Poseur #3: Petty in Pink: A Trend Set Novel (7 page)

“More like
distracted
,” smiled the petite brunette, gritting her pearly teeth. (In fact, instead of waiting out the Crescent Heights stoplight,
Charlotte had decided to cut across a parking lot, ran over an orange cone, and chucked off a piece of her car—a detail she
was
not
about to divulge now). “I mean, did you
see
the Mary Had a Derek Lam display on the first floor? You’d remember if you had,” she blurted before they could respond, clutching
her most professional bright vermilion Hermès
grand modèle
agenda to her light gray ruffled chest. “That display is an absolute
work
of
art
,” she breathed to Gideon. “Unlike
some
people, I can’t walk by a masterpiece without taking time to admire it.” Melissa’s jaw dropped in protest, but Charlotte
ignored her, cloyingly offering her hand. “I’m
sure
you understand, Mr.—”

“Peck,” replied the solemn assistant.

“
Fabulous
to meet you!” Melissa nudged her frilly rival to the side, snatching Gideon’s fig-and-cassis-lotioned hand from her grasp.
“
Melissa Moon
. And can I just say,” she continued, cocking a savagely gelled eyebrow in Charlotte’s direction, “I don’t think anyone who
calls themselves fashion-conscious could
possibly
keep Mr. Pelligan waiting.”

“He is…
here
, right?” Janie tentatively confirmed, allowing Charlotte and Melissa to lock in to a glare.

“Of course,” Mr. Peck tipped into a quick, contrite bow, relieved to finally escort them up the gleaming marble staircase.
As much as he abhorred their lowly emotional display, he also found it assuring. Miss Mary-Kate and Miss Ashley also bickered,
and Teddy insisted it was a sign of talent.

Up they went, heels clacking—that is, until they reached the landing. The plush oriental carpet muted their footsteps, pair
by pair, and they looked around. In contrast to the modern bustle downstairs—all pulsing beats, polished floors, and enticingly
arranged collections—Mr. Pelligan’s office brought to mind a centuries-old university or church. The vaulted ceiling gleamed
like an empty eggshell, dark leather-bound books lined the hallway, and a gentle ticking filled the air. Two grandfather clocks—carved
to resemble rockets?—flanked either side of Mr. Pelligan’s daunting office door. Just as Gideon reached for the handle, they
released a deep, internal whir, loudly clicked, and burst into song. The girls startled in alarm. Gideon did not react. Quite
calmly, he pushed open the door, revealing at first the massive mahogany desk, and then, directly behind it…

The man.

“Listen to me!” He sang in perfect harmony with his clanging clocks. “
Don’t listen to me
. Talk to me!
Don’t talk to me
. Dance with me!
Don’t dance with me.
NOOO… beep-beep!”

The four girls huddled together. (During their respective car rides home, they would have to agree: of all WTF moments,
this
was the WTF-est. It was seriously, like, should they
run
?) Several well-heeled members of his staff stood at either side of Mr. Pelligan’s desk, hands behind their backs, staring
straight ahead. It seemed Mr. Pelligan’s musical outbursts, though tedious, were no cause for concern.

In fact, they were business as usual.

“Beep-beep!” He swiveled his high-seated ergonomic chair, bobbing up and down, and excitedly paddling the air. “Oooo… bop.
Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-fa! Fa! Fa! Fa!
Fashion
. Oooo… bop. Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-fa! Fa! Fa! Fa!
Fashion
.”

The chiming melody ceased—but for a final reverberating note—and Mr. Pelligan settled back into his seat, sighing with satisfaction.
“Those were a gift,” he explained as the clocks resumed the more traditional duty of striking time. “From Mr. Bowie
himself
. Aren’t they
marvelous
?”

Janie bit the insides of her cheeks. Mr. Bowie? As in
David
Bowie? As in the Thin White Duke? Was he freaking serious?

She could not
wait
to tell Amelia.

