addition to the museum. After passing through ground-floor security that a president would have felt safe having, I took the elevator up to Hiram’s penthouse. A private elevator, of course. Hiram had the top three floors of a thirty-two-story building.
This was the first time I had been invited to the penthouse. I considered it a signal that I had arrived, transcending from a mere employee—a member of the great unwashed masses—to part of the executive inner circle. Like getting the proverbial key to the executives’ washroom.
I smothered an excited giggle at the thought.
According to Neal, the penthouse was ritzy. I figured it would be something out
of Architectural Digest
. What Hiram lacked in taste he made up for in money to buy the best. If I had his big bucks, I’d probably surround myself with luxurious things, too. Being superrich was never going to happen to me, not unless I married it, but I was curious about how the anointed ones lived.
I stepped off the elevator into the reception area and into the arms of two more security guards. Only these two were in tuxedos. The foyer was capacious, with walls of pale green Italian marble and an enormous rug portraying the cosmic sea called Varu-Karta from ancient Persian cosmography. Eric told me the rug once belonged to the Shah of Iran.
I identified myself, and a security guard relayed news of my presence to another person standing at the double doors to the penthouse.
“Good evening, Ms. Dupre,” the greeter said, opening the door for me. I noticed a mike on his lapel. My name was being transmitted inside.
An image of servants shouting the entrance of a guest into a great hall in Shakespearean times popped into my head and I almost giggled again. Actually, I was so excited when I was getting dressed for this evening that I had opened a bottle of champagne and sipped a glass as I soaked in my spa-tub. I might have had more than one glass, because I was feeling a little light-headed.
I stepped through the double doors into the living space and was welcomed by Hiram’s wife.
“Madison, darling, come in, I’m so glad you’re here; this is as much your night as the rest of us.”
She gave me a friendly cheek-to-cheek greeting on each cheek, Hollywood style.
I wanted to ask her who “the rest of us” were who deserved credit, other than Hiram for spending thirty seconds writing a check, but I just smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Rich bitch that she was, her outfit was gorgeous. “I love your outfit.”
She wore a couture beaded white evening dress that complemented her golden tanned skin. Around her neck was an elaborate twenty-four-stone drop emerald necklace and matching earrings. No doubt worth millions, I quickly calculated in my head. I couldn’t help but notice her sparkling diamond ring on her left hand that almost blinded me when I approached.
I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months and she looked like she had taken off years…. I was sure a surgeon’s knife had a lot to do with it. The perfectly white teeth she flashed were also the best smile money could buy.
Yes, I was petty and spiteful when it came to Hiram’s wife. Besides being abundantly endowed with the beauty, grace, and charm that I had been so meagerly rationed with, she had married billions. And not once did she have to use her teeny-weenie little brain for anything.
Prior to being Mrs. Hiram Piedmont III, she was Angela St. John, a not-too-famous actress in Hollywood.
Hiram had met her in Beverly Hills buying a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, and it had been love at first sight as soon as Angela found out he was a billionaire.
That was nearly five years ago, when Angela was an actress pushing forty, a sin in Hollywood, where the only admired feminine attribute over forty was a bustline. She had been mostly a pretty showpiece in movies, often cast as the Other Woman, and that fit her personality nicely. She had a bitchy quality about her, part of that unique
This was the first time I had been invited to the penthouse. I considered it a signal that I had arrived, transcending from a mere employee—a member of the great unwashed masses—to part of the executive inner circle. Like getting the proverbial key to the executives’ washroom.
I smothered an excited giggle at the thought.
According to Neal, the penthouse was ritzy. I figured it would be something out
of Architectural Digest
. What Hiram lacked in taste he made up for in money to buy the best. If I had his big bucks, I’d probably surround myself with luxurious things, too. Being superrich was never going to happen to me, not unless I married it, but I was curious about how the anointed ones lived.
I stepped off the elevator into the reception area and into the arms of two more security guards. Only these two were in tuxedos. The foyer was capacious, with walls of pale green Italian marble and an enormous rug portraying the cosmic sea called Varu-Karta from ancient Persian cosmography. Eric told me the rug once belonged to the Shah of Iran.
I identified myself, and a security guard relayed news of my presence to another person standing at the double doors to the penthouse.
“Good evening, Ms. Dupre,” the greeter said, opening the door for me. I noticed a mike on his lapel. My name was being transmitted inside.
An image of servants shouting the entrance of a guest into a great hall in Shakespearean times popped into my head and I almost giggled again. Actually, I was so excited when I was getting dressed for this evening that I had opened a bottle of champagne and sipped a glass as I soaked in my spa-tub. I might have had more than one glass, because I was feeling a little light-headed.
I stepped through the double doors into the living space and was welcomed by Hiram’s wife.
“Madison, darling, come in, I’m so glad you’re here; this is as much your night as the rest of us.”
She gave me a friendly cheek-to-cheek greeting on each cheek, Hollywood style.
I wanted to ask her who “the rest of us” were who deserved credit, other than Hiram for spending thirty seconds writing a check, but I just smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Rich bitch that she was, her outfit was gorgeous. “I love your outfit.”
She wore a couture beaded white evening dress that complemented her golden tanned skin. Around her neck was an elaborate twenty-four-stone drop emerald necklace and matching earrings. No doubt worth millions, I quickly calculated in my head. I couldn’t help but notice her sparkling diamond ring on her left hand that almost blinded me when I approached.
I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months and she looked like she had taken off years…. I was sure a surgeon’s knife had a lot to do with it. The perfectly white teeth she flashed were also the best smile money could buy.
Yes, I was petty and spiteful when it came to Hiram’s wife. Besides being abundantly endowed with the beauty, grace, and charm that I had been so meagerly rationed with, she had married billions. And not once did she have to use her teeny-weenie little brain for anything.
Prior to being Mrs. Hiram Piedmont III, she was Angela St. John, a not-too-famous actress in Hollywood.
Hiram had met her in Beverly Hills buying a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, and it had been love at first sight as soon as Angela found out he was a billionaire.
That was nearly five years ago, when Angela was an actress pushing forty, a sin in Hollywood, where the only admired feminine attribute over forty was a bustline. She had been mostly a pretty showpiece in movies, often cast as the Other Woman, and that fit her personality nicely. She had a bitchy quality about her, part of that unique
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