by Amanda Brown
“Totally,” Margot announced. “Well, you know all about Holly Finch.”
“Who’s Holly Finch?” Elle asked, staring listlessly at the ceiling.
“Who is Holly Finch? Elle, tell me you’re kidding.”
Elle breathed “No” quietly and didn’t make an excuse for herself. Margot was perpetually the victim of her last conversation. Something new, something five minutes ago, must have been rumored over cocktails at one of Snuff’s promotions.
“Elle! She’s topic numero uno in L.A., baby. The virtual vixen. She’s caused a total cyber-uproar.”
“Are you into computers now?” Elle asked skeptically. She needed an AP wire to keep up with Margot’s fads.
“Well, no. Not me, but a lot of industry people are online. It’s all the rage. It’s not like they’re Trekkie types or something. They’re keyed into a whole virtual world. Multimedia.”
Margot was speaking a language she had obviously overheard in some Viacom hospitality suite.
“So what’s the ‘cyber-uproar’?” Elle asked, a touch sarcastically.
“Well, Holly Finch’s dad owns this big multimedia firm and a record distributorship. He had a database of major industry connections and Holly got a hold of it. She set up this totally shady, all anonymous electronic bulletin board so people could sign on with false names. It was totally L.A. exclusive. You could only join if someone died or quit…or if your net worth added up to the right numbers.”
“So why is the, uh, virtual vixen in trouble?”
“Well, it seems she used her network to zap around more than just information.” Margot paused for a moment to let her hint sink in. “Everyone was on-line in fantasy mode, you know, talking about how they like it.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Elle, from what I hear, they had some major perversions. A totally mangy scene.”
“So what?” Elle yawned.
“No,” Margot insisted, “that’s not all. See, the on-line routine was just, like, an opener to get hooked up to the real thing. S-E-X, whatever kinky way they wrote about in their network profiles. Drugs, too. It was like mail order from fantasyland! Key your dream girl into the computer, and tomorrow she’s ribbon-tied on your doorstep.”
“But I thought everyone used pseudonyms.” Elle hesitated, confused.
“Totally. They used everything. Heroin, acid, X.”
“What?” Elle interrupted. “What are you talking about?”
Margot paused, reconsidering. “Well, not so much X. That’s passé. But I’m sure you’re right. They must have had a lot of orders for the one you just said.”
“No, Marg,” Elle laughed. “Pseudonyms…uh, false names.”
“Oh.” Margot quieted. She paused for a second to absorb the new word. “Pseudonyms.” Then she continued. “The thing is, Holly kept a master list. For every fake name, she has the real identity, plus a practical directory of their sick turn-ons. Highly placed industry people, and she’s threatening to publish the list if she goes to trial.”
“What’s she charged with?”
Margot laughed shrilly. “Holly Finch won’t see the light of day for years when the feds get through with her. She’s up on distribution charges for every drug under the sun, and even something about sex with panda bears!”
“Panda bears?”
“Yeah, pandering, I think it’s called. I’m telling you, Elle, these people are sick cookies.”
Elle walked to the kitchen, offering to get Margot an iced tea rather than chance laughing out loud at her friend.
“And then, even I still can’t believe the most major crime happened right near my condo. It wasn’t random, or anything, it was a total hit. Chutney Vandermark’s father is dead and her stepmonster did it. If you were already a Malibu lawyer, you’d be really busy!”
Elle had long since ceased reading the newspaper or even People, but the name did strike her as familiar. “Who?”
Margot kicked a pile of Elle’s casebooks aside, ignoring her question and looking for the remote control. She approached the TV set and poked a few buttons in vain. “How do you do this without the remote?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” Elle admitted. “Wait, here it is.”
Margot grabbed the device out of her hand and flipped the channels until she found Hard Copy. “God, Elle, it’s all over the major media.”
The voice-over told a grim tale as a dramatic reenactment of the crime scene appeared on the screen. “Heyworth Vandermark, seventy-four-year-old tycoon. His life taken not by his heart condition, but by a cold-blooded assassin.” An actress portraying the dead man’s daughter wailed to police investigators, “I found his body, right here—” she pointed to a chalk outline—“and his wife was bent over the body, trying to move it!”