“Ah! My haute couture hatchlings,” he greeted them at last, bulging his pale gray eyes. “Allow me to introduce you to my team.”
Pushing his chair back, Ted Pelligan grunted to his shining shoes. He wore a suit similar to the one he wore the Halloween
night they first met, but in a different color—a lime green seersucker paired with a tie of lavender silk, a crisp white shirt,
and traditional Ferragamo two-tone wing tips. Unlike Gideon and the rest of his staff, who boasted mannequin-perfect proportions,
Teddy was short-limbed and stubby, with a round, protruding middle and two impossibly tiny feet. “I’m a
gummy bear
!” he’d sometimes wail, glimpsing his reflection.

(Before meetings, Gideon made sure to cover the mirrors.)

“My divine and diligent staff!” Mr. Pelligan beamed as his employees arranged themselves in V formation, Giddy at the head.
“My faithful flock of Pelligans.
Mr. Peck,
” he declared, indicating the solemn assistant, “you’ve already met. And, em”—he turned to the next employee in line with
a blank, befuddled look—“em…”

“
Brian
, sir,” the young man politely assisted him.

Mr. Pelligan gave him a cheerful slap on the back, moving on to the next in line, a stunning yellow-eyed girl with violet
hair swept into a chain-metal chignon: “This is Dancer, and over here we have Prancer,
Dasher
, of course, Blitzen, Comet, and finally, yes”—he paused, returning to the young man with a dismissive sniff—“the unforgettable
Brian
. With his nose so bright.”

A clap of his tidy hands, and all but one—a petite brunette, the woman he’d introduced as Prancer, who looked exactly like
Natalie Portman, except with a lazy eye—filed through the exit. Sitting in a corner wing chair, she stared into her lap and
proceeded to fold a piece of pale pink paper.

“Wunderbar!”
The heavy wood door closed with a resounding boom, and Teddy flopped into his office chair, belting his hands across his
belly. “Now.” He swiveled around. “Can any of you tell me, what, thus far, you have learned?”

They hesitated, freezing into a line near the pin-striped fabric wall. How, exactly, were they expected to respond? Thus far
we have learned that you, Ted Pelligan, are totally head-over-butt-heels crazy? And maybe, with our relative lack of quirk—with
our bland, predictable sanity—we’ve already bored you to tears?

Janie had the sudden urge to throw a lamp, just to prove him wrong.

“Just
look
at them, Giddy!” Mr. Pelligan stopped midswivel, touching his assistant’s arm. “Timid as
titmice.
”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you have learned!” He bounded to his miniature feet. “Is the
third
rule of Fashion. The
first
, of course, which you so
exemplarily
displayed this afternoon, is to
never
arrive
anywhere
on
time
.”

“We’re so sorry,” Janie interrupted. “We—”

“The second!” he whispered, raising a finger to his lips. “
Never
apologize! And the third, which
I
so exemplarily displayed for
you
mere
moments
ago”—he bobbed two perfectly groomed silver eyebrows, an apparent signal to Mr. Peck, who quietly left the room—
“ forget people’s names.”
He circled the stunned quartet, popping his gray eyes for emphasis. “As soon as you meet someone—
pfffft!
That name should go flying out of your head. And if it
hasn’t
, by all means,
pretend otherwise!
”

“But”—Petra paused, wondering if Mr. Pelligan’s mushroomy shape had anything to do with his hallucinatory affect—
“why?”

“Because that’s
fashion
, my pouting pet!” Gesturing to a hanging black-and-white photograph of him and Madonna, he declared, “I’ve been calling
that
one Debbie for eighteen
years
. The woman bloody
worships
me. Copies my every move! You think she just
decided
to wear a nude satin conical bustier out of
nowhere
?” He tapped a fingernail against Madonna’s young glass-framed face and narrowed his gray eyes. “I beg to differ.”

Petra, Melissa, Janie, and Charlotte shared an uneasy glance. No doubt a change of subject was in order, but all they could
do was just
stand
there, like, lamely racking their brains. Wonky-eye Natalie was no help; she remained in the corner, staring into her lap
and folding yet another piece of pink paper. When Gideon returned to the room carrying two lavender-striped hatboxes, the
girls sighed their collective relief.

