The It Girls

I look around the room and I realize she’s got money, but still, she’s not in my financial tier. I try to take some comfort in this. At least I know I’ll always be richer than she is, but then, I’ll always be richer than almost anyone on the planet. After a point, money is just money. But command, now that’s an aphrodisiac. Renee acts as if she is accustomed to the mantle of power; that is what’s making me so uncomfortable.

Renee lives in a brownstone and while it is nice, it’s no penthouse. And, studying her closely, I’m almost certain there’s been work done. I mean, what woman in her forties hasn’t had something altered? I just can’t put my finger on who did her. It looks so natural. Her hair is strikingly auburn. Her complexion fair and unblemished. She’s thin, but not anorexic. It’s so unfair!

I sit in a wingback chair in Renee’s parlor, listening as Renee and Emma talk and wonder why Emma adores Renee. She is about as easy to be around as a porcupine. Still, I haven’t been here two hours and Renee has somehow managed to get me to tell her things almost no one knows. I don’t mean just the stuff you read in magazines or tabloids, I mean everything. She does it so skillfully that I barely realize she’s interrogating me while managing not to give away one piece of her own personal information. I’ve been studying clinical psychology for four years and I still can’t do that!

When Renee goes in for the big finish with me she is so good I don’t even see it coming.

“So,” she says in her clipped, polished voice, “your wealthy stepfather married your mother when you were a toddler. You have never wanted for anything, never worked, never needed and certainly never bothered to exert yourself in any fashion. I suppose you must be wondering who on this planet would miss you if you suddenly disappeared. I mean, if things had somehow gone tragically awry this evening.”

We are drinking this amazing white Bordeaux and I admit I’m feeling it. So at first I think she is still speaking to Emma, only she has turned her head in my direction and is still talking.

“No one would miss the ‘It’ girl,” she says. “They would be replaced by the next hot rich thing.”

A cold chill sobers me as her words echo in my head. I mean, who would miss me? Paparazzi? My ferret? Emma? Who would remember me for anything but my money? What would my obituary say in True Style magazine? Big, fat tears well up in my eyes and I look around for help from Emma, only she has mysteriously vanished. When did she leave the room?

“Emma will miss me,” I say, but I sound uncertain, even to myself.

Renee smiles. “Of course she will…for a while. Emma is such a dear girl. I’m sure she’d compose a piece about you—she’s such a fabulous pianist. Her life will roll along and eventually, she’ll hardly remember to think of you. She won’t mean anything by it, but that’s just how she is.”

Renee sips her wine and stares at the flames dancing in the fireplace while I just sit there like a lump. I am twenty-four, beautiful, smart, incredibly wealthy and, for all intents and purposes, useless. What am I going to do, endow a building? I swallow, hard, and feel tears threaten to turn into sobs of regret.

“I’m young,” I struggle to say at last. “I have lots of time to create a legacy.”

Renee turns away from the fire and raises one imperious eyebrow. “Do you? One never knows. Your jet could crash tomorrow. You could wake up with a brain tumor. Does one ever really know how much time one has?”

I chug the last half glass of wine and realize that I am completely sober.

“I’m taking courses in clinical psychology at the New School,” I say, and give away the one secret I have left. Against my parents’ wishes and without their knowledge, I am going to graduate school. Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to justify my worth to this woman? “I am a semester away from getting my master’s, and,” I add, “I’ve almost completed analysis.”

“So, you want to be a psychologist, do you?”

“Yes, an analyst.”

“And have a private practice or work in a clinic?”

I don’t see Renee closing in for the kill until it’s too late.

“Oh, private practice, that way I can set my own hours.”

Renee nods and smiles her Cheshire cat smile. “So, you’ll give up your travels, I suppose. After all, most analysands do require thrice weekly therapy.”

I swallow hard. Well, I most certainly am not going to do any such thing, but how can I tell her that? And no way was I going to work in a clinic! But if I say any of this, Renee will see me as I’m beginning to see myself, only Renee and I are both wrong about me. I am a good person, aren’t I, even if I don’t have much to show for it?

When I don’t answer, Renee says, “You’re young. You have energy. You know, I run a foundation with women just like yourself.”

