3. Daisy
Daisy
I am currently not on speaking terms with Ashleigh, so I’ve been ignoring her calls since that so-called date.
That doesn’t explain why she’s been incessantly ringing me all day.Suffice to say, I am ignoring her.
The first few times I merely put her on silent.
After the tenth time, I blocked her – temporarily!
I’ll be over this fit with her soon enough.
It’s not the first time we’ve been on these kinds of terms. Probably won’t be the last, either.
Text messages blow up my phone when I’m not answering. Fuuuck. I shove my phone beneath my pillow and go back to doing my nails and flipping through my favorite tabloid.
I live and breathe for The Daily Social.
Don’t believe me? It’s my homepage on all my devices.
My maid knows to leave my physical copies on a silver tray outside my door, complete with iced tea and two vanilla wafers for me to enjoy while I flip through the pages and see who is up to no good these days.
See who is wearing what and who is dating whom.
This month there is a page dedicated to the big wedding between Etta Coleman and her assistant-turned-fiancée Jamie Joy.
I only know of Etta Coleman because Daddy does a lot of business with her.
Don’t know anything about her pretty fiancée, but I love her fashion sense.
This month’s big picture of her in some poufy pink dress and a fluffy white jacket.
Her big, round sunglasses go great with her curly hair.
Who does it for her? I bet it’s Raul. I can pick out his styling from a mile away!
The next page is dedicated to the annual Down With Domestic Violence Gala spearheaded by Monique Warren, who had the wedding of the year until her BFF Jamie upstaged her.
Monique is the real winner if you ask me.
She’s got a baby coming. Of course, she somehow totally got knocked up before the wedding, but only Mama will say anything mean about it.
Daddy agrees with her until he’s alone with his buddies.
Then he can’t stop talking about what a catch both Helen and Monique Warner are.
I hear she runs a fancy brothel. Mama hates her even more for that!
I turn the page. Eep! Do my eyes deceive me, or is it a rare photo of Kathleen Allen and her partner Ira Mathison?
No way. You don’t understand. These two do everything they can to avoid the paps.
Their relationship is so private that some speculate they’ve been secretly married for months.
I hope they are. They’re such a darling couple, and the idea that they could hide something like that from the press makes me love Kathleen even more.
I’ve had a major crush on her ever since she gave the commencement speech at my high school graduation two years ago.
She went to the Winston Academy too but is way older than me – like, almost thirty.
She’s the kind of woman I aspire to be. Not only is she a mega-rich heiress like me, but she’s so incredibly classy and humble.
(I know, I’ve gotta work on that.) In fact, isn’t she the richest woman around here?
Yet she’s never flaunted it, except to cut huge checks to her charity projects.
I was shocked to find out she started dating a player like Ira Mathison a year ago.
Never thought she would go for someone like that.
Isn’t it amazing how a woman can reign another in?
Oh, I know it’s not a good thought to have.
Life doesn’t really work that way. Once an ass, always an ass.
Yet it’s a fun fantasy, this business of taming a wildling who could have any woman in the world – but it’s you they’re committing to for the rest of their life.
Ugh, and they look so good together. Why can’t I have something like that?
One more time my cell phone rings. Fine, Ashleigh, have at it!
“What?” Can she hear my ire? I bet she can.
“Hey, Daisy…” Ashleigh’s more sheepish than Mary’s little lamb. “What’s up?”
“Calling to grovel?” My voice is syrupy sweet.
I instantly regret saying that, but here’s hoping Ashleigh doesn’t take it too personally.
When I’m pissed at someone, I tend to come off as a huge bitch even when I don’t mean to.
All I know right now is that I hope she’s sorry about what transpired the other day at the restaurant.
“Actually,” she begins, making my blood turn cold in my veins. Her tone is only a tad strange. I am so not in the mood for whatever is going to come slap me in the face.
“Well? Spit it out, already.”
Throat clearing. Shuffling the phone. Cracks over the line. Get. To. The. Point.
