The Fundamentals of the Wealthy

Victoria? Like Victoria's Secr -

When I informed Mr. Raleigh of my plan, there was moment of frosty silence over the phone. I put it off speaker just to be safe.

"...I am not a celebrity, Piper. And this is not a book signing." He said finally, patiently.

"I know, I know! But if you meet him, he can take me backstage of the modeling convention to meet Victoria. So please do this."

"Don't -," Mr. Raleigh started, growling. 

There was an abrupt silence, then came a light sigh, "Fine. At that pizza parlor? What does he even want to talk about?"

"Well, his name is Ryan, he is a makeup artist, he likes fashion, and he saw you in the NYC Daily magazine, so he wants to meet you. Oh, and he's a 'professional gay'."

I regretted that statement the second it left my mouth.

Silence. This could've been the world record for amount of awkward silences in a single conversation.

That sounded less weird when Ryan said it.

I stopped on the cobblestones and stood to the side, waiting for him to speak, but nothing came.

"Mr. Raleigh?"

"I will see you after the convention."

Then he hung up.

"What did he say?" Ryan asked as I hung up. We crossed a bustling intersection, heading to the enormous glass building across the street that emblazoned La Belle in enormous cursive letters on the front.

"Nothing of value," I responded, "But he agreed to meeting you."

"Of course," Ryan straightened his posture, swinging his makeup case more enthusiastically with each stride, "Our babies would be so beautiful."

I laughed, "Don't get your hopes up. I think he purposely trying not to have a love life. I'm not even sure if he's gay."

His posture wilted like a sad daisy.

"But!" I added quickly, "You can meet him. Staring at good looking people can automatically make your day a whole lot better."

Ryan nodded, slowly, "Makes sense. Do you think I have a shot at Ryan Reynold's?"

"You can't compete with Blake Lively. Nobody can."

We pushed through the spiraling glass doors and moved behind the crowds of people, following the signs and arrows that read: backstage crew.

There was a large hallway, lined with clean, plush golden carpet and doors adorned with silver nametags.

"Victoria hates being at the front of the hallway," Ryan whispered, "She thinks that if a serial killer were ever to come in, she'd be the first victim."

"But how would she escape if she's at the end of the hallway?" I shot him an odd look, "Wouldn't she have to cross paths with the serial killer if she wanted to get out the door?"

"Her words, not mine."

We made it to an open door at the very end, where a young woman tripped out, just narrowly dodging a thrown hairbrush.

"I said watermelon! Watermelon! Strawberries make me bloated! Are you trying to destroy me?" shrieked a female voice from inside the room.

"Yes, yes, immediately. I'm very sorry, Ms. Bradford," The woman squeaked, apologizing before tripping over herself to run past us, towards the lobby.

I turned to Ryan with wide eyes.

Ryan shook his head.

He crept to the doorframe and knocked gently.