stage whisper.
“ Who?” said her friend.
“ You know. What’s her
name?”
When we’d walked out of earshot, I said in a low
voice, “You know it was me they were talking about, right? I’m told
I look just like what’s her name.”
“ No, no, it was me,” Ella said. “I’m
a dead ringer for what’s her name.”
“ You’re both wrong,” said Ivy.
“Everyone knows I’m the spittin’ image of—”
“ What’s her name!” The three of us
shouted. Heads turned. Meryl looked at us with concern.
“ Sorry, Meryl,” I giggled. “We’ve
had Goldschlager.”
Just before we made it to the ballroom, we had to
walk the red carpet. Broadcast reporters, radio personalities,
photographers, and two women with iPads stood at the photo booth
near the entrance.
“ Name?” asked a skinny girl with a
clipboard.
“ Roberta Bertucci,” I replied,
resisting the urge to say, “What’s her name.”
“ Miss Bertucci, who are you wearing
tonight?” she asked.
Proudly, I said: “Red Reem by Acra.”
“ Fabulous,” she purred. As the
cameras flashed like miniature strobe lights, I continued into the
ballroom alone as the girls got their photos taken. I recognized
plenty of designer label tuxes and dresses in the ballroom with
names like Armani and Donna Karan. And tonight I fit in with the
best of them. Tonight I was the one walking the fashion runway, as
eyes turned to ogle my exquisite gown. But at the same time, I felt
somewhat out of place as I entered alone, without a man on my arm.
Then the moment was broken as the girls entered and we took in the
rest of the room together.
The room was jaw-droppingly gorgeous with rows of
hanging chandeliers and swags of red velvet draped over enormous
windows. I looked up to see a Renaissance-style painted ceiling
that made me feel as if I were back in a Roman church: hand-painted
cherubs, naked men and women surrounded by fruits and clouds. A
Spanish guitarist stood playing beside a grand piano, and servers
in black and white circled the party with champagne and crab cakes.
Ivy’s PR firm really knew how to throw a fabulous event. The room
smelled of cologne, red wine, and the brisk fall air blowing in
from the street. My heels clacked on the cold marble flooring, as a
waiter handed me a glass of champagne.
I scanned the room to see if I recognized anyone.
FLASH! I turned as I sipped to see top model
Alessandra Valentino—blonde, beautiful, and legs for days—emerge
from the crowd of paparazzi near the entrance of the gala. Everyone
was bending over backwards to take her picture as she entered the
room. Behind her, with his hand resting lightly on the small of her
back was—Charlie!
Two women standing near me were talking. “You see
that?” one of themasked, looking at Charlie and Alessandra
Valentino walking in together. “I heard this is their public debut
together.”
“ Oh, come on! Everyone knows she’s
been sneaking around with some mystery man for months,
now.”
“ Really? everyone?”
“ Well, her husband just found out.
But everyone else!”
Just as she said that, I swallowed a gulp of
champagne and tried to suppress a fit of giggles. The champagne
almost came out of my nose as I began to choke. My eyes welled with
tears.
“ Jesus, Bobbie, are you okay?” Meryl
asked, patting my back, handing me a napkin. She looked over and
saw Charlie. “Oh God, okay, bathroom, bathroom. . .” She tried to
guide me away.
“ No, no, honestly, it’s no big
deal,” I said, shrugging her hand off of my shoulder. “I’m
fine.”
“ Are you sure?” she gazed at me with
concern.
“ Positive,” I stated, away any
champagne that was still possibly dripping from my nose. Charlie
and Alessandra? Could it be true? I downed the rest of my glass and
waved the server over for another. Watching Charlie, so proud of
his trophy, smiling at cameras, and flipping his hair, I started
laughing. His superficiality was so blaringly obnoxious. Ivy, Ella,
and
“ Who?” said her friend.
“ You know. What’s her
name?”
When we’d walked out of earshot, I said in a low
voice, “You know it was me they were talking about, right? I’m told
I look just like what’s her name.”
“ No, no, it was me,” Ella said. “I’m
a dead ringer for what’s her name.”
“ You’re both wrong,” said Ivy.
“Everyone knows I’m the spittin’ image of—”
“ What’s her name!” The three of us
shouted. Heads turned. Meryl looked at us with concern.
“ Sorry, Meryl,” I giggled. “We’ve
had Goldschlager.”
Just before we made it to the ballroom, we had to
walk the red carpet. Broadcast reporters, radio personalities,
photographers, and two women with iPads stood at the photo booth
near the entrance.
“ Name?” asked a skinny girl with a
clipboard.
“ Roberta Bertucci,” I replied,
resisting the urge to say, “What’s her name.”
“ Miss Bertucci, who are you wearing
tonight?” she asked.
Proudly, I said: “Red Reem by Acra.”
“ Fabulous,” she purred. As the
cameras flashed like miniature strobe lights, I continued into the
ballroom alone as the girls got their photos taken. I recognized
plenty of designer label tuxes and dresses in the ballroom with
names like Armani and Donna Karan. And tonight I fit in with the
best of them. Tonight I was the one walking the fashion runway, as
eyes turned to ogle my exquisite gown. But at the same time, I felt
somewhat out of place as I entered alone, without a man on my arm.
Then the moment was broken as the girls entered and we took in the
rest of the room together.
The room was jaw-droppingly gorgeous with rows of
hanging chandeliers and swags of red velvet draped over enormous
windows. I looked up to see a Renaissance-style painted ceiling
that made me feel as if I were back in a Roman church: hand-painted
cherubs, naked men and women surrounded by fruits and clouds. A
Spanish guitarist stood playing beside a grand piano, and servers
in black and white circled the party with champagne and crab cakes.
Ivy’s PR firm really knew how to throw a fabulous event. The room
smelled of cologne, red wine, and the brisk fall air blowing in
from the street. My heels clacked on the cold marble flooring, as a
waiter handed me a glass of champagne.
I scanned the room to see if I recognized anyone.
FLASH! I turned as I sipped to see top model
Alessandra Valentino—blonde, beautiful, and legs for days—emerge
from the crowd of paparazzi near the entrance of the gala. Everyone
was bending over backwards to take her picture as she entered the
room. Behind her, with his hand resting lightly on the small of her
back was—Charlie!
Two women standing near me were talking. “You see
that?” one of themasked, looking at Charlie and Alessandra
Valentino walking in together. “I heard this is their public debut
together.”
“ Oh, come on! Everyone knows she’s
been sneaking around with some mystery man for months,
now.”
“ Really? everyone?”
“ Well, her husband just found out.
But everyone else!”
Just as she said that, I swallowed a gulp of
champagne and tried to suppress a fit of giggles. The champagne
almost came out of my nose as I began to choke. My eyes welled with
tears.
“ Jesus, Bobbie, are you okay?” Meryl
asked, patting my back, handing me a napkin. She looked over and
saw Charlie. “Oh God, okay, bathroom, bathroom. . .” She tried to
guide me away.
“ No, no, honestly, it’s no big
deal,” I said, shrugging her hand off of my shoulder. “I’m
fine.”
“ Are you sure?” she gazed at me with
concern.
“ Positive,” I stated, away any
champagne that was still possibly dripping from my nose. Charlie
and Alessandra? Could it be true? I downed the rest of my glass and
waved the server over for another. Watching Charlie, so proud of
his trophy, smiling at cameras, and flipping his hair, I started
laughing. His superficiality was so blaringly obnoxious. Ivy, Ella,
and
Similar Books
