Read Bergdorf Blondes for Free Online

actors, artists, or musicians for me, thank you,” said Julie.
    I hadn’t realized Julie was so mature. Mind you, when you’ve had fifty-four boyfriends you should know what you want.
    “There’s no fear of that on the Upper East Side, dear,” said Muffy. “There are no creative types up here, oh no! The mayor doesn’t let them past Union Square.”
    “Oh, and I know this is going to sound totally spoiled and superficial, but I do like it if my boyfriends believe in drivers. I blame Dad. He ruined me for life by having me chauffeured to school every day in a Jaguar. That’s just the way I am. I can’t change myself, can I?” said Julie, blushing a little.
    “No, dear,” cooed Muffy soothingly. “If you don’t like walking, you don’t like walking and that’s it. Look at me, I have three drivers! We have one at the house in Palm Beach, one in Aspen, and one here. There’s nothing wrong with expressing your needs, Julie.”
    There’s extravagant and there’s extravagant. Even among her own set Muffy takes the word to new heights.
    “I just want to fall in love, Muffy, like all the other girls, and have radiant skin without having to getVitamin C injections,” said Julie, her eyes looking watery. “I get really lonesome sometimes.”
    Muffy is an exceptionally mathematical socialite whose placement equations are as complex as chess. She has a system she uses whenever her “merging” services are required. She always makes sure she has one table of thirteen, with one too many men. Every guest has a number in the seating plan. Julie was number four and her seat would be second from the end of the rectangular table, which had the advantage of being accessible for conversation by four men. To Julie’s left and right would be an Italian prince and a record producer, opposite would be a real estate mogul, and at the head of the table would be the thirteenth, the “extra” man, who would be told by the hostess she was terribly sorry she had to sit him next to two other men, “but there’s just too many of you boys tonight!”
    I don’t know anyone else in New York who could avail a girl of four eligible dinner partners at one sitting. The only time Muffy’s math fails her is when it comes to budgeting for the florist(s).
     
    The next night Julie’s smile was bigger than Africa. So were her diamond earrings. Sometimes, even someone as happy for her friend’s good fortune as me goes a bitoff-yellow with envy when I see Julie’s Cartier “loot” as she calls it. Still, the nice thing about Julie is she shares everything and had loaned me her diamond hoops for the night. She’d also enlisted the Bergdorf beauty team to do our hair and makeup at her apartment.
    When I arrived Julie was sitting on the chaise longue in her drawing room. It’s a very elegant salon , painted duck-egg blue, with tall windows, thick cornicing, and an outrageous Guy Bourdin nude hanging over the fireplace just to mix things up. All Julie’s furniture is that wonderful thirties Hollywood stuff she adores, reupholstered in pale velvet to match the walls. Still, I couldn’t see much of anything wonderful because every surface was covered in some kind of cosmetic instrument. Davide, the makeup artist, had literally turned the room into his personal makeup studio. He was dabbing blush on Julie’s cheeks, Raquel was ironing Julie’s hair, and Irinia, the Polish pedicurist, was buffing Julie’s toenails. This is nothing. I’ve heard that some girls in New York don’t leave their apartment before a party without their dermatologist checking their epidermis for blemishes first.
    “Do I look happy? Does my smile look, like, real?” asked Julie as I walked in.
    Davide said her smile was as real as her Cartier loot, which I thought was a very appropriate metaphor.
    “It’s totally fake. Isn’t it beyond ?” said Julie.
    “Ohmygoditsbey-ooond!” said Davide.
    “I went to my dermatologist this afternoon, and you know those