The narrator continued. “Twenty-three-year-old Brooke Vandermark, sixth wife of the slain multimillionaire, stands accused of the chilling…Murder in Malibu. An exclusive eyewitness interview with Heyworth Vandermark’s only daughter, Chutney Vandermark, on this week’s Hard Copy.”
“Oh, Margot, turn that trash off,” Elle complained. “I can’t fill my head with this stuff before exams.”
“Well, while your head is full of that Tarts on Tape, the rest of Southern California is filling up with the Vandermark murder,” Margot snapped. “It even made Vogue.” Margot muted the TV show. “Chutney went to USC, Elle.”
“Wait, I remember a Chutney from rush. Wasn’t she a Theta?”
“Delta Gamma,” Margot said. “But get this, her stepmother, the murderer…she was a Theta. Typical.”
Elle giggled. “That’s a little strong, don’t you think, Marg?”
“I don’t know. The whole scene is so gnarly. Did you know that the stepmonster, Brooke, is a year younger than Chutney? Twenty-three. Shot the old geezer point-blank.”
“That’s so awful,” Elle gasped.
“I know. I would just die if my father married somebody younger than I am.”
Elle shook her head. “No, I mean, it’s awful about her father being killed.”
Margot looked puzzled. “Oh, that. If you think that’s bad, I hear he left all his money to his wife.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Before she left, Margot told Elle about a “darling plastic surgeon” who was living in the Palo Alto area. His name was Austin. Serena had met him in Aspen, and was anxious to get him together with Elle. “Serena says he’s gorgeous,” she promised. “Can we give him your number?” Looking critically at Elle’s book-littered condo, she added, “You really should get out more.”
Elle shrugged, a bit embarrassed, since things weren’t working out with Warner. “But I haven’t been on a date for ages. I’m totally out of practice.”
“All the more reason,” Margot said, turning to leave. “He’ll call you soon. He’s dying to meet you.”
From Margot’s brief description, Elle couldn’t tell if a date with Austin would violate any of her rules about dating. There were three types of men she would not date: men with pinkie rings, men with more than one alimony obligation, and men with children older than she was. She figured she’d give Austin a try.
And he did call quickly, before the week’s end. Whether he was dying to meet her or just plain hard up, she couldn’t tell. They agreed to meet for drinks.
Elle wasn’t sure at first how she was going to pick out Austin at the restaurant. All she had to go on was what Margot had told her, he was a “darling plastic surgeon”; but it didn’t take a minute for her to recognize the “status doc” sitting at the bar. He wore a big Breitling watch around a dark, hairy wrist, and a snug Prada suit. His Porsche keys were prominently displayed next to his cellular phone, and he was drinking Campari and soda. His complexion was dark and he swam in hair gel: just the type Serena would swoon over.
“Austin,” Elle said as she approached him and offered her hand. He nodded, looking slightly surprised, but extended his hand in return. “Elle?”
She nodded. The doctor looke
d approvingly at her little black dress and the figure that filled it. “Nice to meet you, Elle. Allow me to say that you are great raw material.”
“Raw material,” Elle muttered under her breath, dreading the time she would have to spend with him.
The flashy couple drew stares as they headed together for a table. The waiter scowled when Elle announced she could only stay for drinks. She was actually glad that she had a twenty-page memo due the next day. She explained this to Austin, saying she’d have a late night ahead.
He nodded, understanding a busy schedule.
When Austin was seated, Elle excused herself to “powder her nose.” In the ladies’ room Elle glanced at her Wolff-bed tan, which looked a bit yellowish in the light. Hurriedly she whipped the Chanel compact from her bag and dotted powder on her cheeks, smoothing it across her face to even her flesh tone. In her rush the narrow, almond-shaped nail on her ring finger caught the tip of her nose with a sting.
“Ow.” Elle drew back sharply, and the bathroom attendant, who had been sitting quietly, leaped up with a hand towel to lend her assistance. That was when Elle realized her nose had started bleeding.
“Oh, God,” Elle gasped in the mirror as a thin red line trickled above her lip. She grabbed the towel thankfully and pressed it against the cut.
