Kira Coplin - Pop Tart

This was typical Sheryl, and this is what I mean about feeling bad for her. She was so desperate to be seen and liked, especially by the society types who lunched at the Polo Lounge, that she always did them favors to ingratiate herself to them. Although when I really thought about it, she adored attention from almost anyone willing to give it to her and was known to flirt with men half her age after no more than a single appletini. The Dressner job, however, was a definite step in the right direction for her as it was one more step up the social ladder. To me, it meant a wasted Saturday afternoon spent with a bratty teenager and her friends and no compensation in sight.

‘Sure,’ I mumbled, feigning rapture with something on my computer screen, which I hoped would mask my annoyance.

‘Fabulous! I would go–but I’ve got a hot date with a hotter man,’ she said before she leaned in closer to me. ‘And I probably won’t get out of bed ‘til noon, if you know what I mean.’ Making a whispering voice without whispering, she said, ‘Ted Painter,’ and then sat there smiling, waiting for my reaction.

‘Oh that’s great–I was supposed to meet friends at one of his restaurants for brunch tomorrow…’ I hinted. Standing up, I grabbed my coat as fast as I could in fear that she might start spouting more–where they were going, how they met, what he was like in bed. Just the thought of Sheryl and the sixty-year-old restaurateur holding hands made me gag.

‘So, I have to go now, bye,’ I said as I practically ran toward the door.

‘Oh–don’t forget, we have a big job on Sunday,’ she called after me.

‘We do?’ I asked, halfway out the door.

‘Come on, you remember, the music video shoot in the Valley,’ she said.

‘Oh right, those dancing, singing boys from that Nickelodeon show, right? The ones with kind of spiky hair?’ I asked nonchalantly.

‘The Emerson Brothers!’ she shrieked.

‘Yeah, them.’ I shrugged. She looked at me like I was crazy, but I wasn’t a twelve-year-old girl and I had no idea who they were.

‘They’re huge, Jackie, they just signed an endorsement deal with Street Cred!’

‘Who is that? A rapper?’ I asked, genuinely confused.

‘Street Cred?!’ she asked incredulously. ‘The energy drink? Well, anyway, we’re not doing their makeup exactly…’

‘Great,’ I thought, sure she was about to tell me we were doing their mother’s makeup for her dinner reservation that night.

Much to my relief, she responded, ‘We’re doing the makeup for this up-and-coming singer named Brooke Parker…a real cutie, she was Miss Teen Florida last year. She was discovered by some kind of talent manager or someone, doing her cute little song and dance in the pageant–anyway, she’s their opening act and she’s shooting her first video. I’ll see you Sunday.’

I was running late as usual the next day and hurried to put the finishing touches on the Dressner daughter’s face while the Hollywood elite took their seats in the ballroom of the Regent Beverly Wilshire–soon to be filled with the amateur designs of local rich kids dabbling in the fashion world on their parents’ dime. I giggled about this to myself as I spotted Delia Lutz, the Queen of Gossip and ruler of her own online domain, deliasdirt.com, sitting just a few seats away. She was snaky, sort of, in a very Page Six sort of way, but was even better because she sank her teeth into local personalities just as hard as international celebrities. And even though Delia could be cruel, I knew that she’d still write up the fashion show favorably since the proceeds were benefiting the Children’s Hospital. She’d call the attendees fashionistas instead of fogies, and describe the clothing with supple adjectives like sleek, flirty , and hip , instead of boring, ugly, and uninspired. As I mused, her gaze unexpectedly met mine, and then the strangest thing happened. Delia cringed, either in a state of embarrassment or horror, or maybe it was a combination of both, and looked away immediately.

‘That’s strange,’ I said to Lauren, my longtime friend who had accompanied me to the show, ‘did you see the way that woman just looked at me?’

‘It’s not that surprising considering she just lit up your boss online,’ Lauren laughed.

‘She what?’ I asked.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it!’ A look, similar to Delia’s, spread across Lauren’s face now. She punched a few keys on her BlackBerry and flipped through a few entries–obviously having read Delia’s Dirt more than once on the go–and handed it over to me. Squinting slightly, I read:

Which well-known restaurateur currently going through a mid-life crisis was left waiting alone at a table in his very own nightclub while his recently separated, social-climbing date (who’s been known to do her fair share of both making out and ‘makeup’ all over town) gave a little ‘hand service’ to a hard-rocking musician in the next room over?

‘This is bad,’ I said to Lauren, ‘I mean, everyone knows that Sheryl’s been seeing Ted Painter…’

‘Who’s the hard-rocking musician?’ Lauren giggled.

‘I’m surprised that you don’t know!’ I laughed though I was still in sheer disbelief, unable to pry my eyes away from the phone. If anyone knew the rock star’s identity, I was sure it’d be Lauren–because Lauren always seemed to know everyone’s business everywhere. From celebrity blogs to the society column in a tiny Beverly Hills newspaper, she was on it. We met freshman year in high school and she was no different then–always relaying the latest dramas that were unfolding in the hallways as she twisted pieces of her unruly, strawberry-tinged hair around her finger. And even though she somehow knew everyone’s secrets, gossip for Lauren had always been more of a spectator sport. She worked at an art gallery and spent most of her time between the door-chimes of incoming customers compulsively hitting ‘refresh’ on every gossip website and blog in existence. Still, like me, she preferred to watch from the safety of the sidelines, managing to never stick out.

By the time the sixth model strutted down the runway in something that can only be described as ‘contemporary culottes’–if there is such a thing–I had become completely oblivious to the over-oooh’d-and-aaah’d crap being flaunted up and down the runway. If Sheryl puts as much energy into her anger as she puts into her enthusiasm, tomorrow was going to be ugly, a sleek and inspired kind of ugly.

My ringing cell phone provided me with a rude awakening early Sunday morning, confirming my worst fear: Sheryl scorned was a force to be reckoned with.

‘Hello?’ I asked groggily.

‘Jackie…it’s Sheryl.’

She was silent for a few seconds and I had momentarily forgotten all about the blind item in the newspaper as I looked sleepily around my garage apartment, which was basically attached to my parents’ house. The sunlight leaking in from the blinds highlighted the disaster that had become my home–littered with unused chopsticks, empty Lean Cuisine containers, and invitations to showers, weddings, and graduation parties (and thank-you letters from showers, weddings, and graduation parties).

‘Hi,’ I said, stepping over a pile of clothes that I meant to bring to the dry cleaner weeks ago.

‘Listen, you’re going solo to the gig today,’ she said slowly and grudgingly.

‘Okay…yeah, sure. Is something wrong?’ I asked, slightly wincing and wishing I could have taken it back the second I asked.

‘I um–well, my right hand is in a splint,’ she said cautiously as if she was contemplating telling the truth. Then, unwavering, she burst out, ‘It was that stupid bitch Lunt or Klutz or whatever. Okay? Here’s what happened…’