Palm Beach busybodies - the story unfolds right here.
Part 1.1
Just as I spy the topless Russian’s personnel file, curiosity gets the better of me. This does not fall into the category of snooping I think as I slide the manila folder to the edge of the desk. Then suddenly curiosity’s helper, gravity, talks the file off the ledge to the floor where it scatters—face side up. I’m wondering about the blonde who has a rack for luring my men away. Rats! She’s only 33. Well, it’s just a matter of time before she turns 39, and resorts to snooping. I wouldn’t be surprised if her job description says, “Employee shall be tasked with lounging about in bikini bottom whilst swilling wine.” She “works” on the yacht captained by my boyfriend, Graham. He left me alone at the ball last night, and I can only conclude she had something to do with it. Oh well, maybe I can be her apprentice and learn some of her tricks.As I sip the black syrup that was my lab experiment with the espresso machine, I am reminded of the coffee that Eva Gabor used to make on that 1960’s TV show. I loved the way she just threw the dirty dishes out the “vindow” and think that is what I should do now. My real estate clients are coming to view the place in a few hours and it’s still a mess from the party. Somehow, I never made it home last night, so here I am spraying Fantastic in a white evening gown and yellow rubber gloves. A lovely pairing for a Realtor at 9 a.m. When I find my phone, I come to a rude awakening: it’s 10:54. Oh No! The power went off during the party and the stove clock must be wrong. When will I learn that stove clocks are in another dimension of time. Suddenly, there is a knock on the door. I look up to see an entire limb of the Aggarwal family tree cheerfully waving at me. I decide that cheerfulness and punctuality are overrated traits in the morning. There is no way to hide or change my clothes, as the house is an architecturally inspired fishbowl. Not that I want to hide—I really need this sale—so I let them in. As I trail along, my assistant Ursula leads the gaggle-o-Aggarwals, from room to room. When she develops a keen interest in the ancient one’s sari she has to be demoted to her previous role as my dog. Taking over, I guide them through the estate with the precision of an aimless ant. Suddenly, the ancient one halts at the top of the stairs. I think she’s having some sort of stroke, then a smile cracks on her face and she gives a big thumb up. This is real estate code for: Yay! A $27 million sale! I love the Aggarwals—so swift and cheerful. Not wanting to waste a precious minute, I suggest we take the sleek elevator to the main floor; I do a little happy dance as we wait, until I realize they can see my reflection in the chrome elevator. When the door opens, there is a chorus of screams and Aggar- wails—like they practiced on the way over. I look into the elevator and think this can’t be good. There is a dead body.
Just as I spy the topless Russian’s personnel file, curiosity gets the better of me. This does not fall into the category of snooping I think as I slide the manila folder to the edge of the desk. Then suddenly curiosity’s helper, gravity, talks the file off the ledge to the floor where it scatters—face side up. I’m wondering about the blonde who has a rack for luring my men away. Rats! She’s only 33. Well, it’s just a matter of time before she turns 39, and resorts to snooping. I wouldn’t be surprised if her job description says, “Employee shall be tasked with lounging about in bikini bottom whilst swilling wine.” She “works” on the yacht captained by my boyfriend, Graham. He left me alone at the ball last night, and I can only conclude she had something to do with it. Oh well, maybe I can be her apprentice and learn some of her tricks.As I sip the black syrup that was my lab experiment with the espresso machine, I am reminded of the coffee that Eva Gabor used to make on that 1960’s TV show. I loved the way she just threw the dirty dishes out the “vindow” and think that is what I should do now. My real estate clients are coming to view the place in a few hours and it’s still a mess from the party. Somehow, I never made it home last night, so here I am spraying Fantastic in a white evening gown and yellow rubber gloves. A lovely pairing for a Realtor at 9 a.m. When I find my phone, I come to a rude awakening: it’s 10:54. Oh No! The power went off during the party and the stove clock must be wrong. When will I learn that stove clocks are in another dimension of time. Suddenly, there is a knock on the door. I look up to see an entire limb of the Aggarwal family tree cheerfully waving at me. I decide that cheerfulness and punctuality are overrated traits in the morning. There is no way to hide or change my clothes, as the house is an architecturally inspired fishbowl. Not that I want to hide—I really need this sale—so I let them in. As I trail along, my assistant Ursula leads the gaggle-o-Aggarwals, from room to room. When she develops a keen interest in the ancient one’s sari she has to be demoted to her previous role as my dog. Taking over, I guide them through the estate with the precision of an aimless ant. Suddenly, the ancient one halts at the top of the stairs. I think she’s having some sort of stroke, then a smile cracks on her face and she gives a big thumb up. This is real estate code for: Yay! A $27 million sale! I love the Aggarwals—so swift and cheerful. Not wanting to waste a precious minute, I suggest we take the sleek elevator to the main floor; I do a little happy dance as we wait, until I realize they can see my reflection in the chrome elevator. When the door opens, there is a chorus of screams and Aggar- wails—like they practiced on the way over. I look into the elevator and think this can’t be good. There is a dead body.