Oh, a foundation—now that was easy. Why didn’t Emma tell me Renee ran a foundation? Did she do this in addition to whatever it was she did that involved those commando types? Was she in law enforcement or something?

Maybe Renee will tell all if I express an interest in her charity. All you need to have to join a foundation is money. I can so do that.

“I would adore joining your foundation,” I gush. But inside, I am secretly disappointed. I suddenly want to join whatever it is that gives you strong, virile men in black SWAT costumes for backup. I want to shoot a gun and flip people over my hip, like Emma did with the Italian woman. It might be fun. I need a thrill in my life. When is Renee going to realize that I am trustworthy and let me in on the real deal?

Renee leans back in her wingchair and seems to study me for a moment before she smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. “The Gotham Roses are a very prestigious group of women. I would guess Emma hasn’t spoken much about her work with them, has she?”

I shake my head, genuinely puzzled. She hasn’t, and I thought we shared everything!

Renee moves forward in her seat and regards me with a very serious expression. “Porsche, Emma vouched for you. She says you can keep a secret and are not as bubbleheaded as your press exploits might lead one to believe.”

I start to protest, but something in her eyes stops me.

“Porsche, I would like to tell you about the Gotham Roses, but before I do, I must know that you understand that what I am about to tell you is highly confidential. Lives hang in the balance based on my ability to pick and choose whom I confide in. Would I be making a mistake to tell you about the Roses?”

I have no idea what the woman is talking about but I do know one thing—Porsche Rothschild can carry a secret to the grave. I know things about my friends and their families that would ruin them if I told. Nothing, no amount of liquor or persuasion, has ever gotten one detail past my sealed lips!

“I assure you, I can keep a confidence,” I say.

Renee’s expression doesn’t relax.

“Porsche, if you decide to proceed with this conversation, I will need to tell you something.”

I nod, as if she’s making sense to me and long for another sip of wine. Somehow I know that this would be the wrong thing to do.

“Porsche, believe me, if I were to learn that one word of what we discuss tonight becomes public knowledge, I could bring forces to bear that would ruin your family and end all possibility of you ever becoming a psychologist. Do you understand me?”

I can hardly believe what I am hearing. Ruin my family? Who the hell is this woman? I know better, but still a frisson of fear ignites deep inside my chest. Do I really want to hear what she has to say?

I swallow, hard. “You have my word,” I promise.

Renee nods, reaches into a small wooden box that sits on the end table beside her and withdraws a small, handheld tape recorder.

“I’ll need to make a record of this,” she says, and clicks on the tiny machine. “Discussion with Porsche Dewitt Rothschild.”

“You know my middle name?”

Renee stops and smiles. “It’s not exactly a state secret, Porsche. But, yes, before speaking with you, I had a thorough background investigation completed. As I said, Emma placed your name before me for consideration some months ago. We just didn’t have need of your talents until recently.”

Talents, what talents?

“The foundation, the Gotham Roses, operates on two levels,” Renee begins. “On the lower level, we are a group of talented and wealthy women who do good works in the New York area, promoting worthwhile causes for women. But on another highly exclusive and top secret level, we work to help certain government agencies fight crimes perpetrated against, and sometimes by, the very wealthy.”

Renee watches me, to see if I am following her, and so I nod even if I don’t fully get it yet.

“Because of our family backgrounds and names, we are sometimes able to gain access to a level of society that regular law enforcement rarely permeates. Because your name is so instantly recognized, Porsche, and because of your reputation as a party girl…” Renee holds up her hand as I begin to protest. “Deserved or not,” she adds, “we have a need for your help.”

I am thrilled. I am so excited suddenly to be a member of the team that I almost jump out of my seat and kiss the woman, and yet, a little voice inside my head says, Be careful what you ask for!

“A situation may be arising,” Renee continues, “in which we could use someone with your skills in the psychological arena. I mean, I know you’re by no means a trained psychologist, but you do have a certain understanding of these sorts of issues. And the situation I have in mind requires a certain delicacy and, shall we say, name recognition. We need a very high-profile socialite for this case, an ‘It’ girl, someone everyone knows and watches and yet, doesn’t take seriously.”

