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Sara B. is losing her cool.
Not just in the momentary-meltdown kind of way--though there's that, too. At the helm of must-read Snap magazine, veteran style guru Sara B. has had the job--and joy--for the past fifteen years of eviscerating the city's fashion victims in her legendary DOs and DON'Ts photo spread.
But now on the unhip edge of forty, with ambitious hipster kids reinventing the style world, Sara's being spit out like an old Polaroid picture: blurry, undeveloped and obsolete.
Fueled by alcohol, nicotine and self-loathing, Sara launches into a cringeworthy but often comic series of blowups--personal, professional and private--that culminate in an epiphany. That she, the arbiter of taste, has made her living by cutting people down...and somehow she's got to make amends.
Excerpts:
From the book
I hate the girl with the parrot on her shoulder. I don't want to but I do. She's nineteen, maybe twenty, smoking as she waits in line at the restaurant. There's always a line now for Sunday brunch and I know it's my fault. Sometimes I shouldjust keep these things to myself. But the Parrot Girl. She's wearing shiny blue short-shorts with white piping, soccer socks with the stripey tops pulled up to her knees. I can tell her cowboy boots have been scuffed and distressed on purpose, the leather warped and discolored by water, they're scratched and dirty--she probably dragged them behind a car through an unpaved alleyway then invited her friends to stomp on them with their filthiest shoes. I know all the tricks. Still, the boots are too stiff. She wears a short gold satin jacket that the parrot keeps snagging with its claws every time it readjusts itself on her shoulder. From where I'm sitting I can't see what's underneath the jacket and the way the sun is reflecting off the satin, I can't get a clear view of her face. Plus, the parrot is in the way. Ted has a better view and assures me her face is good, so I polish off my third champagne cocktail and grab my camera bag from under the table.
Up close I see Parrot Girl has a tiny diamond stud in her nose. Her makeup is perfect: smudgy kohl eyes and sticky mascara, smeared lips, classic morning-after face. But her hair is too clean and smells like apples, her face freshly moisturized. I wonder how long she spent getting ready this morning, if she had a fitful sleep editing all the possible combinations of outfits in her head.
"Excuse me." I tap Parrot Girl on the shoulder. "My name is Sara B. and I was wondering if I could take your picture?"
Parrot Girl turns to look at me. Her friends titter behind her. She lights another cigarette and I notice her hands are shaking slightly. She knows who I am, I'm sure of it. She takes a deep drag and shrugs. "Yeah, okay, that's cool."
I lead her away from the line and ask her to face my camera. The satin is tricky in the sun and the parrot won't look at me. I think for a moment that the parrot is smarter than either of us--it knows how ridiculous this all is, and doesn't want any part of it. I get the shot and Parrot Girl signs the release allowing the magazine to use the photos however we see fit. She doesn't ask the obvious--it never occurs to the ones who try so hard to be a DO that they could possibly be a DON'T.
I push my way back through the line and to our table by the window, which is open onto the busy street. A couple of people call my name and wave. I have no idea who they are, but smile and wave back anyway. One of them yells, "Sara B.! Take my picture!" I smile again and sit down.
Genevieve is breast-feeding the baby in the washroom. She won't do it at the table anymore after last week when a woman in bad camouflage pockety pants that emphasized her puffy abdomen berated her for drinking one champagne cocktail, then feeding the baby an hour later. According to Genevieve,
this was typical. The situation was made worse when the Bad Camo Woman broke from her rant and narrowed her eyes at Genevieve. "You!" She pointed a finger in Genevieve's face. "You! You're that singer! Gen-Gen! You had that song-- what was it called? 'J'taime, J'taime something...'"
"'J'taime My Baby Tonight,'" Ted spoke up. Genevieve glared at her husband.
Bad Camo Woman snapped her fingers. "That's it! Wow! I used to listen to that song over and over when I was a teenager! You're Gen-Gen! Andrew, look, it's Gen-Gen!"...
The book Snapped by Pamela Klaffke
(author) is published or distributed by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd. [1426845952-BEEPB, 9781426845956-BEEPB].
This particular edition was published on or around 2010-1-1 date.
Snapped is available for use in eBook binding.
This book by Pamela Klaffke
is written in English language.
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