Reunion Girls by J. J. Salem Page B

about him in the columns, but it would be quite another to see him in the flesh and on television every night. Lara's TiVo recorded every episode of Hollywood Live, and her nightly ritual was to watch it before bed.
    She went to work with the blow-dryer, completely forgetting about her hangover state. Maybe it was over. She did feel like one of the living again. God bless Privi. More than usual, the loose curl in Lara's hair seemed out of control. Only Yoshi at Oscar Blandi could ever manage to straighten it to Jennifer Aniston-level perfection. No time for that today. She let it fly. A good thing, because makeup took longer than usual. Most days she could simply apply Bobbi Brown mascara, add a Guerlain bronzer to her cheeks, and swipe on her favorite lip gloss, Pink Sugar Rush by Jacqueline. But today she required a serious session of under-eye concealer, foundation, and blusher to mask a night of little sleep.
    Surveying her walk-in closet, Lara decided quickly on clothing, throwing on a vintage Arnold Scaasi blouse with huge sleeves over white toreador pants, accessorizing with a massive Cartier tank timepiece. Men's watches were much more chic and better designed than the female variety. It always cost more, but it was worth it. She grabbed her file on the Kometanis to scan on the way over, snatched her Hermes Kelly bag, said her goodbyes to Privi and Queenie, and shuffled out the door.
    As always, Lara felt a tingle of guilt when the driver opened the door to the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car. She scooted inside and sank into the rich leather. An obscene indulgence, yes, but better than the alternative. Lara hated cabs. Why should she arrive at her destination smelling like curry, or flustered from an argument with the driver because she didn't know the cross streets for an address? Life was too short. It was so much easier to arrange a car service. Finn ridiculed her savagely about this, but she didn't care.
    "The Mercer Hotel, ma'am?"
    "Yes," Lara answered. She checked her watch. A half hour to get there. Her stomach knotted. Lara was punctual to a fault and hated to be late or wait for anyone who was. "I need to be there in thirty minutes. How's traffic today?"
    The driver pulled out from the curb and stepped on the accelerator.
    Lara dipped back as the sedan zoomed forward.
    "Don't worry, ma'am. You'll make it."
    Lara smiled faintly. No doubt. She opened the file on her potential new clients to refresh her mind on what Regrets Only might be getting involved in. If nothing else, it would be . . . interesting.
    Mio and Mako Kometani were perhaps the most celebrated women in Japan. Born to a billionaire industrialist father, the twins were modern-day princesses famous for being, well, famous. It was a notoriety they had parlayed into all things commercial. Mio had been crowned Miss Japan one year, Mako the very next. Their image had been branded, paving the way for best-selling product launches like Mio & Mako Noodles, Mio & Mako Beauty Vitamins, even Mio & Mako Bust Cream, which promised to keep a woman's cleavage smooth and beautiful. The girls commanded six figures to show up at parties and look pretty, filled banquet halls at three hundred dollars a ticket to deliver musings about their lives, and posed for provocative photo-essays that were produced into rich, glossy, and expensive coffee-table books. The most recent, Mio & Mako in Love, which featured the sisters in various states of seminude, sensual embrace, had broken all first-week sales records for any book in Japanese history.
    But like so many international icons, the Kometanis yearned to conquer the American market. It was, after all, the Mount Everest of stardom. They craved the kind of gossipy heat that the Kardashians generated. They dreamed about mass-merchandising dominance. Would the Mio and Mako cosmology interest people Stateside? Lara had her doubts, but stranger things had happened in the culture. The right incident at the right moment could