Free Armani Angels by Cate Kendall Page A

was the new chic.
    Mercedes had always been a determined social climber. Embarrassed as she was by her modest Coburg Italian upbringing, she’d fought to enter the WASP world of high society as soon as she’d moved out of Casa Italia and into her hip IKEA-decked South Yarra flat.
    Mercedes’s childhood had been less than acceptable to her high aspirations. Her family was the only one with fruit trees and vegetables in the backyard. And her dad’s pride and joy, Galileo and da Vinci, the two white lions that flanked their front door, almost made her weep with shame. ‘You’re such a wog, Dad,’ she’d whine during her sensitive teen years while squeezing lemon juice into her hair to make it blonder and begging her mum to buy her coloured contact lenses to change her chocolate-brown eyes to a more private-school blue.
    So to be mingling with Melbourne’s upper echelon was a dream come true. Of course, her salon had gone absolute gang busters as soon as Gemma had started patronising it and then many of Melbourne’s socialities had followed her like the lemmings that they were.
    Mercedes pulled out a Willow dove-grey dress. Wriggling into it, her thoughts went to Chantelle. She’s such a common little upstart, she thought. Chantelle made Mercedes nervous because, although she was so painfully, obviously stupid, Gemma listened to her instead of taking Mercedes’s advice.
    Take last week for example, at the Bubble Bar. It was a brilliant idea to pitch for the Breast Cancer Society’s account and a much more viable use of billable hours – and think of all the functions that Mercedes would get to attend. But bloody Chantelle and her bleeding heart distracted Gemma from Mercedes’s great plan.
    She reached back and pulled up the zipper. She’d never worn this dress before. She’d only bought it because it reminded her of Gemma. It was a figure-flattering chiffon that flared out at the hip. The neck was high and showed no cleavage at all. This was not a Mercedes look. She pulled on the strappy silver sandals and shook her head. Not good enough. She changed them for pewter court shoes. Frump pumps, she called them. God, she couldn’t even remember the last time she wore a court shoe. To complete the look of simple elegance, she fastened a string of faux chunky pearls around her neck. She looked at the result. She had to admit it wasn’t as dowdy as she’d expected. She cocked her head to one side. No, it wasn’t working. Her hair and make-up were all wrong. She still had the head of a Bratz doll.
    Five minutes in the mirror toned down the glittery chocolate eye shadow, but her hair was still an enormous backcombed, tousled tangle of long curls. The simple elegance of her new look only highlighted the Effie-ness of her coiffure. Which was probably why she had so many wealthy European clients.
    She got out the straightening iron and analysed her forehead while she waited for it to heat up. A fringe, like Gemma’s, was much more grown-up than this young-girl mess, she thought. She combed it forward and cut herself a sleek, straight fringe level with her eyebrows. Much nicer, much more sophisticated. After twenty minutes with the straightener her overall look was now far less Donatella Versace and much more Gwyneth Paltrow. Or even Gemma Bristol for that matter.

‘I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.’
    Julian gripped the steering wheel and glared at the static line of cars snaking down Punt Road as if by sheer will he could make them all disappear.
    â€˜You sound like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland .’ Oscar’s deep chuckle demonstrated little concern for Julian’s situation. ‘Telling yourself over and over is only going to make it feel worse.’
    â€˜Yes, thank you, Mr Pop Psychologist.’ Julian turned to glare at his partner. ‘I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t taken so