Trading Up Read Online Free Page B
Author: Candace Bushnell
Tags: Fiction, General, Contemporary Women
concerned Mimi’s appearance: She was tall and skinny, with that kind of thin, naturally blond hair that always looks stringy; nevertheless, everyone always insisted that she was “a beauty.” Janey couldn’t believe it. If Mimi weren’t rich, if she didn’t come from such a prominent family, there wouldn’t have been one guy in New York who would have given her the time of day. In short, Mimi was a blazing advertisement for the unfairness of life: If it weren’t for an accident of birth, she would be nothing .
Mimi’s mother was Tabitha Mason, a fifties movie star who came from a prominent Philadelphia family. Her father was Robert Kilroy of the California Kilroys; at the time of their marriage in 1955, he was the second youngest senator to be elected in history. When their first child, Sandy, a boy, was born in 1956, Tabitha gave up Hollywood to raise her family; two years later she gave birth to a baby girl, Camille, whom everyone called Mimi.
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As a child, Janey knew everything about Mimi—from her favorite color (pink), to the name of her pony (Blaze), on whose back Mimi had won a shelf full of trophies and blue ribbons. Janey knew all this, because all through the sixties and into the early seventies, women’s magazines like Good Housekeeping and Ladies’ Home Journal featured stories about the glamorous Kilroy family; indeed, “The Kilroy Family Thanksgiving” was a yearly staple on which the less glamorous denizens of America could rely as solidly as cranberry sauce. And there was Mimi herself, year after year, in a pink dress with a lacy white pinafore and pink patent-leather Mary Janes, her hair done up in pigtails or fastened into a ponytail with a shiny ribbon; and later on, Mimi in her first long “hostess” gown, her stringy hair pulled back and topped with one of those large, fake buns that were so popular in the early seventies.
In these photographs, Mimi always appeared slightly gaunt, with large blue eyes that seemed to pop out of her head, but her expression was also slightly defiant, as if she knew how ridiculous it all was and frankly had better things to do with her time.
And little six-year-old Janey Wilcox, with her pudgy face and thick, mousy brown hair, would study those photographs and wonder why she hadn’t been born Mimi Kilroy! Somehow, this Mimi Kilroy person had ended up with what should have been Janey’s life.
But time passed and things happened, and Janey forgot all about Mimi Kilroy—until she arrived in New York in the late eighties.
Janey was barely twenty years old and had just returned after modeling in Europe for the summer. She was immediately taken up by an investment banker named Petie—he was probably in his early thirties but to Janey he seemed ancient.
He wore his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his eyes were too close together, and he had the soft, delicate hands of a little girl, but he was easy to manipulate. One night he took her to an exclusive, private party at the Grolier Club; he hadn’t been invited himself but as he was one of the big investors in the club, they had to let him in.
The party was for the bad-boy Southern writer Redmon Richardly, and the crowd, raucous and drunk, had a self-satisfied air, as if there were no better people in New York and no better place to be. Right away, Janey could see that Petie, who was wearing a heavy English-style pinstriped suit, didn’t really belong there; he had an oily smoothness that Janey had interpreted as being urbane, but taken out of his element and placed in this crowd, she suddenly saw that he was nothing more than a sleazy money guy.
“Let’s go,” she whispered.
He looked at her like she was insane. “Huh?” he said, and taking her hand, pulled her upstairs to the bar.
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c a n d a c e b u s h n e l l
There was a girl at the bar surrounded by several men; as Petie
Mimi’s mother was Tabitha Mason, a fifties movie star who came from a prominent Philadelphia family. Her father was Robert Kilroy of the California Kilroys; at the time of their marriage in 1955, he was the second youngest senator to be elected in history. When their first child, Sandy, a boy, was born in 1956, Tabitha gave up Hollywood to raise her family; two years later she gave birth to a baby girl, Camille, whom everyone called Mimi.
18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 17
t r a d i n g u p
17
As a child, Janey knew everything about Mimi—from her favorite color (pink), to the name of her pony (Blaze), on whose back Mimi had won a shelf full of trophies and blue ribbons. Janey knew all this, because all through the sixties and into the early seventies, women’s magazines like Good Housekeeping and Ladies’ Home Journal featured stories about the glamorous Kilroy family; indeed, “The Kilroy Family Thanksgiving” was a yearly staple on which the less glamorous denizens of America could rely as solidly as cranberry sauce. And there was Mimi herself, year after year, in a pink dress with a lacy white pinafore and pink patent-leather Mary Janes, her hair done up in pigtails or fastened into a ponytail with a shiny ribbon; and later on, Mimi in her first long “hostess” gown, her stringy hair pulled back and topped with one of those large, fake buns that were so popular in the early seventies.
In these photographs, Mimi always appeared slightly gaunt, with large blue eyes that seemed to pop out of her head, but her expression was also slightly defiant, as if she knew how ridiculous it all was and frankly had better things to do with her time.
And little six-year-old Janey Wilcox, with her pudgy face and thick, mousy brown hair, would study those photographs and wonder why she hadn’t been born Mimi Kilroy! Somehow, this Mimi Kilroy person had ended up with what should have been Janey’s life.
But time passed and things happened, and Janey forgot all about Mimi Kilroy—until she arrived in New York in the late eighties.
Janey was barely twenty years old and had just returned after modeling in Europe for the summer. She was immediately taken up by an investment banker named Petie—he was probably in his early thirties but to Janey he seemed ancient.
He wore his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his eyes were too close together, and he had the soft, delicate hands of a little girl, but he was easy to manipulate. One night he took her to an exclusive, private party at the Grolier Club; he hadn’t been invited himself but as he was one of the big investors in the club, they had to let him in.
The party was for the bad-boy Southern writer Redmon Richardly, and the crowd, raucous and drunk, had a self-satisfied air, as if there were no better people in New York and no better place to be. Right away, Janey could see that Petie, who was wearing a heavy English-style pinstriped suit, didn’t really belong there; he had an oily smoothness that Janey had interpreted as being urbane, but taken out of his element and placed in this crowd, she suddenly saw that he was nothing more than a sleazy money guy.
“Let’s go,” she whispered.
He looked at her like she was insane. “Huh?” he said, and taking her hand, pulled her upstairs to the bar.
18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 18
18
c a n d a c e b u s h n e l l
There was a girl at the bar surrounded by several men; as Petie
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