nose.
Anastasia’s eyes were glued to the video while her thumbs sent a quick text. Seconds later, one of her many purple lab coat–wearing assistants appeared with her metallic gold makeup holster. She snapped the chic fanny pack around the waist of her flowing gown, then dismissed the assistant with a stiff half-nod. Massie side-stared at the holster in awe.
Six pockets hung off the belt, each one stuffed with products from Be’s high-end, special-edition Gold line. Each brush, shadow, pencil, balm, and gloss was wrapped in a gilt-plated package.
Except for one. It was the shape of a Crayola marker and the color of an eggplant. And it stood alone. In all its purple glory.
Massie instantly sat on her hands to keep them from shaking. On the video Noelle was saying something about an earthquake in Sephora, but it was impossible to concentrate. Greatness was an arm’s length away. And she found herself trembling in its presence. Was this how Lauren Conrad felt when she met Marc Jacobs on
The Hills
?
“Come with me,” Anastasia whisper-grinned. She placed Muse in her Fendi wooly-fringe-and-feather “To You” bag and stood.
Massie choked back a “Yay!” as she hurry-followed her mentor out the side exit, reveling in the jealous looks and excited whispers of everyone they passed. This was it! The moment she had slaved for all week. Anastasia was going to take that purple marker out of her holster and paint Massie into her exclusive club. And then they would reenter the luncheon as in-the-know equals and make mini-pony-shopping plans as soon as the guests cleared out.
Once they were alone in the VIP holding room, Anastasia shut the door behind them. She opened her Fendi on the floor and smiled peacefully as Muse trotted out and began galloping around the marble coffee table.
Massie’s stomach fluttered in anticipation. She tried her hardest to look unsuspecting, but it was too late. The I-know-I’m-about-to-get-a-purple-streak grin had already settled on her face.
And it held strong . . . until Anastasia explained why they were really there.
THE SOUTHAMPTON COUNTRY CLUB
VIP SITTING ROOM
Saturday, June 27
1:03 P.M.
Without a single word, Anastasia lowered herself onto the edge of the peony pink settee. The Be Elite purple pen jiggled around in its holster as she tried to get comfortable. But Anastasia didn’t reach for it. Instead, she pulled out a handful of products and popped open her Be Reflective compact. With the finesse of an artist, she dabbed Be Peachy blush on the apples of her cheeks, traced her dark eyes with Be Money green glitter pencil, and double glossed her lips with a bottom coat of Be Pink and a top coat of Be Flashy. It was like watching Picasso paint, only fun.
“My
Gawd,
you’re ugly!” Anastasia snapped her mirrored compact shut and stood.
“Ehmagawd, you are so
nawt
—” Massie started, reaching for the chocolate-dipped fruit.
“Not
me
!” She whacked the strawberry out of Massie’s hand.
“You!”
Massie giggled. This had to be some sort of purple-streak initiation joke. After all, Anastasia had called her a POTO just a couple days ago. But the mogul turned away in disgust. She faced the gold Lurex curtains and lowered her head.
“Wait.” Panic-sweat prickled its way through Massie’s tiny pores and dampened her forehead. “You’re not kidding?”
Anastasia shook her head no.
“You seriously think I’m
ugly
?” The room started spinning. It was hard to know where Anastasia’s Oscar- statue dress began and the curtains ended. Massie felt like a cardboard cone swirling around a giant vat of gold cotton candy.
“Ugly?”
“Yes.” Anastasia turned to face Massie, her almond-shaped eyes glistening with tears. “On the
inside
.”
The spinning room settled.
“Phew.” Massie fanned her forehead. “So I’m still pretty on the outside, right?”
“What difference does
that
make?” Anastasia scooped up Muse and held him close. “You told those girls
Anastasia’s eyes were glued to the video while her thumbs sent a quick text. Seconds later, one of her many purple lab coat–wearing assistants appeared with her metallic gold makeup holster. She snapped the chic fanny pack around the waist of her flowing gown, then dismissed the assistant with a stiff half-nod. Massie side-stared at the holster in awe.
Six pockets hung off the belt, each one stuffed with products from Be’s high-end, special-edition Gold line. Each brush, shadow, pencil, balm, and gloss was wrapped in a gilt-plated package.
Except for one. It was the shape of a Crayola marker and the color of an eggplant. And it stood alone. In all its purple glory.
Massie instantly sat on her hands to keep them from shaking. On the video Noelle was saying something about an earthquake in Sephora, but it was impossible to concentrate. Greatness was an arm’s length away. And she found herself trembling in its presence. Was this how Lauren Conrad felt when she met Marc Jacobs on
The Hills
?
“Come with me,” Anastasia whisper-grinned. She placed Muse in her Fendi wooly-fringe-and-feather “To You” bag and stood.
Massie choked back a “Yay!” as she hurry-followed her mentor out the side exit, reveling in the jealous looks and excited whispers of everyone they passed. This was it! The moment she had slaved for all week. Anastasia was going to take that purple marker out of her holster and paint Massie into her exclusive club. And then they would reenter the luncheon as in-the-know equals and make mini-pony-shopping plans as soon as the guests cleared out.
Once they were alone in the VIP holding room, Anastasia shut the door behind them. She opened her Fendi on the floor and smiled peacefully as Muse trotted out and began galloping around the marble coffee table.
Massie’s stomach fluttered in anticipation. She tried her hardest to look unsuspecting, but it was too late. The I-know-I’m-about-to-get-a-purple-streak grin had already settled on her face.
And it held strong . . . until Anastasia explained why they were really there.
THE SOUTHAMPTON COUNTRY CLUB
VIP SITTING ROOM
Saturday, June 27
1:03 P.M.
Without a single word, Anastasia lowered herself onto the edge of the peony pink settee. The Be Elite purple pen jiggled around in its holster as she tried to get comfortable. But Anastasia didn’t reach for it. Instead, she pulled out a handful of products and popped open her Be Reflective compact. With the finesse of an artist, she dabbed Be Peachy blush on the apples of her cheeks, traced her dark eyes with Be Money green glitter pencil, and double glossed her lips with a bottom coat of Be Pink and a top coat of Be Flashy. It was like watching Picasso paint, only fun.
“My
Gawd,
you’re ugly!” Anastasia snapped her mirrored compact shut and stood.
“Ehmagawd, you are so
nawt
—” Massie started, reaching for the chocolate-dipped fruit.
“Not
me
!” She whacked the strawberry out of Massie’s hand.
“You!”
Massie giggled. This had to be some sort of purple-streak initiation joke. After all, Anastasia had called her a POTO just a couple days ago. But the mogul turned away in disgust. She faced the gold Lurex curtains and lowered her head.
“Wait.” Panic-sweat prickled its way through Massie’s tiny pores and dampened her forehead. “You’re not kidding?”
Anastasia shook her head no.
“You seriously think I’m
ugly
?” The room started spinning. It was hard to know where Anastasia’s Oscar- statue dress began and the curtains ended. Massie felt like a cardboard cone swirling around a giant vat of gold cotton candy.
“Ugly?”
“Yes.” Anastasia turned to face Massie, her almond-shaped eyes glistening with tears. “On the
inside
.”
The spinning room settled.
“Phew.” Massie fanned her forehead. “So I’m still pretty on the outside, right?”
“What difference does
that
make?” Anastasia scooped up Muse and held him close. “You told those girls
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