Poseur #3: Petty in Pink: A Trend Set Novel
Text copyright © 2009 by Rachel Maude
Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Rachel Maude and Compai All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright
Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored
in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Poppy
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
Poppy is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company.
The Poppy name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: August 2009
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-05270-2
Contents
To ma clique:
Annie “Kashi” Baker
Jamie “JayJay” Lawrence
and
Crow “Tom” Meaney
The Girl: Charlotte Beverwil
The Getup: Skirt and top by Valentino, shoes by Christian Louboutin, crocheted cashmere cowl “by moi, thank you”
Bonjour! It’s Friday morning at Winston Prep. Okay, fine. It’s Friday morning a smackload of other places, too—but do we really
want to start our day at your mama’s house? No, we don’t. We want to start here, at Winston, the
exclusivicious
private high school in the Hollywood Hills and so-called stomping ground of the young, rich, and phatuous. Not that girls
here stomp—not if they want to stay standing. In their Fendi flats, Blahnik booties, and precarious Prada pumps, the best
they can do is teeter-totter, clitter-clatter, and—on occasion—pitter-patter. Mere stomping they leave to the Ugg-clad masses.
Every Friday is sweet—the promise of Saturday unfurls into the air, like a baking birthday cake behind closed doors—
but this Friday’s sweeter,
Charlotte Beverwil smiled, directing her gleaming, cream-colored 1969 Jaguar into her coveted Showroom parking spot. Allowing
a quick glance into her gold-rimmed rearview, she feigned cool obliviousness to the fifty or so stares firmly fixed in the
direction of her ruby taillights. As Winston’s only outdoor parking lot, the Showroom, as it had been nicknamed long ago,
was all about “see and be seen,” and with her tumultuous long dark hair, flickering chlorine green gaze, and perfect too-tiny
body (the girl was like supermodel bonsai), you can bet your bottom trust fund Charlotte was more than just watched.
She was worshipped.
The heavy Jaguar door swung open, all buttery tan leather, polished walnut accents, and in the side pocket, the glossy top
half of the latest French
Vogue
—a glimpse of well-oiled interior that served as backdrop for the main event: a gorgeous gray suede asymmetrical strap stiletto
pump. The size six four-inch heeler hit the pavement, followed
tout de suite
by its mate, and then: step, step, pivot,
slam.
She’d barely been out of the car three seconds when her two best friends, Kate Joliet and Laila Pikser, materialized in two
fragrant bursts of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle. “Oh-oo-o-oooh!” Laila whinnied like a pony stranded in the rain. A wing of burnished
copper hair swept across her high, Elizabethan forehead, skimming her clear mascara-lacquered lashes. “You look so puh-
retty
.”
“I know,” Charlotte frowned, smoothing her high-waisted gathered skirt in lustrous navy silk. A sheer gray cashmere top clung
to her delicate arms, gathering into curling, cabbage-like layers at her throat and cascading in thick frills down the front.
“The question is…” She placed her hands on her hips, tilted her china cup chin, and faced her friends at a saucy three-quarter
angle. “Do I look profesh?”
“Omigod,
très
,” Kate assured her, her underfed fox-face awash with envy. Smoothing her platinum Agyness Deyn pixie cut with a bony-fingered
lavender-polished hand, she sighed. “I wish I had a business meeting to go to.”
“I know, right?” Laila pouted, unsnapped her brass-studded Balenciaga tote, and stared inside—as though deep within its black
canvas–lined depths commenced the business meeting to which
she
, not Charlotte, was invited. “You are so lucky.”
“You guys make it sound like I’m not working,” Charlotte chastised them in her best no-nonsense tone. Never mind her nonsensical
heart, pumping giddiness into her veins until they fizzed like soda straws. “Do you even know how hard it is to balance school,
a boyfriend,
and
a
career
?”
Wheee!
She’d always wanted to say that.
Last weekend, her original designer brand, Poseur, made the leap from negligible
non
to absolute
on
, and all in the time it takes to say “nice to meet you.” Like a tangled Diane von Furstenberg dress, it was hard to wrap
her mind around, especially when she remembered Poseur began with a Winston elective called (of all humiliating things) The
Trend Set. When she’d learned she’d been enrolled,
against her will
, in a class with Melissa “Me-Me” Moon, Petra “Petri Dish” Greene, and Janie “Pompidou” Farrish—three people with whom she
had
nothing
in common—she was
not
beside herself (“beside herself” was where everyone wanted to be), but
far away from herself
in despair. And nothing, not even Yves Saint Laurent himself descending from heaven for the express purpose of saying “zaire,
zaire,” would console her. And if Yves had gone further? If he had, for instance, declared, “Togezaire, you and zeeze gayrls
will create zee fabulous fashion!” she would have replied, “Whatever, Yves. Lay off the angel dust.”
But she’d be wrong.
Case in point? Winston’s premier couture handbag, the Trick-or-Treater, had been discovered by Ted Pelligan, the larger-than-life
fashion luminary behind such exclusive retail wonderlands as Ted Pelligan: Beverly Hills, and Ted Pelligan: Santa Monica.
Simply put, Ted Pelligan was more than
just a person
; he was an
institution
. And you can’t spell institution without
the
most fashionable word in the English language.
In.
