’s studio wasn’t merely a place in which to create; it was a place in which creation itself lived.

  Through the long hours of painting—of refining the image she wanted to project onto the canvas, of making the measurements and mixing the colors to get the perfect hues—Tallula made the studio her home. The very air in here was different—charged and infused with a wild energy. A personal energy. She felt it whenever she stepped over the threshold and crossed the floor to her workstation. She felt it whenever she lifted a brush and swirled it against the palette. In the throes of the creative process, she let herself go completely—paint under her nails and in her hair, bristles sticking to her shirt, splats of color on her hands and arms and face. But that was totally fine because in her studio, she didn’t matter. Only the work at hand mattered. She could look like a perfect horror, but no one was going to barge in on her and stare her down and say something like: Are you okay, honey? You’re a mess! She got in touch with her art by any means possible. If that meant walking through the studio resembling a creature from a J.R.R. Tolkien novel, then so be it.

  A few hours ago, Tallula had thought that retreating into this space would do the trick. That it would help her forget, at least for a short while, the nightmare raging just outside the doors. But it hadn’t happened. Elijah’s death was still too new for any kind of escape.

  She went back to the stool and sat down. At her feet was a pile of brushes and several clean palettes. A dirty hand rag was bunched in between the bottle of water and the easel’s left leg. She stared at the painting in front of her; it was a work in progress titled Where Lovers Meet. For the first time in a very long time, she was trying her hand at a realistic painting. She had spent the past three weeks outlining the gentle silhouettes of the young couple: the girl with her long blond hair and delicate fingers, the boy with his dark eyes and brooding stare. They were sitting on a bench in what she hoped would look like a wild garden. Tallula had wanted to inject a lot of realism into the painting. It was, after all, modeled after her and Elijah and their unique romance. Or what she had previously believed to be a unique romance.

  Studying the painting now, however, she saw only the faint touches of a refined talent. Where Lovers Meet was incomplete, but it didn’t possess the arresting air that the art world often referred to as “Kaysonesque.” She hadn’t put her trademark God’s eyes up above, hidden in the swirls and indentations of the paint. She hadn’t captured the visceral energy present in all the previous works that had made her famous. That burning realization sliced through her like a sword.

  She stood up and walked over to the far right corner of the room. She stared at the locked door to the basement and fought the impulse to break it down. What good would it do? Everything downstairs was just another reminder of how much she had been betrayed by the one person she’d loved most.

  Maybe we were just too young, she thought. Maybe I should have stayed in college. I’d be a senior right now. I’d be partying in a dorm instead of worrying about what the whole damn world is going to think of me. Instead of watching my life fall apart.

  “Damn you, Elijah,” she whispered.

  She stormed across the room again and angrily knocked over the stool. Then, in one swift gesture, she lifted Where Lovers Meet off the easel and punched a hole straight through the canvas.

  11

  Confession

  Snap. Flash. Pop. It was raining paparazzi.

  At just after ten o’clock the next morning, Coco McKaid was released from police custody. She had been processed, fingerprinted, booked. She had spent a night in jail and then been arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder. Bail, set at four million dollars, was posted quickly, courtesy of her parents’ attorneys, who had stepped in while Robert and Monica McKaid were making their way back from a vacation in Tuscany.

  But Coco hadn’t left Central Booking on the arm of her daddy’s lawyer; instead, she’d called the one person in the world she trusted most.

  Now she was sitting in the back of the limo beside Madison. And, perhaps more significantly, beside Lupe Ramirez, the Hamilton family housekeeper.

  Coco stared out the window at the crowd of reporters blocking the entrance of 974 Fifth Avenue. A virtual pack of wolves. Flashes sparked the air like lightning.

  “Unbelievable!” Madison screamed. “I knew we were being followed! Someone tipped off these monsters, and now they’re going to stop us from getting inside!”

  “I didn’t see anyone following us,” Donnie said from the driver’s seat.

  “I don’t think I can do this.” Coco looked at Madison. “It’s too crazy out there. I mean, look at them. They’ll kill us with those cameras!”

  “We’ve seen worse,” Madison replied. “What I don’t understand is why my building’s security team hasn’t cleared a path for us. We’re going to have to punch our way through there.”

  “Don’ worry ’bout nothing,” Lupe said suddenly, her voice low and guttural. She leaned over the seat and pressed her shoulder against the door. Her lips curled into a sneer as she looked outside. She made a fist with her right hand and then slammed it into the palm of her left. “I take care of them.”

  Coco gasped. “Um, Madison?” she whispered. “Why does your housekeeper look like she’s about to turn one of those reporters into a strip steak?”

  “Because she watches Scarface and Gladiator every single day,” Madison said flatly. “She likes to think of herself as a cross between Russell Crowe and Tony Montana.”

