VANITY FAIR The SECOND COMING

masterpiece on the sesquicentennial of its publication.

David Colman

LONDON 1848 NEW YORK 1998

Nineteen ninety-eight marks the 150th anniver sary of William Makepeace Thackeray's chef d'oeuvre, Vanity Fair. Herein, we resuscitate the great novel's cunning, grasping, social-climbing star, Becky Sharp, refitting her for the modern era. Luckily for Becky, times haven't changed much—just names and appetizers. There is no more Miss Pinkerton's academy, no Crawley Manor, and London society has broken down, but in New York there are modern social ladders to scale, and more than enough diversion to occupy a poor orphaned girl's active mind.

Chapter 1

IN WHICH BECKY SHARP AND AMY SEDLEY LEAVE SCHOOL, BECKY-WITH A DEGREE OF IMPATIENCE AND AMY A DECREE OF RECRET

... Thus saying, Becky threw the little Vuitton trunk she had had for so long into the back of the black-on-black Navigator and turned to Amy, who had begun to sniffle as she gazed at the stately college gates across the street.

"Amy, for Heaven's sake," she said curtly. "Get in the car."

"But to think I might never see Brown—or Rhode Island—again," whimpered Amy.

"This town!" Becky said with a mighty harrumph. "Providence in name alone!"

At this, Amy's brother Joseph, who had up to now been waiting distractedly, jangling the car keys, turned to look at Becky Sharp with new eyes; he admired her arching bow of a mouth, painted dark with Vamp, as if her lips were being strung to let another arrow fly. He opened the passenger door for her; she stepped up, only to pause. "I shouldn't," she said. "Amy, dear, you must ride shotgun—it's only right."

"I don't mind," said Amy, who had now turned her sorrowful gaze down College Hill and over the city.

"O.K., then," said Becky, leaping into the front seat. "At least take my Walkman."

"That's so thoughtful of you, Becky," said Amy with her customary sincerity. "I will."

With all of them in, it was not long before they were on the bridge heading toward Interstate 95, southward-bound.

"Oh, Becky," said Amy. "Here's your diploma. You left it in the apartment." The fair girl handed the black leatherette folder up to her friend. "Diplomacy!" sneered Becky, taking the thing and flinging it out the window; it spiraled like a dying bat into the murky water below.

"Step on it, won't you, Joe?" she enjoined sweetly ...

Chapter 11

IN WHICH BECKY J&AUZES HER AMBITION TO BE A HOSTESS GSFE SOCIETY AHDIINDS IT "WANTING

... "Balthazar, will you hold?" she said blithely. Putting the receiver down, she leveled her gaze into the man's deep brown eyes, and steeled her lips into the crooked smile that had helped her out of, not to say into, many a fix.

"I don't see any reservation here, Mr.—what did you say the name was?"

"Kennedy."

She continued poring over the reservation book; the line had backed up into Spring Street. "Yes ... I think I see it," she said, looking up, cocking a brow. "Is your friend here yet?"

"No," he said, and cocked a brow back. "As a matter of fact, she isn't."

"As a matter of fact, I am," came a voice from a face which emerged, framed in Titian light, from the crowd. "Right here."

"Ah, yes," said Becky. "You would be." Producing two menus with a flourish, she was about to lead them to a table when she thought better of it and handed the task over to a colleague. "Show Mr. Kennedy and his friend to Table 12— the booth," she said.

"Wife," corrected the beautiful blonde as she passed.

Becky clenched her fist around the phone cord, and, as it happened, there were no more reservations made at Balthazar after that, as her index-finger nail had accidentally severed the phone line.

"Oh well," she said, surveying the damage. "The night is that much easier." Somewhat later, her evening was made easier yet when McNally found her out, after starting to get reservation calls on his private cell phone.

"I'm only a poor hostess," she supplicated, but McNally took no pity, referring her to the door ...

