![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() She wore an ivory suit with a silky, quilted jacket, but the outrageous gold metallic bustier beneath was more appropriate to a rock concert than a funeral. Her moist, full lips, painted a delicious shade of peony pink, were slightly parted as she gazed toward the shiny black casket that held what was left of Bert Somerville. Phoebe’s ash blond hair, artfully streaked with platinum, swooped down over one eye like Marilyn Monroe’s in The SevenYear Itch. It was difficult for the mourners to decide who looked more out of place-the perfectly clipped poodle sporting a pair of matching peach satin ear bows, Phoebe’s unbelievably handsome Hungarian with his long, beaded ponytail, or Phoebe herself. She sat at the gravesite like a fifties movie queen with the small white poodle perched in her lap and a pair of rhinestone-studded cat’s-eye sunglasses shielding her eyes. P hoebe Somerville outraged everyone by bringing a French poodle and a Hungarian lover to her father’s funeral. ![]()
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