Page 5 of The Heiress

“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 amsonot 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 seenThe Big Helloyet today?”

I flipThe Daily Socialshut 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 Hellois 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 – withgirls,too. She was on a date with one of the nation’s most notorious playgirls. Of course she slept with her!

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