Chapter III

IN WHICH BECKY GAINS A SHARP-OEDBOTHOLD IN THE SOBER WORLD or IASHIQM 3OURNALISM

... She checked the straps on the Prada anaconda pumps that she had taken as a "bonus" after her third week in the press office there (thank God she was a sample size) and appraised herself in the mirror. Did she look perfect? After all, she was about to interview for a job at Vogue, a jewel of the Conde Nast empire!

Less than an hour later she was making her way out of the Conde Nast Building, the thrilling feel of the legendary editor's firm handshake still fresh in her palm. "A junior fashion editor!" she said, beaming.

Amy, sweet thing that she was, was not at all envious. "Oh, Becky, think of it!" she said that night when they were re-

united in the SoHo loft they shared, and for which, it must be admitted, Amy's father paid.

"Such a coup, Becky. And you deserve it, after all your hardship."

"I'm afraid to get my hopes up, Amy, luckless orphan that I've always been, you know," said Becky, reaching for the Veuve Clicquot, the last of the bottles she had purloined from Balthazar as a severance package. "But only think, Amy. Me, an editor! Thank God for style."

Chapter IV

IN WHICH BECKY LEARNS Bow 10 LIVE ONNOTHING A YEAR.,

... "Yes, Becky Sharp, from Vogue," she said curtly into the phone for the 14th time that morning. "Eight o'clock, for two. Yes, of course I'll write something about it ... No, not this month, but certainly next ..."

And later, on her rounds: "Oh, what a clever bag," said Becky, her green eyes flashing as she perused the pristine shelves of the young designer's showroom. "Do you have an extra? ... This is the sample? ... No, darling, Y

it's for a shoot ... I can have it back by Wednesday ... No, next Wednesday ..."

At the spa: "Oh, yes, right there," said Becky Sharp ecstatically, her voice muffled by the towel on L the massage table. "Fabulous, Solvang, you know I have been so tense ... the grueling pace of being an editor ... God, I must come back next week or I'll die ... " And even back at the Prada boutique:

"It is beautiful," said Becky Sharp, admiring herself in the mirror. She sighed. "If only I could afford such things on my meager salary ... It is too bad—I could wear it all the time, too, and everyone would ask ... they always do, you know ..." Becky was so assuring and pleasant, who could refuse?

Chapter V

IN "WHICH BECKY LEARNS "WHAT IS SHAKPEK THAN A SBEJPENTS TOOTH

... If only she had listened to the sister back at the convent, Becky Sharp would never have accidentally insulted the Italian designer's fall collection (and by extension his magnanimous advertising budget). Her editor was not assuaged by her protestations that her Italian was inexpert. "I suggest you stick to English, Miss Sharp," she said flatly.

"You have one more chance." As she slunk out of the office, Becky Sharp swore to sink her well-manicured hold in deeper. But, as it happened, she sunk it in too deep. Later that week at a photography shoot, Becky's mind was elsewhere as she styled the white silk Alexander McQueen dress which was to adorn the magazine's cover, and she stuck a pin square into the hindquarters of one of the world's most sought-after mannequins. The aristocratic English rose let loose a bloodcurdling howl that brought everyone within earshot running. "Call 999!" the woman shrieked as the red spot on the McQueen dress spread. "Get me a couch!"

"It's 911 here," said Becky Sharp. "And if you'll only hold still I'll take the pin out."

"Don't you dare touch me, you idiot!" bellowed the model. "Get this strumpet out of my sight!"

And so Becky was removed, but not without a parting shot. "ur blood certainly doesn't look blue," she said viciously. "Perhaps it is, further down." Before she left the hallowed halls of Vogue, however, she delivered a resounding slap to the lady's bottom, driving the pin in to the hilt. And as the model opened her mouth to scream again, Becky said coldly, "Stiff upper lip, milady." Scuttling from the scene, Becky headed out into the glaring sunlight she knew so well, her cellular telephone firmly in hand ...