Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew

      When I first meet Renee I think she must’ve watched one too many action-adventure movies. I mean, I know she commands troops of people in black who swoop down to rescue her friends from terrible trouble just in the knick of time, but does she really have to be so incredibly rigid? Don’t get me wrong. When I get old like her I want to be powerful enough to have two of my friends saved with just one tiny phone call, but I will not lose sight of my femininity.

      Renee doesn’t look like a man or anything but she’s just so formal. I meet her at 3:00 a.m. and she’s wearing a Chanel suit and three-inch Ferragamo pumps. Not one auburn hair is out of place. Her makeup is understated and flawless. To make matters worse, she greets me like I’m in a receiving line at the British embassy or something. She’s cold, stern and impossibly remote. You’d think she was the Queen of England greeting a commoner.

      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