Free Too Damn Rich by Judith Gould Page B

Mr.
Spotts said. "Hang them on your walls and derive pleasure from
them. Think of them as part of your nest eggs."
    "Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie whispered, tears
coming into her eyes. "You know we can't possibly—"
    "In that case," the old man said cryptically,
"perhaps it will make you feel better to know that these are not
... umn ... exactly outright gifts?"
    "Oh? Then what are they?"
    "They're conditional. You know ... they come
with strings attached?" Mr. Spotts made marionette-controlling
motions with his gnarled fingers.
    "Strings?" Arnold asked, his interest piqued.
He sat forward. "What kinds of strings?"
    Mr. Spotts eyed them both solemnly over the
rims of his half lenses. "What I need," he sighed quietly, "is to
extract one promise from each of you."
    "We'd gladly do that anyway," Kenzie assured
him. "There's no need to give us presents!"
    "I know." Mr. Spotts nodded. "But this
particular favor ... well, it's a rather large one." He stared
intently from one of them to the other.
    "Just name it," said Kenzie.
    The old man was silent.
    "Yes, just say the word," pressed Arnold.
    "Save the department!" Mr. Spotts's voice was
soft but harshly bitter, like a brittle, arctic wind. "That's the
one thing I ask!"
     
    Every Tuesday and Thursday Bambi Parker spent
her lunchtime at the Vertical Club on East Sixty-first Street. The
way she figured it, she was twenty-four, going on twenty-five, and
not getting any younger. Besides, at Burghley's you never knew who
you were apt to run into. It behooved a single young woman to
always be in shape and look her absolute best.
    After thirty minutes of concentrated workout,
she peeled off her lime green and shocking pink Spandex exercise
outfit, showered, dressed, repaired her makeup, and moseyed on back
to Burghley's, eating a container of non-fat, lemon-flavored yogurt
while checking out the windows of the clothing boutiques along the
way. When she finally returned to the auction house, she headed
straight for one of the second-floor employees' powder rooms.
    This particular one, which she frequented,
was known as "The Club," since it unofficially doubled as sorority
house for the most popular among Burghley's army of Seven
Sisters-educated arts majors—trust-fund babies all—every one of
whom was biding her time working in an appropriately genteel job
until Prince Charming came along.
    Then, once they were swept off to the grand
townhouses and penthouses of the upper East Side of Manhattan, plus
oceanfront weekend "cottages" out in the Hamptons, or bucolic
country estates in the rolling hills of northwestern Connecticut,
the roles they now played would be reversed, and the
self-perpetuating cycle become evident: Burghley's ex- employees
would trade the expertise gained working at the auction house by
becoming its most knowledgeable clientele.
    Even before opening the door of "The Club,"
Bambi could already hear the noise coming from within. It sounded
like an aviary—albeit, judging from the chatter and coos, trills
and squeaks, and more than a few Locust Valley lockjaws, a highly
elite aviary consisting of only the most carefully select and
singularly bred of all species.
    Bambi felt right at home as she squeezed
between two girls to get at the long stretch of mirror above the
sinks; sometime back, the more enterprising among them had taken up
a collection, so that a row of frosted makeup bulbs was installed
all the way across the top. A fiercely unflattering light, it was
perfect for its purposes.
    "Hiya Bambs!" greeted the reflection of the
preening blonde leaning into the mirror on her right.
"Howareya?"
    Bambi smiled into the mirror at Elissa
Huffington, who could have been a model if the Social Register
Huffingtons hadn't instantly put the skids on that particular line
of work. But Elissa didn't rate much of a reply from Bambi—she was
one of Bambi's major competitors in the Great Manhunt for Mr.
Right.
    "Well?" Elissa asked through a barely moving
mouth as she slid Perfect