Paris Hilton was naked in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror that formed one wall in a white marble bathroom on the top floor of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Paris was tall at five foot eight inches, and she was thin. Not bone thin like Nicole Ritchie or Calista Flockhart or Lara Flynn Boyle. She had some shape. Her breasts though were not large enough, she thought, but she was not going to deal with that issue now. Too young. She had the goods and all the attention she needed, so stuffing her breasts with silicon was not high on the agenda. Plus, her face was, well, chiseled. That is how Paris viewed her face: chiseled; as if a sculptor was inspired to carve a perfect face.
Paris smiled as she looked at her face. She thought that the women, the actors mostly, who had decided to alter their faces with plastic surgery had opted for the committee approach to art. And as far as Paris was concerned, committees never produced good art. It required inspiration, a burst of hot fire that drives the creation of perfection. Chiseled. And Paris was born with this face. Indeed, she sometimes thought that she was named after the perfect city. But she did not let that thought carry too far since she actually did not care for Paris. Don't tell anyone Paris does not like Paris. She found the French to be boring, and their capital city rather dull. The color grey came to Paris's mind whenever she thought of the City of Paris. Yes, of course, the Eiffel Tower was cool. And that Jules Verne restaurant was special for its location. But really, to go nuts for a whole city because of a glorified antenna was silly. Though when she read The DaVinci Code, well, I mean, when she read half The DaVinci Code Paris never finishes a book — she felt briefly nostalgic about Paris.
Never finishes a book. Paris thought about this thought. It was bothersome that books were boring after a hundred pages or so. Actually, they were boring after a hundred words. She thought this as she stood before the mirror in her skinny nakedness. Naked in her Daddy's hotel. Oooops, that does not sound good. Hilton Hotels was a public company, afterall, and this was not really Daddy's hotel. But then, everyone treated her like it was Daddy's hotel. She could waltz into any Hilton Hotel in the world and get a room without ever lifting her black American Express Card out of her Prada bag. Frankly, she was through with lifting anything. Paris preferred others do the lifting for her, bags and credit cards. Get others to pay, Paris would think, even though she typically had more money than anyone in the room, or wherever she was where a tab or bill was presented.
Paris was alone in the Penthouse suite of the Beverly Hilton. Not totally alone. The girl on the couch was there. Sleeping and snoring. Shocking. How could such a young thing snore like that. Paris could hear it from the bathroom which was two large rooms away from the lungfuls of noise. The girl no doubt was snoring, Paris thought, because the girl must have gone through three packs of Camels the night before. The girl's name was what again? Evy? Zeevy? Yeevy? Paris couldn't remember. The girl followed Paris to her room, and Paris accommodated her, making believe the girl was like a baby sister or an older child. The girl was a child, in fact. Could not be more than sixteen. The girl mentioned something about tenth grade. A rich kid. A rich Beverly Hills stupid kid on her way to being fat or a druggie or just totally useless.
Paris snapped back into attention and looked at her face again. Stop the daydreaming. Let's get dressed and get out of here. She was packing light, just her clothes and cell phone. Oh, yes, her wallet too. The hotel will give her everything else she needs. She will get dressed and leave the snoring tenth grader on the couch. The tenth grader probably won't even remember last night. Not that anything happened but for the two bottles of white wine the kid poured down her mouth and the three times she slipped and fell while dancing. Dancing and drinking, silly drunk to be with the famous Paris Hilton, dancing with Paris till that moment when the kid knew her body could not absorb anymore drink or drugs, and so she felt like she had permission to hang on Paris. Normally Paris would have a drunk slobbering on her yanked off by security. But this girl was sweet even though a mess.
Paris had all photographers banned from the party. Everyone was checked by security, not for guns or knives but for any imaging devices, including cell phones. So no one, I mean no one has an image of this stupid drunk high school girl with long wavy black hair hanging onto Paris's shoulder with her alabaster white splinter-like arms as Paris led her to the Penthouse suite utilizing the back staff elevator at three in the morning. Paris loved her Daddy's hotels. She had total control. Paris had the power of immigration and customs at her Daddy's hotels. At this thought, the morning sunlight, well, OK, the mid-afternoon sunlight, hit her naked ankles as it cut through the living room, then through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Time to get dressed. Time to start another day. OK, OK, time to start another evening.