  “I mean, seriously,” Coco snapped. “I’m totally scared of her.”

  “You should be—she’s worse than I am.” Madison didn’t want to get into her own anger-management problems, but the truth of the matter was that Lupe’s rage far outdid her own. “Now, Lupe, I want you to st
ay calm. Don’t hit any reporters or photographers. At least, not in their faces. Remember back in May when you gave that guy from ABC a black eye? Daddy’s still trying to settle that one out of court.”

  Keeping the sneer in place, Lupe scraped the front of her right shoe against the floor of the limo as if she were a bullfighter in Pamplona. “If they mess with bull, they get horns,” she grunted.

  “Just give us a minute,” Madison said. She opened her purse and pulled out her makeup case. She stared at Coco. “Look at me. Oh, God—your face is way too pale. You don’t even have lip gloss on.”

  “A night in jail will totally neutralize any makeup!” Coco cried.

  “Oh, honey, I know.” Madison went to work quickly, grabbing eyeliner, cream blush, lip gloss, concealer. She managed to cover up the black circles under Coco’s eyes. The fresh coat of gloss perked up her complexion a little bit, but her cheeks still looked sunken.

  “What about my hair?” Coco asked.

  “It’s fine. It has that sexy windblown look,” Madison said. She took a deep breath and nodded at Lupe. “Okay. I think we can move now.”

  Lupe lifted one end of her gray all-purpose maid’s dress and slowly circled her fingers around the door handle. “Let’s roll, chiquitas. I’m ready to kill.”

  Coco gulped.

  “Oh, heavens to Saks,” Madison murmured.

  The limo door flew open. A barrage of flashes and voices overtook Madison and Coco as they clasped hands and followed Lupe out onto the sidewalk. They tried to keep their eyes open and focused, but the whole scene exploded in a flurry of activity.

  “Coco!” one reporter screamed, charging toward them. “Why did you kill Elijah?”

  “Coco! You pleaded not guilty! What’s your defense?”

  “Coco!”

  “Coco!”

  A gasp of fear escaped Coco’s lips. “Madison!” she screamed. “Oh my God! I can’t even breathe!”

  “Just stay calm!” Madison screamed back, holding her arm up to shield them from the cameras’ flashing bulbs.

  But the crowd had closed in on them, jostling them like tourists at Times Square. Madison tripped and pitched forward. Coco caught her and pulled her back. Then they both pitched to one side as a camera flashed in their faces.

  “Coco!”

  “Why’d you kill him?”

  Through a sea of sparkling white dots, Madison suddenly saw their salvation. Straight ahead of her, a short, squat body erupted like a volcano, arms shooting out and head bobbing back and forth. Lupe shoved three reporters back with her elbows. Then she swung her big hips to the left, slamming a photographer with her butt.

  “Hohh!” she screamed. “Outta my way!”

  A microphone flew into the air. A camera skittered to the sidewalk.

  “Ouch!” a female reporter shouted. “That hurt!”

  “It’s the crazy maid!” another said. “Everybody stand back!”

  The crowd began dispersing.

  Lupe broke into a second round of animalistic force, pulling a dish towel from one of her uniform pockets and flicking it like a whip to clear a path to the front door. A fearless male reporter ignored her and stuck his microphone in Madison’s face. But he didn’t get the chance to ask his question: the dish towel whacked him clear across the cheek, bouncing the glasses right off his nose. “Say hello to my little friend!” Lupe screamed, spinning the dish towel in the air.

  Madison grabbed Coco’s hand and ran forward. She saw the building’s front doors open. Ten feet. Five. Three…

  They leaped into the lobby and immediately hid behind the doorman, Steven Hillby.

  “Holy God,” Coco said breathlessly. She ran a hand through her sweaty, limp hair. “I feel like we just survived a Macy’s sale.”

  Madison fanned herself with her purse. “Don’t even joke about that. Thank God I’m wearing my Torys. I don’t know how you’re doing it in those heels—I don’t think they’re meant to be worn for longer than three hours. You’re being so brave, honey.”

  Coco stared down at herself. She was still dressed in yesterday’s outfit, but now everything was wrinkled and worn against her pale skin. She hadn’t looked this bad since FedEx lost her Goyard trunk in Egypt.

  The front door opened again and Lupe stepped inside, wiping the beads of perspiration from her face.

  “You were amazing!” Coco cheered. “You, like, saved our lives!”

  Lupe nodded. Then she looked at Madison and said, “Tomorrow I ask your father for raise.”

  “And you totally deserve it.” Madison patted her shoulder as they headed for the elevator bank.

  It took a full minute to ride up to the Hamilton penthouse. When the doors yawned open, they stepped into the stately foyer and saw Lex waiting for them, holding a tray of champagne flutes.

