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Hillarv Jo Higginbotham’s Rise to the Top

The True Story of the Woman Who Became Dallas’s Hottest Celeb-In Just Six Months!
By

JANUARY: HILLARY JO Higginbotham, her black miniskirt stretched tightly over her aerobicized thighs, sweeps into the crowded Beau Nash bar for a quick glass of wine. Hillary Jo, twenty-seven, just wants to check in and see who’s there before she heads for her job at the latest be-there-or-die beautiful people’s nightclub, Pasha, where three nights a week she works the door. Working the door, of course, is a valid career among the nightclub set, and for Hillary, it is the easiest way to make friends.

Already, Hillary is very close friends with dozens of people, most of whom she has never seen when the sun was up. No matter. When she does see them she is incorrigibly convivial, kissing them all on the cheek with her very red lips. She says charming things like, “You look perf,” which of course, is short for perfect. She has flawless, creamy skin and when she bends forward her silk blouse opens teasingly.

But Hillary makes sure she does not lose control. She never drinks too much. Hillary, who has spent a lot of time since her days as a high school baton twirler wanting to be famous, has decided that in the big city, the best way to become known is to be seen enough times at a good nightclub.

On this night, Hillary Jo Higginbotham sees a commotion down at one end of the bar. A photographer from the “High Profile” section of the Morning News is taking pictures. Good Lord, Hillary thinks, “High Profile”! Everybody who is anybody gets their pictures in “High Profile.” Hillary has met a lot of important people-one man, a highly regarded urologist, took her to a charity ball, proceeds of which went to the construction of a local marionette theater. But no one had ever gotten her in “High Profile.”

For some reason, Hillary begins to edge her way forward. There is an opening in the circle of people and Hillary goes for it. Hillary steps forward and grabs the arm of an older man beside her just as the photographer turns her way. Flash, flash. Hillary is smiling her best baton twirler smile. Oddly, the man beside her has this rather pale, stricken look on his face. Hillary is about to become a local celebrity.

FEBRUARY: THE DALLAS SOCIAL CIRCUIT IS buzzing. Who in the world was that beautiful young woman seen on the arm of downtown banker R. Boone Dunkirk? Did you see his picture in “High Profile”? Did you see how her fingernails pressed into his arm? Who could it be? The caption just said “R. Boone Dunkirk and date.” And what do you think Margaret, his wife of twenty-five years, must think? Surely, she’ll leave him now. Would you blame her? So what if he has inherited millions and is on the board of every major organization in town? The nerve of that man!

Nancy Smith, the Times Heralds spicy society columnist, moves in quickly for the kill. “The March of Dimes celebrity arm wrestling tournament has been set for next month,” she writes. “The feature match is between Nancy Brinker and Bunker Hunt. But what everyone really wants to know is if you-know-who will be seen with his newest glamour kitten. Hint: the last syllable of his last name rhymes with ’jerk.’ “

Hillary, meanwhile, has started a scrap-book about herself. One night, while having a glass of wine at the bar of the Mansion, she spots a man nearby wearing a to-die-for Armani suit. “My God,” Hillary’s girlfriend whispers. “That’s one of the most sought-after divorces in Dallas. It’s the bathroom tile tycoon and film investor, Chub Tushwell.”

Soon, Hillary is beside him, saying things like, “A good job is one that lets you sleep late when you have a hangover.” Chub is so charmed he nearly gives way at the knees. Later in the evening he asks her if she would be his date at the upcoming celebrity arm wrestling party. Hillary says, “Perf!”



MARCH: AT THE CELEBRITY arm wrestling tournament, the old money crowd gasps when Annette Strauss pins former Sen. John Tower in twenty-five seconds. “What a moment!” shouts emcee Dale Hansen. But it’s nothing like the moment when Hillary Jo Higginbotham walks in on the arm of Chub Tushwell.

“It’s her,” says an editor from Ultra magazine, beckoning to a photographer. Chub, who’s wise in such matters, steers her away from Ultra (“No one reads that trash anymore,” he tells Hillary), but he does pause before the photographers from the Park Cities newspapers. A writer from Women’s Wear Daily asks Hillary about her stunning black dress. “1 wear it,” says a dramatic Hillary in a line that will soon be published everywhere, “to match the midnight sky.”

Soon, Hillary is coming close to her limit of two and one-thirds glasses of wine. She feels light on her feet. While Chub is in a heated discussion with an oilman about the advantage of his-and-her saunas in the master bathroom, a couple of men sneak up and hand Hillary their cards. One man quietly asks if Hillary would like to be his escort at a safari party in Fort Worth, proceeds of which go to a fund to save rare white rhinos. Hillary whispers back. “How div!” which, of course, is short for divine.