Doesn’t take seriously? Now wait a minute!

Renee ignores the frown on my face and keeps right on going. “We have a little bit of training that you’ll need to undertake, as a precaution. You probably won’t need it, but it’s always nice to have a few tricks up your sleeve just in case. It will certainly be nowhere near as risky as the situation Emma was involved with, but still, it’s nice to be able to take care of yourself in a pinch.”

Of course, I had no idea then what Renee was talking about. And here it is, almost two weeks later and I still feel like Renee hasn’t told me everything. However, I’m realizing Emma Bosworth and Renee Dalton-Sinclair had this all mapped out long before I flew in from Paris with Marlena and decided it might be lovely to have my ferret’s nails manicured. Renee’s investigators have done their homework, too. How else could she know so much about me? That I have an almost photographic memory? Or that I grew up thinking Victor Rothschild was my real father, right up until I found my mother’s old marriage certificate saying she’d been married to some man named Lambert Hughes when I was born? How else would she seem to know every secret I’ve ever told that devious Emma if they hadn’t been plotting to get me into Renee’s elite little club?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Emma the next afternoon. I am hoping she will think I know more than I actually do and tell me the rest of the story, the real guns-and-ammo part of the story.

She has the nerve to play dumb. “What?”

“The Gotham Roses? How could you be involved in something so secret, so dangerous, so…”

“We try and help others,” Emma began, but I cut her off.

“Bullshit! Renee says you work with the FBI, the CIA and God knows who else. And this training, my God—self-defense, secret communication devices, and yet you two just keep saying it’s really not dangerous? Renee says it’s more of a psychological assessment than a real mission. What are you guys, superspies?”

Emma looks at me like I just don’t get it, sighs and shakes her head. “Bug, this is not a game and it’s not all glamour. We are not Charlie’s Angels. Renee works for a woman she calls the Governess on cases that involve the top layer of society that others just don’t have access to because they don’t have the right contacts. We do the training because Renee feels it’s better to be prepared for anything, even if the danger doesn’t materialize.”

“Oh, Emma, please!” I say. “Next thing you’ll be saying ‘It’s dirty work but somebody’s gotta do it!’”

Emma nods. “Well, it is. It’s unfortunate that there’s so much crime among the rich and privileged, but that’s the way the world is now. The Governess is not without her enemies, either. There is someone she and Renee call ‘The Duke,’ who is just as determined to bring down the Governess and the Roses as we are to stop his nefarious influence in the top echelon of society. The Gotham Roses are not dilettantes trying on crime-fighting for a hobby.”

I don’t believe a word of it, but two weeks later, after personal trainers and coaches have done their best to work me over and prepare me for anything, I’m actually relieved to be leaving town. So what if my assignment isn’t exactly dangerous? No matter how it turns out, it’ll still be better than riding the endless party circuit and listening to dull stories told by dull people. I’ll actually have a life, even if I can’t tell anyone about it!

The night before I am due to leave Renee calls me into her study and tells me all about my assignment.

“Jeremy Reins, the actor, says someone’s trying to kill him,” Renee says. “But the evidence indicates it’s just another one of his publicity stunts.”

She tells me this right after I come in from a grueling sparring match with her self-defense expert, Jimmy “The Heartbreaker” Valentine. I’ve broken four nails, had half my extensions pulled out and have the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming under my right eye. And here is Renee, telling me she doesn’t think it’s even a true assignment?

“So, why not blow the idiot off?” I ask. “It’s not like he’s really anybody. Besides, he’s been getting himself into a lot of trouble lately. The talk is that he has an attraction for kinky sex with very young men.” I shrug. “He’s just an actor.”

“Just an actor?” she says raising that eyebrow of hers.

“Okay, okay, so he’s golden at the box office, but who cares? I mean, if he’s faking it, why not just let him hire extra bodyguards?”

Renee shrugs. “The Governess feels he’s a national treasure and Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein, is married to a woman who has done us many favors in the past. Andrea Lowenstein is saying she feels a stalker or even a terrorist could be behind these attacks. Reins has done several commando, patriotic, action-adventure films in the past and could be the object of a terrorist vendetta. The Governess feels Andrea Lowenstein’s concern is credible. Anyway, it’s just not good to ignore such a visible and beloved member of the public. If something really did happen, it would make the rest of the country uneasy. We don’t need to take that chance.”

