20.12.17

Lululemons

 O novo livro da autora de O Diabo Veste Prada, coming soon

O primeiro capítulo começa assim:

CHAPTER ONE: Emily
Emily racked her brain. There had to be something to complain about. This was New Year’s Eve in Los Angeles, one of the most annoying nights of the year in arguably the most annoying city known to man. So why couldn’t she think of a thing?
She sipped her skinny margarita from her chaise and watched her husband’s beautiful body cut through the water like a moving art installation. When Miles emerged, he propped himself on the back of the lit infinity pool, where the turquoise water appeared to spill over the side and straight down the mountain. Behind him, the lights from the valley twinkled for miles, making the city look alluring, even sexy. Night was the only time Los Angeles really shined. Gone were the smog and the junkies and the soul-crushing traffic, all replaced by an idyllic vista of night sky and silently twinkling lights—like God himself descended into the Hollywood Hills and selected the most perfect Snapchat filter for his least favorite city on earth.
Miles smiled at her, and she waved, but when he motioned again for her to join him, she shook her head no. All around her, people were partying in that intensely determined way that happened only on New Year’s Eve after midnight: this will be the most fun we’ve ever had; we will do and say outrageous things; we are loving our lives and everyone around us. The massive hot tub was packed with a dozen revelers, all with drinks in hand, and another group sat around the perimeter, content to dangle their feet while they waited for a few inches of space to free up. On the deck above the pool a DJ blasted remixed hip hop, and dancers everywhere—on the patio, in the pool, on the pool deck, streaming in and out of the house—all moved happily to his playlist. On the chair to Emily’s left, a young girl wearing only bikini bottoms straddled a guy and massaged his shoulders while her bare breasts dangled freely. She worked her way down his back and began a rather aggressive handling of his glutes. She was twenty-three, twenty-five at most, and while her body was far from perfect—slightly rounded belly and overly curvy thighs—her arms didn’t jiggle and her neck didn’t sag. No crepey anything. Just youth. None of the small indignities of Emily’s own body at thirty-six: light stretch marks on her hips; cleavage with just the smallest hint of sag; some errant dark hairs along her bikini line that just seemed to sprout now willy-nilly, indifferent to Emily’s indefatigable waxing schedule. It wasn’t a horror show, exactly—she still looked thin and tan, maybe even downright hot in her elegant Eres two-piece—but it was getting harder with every passing year.
An unfamiliar 917 number flashed on her phone.
“Emily? This is Helene. I’m not sure if you remember, but we met a couple years ago at the Met Ball.”
Emily looked skyward in concentration. The name was familiar but she was having a hard time placing it.
“I’m Rizzo’s manager.”
Rizzo. Interesting. He was the new Bieber: the hottest new pop star whose fame had skyrocketed when, two years earlier at age sixteen, he’d become the youngest male to win a Grammy for best album. Helene had moved to Hollywood to join an agency—either ICM or Endeavor, Emily couldn’t remember—but she’d somehow missed the news that she now represented Rizzo.
“Of course. How are you?” Emily asked. She glanced at her watch. This was no ordinary call.
“I’m sorry I’m calling so late,” Helene said. “It’s already four a.m. here in New York, but you’re probably in LA. I feel terrible interrupting . . .”

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