“Have you seen The Big Hello yet today?”
I flip The Daily Social shut and look at my stack of weekly magazines accumulating on a coffee table near my bed.
I have a ritual. I read one first, then the next, all in a certain order.
The Big Hello is at the bottom of the list. One time some fucker wrote an article that I was pregnant with twins by two different guys at my university, so it can burn for all I care.
Some women gobble up romance novels every day. I need a hardcore dose of trash to start my day off well.
“Not yet,” I admit. “Why? Am I in it?” My nail polish almost falls out of my hand.
“They didn’t say I’m pregnant again, did they?
Last time Daddy and Mama almost sent me to a nunnery at the mere prospect that I’m not a virgin.
” It’s been three years, y’all. Getting laid was one of the best decisions I ever made.
College has been so much sweeter for it.
Some tawdry giggle comes over my line. “There’s an interview with Lorde Sheen in it. Don’t get too upset, okay?”
“Upset?” My mouth twists into a sneer. “Why? Like I give a fuck about her.”
Yet I’m already off my bed and rummaging through the stacks of magazines on my coffee table. When I find the right logo, I flip the magazine open and turn until I find a giant spread of Lorde Sheen looking like the smarmiest fucker in the world.
Asshole. Of course, she’s got a full portrait.
The media loves their Hollywood darling.
I bet the interviewer was a single woman who had to clench her legs shut so she wouldn’t jump Lorde’s bones for some answers.
It’s hard to not imagine her riding that smug, pouty face while she asks these asinine questions on the page.
“How are you enjoying the east coast again? Any girls you have your eye on?”
Oh, good, we’re cutting right to the chase.
“Definitely. I’ve had a few flings here and there, you know, the usual… but I have my eye on someone right now.”
“Who might that lucky lady be?” Don’t ooze any more jealousy, lady. Otherwise, you might have to go to the gynecologist to get that checked out.
“Do you know Daisy DeMonte? She’s always showing up in your fashion column, I believe.
What I hear, though, is that she’s nothing like the other prissy princesses of New England.
I hear she’s quite [omitted] and likes to [omitted], even with a few people at a time.
So, yeah, you could say that I’m interested in her! She sounds pretty kinky.”
The magazine lands by my recently painted toenails.
“Daisy? You there?” My phone is still glued to my ear, although I don’t think I’m moving anytime soon. “You okay? Should I come over? Maybe I can call my family’s publicist to help you deal with this.”
“I… she… that… bitch!” I pick up the magazine so I can throw it at the nearest wall.
I’m not exactly a softball pitcher, and the wall isn’t exactly close by.
The magazine lands in the middle of the floor, opened to the smiling, guffawing picture of a darling daughter straight from the bowels of LA.
What the fuck has she done! “How could she do this to me?”
“Look, Daisy, there’s something you should know…”
I can no longer pay attention to Ashleigh. Down goes my phone onto my couch. My mind is racing with terrifying images: like my super traditional and conservative parents finding out about this quote and losing their utter shit in my direction.
Be absolutely assured that everything Lorde Sheen has said about me is a lie!
Not only have I never… whatever she is implying!
Fuck! Why are words omitted! What did she say?
What is she trying to get at? Furthermore, why is she torturing me long after we met?
Leaving the restaurant should’ve been the last I ever heard from her.
We are far beyond that now. Oh, she’s about to get me in her face!
First, I must ground myself. Yes, this sucks. But I can’t storm out of my apartment. There’s probably an army of paps out there ready to snap pictures of me in complete disarray over what Lorde said in that tabloid trash.
I must set aside my rage for now. Deep breaths, girl. Prioritize, then rage.
My closet opens to reveal the outfits my stylist has put together for this week.
I grab the one that was supposed to be for tomorrow: a mosaic black and white silk halter top with a short black skirt.
I throw some of my nicer jewelry with it and start attacking my hair with a brush.
Wear it down? Pull it back? Fuck it. I’m leaving it down and my hair can be happily tucked behind my ears.