“Use cold water,” the attendant advised. Elle nodded and dipped one end of the towel in the sink. She replaced the chilly corner against her nose and held it there, peeking every so often until the bleeding stopped.
“Thanks,” she said, tipping the attendant, whose job, she thought, might possibly be more boring than law school. With an anxious glance in the mirror, she dashed nervously back to the table. She had been in the bathroom about ten minutes, and Austin had finished his drink. He looked at her with curiosity, but resumed conversation easily when she asked him about himself.
Elle learned that Austin, though never married, was being stalked by a woman who had offered herself under his surgeon’s knife after sending to his home a card signed, “Your canvas.” At the time, he considered her formalities to be a little weird, but he decided to perform the operation anyway. He changed his mind when the woman ripped off her hospital gown and threw herself on the operating table, declaring: “My love, cut anywhere! This will prove that I trust you completely!”
“Business took the backseat,” Austin laughed, “after that exhibition.” He had his nurse escort the humiliated patient to a changing room, with orders not to return.
Elle threw her hands to her mouth and laughed. “Oh, Austin, how terrible,” she said. She reached for her drink and noticed a small red streak on her index finger. Austin noticed it also.
“Oh no,” she said, reaching into her purse for her compact. She opened it quickly and confirmed that her small bathroom gash had reopened. Her eyes darted up to Austin.
“Excuse me,” she said, and hurried back to the “powder” room. The attendant rolled her eyes but obligingly provided Elle with a fresh towel.
Elle returned to the table thankful to see Austin standing, claiming his beeper had gone off. “I know you’ll be up late tonight anyway,” he said. Elle blushed. She was sure he had a certain suspicion about her sudden nosebleeds, but she didn’t feel the need to explain she had merely injured herself in spastic application of face powder. He wouldn’t believe her anyway.
In the lull before the waiter returned with his credit card slip, Austin reached out his hand and held Elle’s arm gently. “Elle,” he smiled, “are you seeing anyone right now?”
Elle knew she didn’t want to date Austin again, but didn’t want to admit to her life as a law school hermit. “Yes, Austin, I’m seeing a few people.”
He looked puzzled but interested. Gripping her arm with fatherly concern, he asked, “Why do you see more than one therapist at a time?”
“Oh,” she said, realizing that Austin had been asking about psychiatrists. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m more complicated than I look.”
“I see,” he said. From the tone of his voice, Austin seemed doubtful.
“Two heads are better than one?” she tried again.
“Sure,” he said. Clearly she’d need to add a new rule to her dating commandments: Never date men named after cities in Texas.
Chapter Twenty-six
One rule Elle was learning fast was this: Blondes do not have more fun in law school. Her unsuccessful day in Professional Responsibility was a prime example of Stanford’s antiblonde snobbery.
Professor Pfisak had asked the students to write a two-page “miniessay” in which they were to invent a legal organization that would serve the public interest. They could choose any cause they felt was neglected in the “corporate capitalistic status quo.” In the context of this imaginary group, Pfisak asked the class to discuss the Model Rules of Professional Responsibility governing formation of the attorney-client relationship.
Elle turned in a miniessay describing her public interest vision: the Blonde Legal Defense Fund (BLDF). Its mission would be to combat antiblonde discrimination in all its forms. At the same time it would be a full-service law firm by and for blondes, providing positive blonde role models, focusing on community outreach in high-blonde areas like beaches. The BLDF would be particularly aggressive vindicating claims of hair salon malpractice.
The firm’s decor would memorialize great strides in blonde history. It would feature sizzling Jean Harlow and Marilyn prints and an exhibit of Christie Brinkley’s magazine covers through the years. The BLDF would have an ongoing display of the artwork of famous blondes, starting with one of Princess Grace’s pressed-flower arrangements. Absolutely nothing by Madonna, though, since she could not be considered a true blonde.
