Read Online Poseur #2: The Good, the Fab and the Ugly by Rachel Maude - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Maude
Tags: JUV006000
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Weird Blue was the best.
“So now he’s going to dye it again.” Amelia rolled her eyes again. “I swear, if he spent as much time at band practice as he did primping, we’d be, like, legendary by now. And
speaking
of primping,” she sighed, eager to change the subject.
“Don’t,” Janie whimpered, still clutching her white towel around her lanky frame. “Please, don’t say it.”
Amelia dropped the nail polish into her purse and smirked. “What
are
you going to wear?”
The Girl: Janie Farrish
The Getup: White terry tube dress by Juicy Couture (that is, if anyone asks . . .)
She hurried down the hotel’s lamp-lit cobblestone drive, along a long, lumbering line of gleaming luxury cars, and breathed a sigh of gratitude:
thank God I had the foresight to park the Volvo down the street.
With a quick, cringing smile at the humorless doorman, whom she half-expected to take her down by Taser, she swept through the ivy-draped glass entrance, beelined for the nearest gilded mirror, and smoothed the plush contours of her white terry dress around her narrow hips and skinny waist, examining her lanky, flat-chested frame from every possible perspective. The dress was less than two hours old — the product of a panicked whirl of scissors, needles, and thread — but she had to make sure it didn’t look it. Sucking in her empty and fluttering stomach, she re-cinched the belt — an extra-long length of cotton twine, obligingly braided by Amelia — and slowly exhaled. She had to admit, the dress looked good, as good here as it had at home.
Better
even. She met her reflection with a co-conspiratorial smile. After all . . .
Who would have thought she’d make her grand appearance at the Viceroy in her mother’s best bath towel?
She crossed through the moodily lit, pulsing hotel bar, where a burbling crowd of Hollywood types sucked down cocktails — the men in tailored suit jackets, distressed jeans, and candy-colored sneakers, the women in sheer cotton blouses over minuscule trouser shorts and four-inch designer heels. Janie observed them from the corners of her lash-shadowed gray eyes, squared her thin shoulders, and tilted her chin to a haughty degree. Was she pulling it off? Did she look like she belonged?
“No!” A platinum-haired girl in an equally platinum silk halter gasped as her spilled martini dribbled over the edge of the bar.
Janie slipped from the room and into the lantern-lit terrace, where Charlotte had suggested they meet. As instructed, she cut a path around the pool toward the white-and-black-tented cabana near the hedge. As she ducked behind a curtain and into the secluded lounge, her heart wobbled. Charlotte was there, as promised, but so was her entire family, all four of them languidly arranged around a crisply dressed table, like an Annie Leibowitz spread in
Vanity Fair.
There was Evan.
Janie tried to smile.
“Janie!” Charlotte clasped her hands, and commenced her eager introductions: there was “Daddy,” aka the Academy Award–-winning actor, director, and producer Bud Beverwil; “Mother,” aka the statuesque, chlorine-eyed ex-model Georgina Malta-Beverwil . . . “And you already know Evan,” she added with an obligatory roll of her pool-green eyes. He glanced up, closing his latest paperback around his thumb.
“Whattup.”
“We’ve heard a lot about you, Janie,” Bud Beverwil boomed from his white wing chair. “From Charlotte and Evan both.”
Janie glanced at Evan — that he had anything to say about her, let alone “a lot” was a mystery. Ignoring her inquisitive stare, Evan returned to his book and grimaced.
“Yes, it’s a pleasure,” Georgina smiled, her pool-green eyes aflicker. A sheer black silk Pringle of Scotland top gathered into delicate ruches at her pale collarbone. “But we’ll leave you three alone. Charlotte” — she turned to her daughter, offering her cool cheek for a kiss — “you know where we’ll be.”
Janie watched the glamorous
Weird Blue was the best.
“So now he’s going to dye it again.” Amelia rolled her eyes again. “I swear, if he spent as much time at band practice as he did primping, we’d be, like, legendary by now. And
speaking
of primping,” she sighed, eager to change the subject.
“Don’t,” Janie whimpered, still clutching her white towel around her lanky frame. “Please, don’t say it.”
Amelia dropped the nail polish into her purse and smirked. “What
are
you going to wear?”
The Girl: Janie Farrish
The Getup: White terry tube dress by Juicy Couture (that is, if anyone asks . . .)
She hurried down the hotel’s lamp-lit cobblestone drive, along a long, lumbering line of gleaming luxury cars, and breathed a sigh of gratitude:
thank God I had the foresight to park the Volvo down the street.
With a quick, cringing smile at the humorless doorman, whom she half-expected to take her down by Taser, she swept through the ivy-draped glass entrance, beelined for the nearest gilded mirror, and smoothed the plush contours of her white terry dress around her narrow hips and skinny waist, examining her lanky, flat-chested frame from every possible perspective. The dress was less than two hours old — the product of a panicked whirl of scissors, needles, and thread — but she had to make sure it didn’t look it. Sucking in her empty and fluttering stomach, she re-cinched the belt — an extra-long length of cotton twine, obligingly braided by Amelia — and slowly exhaled. She had to admit, the dress looked good, as good here as it had at home.
Better
even. She met her reflection with a co-conspiratorial smile. After all . . .
Who would have thought she’d make her grand appearance at the Viceroy in her mother’s best bath towel?
She crossed through the moodily lit, pulsing hotel bar, where a burbling crowd of Hollywood types sucked down cocktails — the men in tailored suit jackets, distressed jeans, and candy-colored sneakers, the women in sheer cotton blouses over minuscule trouser shorts and four-inch designer heels. Janie observed them from the corners of her lash-shadowed gray eyes, squared her thin shoulders, and tilted her chin to a haughty degree. Was she pulling it off? Did she look like she belonged?
“No!” A platinum-haired girl in an equally platinum silk halter gasped as her spilled martini dribbled over the edge of the bar.
Janie slipped from the room and into the lantern-lit terrace, where Charlotte had suggested they meet. As instructed, she cut a path around the pool toward the white-and-black-tented cabana near the hedge. As she ducked behind a curtain and into the secluded lounge, her heart wobbled. Charlotte was there, as promised, but so was her entire family, all four of them languidly arranged around a crisply dressed table, like an Annie Leibowitz spread in
Vanity Fair.
There was Evan.
Janie tried to smile.
“Janie!” Charlotte clasped her hands, and commenced her eager introductions: there was “Daddy,” aka the Academy Award–-winning actor, director, and producer Bud Beverwil; “Mother,” aka the statuesque, chlorine-eyed ex-model Georgina Malta-Beverwil . . . “And you already know Evan,” she added with an obligatory roll of her pool-green eyes. He glanced up, closing his latest paperback around his thumb.
“Whattup.”
“We’ve heard a lot about you, Janie,” Bud Beverwil boomed from his white wing chair. “From Charlotte and Evan both.”
Janie glanced at Evan — that he had anything to say about her, let alone “a lot” was a mystery. Ignoring her inquisitive stare, Evan returned to his book and grimaced.
“Yes, it’s a pleasure,” Georgina smiled, her pool-green eyes aflicker. A sheer black silk Pringle of Scotland top gathered into delicate ruches at her pale collarbone. “But we’ll leave you three alone. Charlotte” — she turned to her daughter, offering her cool cheek for a kiss — “you know where we’ll be.”
Janie watched the glamorous
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