I double-check that I look presentable in my mirror, and on second thought add some subdued red lipstick and my tortoiseshell cat-eye sunglasses.
Bam. Badass bitch and still ready to be papped for those stupid fashion columns.
After snatching some black pumps out of my shoe closet and picking up a black Chanel bag, I finally decide I’m ready to leave.
Ashleigh has kept calling me this whole time.
I decide to answer on my way out the door.
I need the fucker’s address, right? She’s ready to give it to me.
Sounds like she’s got it memorized, honestly.
I bet you a thousand bucks she slept with Lorde.
You may not be able to tell from meeting the mousy socialite, but she gets around – with girls, too.
She was on a date with one of the nation’s most notorious playgirls. Of course she slept with her!
Why she’s in such a hurry to give me Lorde’s address so I can take her ass down is the real mystery. Maybe she was bad in bed or insulted her. More ammunition for me to kill Lorde.
As I suspected, a flurry of photographers await me outside. They snap pictures on both sides of me as I ignore them, stepping calmly to the sidewalk and hailing the first cab to pass.
Usually, I would have a driver to cart me around the city, since Daddy is always going on about the Evils of Public Transport.
(Cabs qualify, in his mind.) No time for the driver today.
I have things to accomplish, complete with me taking out a wet wipe to rub down the leather seat I’m about to sit on.
Someone save me. The cab driver is looking at me in his mirror, ready for some conversation. “Dressed to kill, huh?” I glare at him through my sunglasses.
The man won’t shut up after I give him the address and we leave the pap-ridden street.
I’m trapped in this hellhole for half an hour as we get caught up in traffic and the driver swears he’s lost in a town he should know inside and out.
I think he wants to keep staring at me. Does he think he has a chance?
Sorry, pal. I only date Greek life hustlers and the kind of heirs my daddy thinks are good for me. (They’re not.)
This whole time I’m thinking of something unsavory. Something my father mentioned about a month ago when he called me into his office and dropped a huge bomb.
Going to see Lorde Sheen isn’t about my pride. It’s about my family’s pride, too. I swallow and start counting bills as we reach our destination. Thankfully, I don’t see any paps. Then again, who knows how they’re hiding out these days.
After paying the ungrateful driver handsomely, I steal into the building, hoping to avoid any paps who might be lurking about.
A doorman and receptionist both greet me.
I can tell from the female receptionist’s face that she recognizes me.
Sure enough, a copy of The Big Hello is turned over on her desk. Great.
The doorman hurries to escort me up to Lorde’s apartment on the third floor.
The building is short and squat, a Mediterranean-style complex that could either be brand new or recently updated, who damn well knows.
I didn’t even know they had Mediterranean luxury apartments out this way.
Of course, Lorde would live here. Probably makes her think of California.
As soon as the doorman is back down the hall, I slam my finger against Lorde’s buzzer. And hold it.
Hold it!
“Coming!” comes a groggy voice. Don’t care. Still holding down this buzzer. I hope she’s internally screaming from the obnoxious sound. “For fuck’s sake! Could you…” The door unlocks. I finally pull my hand back and cross my arms, face as stony as I can muster.
When she opens that door, she will see the Queen Bitch of her nightmares.
The door swings open. She’s… shirtless.
My mouth drops open. Fuck it, I admit I’m gawking, because she’s like a statue carved from old Italian marble – like the old shit my mother dragged me to see when we visited her country of birth.
Lorde’s tight sports bra is holding on for dear life to those shoulders while drawing all of my attention to her pushed-up cleavage. And those abs?
Those god-damned abs?
Fucking. Delicious .
“Eyes up here,” she says, leaning in her doorway. I raise my flushed cheeks to her face. She’s wearing jeans, low-slung on her hips, and that perpetual grin is driving me crazy.
What kind of crazy? That I do not wish to admit.
“Well, well, well.” Lorde matches my crossed arms, covering her sports bra. Naturally, this flexes more than a few muscles. Kill me. “What a lovely surprise this is.”