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are nearly identical redheads—Sage is older by six minutes. Rose tans, and Sage keeps her flesh so pale she is nearly opalescent. Each is breathtaking, with cut-glass cheekbones, a slightly clefted chin, enormous emerald-green eyes, and full, pouty lips.
    They are a pair of throwbacks to the beauty of Jean Shrimpton, although when I mention this, they look at me blankly. Evidently, their ideas of beauty icons don‘t go further back than Christina Aguilera.

    The Fabulous Baker Twins are the granddaughters of Laurel Limoges, founder and CEO of Angel Cosmetics.

    Laurel Limoges. That‘s who the captain—
    This was her plane?
    Pay dirt. This was what Debra wanted me to read. I rewarded my brain synapses with a long swallow of some of the best burgundy I‘d ever tasted and kept reading.

    They lost their parents in a private-plane crash nine years ago, when they were in the fourth grade. Looks plus youth plus money plus pedigree plus tragedy plus unbridled lust and not just for fame equals what? Pop-culture platinum has been earned on much less.
    Ever since their parents‘ death, the twins have lived with their grandmother on her vast Palm Beach, Florida, estate, called Les Anges. They share their own private eight-thousand-foot pink stucco mansion. Palm Beach, just south of Jupiter and north of Boynton Beach, is a sixteen-mile stretch of subtropical barrier island separated from the mainland by Lake Worth. Its ten thousand residents have more combined wealth than the inhabitants of Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Santa Barbara, and the United Arab Emirates collectively. Its estates are the most magnificent in the world.
    J. Paul Getty once made this pithy remark: ―If you can actually count your money, then you are not really a rich man.‖ By this standard, when the twins‘ trust funds come due on their eighteenth birthday, less than two months after this issue of Vanity Fair is published, they will be truly rich.
    Like the rest of young Palm Beach royalty, they attend Palm Beach Country Day. Both are candid about their dislike for, and boredom with, all things academic. When pressed, Rose murmurs that she ―kind of likes music‖; Sage bats her sooty lashes and says,
    ―School is repungent [ sic ].‖ I don‘t correct her.
    With care for the language of Shakespeare eliminated, what do the twins like? Rose shrugs and looks to her sister for the answer—she seems to do this a lot. Sage tosses the strawberry lioness curls from her perfectly made-up face. ―Shopping, parasailing, driving fast, surfing, and sex, not necessarily in that order and sometimes all at once.‖
    She leans forward to look at what I‘m jotting down in my little notebook. ―I love sex.
    Be sure to write that down.‖
    The hair artist sets Sage‘s hair in a tumble of flaming curls. Rose‘s locks are slicked back off her face. The makeup artist comes at them with loose powder on a makeup brush, and Sage shoos her away, complaining about the heat and the waiting around.
    ―Why the fuck aren‘t we starting the shoot?‖ A worker ant explains that there‘s a problem with the light and hands her a frosted flute of Cristal and honeydew juice, her current favorite drink.

    But Sage won‘t be placated; clearly, she‘s had enough. She stands, slides both slender hands into the bodice of her priceless gown, and rips it down to her navel. Time seems to stop. Even her sister gasps.
    Sage smiles, obviously pleased to have all eyes on her. She takes five steps to the saltwater pool and jumps in. The curls and makeup are destroyed in an instant. As she floats on her back, her pierced nipples become visible beneath the soaked, ripped gown.
    She crooks a beckoning finger toward her twin.
    Rose hesitates, but only for a moment. Then she jumps in, too.
    ―Shoot this !‖ Sage laughs and gives the photographer the finger.
    For the Fabulous Baker Twins, being fabulous means never having to say you‘re sorry.

    Maybe they weren‘t sorry, but suddenly, I was. Oh