She smiles at me, like I’m going to fall for it, and says, “We have you. With your training in clinical psychology, you’ll be perfectly capable of discerning the threat level and letting us know if we need to send a team of more seasoned agents out to eliminate the issue.”

Seasoned agents, right! I’m sure the entire thing is just a publicity stunt. But I have to admit the idea is somewhat enticing, especially with the rumors I’ve heard on the circuit that Jeremy is gay. I like knowing the real scoop and this will certainly be the way to find out. Renee doesn’t wait for me to accept. She assumes I will do her bidding and continues talking.

“You’ll be Jeremy’s date for the Oscars and he’ll be yours for CeCe Goldberg’s post-Oscar charity party. That’s your cover, a budding romance and your charity work,” she says. “All the Roses have special charities they support. Yours is the Miller Children’s Home. CeCe Goldberg, as I’m sure you know, is not only a world renowned investigative reporter, she is also director Spiro Goldberg’s wife and quite active with children’s charities. You’ll be the celebrity co-host of the post-Oscar event for a new children’s home attached to Miller Children’s Hospital. Andrea Lowenstein will be the only one who knows your true reason for staying at Paradise Ranch. Jeremy will be only too happy to have you as his guest because he doesn’t want the rumors about his sexuality spreading and destroying his box office appeal. You have both the name and the, er, reputation to dispel any and all doubts the public may have. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to stick to you like glue and show you all around Paradise Ranch, as well as the rest of L.A.”

I ignore the comment about my reputation and instead roll my eyes at the mention of Jeremy’s estate—Paradise Ranch, how nouveau riche.

“Has he hired extra security?” I ask.

Renee smiles. “You’re catching on, I see. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t. He says he doesn’t want his attacker to think he’s scared.”

Great. A wild-goose chase. But then, who else would get a shot at analyzing Hollywood’s bad boy? Oh, Renee Dalton-Sinclair is good, all right. She doles out just enough information to pique my curiosity and ensure that I am willing to undergo all kinds of crash courses in self-defense and investigation, then turns me loose and says it’s probably nothing at all.

“You know,” she says, “with your almost photographic memory and your graduate level course work in clinical psychology, you could be most useful to the Gotham Roses, should things go well with this assignment.”

Good old Renee, dangling that golden carrot in front of me. I can only become a permanent fixture in her elite undercover organization if I prove to be successful in my mission in Los Angeles. If I wind up blowing it, I’ll be useless to the Roses. Of course, I am not about to blow it; sneaking around spying into the secret lives of my fellow rich and famous sure beats attending boring theory courses in psychology at the New School. This is where the real fun is.

“What about the press?” I ask. “I mean, will they accept that Jeremy and I are an item? We’ve never been seen together in public before now.”

Renee smiles. “Oh, but you have. Andrea and I have taken care of that on both coasts. Just read In The Know. Rubi Cho’s mentioned the two of you at least three times in her gossip column for the New York Reporter this week. And Andrea’s had Jeremy’s publicist vehemently denying any blossoming romance between the two of you. That should be enough right there to spark a paparazzi feeding frenzy.”

When I wake up in the morning, I pack and prepare for the long trip to L.A. and my new action-packed life. As I walk out to Renee’s waiting limo, her fifteen-year-old daughter, Haley, comes running up behind me.

“Hey!” she calls. Then, when I keep walking, she says it again. “Hey!”

I stop and turn to look back over my shoulder, surprised because the little twit’s made a point of ignoring me for the entire time I’ve been a guest in her home. She’s standing there in her school uniform, looking like a runaway Playmate with her long, straight blond hair, her huge, gray eyes and that innocent, pouty mouth older women pay big bucks for at the plastic surgeon’s office.

I think she’s talking to the driver until she zeroes in on me and says, “Mind if I ride along to the airport?”

I figure it’s Marlena who’s garnered her interest so I say, “She bites.”

“What?”

