self-absorbed TV personality should, she was still gazing over the camera operator’s shoulder at Cole Early. She identified herself for the viewers, said she was reporting from Fourth Street Live, and, almost as an afterthought, concluded, “Back to you, Scott and Dawne.” She was already tossing someone her microphone and walking away before the camera shot cut back to the studio.
Then the news anchor was back on the screen, smiling his news anchor smile, which was pleasant, sunny, and safe, and nothing at all like Cole Early’s.
And Lulu repeated, “Oh. Hell.”
She turned to Bree, who was looking at her with no small amount of concern.
“Lu?” her friend said in a voice Lulu remembered well from their childhood. It was the one Bree had always used in Brownies or art class when they were doing a craft and Lulu glued something to her forehead without realizing it. She hadn’t heard her friend use it since the pufferfish girl incident. “What’s wrong?” Bree asked. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me something that’s going to make me say, ‘Oh, Lulu, what have you done?’ Again.”
Pointing at the television again, Lulu told her friend, “I met him the other day.”
“Scott Reynolds?” Bree asked, brightening. “Did his hair look as fabulous in person as it does on TV?”
Lulu shook her head. “No, not him. Cole Early. The guy they just interviewed.”
Bree’s dark eyebrows arched so high, they disappeared under her bangs. “You met Cole Early? Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me? You know the entire goal of my life is to be the kept woman of a guy like that. If you’ve met him, it puts me within one degree of separation.”
It wasn’t hyperbole on Bree’s part. Her life’s goal really was to be the kept woman of some rich guy. Ever since kindergarten, where she and Lulu first met, she’d said she was going to grow up to marry one of the richest men in the world. By sixth grade, she had begun doing research and making graphs. By high school, she’d narrowed it down to where her ambition in the senior yearbook said: “To become Mrs. Bill Gates. Or Sra. Carlos Salinas. Or Sig.ra Silvio Berlusconi. Or Fr. Ingvar Kamprad. Or Princess Sabrina bin Talal bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud.” Bree had always been an equal opportunity gold digger.
With the harsh reality that set in with college, however—the realization that there were very few billionaires walking down the streets of Louisville on any given day—Bree had become less adamant about the Forbes and People magazine lists, not to mention necessarily wanting to marry the guys. These days, all Bree wanted—and Lulu did mean all she wanted—was to find a guy who raked in at least a high seven figures a year and drove (choose as many as applied) a Ferrari, Maserati, Porsche, Lamborghini, Mercedes, Jaguar, or at least a really nice Lexus. During Derby time in Louisville when most people were trying to decide which horses had the most potential to win the race, Bree was trying to decide which out-of-towners had the most potential to array her in Prada.
It wasn’t because she was shallow that she’d developed such an ambition at such an early age, however. It was because she never knew her father and grew up watching her mother struggle for meager amounts of money, security, and self-confidence. Although Lulu didn’t necessarily agree with her friend’s certainty that money could not only buy happiness, but also security and some righteous self-esteem, she didn’t begrudge Bree her quest. Lulu’s own home life growing up hadn’t been the most stable in the world, and Bree had expenses these days that Lulu sure wouldn’t want to shoulder.
But neither did she have any desire to put her happiness and her future in someone else’s hands. Bree, however, couldn’t wait to unburden her burden onto someone else. Preferably someone with open table reservations at Spago and an account at Tiffany’s.
Lulu met her
Then the news anchor was back on the screen, smiling his news anchor smile, which was pleasant, sunny, and safe, and nothing at all like Cole Early’s.
And Lulu repeated, “Oh. Hell.”
She turned to Bree, who was looking at her with no small amount of concern.
“Lu?” her friend said in a voice Lulu remembered well from their childhood. It was the one Bree had always used in Brownies or art class when they were doing a craft and Lulu glued something to her forehead without realizing it. She hadn’t heard her friend use it since the pufferfish girl incident. “What’s wrong?” Bree asked. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me something that’s going to make me say, ‘Oh, Lulu, what have you done?’ Again.”
Pointing at the television again, Lulu told her friend, “I met him the other day.”
“Scott Reynolds?” Bree asked, brightening. “Did his hair look as fabulous in person as it does on TV?”
Lulu shook her head. “No, not him. Cole Early. The guy they just interviewed.”
Bree’s dark eyebrows arched so high, they disappeared under her bangs. “You met Cole Early? Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me? You know the entire goal of my life is to be the kept woman of a guy like that. If you’ve met him, it puts me within one degree of separation.”
It wasn’t hyperbole on Bree’s part. Her life’s goal really was to be the kept woman of some rich guy. Ever since kindergarten, where she and Lulu first met, she’d said she was going to grow up to marry one of the richest men in the world. By sixth grade, she had begun doing research and making graphs. By high school, she’d narrowed it down to where her ambition in the senior yearbook said: “To become Mrs. Bill Gates. Or Sra. Carlos Salinas. Or Sig.ra Silvio Berlusconi. Or Fr. Ingvar Kamprad. Or Princess Sabrina bin Talal bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud.” Bree had always been an equal opportunity gold digger.
With the harsh reality that set in with college, however—the realization that there were very few billionaires walking down the streets of Louisville on any given day—Bree had become less adamant about the Forbes and People magazine lists, not to mention necessarily wanting to marry the guys. These days, all Bree wanted—and Lulu did mean all she wanted—was to find a guy who raked in at least a high seven figures a year and drove (choose as many as applied) a Ferrari, Maserati, Porsche, Lamborghini, Mercedes, Jaguar, or at least a really nice Lexus. During Derby time in Louisville when most people were trying to decide which horses had the most potential to win the race, Bree was trying to decide which out-of-towners had the most potential to array her in Prada.
It wasn’t because she was shallow that she’d developed such an ambition at such an early age, however. It was because she never knew her father and grew up watching her mother struggle for meager amounts of money, security, and self-confidence. Although Lulu didn’t necessarily agree with her friend’s certainty that money could not only buy happiness, but also security and some righteous self-esteem, she didn’t begrudge Bree her quest. Lulu’s own home life growing up hadn’t been the most stable in the world, and Bree had expenses these days that Lulu sure wouldn’t want to shoulder.
But neither did she have any desire to put her happiness and her future in someone else’s hands. Bree, however, couldn’t wait to unburden her burden onto someone else. Preferably someone with open table reservations at Spago and an account at Tiffany’s.
Lulu met her
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