Now, in just a matter of nine hours, Charlotte and her courtiers in couture—1) Melissa Moon, Duchess of Diva, 2) Petra Greene,
Princess of PC, and 3) Her Royal Shyness Janie Farrish—would depart from their peach stucco and wrought-iron school gates,
wind into the dappled shade of Coldwater Canyon, sail down sunny Sunset Boulevard, hang a right on Crescent Heights, and meet
their destiny/destination: Ted Pelligan: Melrose,
the Ted Pelligan flagship store
. Janie’s mother had made the call last week, setting up the four o’clock appointment, but apart from the dreary time-and-place
details had gathered no clues as to what the four girls should expect. “He definitely wants to carry the handbag though, right?”
Melissa had urgently checked. “Did he say we should dress up, or is it more, like, business casual?” Charlotte had wondered.
“Will we have to drop out of school?” Petra had hopefully inquired. “Did he even sound
excited
?” Janie had blurted at last. “Do you really think he’s, like,
serious
about this?”
“I think that’s the point of this meeting, girls,” Mrs. Farrish had patiently replied, clapping Janie’s cell phone shut and
blinking behind her funky turquoise cat-eye glasses. “You can ask all your questions then.”
To say the week passed slowly was an understatement of the first degree.
At the Jag’s smooth fender, Kate and Laila arranged their ballet bodies into languid positions of repose, and Charlotte scanned
the increasingly bustling Showroom floor. Metallic luxury cars poured through the main gate, tooled around the boisterous
crowd for empty spots, or headed—dejected—to park underground. Popular upperclassmen clambered aboard already-parked car hoods,
chattering like penguins on tricked-out ice floes, or nodding solemnly to the boom-boom-
thump
of competing bass lines. United as they were in Poseur, Charlotte and her three partners belonged to entirely different social
scenes, congregating on opposite corners of the lot: spotting them was no easy task. She just about abandoned her search when
two bright beamers squeezed past each other, bumpers parting to reveal a flashy platinum Lexus convertible—not to mention
its equally flashy owner. Whipping a yard-long, black-as-licorice braid over her right shoulder, she popped the trunk and
bent over.
Her bedazzled badonkadonk glittered in the sun.
“No!” Charlotte cried, plunging a manicured hand into her classic black satin Lanvin tote. Kate and Laila sprang from the
Jag and trotted to her side, but Charlotte only shook her head, uprooted her vintage gray-and-red Dior sunglasses, and clattered
them to her face. Sharing a wondering look, her friends slipped on their matching white titanium Ditas and, together with
Charlotte, returned their nonglare-impaired stares to the platinum Lexus. They blinked once, gasped.
“No!”
For the first professional appointment of her career, Poseur Public Relations Director Melissa Moon had paired a black corset
top with a cropped black, gold, and cream Chanel tweed jacket, black matte satin skinny pants, black Jimmy Choo stilettos,
and classic antique-white pearls. It was the kind of chic, understated ensemble socialite-cum-designer Tory Burch might wear—except
while Tory kept her pearls around her
neck
, Melissa had hers studded on her
ass
—and in no random order, either.
“Kiss it,”
Charlotte read aloud in trembling disbelief. “It actually says ‘kiss it’!”
“But…” Laila crumpled her heart-shaped face like a day-old valentine. “Kiss what?”
“Her bootie,” Kate sighed, fluttering her clear gray eyes shut. “Obvie.”
“We’re supposed to look like
career
women,” Charlotte whimpered, burying her face in her Jo Malone orange blossom–scented hands. “Not…”
“
Rear
women?” Kate offered, knitting her dark brown eyebrows for comic effect. Charlotte glared: so not funny.
“It could be worse,” Laila pointed out, hoping to deflect attention from her earlier cluelessness. “She could be dressed like
that
.”
On the opposite side of the parking lot, Petra Greene laughingly slipped from the torn sky-blue vinyl backseat of Joaquin
Whitman’s custom-painted VW (aka VD) bus, a pair of tiny circular Hendrix-style purple shades—the cheapo generic ones sold
on Venice Beach—shielding her wide-set tea-colored eyes. Her sleep-tousled, waist-length honey-gold hair was held in place
by some kind of blue silk print bandanna two shades darker than her frayed denim cutoffs, all of which she dared to pair with
a shrunken pinstriped tuxedo jacket. She stretched like a cat, arching her back, hands high in the air. The cracked white
letters on her faded green cotton t-shirt read: RE-use. RE-duce. RE-cycle.
“Uch,” Kate scoffed. “RE-
dic
. And is that a Paul Smith
tie
on her
forehead
?”
“It must be cutting off circulation to her brain,” Laila noted with genuine concern. “Why else would she dress like that?”
“Today of all days,” Kate returned.
“Do either of you have a light?” Charlotte intruded, lifting a gold-tipped Gauloise to her Parisian pout. Kate gasped, slapping
the contraband from her best friend’s slender fingertips. The resigned brunette watched the Gauloise pinwheel through the
air and land with a bounce on the pavement, crushed within moments by an unsuspecting silver Barneys CO-OP gladiator sandal.
She sighed.
“About that Calculus quiz!” Kate barked loudly, darting her paranoid gaze in all directions. Laila froze, eyeing the mutilated
cigarette like a ticking bomb.