  “Surprise!” she said. “I figured you all needed a little pick-me-up.”

  Madison, Coco, and Lupe each grabbed a flute as they walked into the living room. Champagne, Lex’s teacup Chihuahua, came bursting out from under a sofa, barking and yipping at Coco’s heels.

  “Oh, my sweet little munchkin,” Coco cooed, bending down to pat his head. “You’ll never guess what Aunt Coco’s been through.”

  “He’s used to scandal,” Lex told her. “He’s been watching The View since he was a baby.”

  Coco sipped from the champagne flute, then made a disagreeable face. “Ugh! This is just orange juice! There’s no booze in it!”

  “And there won’t be any booze in it, ever again,” Madison said sternly. She took Coco by the arm and pushed her down onto a chair. “Alcohol is a big part of why you’re in this whole mess.”

  “I don’t need a lecture! Not after the night I’ve been through.” Coco set the flute on the coffee table and held up her hands, splaying out her fingers. “Look! I’m covered with ink. And let me tell you—those cops are rough! They treated me like a criminal!”

  “That’s what usually happens when you’re charged with murder,” Lex said.

  “But they didn’t even offer me something to drink,” Coco shot back. “Or a pillow for those horrible vinyl-back chairs they make you sit in. I mean, whatever happened to courtesy?”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Madison asked, her tone incredulous. “Everyone in the whole world thinks you shoved Elijah Traymore off a penthouse balcony.”

  “But I didn’t kill him,” Coco said firmly. “And if you thought I was guilty, I wouldn’t be sitting in your living room right now.”

  “Well, you sure as hell got yourself into a horrible place.” Madison crossed her arms over her chest. “Our father’s in London on business, and he told us this morning that it’s the lead story over there. He doesn’t exactly buy that you’re innocent, and he’s not alone. So sit back and start talking.”

  “Not again!” Coco cried. “Don’t make me explain it all over again! I was talking more than half the night!”

  “Start talking again.” Madison sat down in the chair opposite her. She motioned for Lex to assume the stenographical position.

  Lex grabbed a notebook and pen from the bar, ready and eager to start an investigative log.

  “Okay, fine. Here goes.” Coco sighed. “Yesterday, when I met Elijah, I was drunk. He came on to me—told me I was beautiful and that he wanted to sculpt me. Told me I had beautiful, kissable lips. The whole spiel. And I really thought he was being sincere. Before you girls came to break it all up, he asked me if I wanted to go back up to the penthouse for a little fun.”

  “And you said yes?” Madison asked incredulously.

  “Well…I liked him!” Coco snapped.

  “But that’s so not like you at all.”

  “Exactly. It’s not like me. I’m always the Goody Two-shoes, and where has that gotten me?” Coco picked up her champagne flute and drank down the rest of the orange juice. “So I just figured I’d take a chance and be a little wild for once. Have fun.”

  “And catch herpes in the process?” Madison cut in. />
  Coco rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to tell you what happened or what? If you do, try being quiet, okay?”

  Lex waved her pen in the air. “How do you spell herpes?”

  “Never mind that,” Coco said. “Anyway, he asked me to meet him in the penthouse suite and he told me he was going to head back upstairs in a few minutes and that I should follow right after that, because Tallula and her assistant would be coming down to the luncheon. So after he left and you and Lex and Park totally embarrassed me in front of him, I went to the bathroom and then…”

  Madison waited quietly.

  Lex, scribbling down as fast as she could, looked up. “And then what?”

  “And then I saw Tallula and her assistant get off the elevator and head for the luncheon,” Coco answered. “And I got into the elevator and went up to the suite, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay.” Madison gave her a hard, disapproving stare. “What the hell is wrong with you? Since when do we hook up with boys we’ve just met? Especially sleazy ones.”

  “Respect for the dead,” Lex said quietly. “Elijah’s colder than cheap, prepackaged caviar right now, remember?”

  “Dead or not, he was still sleazy.” Madison sipped her orange juice as she shook her head.

  “Well, I was drunk!” Coco cried. “Isn’t sleaze-radar the first thing to go? Can you please stop looking at me like I just boffed half of Hollywood?”

  “There are worse things,” Lex said, trying to sound comforting. “You could’ve been caught driving drunk, with a suspended license. That’s way worse than boffing half of Hollywood, if you ask me.”

  “Thanks, Lex. I’m glad someone isn’t judging me so terribly.” Coco waved her hand at Madison.

  “Get on with it,” Madison snapped. “What happened when you got up to the room?”

  “Elijah was a total creep, okay? A sleaze, just like you said.” Coco cupped a hand over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. “We kissed a little, but then he got rough with me. Really rough.”