That’s when I realize Haley hasn’t even noticed Marlena wrapped around my neck like a fur scarf.

“You need a ride to school?”

Haley shakes her head and starts walking toward the car like she owns it, which I suppose, technically, she does. She breezes past me, clambers into the back seat of the limo and before I can even sit down says, “Are you really Jeremy Reins’s girlfriend? So, what’s he like in bed?”

“What?”

I look at Renee’s princess daughter and know my mouth is hanging open. I reach forward, hit the button to slide the privacy glass up between us and the driver and then turn to give the little twit a piece of my mind.

“Listen, where I come from we don’t kiss and tell—and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell a kid like you about something like that! What is wrong with you?”

Haley leans back against the seat and looks at me and I realize she’s completely unfazed by my attempt to chastise her.

“You’re a prude, aren’t you?” she says, like it’s a matter-of-fact thing and not a slur on my good name.

“No,” I say, wishing Marlena would wake up and bite the little shit. “I am just wise enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, come on!” Haley says, pouting.

“Does your mother know where you are?” I say, and immediately want to shoot myself for sounding like my own mother.

“Can I bum a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” I say, and realize, too late, that Haley is right in the middle of Mahler’s separation-individuation process and doesn’t really mean what she’s saying. So I remember my training and attempt to be therapeutic; after all, this is the first day of my new life.

“Haley, in order to break away from your mother and become your own person, it is perfectly normal for you to rebel and do things that your mother would disapprove of,” I say. “But smoking will kill you.”

“Oh, blow me!” Haley says. Then she sits up and starts rummaging through the drawers of the wet bar until at last she retrieves a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Don’t even think about lighting one of those things!” I command. “Marlena is allergic to smoke.”

Haley gives Marlena a look, like she’s trying to size her up, and finally tosses the pack of unfiltered cigarettes back into the drawer.

“What is he like?” she asks, reverting to Jeremy.

“Spoiled,” I answer.

“Does he love you?”

I give up and decide to enjoy my new role as Jeremy Reins’s fictitious girlfriend. I smile slyly and raise my eyebrows, and then lean in close, like I’m actually going to share a secret with this hellion.

“He’s mad for me,” I say, and giggle. “He fills my tub every night with champagne heated to a perfect ninety-eight degrees, and then he floats rose petals on the water, and not the red ones, either. He knows I abhor red roses, so he has pale yellow and orange ones flown in from his farm in Florida.”

Haley’s eyes are practically popping out of her head and I continue, completely into the lie now.

“He once took a slim silver dagger and sliced a thin line down the center of his chest. When it bled he looked at me, with tears in his eyes….”

“Because it hurt?” she says, interrupting.

I shake my head. “No, it was the depth of his emotional attachment to me that made him cry. He said ‘I would cut my heart out for you, for our love.’”

Haley sucks in her breath. “But like, wouldn’t he be dead then?”

I close my eyes and shake my head slowly back and forth. “No, idiot, he meant it as a gesture and as a way of saying that our love would transcend our current earthly incarnations and last for all eternity.”

“Oh, man!” Haley sighs. “I want to be loved like that!”

Don’t we all, I thought, and am relieved to see the airport come into view. How had Haley learned about my mission anyway? Was her mother careless? What if this had been a really dangerous assignment? But when I ask Haley about it, she shrugs and smiles coyly.

“I’m not the only sneaky person in the family,” she says. “I have my ways.”

I make a mental note to take this up with Renee upon my return. Perhaps the bond between mother and daughter could be repaired with stricter generational boundaries; at least, that’s the family systems theory. I personally think a good smack is in order.

“Please, please, please get his autograph for me,” Haley begs as I get out of the limo and start for the private concourse. Then, apparently thinking this uncool, she shakes her head vigorously. “No, don’t do that! Bring me a pair of his underwear instead. Used.”

I don’t think this even warrants a response. I leave her there, staring after me and walk away as fast as I can. I breeze past the security checkpoint and to where a private plane waits for me. For once in my life, I’m glad to be leaving New York. L.A. and Jeremy Reins seem like a vacation compared to the rigorous two weeks I’ve had training to be a Gotham Rose.