“It’s not a nurse or personal manager or anything, is it?”
“No sir.”
“Miss Easton isn’t here to detox, is she?” He hated when celebrities used his rooms to dry out from partying or heal after their elective cosmetic enhancements. Truman Enterprises would be made liable if they dropped dead, and they sometimes did. Pontiak Fontana, a chart-topping R&B singer, had been found floating in his Beverly Hills property’s tub a few months ago. They were just starting to put the scandal behind them.
“My concerns are the same, sir. But our bellman, Tristan, assured me the women smelled, stood and spoke sober. Her friend didn’t appear to be a nurse, rather gave the impression she might be a family member. Let me pull their card. One minute.” Kip left the office and returned with a file, which he handed over.
Warner read over the printout. “American Express reads Tabitha Adelaide Brillford.”
“Correct.” Kip grinned.
“Never heard of her.” Of course, he’d heard the Brillford name. They were an academic family from Manhattan society and had won various Nobel Prizes for their work in economics and finance. Central Park had benefited over the years from the Brillfords’ generous donations. This Tabitha wouldn’t be caught dead with an Easton if she came from their stock. “Care to tell me about the boat parked in our dock?”
“It belongs to the third guest who arrived to meet them. She’s staying in the suite as well.”
“Name?”
Kip glanced down at the reservation. “A Viveca Farnworth. She came over today from Anguilla.”
“Obviously.”
Farnworth Firewater sponsored trashy sex parties along the East Coast. The Farnworth family equated to trouble and owned one of the largest alcohol brands in the world.
“Sir, Miss Farnworth dropped a liquor case off for the dining hall. She came to rest with her friends and left a note that they aren’t to be disturbed under any circumstances.” In the trained to deal with difficult guests aka the Truman Enterprises manager’s smile, Kip flashed his whites and continued, “It says in the room instructions that we are to leave breakfast, lunch and dinner at the door. They have the gym blocked out to exercise in private tomorrow, sir.”
“All standard, except for the odd gym request.” Familiar with eccentric guests’ requests, he assumed the girls were too chubby to work out in public. Hmmm, maybe they’re here to lose weight.
“They fly back to New York on January second, sir. I don’t imagine they’ll do us any harm. Miss Farnworth reserved the dock until tomorrow. Then she’s sailing back to Anguilla.”
“Let them stay.”
Kip seemed pleased he’d gotten his way and smiled, then dropped his head. “And, Mr. Warner, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry to hear about Rielle. I know how much you loved her.”
“I thought I did, Kip.” Blinded? Yes. Pussy whipped? Fuck no. “People change, and just when you think you know someone, they wind up being something they’re not. I don’t regret my decision not to marry Rielle in the least. I’m better off. And so is she.”
“Enjoy your night, sir.” Kip left the office.
Hearing Rielle’s voice had made his blood run cold. Warner wondered why a woman couldn’t be herself—say what she meant and call it as she saw it. He’d always admired the up-front and honest approach, no smoke and mirrors. Didn’t women use this strategy anymore to date? Or were the rules different when one became a billionaire? He asked himself these questions as he headed to Privé Extreme, his favorite watering hole, for a nightcap.
* * * * *
Vajazzling was listed on Secrète de St. Barth’s spa service menu, which shocked Taddy. She’d deemed the Warner Truman resort and spa elegant, but too stuffy for her taste. With a desire for pussy glamour, she’d asked the French beauty therapist, Brigitte, if she could squeeze in time for a ruby gem application. Brigitte sprinkled the crystals over her upper pubic area. Lex spent the day in the pool swimming as Vive nursed her post-Christmas hangover with a midday nap.
Taddy zipped the side of the Céline dress up. Phoebe Philo, the garment’s designer, always managed to make her look her best. She didn’t see the sense in sporting her usual thong with the vajazzling goings-on. Walking across the suite, she caught Vive coming out of her room.
“Love my dress?” Decked in a gold slinky number, Vive spun around for approval. Taddy nodded a yes. “It’s Bottega Veneta. I adore this metallic fabric. We covered the collection in my last issue.” Vive’s knack for stealing fashion samples from editorial shoots and never returning them had started many years ago. Since Vive wore a size two, she snagged whatever the models sported. Unlike Taddy, whose outfits were tailored for taller sizes, she wasn’t as fortunate.
Taddy knocked on Lex’s door. “Darling—you ready?”
Lex opened the bedroom door, phone glued to her ear, hair undone, shouting into the phone, “No, Mom—tomorrow when midnight strikes and the ball drops, Manhattan will not experience another 2003 blackout.” Her friend covered the receiver. “Go ahead without me and have fun.”
“We can wait,” Vive offered. The insincerity in her tone suggested otherwise.
“No, go.” Lex waved them on. “I’ll catch up with you girls later.”
Taddy went out to the foyer and brushed her hair back in the mirror, creating the desired Gisele Bündchen look. She spritzed her favorite tuberose perfume, followed by an aerosol hair douse round of hairspray. I’m scented, sealed and ready to go. Grabbing her Judith Leiber Aurelie croc clutch, she called out, “Take your time, Lex. Text us when you’re ready and we’ll let you know where we are.”
“Tell Birdie—Taddy and I wish her a happy New Year.” Vive’s eyes rolled. “Let’s get a drink or two or three.” She grabbed some furry-looking dead animal thing from the counter.
“What the hell are you carrying?”
“Tom Ford’s latest handbag.” Vive seemed proud.
“I’ve never seen black and white striped long fur. Except on a—”
“Skunk…Taddy. It’s skunk and I love it.”
“Does it smell?”
“No, honey, it’s as in-vogue as mink. Skunk is the new thang. Wait and see.”