Mercury in Retrograde Read Free Page B

more— definitely the BBD: Bigger Better Deal between those two”).
    Lipstick always felt dirty after reading the website, which was run by two mean queens in San Francisco, but over the years it had come to rule young New York society. Everybody liked to see pictures of themselves, and unlike the society magazines, Avenue, Quest, or Town & Country, viewers could comment on the photos and spill gossip, however nasty or untrue it was. And best of all—the young up-and-coming socialites could rank themselves, creating a tangible popularity game, keeping them forever—no matter how old—in high school.
    Lipstick took a deep breath and clicked refresh on the website to see that week’s results: Bitsy Farmdale was first. Lipstick was sixth.
    Disappointed, Lipstick shut the laptop, sighed, and took one last cuddle underneath her thousand-count Frette sheets before hopping out of the king-sized bed she’d specially ordered from the Four Seasons Hotel. She ambled across the white Persian carpet covering the ebonized fishbone floors and, opening the drapes, momentarily blinded herself with the light. She stumbled backward into one of the two nailhead chairs that framed the fireplace, stubbing her toe.
    Beyond the nailhead chairs was the creamy limestone bathroom, complete with a “rain room” shower with two oversized ceiling nozzles, a limestone bench, and steam capability. There was also a large egg-shaped limestone tub and a double sink along a mirrored wall.
    Not bad, Lipstick, in red Juicy sweatpants and a tank top, thought, eyeing her image in the mirror. Despite eating shellfish last night, her eyes weren’t as puffy as she’d thought they’d be. Best of all, her ass didn’t seem to have been affected by the dinner with her Y magazine coworkers during which she had succumbed to all five courses at Daniel and endured their uncomfortable stares and whispers for the entire meal. “You’re really going to chub out this time,” Muffie Dinklage, the senior fashion editor, whispered to Lipstick over her soufflé.
    But that hadn’t happened. Yet. She wasn’t exactly thin, per se, but Lipstick was an Amazonian blue blood. She wasn’t fat, just big boned, and being five feet, ten inches—over six feet in heels—didn’t help. But she did try to stay in shape by dabbling with Pilates or Cardio Funk—whatever was in that particular month—and made it to Sally Brindle’s yoga workshop on Broome Street in Soho at least once a week. Lipstick loved Sally, who was not just a yoga teacher, but had, over the years, become a friend and she showed Lipstick how to help maintain her body without starving herself. Had Lipstick devoted her life to the method study of anorexia like some of her Spence schoolmates, she could have modeled. Lipstick was classically beautiful with big brown eyes and full lips. Her prominent nose fit her face and hadn’t been chopped down by Dr. Dan Baker, as had the noses of most of the socialites she knew. Her sandy brown hair fell below her shoulder blades in a long, layered Gisele Bundchen way that was artfully streaked blond by Rita Starnella of the Warren Tricomi Salon every month.
    Not that her father, Martin Lippencrass, or her mother, Lana, who was the current president of the Daughters of theAmerican Revolution, would have let her model. “Just look at those tacky Hearsts.” Lana had gasped upon picking up Harper’s Bazaar one day and seeing Lydia Hearst—the strawberryblond publicity-seeking granddaughter of William Randolph Hearst—on the cover. “Have they no shame? Her grandfather is rolling in his grave right now. She’s not even doing it for charity!” Besides, Lipstick wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway. An innate insecurity and inability to sit still would have stopped any modeling career in its tracks. In all of the Lippencrass family photos, Lipstick’s