Elle went to some trouble in her miniessay to explain the distinction between a true blonde and a natural blonde. The BLDF would take cases of brunettes who had been discriminated against, but only those who could be considered blonde at heart. True blondes, whether natural or not, could be identified by their inner light of buoyant, charmed confidence. Andre Agassi, for example, had the beacon of a true blond despite the atrocious things he had done to his hair. On the other hand, Madonna’s light was snuffed out for good when she turned her platinum hair to that icky black color. The change meant Madonna wasn’t blonde at heart, since no true blonde would ever go back. Billy Idol would still be okay.
Elle discussed the difficulty of finding blondes who are established intellectual role models, one effect of antiblonde discrimination. Male blonde intellectuals seemed particularly scarce. She could invite Robert Redford to serve on the BLDF board of directors, or maybe get an endorsement from Andrew McCarthy, but Elle was having trouble coming up with famous blonde men who weren’t actors or surfers. Dan Quayle was the highest-ranking blond Elle could think of, but he might have to be disqualified for making fun of Candice Bergen, another blonde.
The scarcity of respected blonde business leaders would be evidence to use in workplace discrimination claims of BLDF clients. Elle could just see squirming employers justifying the promotion of a brunette over an equally competent blonde: “But, Your Honor, it’s only fair—blondes have more fun.” And herself, lead counsel, fighting on: “Objection. Irrelevant and prejudicial.”
When Professor Pfisak began reading Elle’s essay to the class, it was clear that his idea of reforming the capitalist status quo did not start with the Blonde Legal Defense Fund. Voice heavy with sarcasm, the professor paused several times to shake his head in apparent disbelief. He repeated phrases that especially struck him: “Did you get that, class? Madonna is not a true blonde because she turned her platinum hair to that icky black color. Icky black.”
Amid her classmates’ jeers and her professor’s ridicule of the Blonde Legal Defense Fund, Elle held steadily to her vision.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Stanford sadistically scheduled its exams after the winter vacation, stealing Christmas and New Year in one fell swoop. Even the Grinch stopped after Christmas. Elle parke
d the Range Rover in the driveway of her Bel Air home, then dragged heavy casebooks and Emanuel study guides to the doorstep.
Underdog had jumped from the passenger seat, overjoyed to be home. “Well, it’s good to be back, even if I have to study over vacation,” Elle said, the yipping dog lifting her spirits.
Elle’s mother, Eva, was a holiday fanatic. She always went to extra lengths during the Christmas season, spoiling Elle wonderfully. The year that Tori Spelling’s “White Christmas” was the talk of the town, Eva became irritated every time she heard it mentioned. She should have thought of flying in enough snow to blanket their yard, she rebuked herself. The truth was that Eva, a native Angeleno, associated snow with skiing and not Christmas.
Elle didn’t have to wonder for long what gimmick her mother would think up this year. As soon as she entered the front hallway she was greeted by a preposterous “Elle Tree” that dwarfed the diminutive Eva and even Elle’s lanky father, Wyatt. He beamed at Elle in his place beside his wife. His bland club-tennis-pro-blonde good looks and agreeable ways were a perfect counterpoint to Eva’s wacky and vivacious personality.
A twenty-five-foot fir tree, twinkling with elaborate five-by-seven ornaments, stood in the foyer. Elle gasped as Eva led her excitedly to the tree.
“Oh, Mother,” Elle said, and laughed. She hugged her giggling mother and gazed dumbfounded at the unique tree trimmings. Each was a reproduction of a famous painting, copied by artists from Eva’s gallery. Each featured Elle’s own face in the most unlikely of settings.
“Look, look, darling,” Eva said, reaching out to one of the images. “My favorite is the Birth of Elle!”
“Mother.” Elle blushed, mortified to see her face on the plump, naked body of Botticelli’s Venus. “Oh my God! That’s me, and she’s so fat!”
The Mona Elsa wasn’t so bad, since only the shoulders gave away the grande dame of da Vinci, and the artist had been nice enough to leave Elle’s hair blonde on the reproduction. Elle’s sky blue eyes replaced the art-book gazes of women from the imaginations of painters of centuries. She smiled flawlessly from Matisse to Modigliani, Rubens to Renoir, Gainsborough to Gauguin to Goya. “Mother,” Elle said as she embraced Eva warmly, “you are without doubt the craziest Santa on the block.”