The dude’s timing was impeccable.

“At last!” Mr. Pelligan brightened. A flutter of feet propelled him toward the corner of his massive mahogany desk where Gideon
had placed the two hatboxes. “So,” he winked. “Now that you know the
rules
”—he pried the top box open, dancing his fingers about the rim—“we may begin… the
game.
”

He lifted the lavender lid high into the air, shaking it like a tambourine.

“The Trick-or-Treater!” Melissa gasped, recognizing the little handbag at once. And why wouldn’t she? It was, after all, Poseur’s
first and only couture creation. Per Mr. Pelligan’s request, they’d given it up for adoption. Even though he assured them
the arrangement was temporary, in the back of their minds they wondered: would they ever see it again? Charlotte, Janie, and
Petra gathered around as Melissa cradled the bag in her arms. It was all there: the electric-blue bamboo-silk material, the
compact square Starburst shape, the board-short lace-up detail,
the interlocking gold P clasp
.

“Oo-oh,” Melissa whinnied. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“Impossible,” argued Mr. Pelligan, shuffling through a crisp stack of papers. Melissa gasped, clutching the handmade handbag
to her chest.

“
Believe
me,” Petra gave a roll of her tea green eyes. “She’s
missed
that thing.”

“My delightfully
duped
demoiselle,” Mr. Pelligan sniffed. “I’m afraid I must insist—she did nothing of the kind.”

Before they could continue arguing, a brief rustle of lavender tissue paper pulled their attention toward Gideon. “Perhaps
this
,” the solemn assistant proposed, exhuming the second box’s contents, “is the object of her yearning?”

The girls gaped in amazement, for Gideon had presented (it couldn’t be!) the
Trick-or-Treater
. Was it some kind of magic trick? Had he pickpocketed Melissa’s handbag from under her MAC-powdered nose, leaving in its
place a twitching white rabbit?

“I—” Melissa looked between the Trick-or-Treater in her arms and the one in Gideon’s hand, dumbfounded. “I—”

“My thoughts
precisely
!” agreed Mr. Pelligan, clasping his hands to his chest. “It’s
quite
the little copy, if I say so myself. But, then again, I say everything myself.” He giggled, quickly collected himself, and
handed them each an official-looking packet from his desk. “As soon as we have your
permission
—and I do mean signing this
contract
, my legally-bound lovelies—we’ll begin
production
, manufacturing not
one
handbag, not
two
handbags, but”—he turned to his solemn assistant with a flutter of eyelids—“Giddy. What
was
our final number?”

“One thousand, sir.”

“One,” Janie rasped, clutching Charlotte’s cashmere-covered arm for support, “
thousand
?”

“Chin up, up!” Mr. Pelligan clucked. “In time, we’ll be producing them by the
tens
of thousands. Isn’t that right, em”—he pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped his small fingers—“you there!”

At last, the Natalie look-alike looked up (well, at least
one
eye looked up—the other stared fiercely to the left). Quickly, she got to her feet, forgetting a collection of three or four
pink origami cranes that spilled from her lap to the floor.

“Em…” Teddy grimaced, snapping his fingers.

“Birdie,”
she piped up, following him with her good eye as he drifted toward his desk. “Birdie
Pelligan
?” she clarified, hoping to ring a bell.

“Oh yes, yes,
Birdie
. Apple of my eye, fruit of my loins.” He brushed her off, picking up the phone. “Do your
jobbie
, won’t you, darling?”

With a resigned sigh, Birdie nodded, refocusing on the four girls (that is, her
right
eye focused; the other kind of veered off to gawk at a stained-glass Tiffany lamp). “Please,” she said with a brave smile,
indicating a group of four British colonial cushioned wicker chairs. “Sit.”

They sat, sharing their umpteenth wondering look. Wonkyeye was Mr. Pelligan’s
daughter
? Maybe he’d adopted her from Romania or something. Or assumed the form of a bull and raped a tree branch, like Zeus.