Then, Hillary sees another photographer across the room. Intoxicated by a feeling of glamour. Hillary heads that way. A squat, middle-aged woman approaches from the opposite direction. “Oh, no,” says Chub. It’s Margaret Dunkirk, wife of R. Boone.

Margaret has actually come over to tell Hillary that all is forgiven. She reaches for Hillary’s arm, but misses. Instead, she latches onto the front of Hillary’s dress. “Oh, no,” says Chub again. The dress to match the midnight sky comes tumbling down. Suddenly, Hillary is standing in the middle of the ballroom, her pert breasts covered only by her neatly manicured hands. Local celebrity photographer J. Allen Hansley doesn’t miss a thing. He gets the best photographs of his life. “What a moment!” shouts emcee Dale Hansen.



APRIL: J. ALLEN HANSLEY HAS SOLD HIS photographs to nearly every magazine in the country. Vanity Fair, Cosmopolitan, Time, National Enquirer, and Esquire all hit the newsstands, each showing the extraordinary shots of the desirable Hillary Jo Higgin-botham quivering half-naked among Dallas’s high society. She looks so innocent and vulnerable, her doe eyes staring right into (he camera, that one cannot help but adore her. “The Real Dallas Scandal,” says Vanity Fair. “Paparazzi Princess Exposed,” clamors National Enquirer. “When a Sweet Girl Offends Old Money,” posits Time.

Nancy Smith, never one to miss a trend, writes, “How do you imagine that you-know-who puts up with his conniving wife, you-know-who? Hint: the last syllable of her last name rhymes with “jerk.’”

Hillary, who has remained in hiding since the episode, practically listless except for those moments when she tends to her scrap-book, realizes that life is not over.

A woman calls: “Hillary, after the way Margaret Dunkirk treated you, I thought you would be the perfect choice to co-chair the White Slipper Ball, proceeds of which go to the Abused Ex-Junior Leaguers’ Fund. It’s one of the greatest honors a young woman could have, next to being a member of the Junior League.”

Hillary works up the courage to slip into Pasha one night and the place goes berserk. Men elbow Priscilla Davis aside to get a look at Hillary. Oilman Bill Brosseau, who has been named by nearly every publication in the Western world as one of the most eligible bachelors in Dallas, asks her for a date to the rare white rhino safari. Hillary says, “I’m already going. Sorry, dar,” which, of course, is short for “darling.”



MAY: HILLARY GOES TO THE RARE WHITE rhino safari with advertising executive Buff Baker, one of the new young Dallas turks who have become the toast of the town for their ability to make a lot of money and then use it to jet 500 of their closest friends to Acapulco for the weekend. Buff says he wants Hillary to be in an advertising campaign for a shampoo (“Think of it. You’d come out of the shower with a towel and then it would fall off. What a statement!”). Hillary says she’s acted before. In high school, she made offstage screaming noises during a murder mystery play.

For the charity safari, Buffs friend Jack Remington has let loose some deer on his ranch. Everyone is going to pile into jeeps and shoot the deer. Then they’ll retire to the house for a silent auction of selected evening gowns from Neiman-Marcus. All the local celebrities are there-Ron Chapman, Dorothy Malone, floral consultant Kendall Bailey-and they all say hello to Hillary.

Hillary says she has shot a gun before. The truth is, she has never once held a gun. As all the jeeps head off into the bush, Hillary accidentally hits the safety and her gun discharges, the buckshot peppering the plump posterior of Mrs. Hubert P. Aber-nathy, the noted arts contributor riding in the jeep ahead.

“Oops,” says Hillary Jo Higginbotham.

But the gun incident only makes Hillary more famous. The Starck Club has a Hillary Night, where all guests are handed toy guns to shoot at one another when they are not standing in the women’s restroom looking cool. Dallas movie mogul Sam Grogg begins thinking about a movie based on Hillary Higginbotham’s life. “The Edie Sedgewick of our times,” says an inspired Grogg. D Magazine’s editorial board debates for two hours over whether she should be named Dallasite of the Year. Hillary is even asked to contribute a celebrity recipe to the Dallas Citizens Against Social Injustice charity cookbook (Hillary offers her very own creation, “Pate and Peanut Butter”).

“I wish I could just freeze my life just as it is right now,” she tells an interviewer from GQ magazine as part of a story on women who have it all. “That way I know there would be a happy ending.”



JUNE: AT THE WHITE SLIPPER BALL FOR the Abused Ex-Junior Leaguers’ Fund, co-chairman Hillary Higginbotham looks resplendent in a white gown and diamond earrings. She is an eslablished part of society now, moving easily among the crowd with her date. Chub Tushwell.

Although the photographers usually speak to Hillary and get in a shot or two, they don’t swarm around her as they once did. Hillary doesn’t seem bothered by this. But tonight, they haven’t been around at all. What is the matter here? And where is Chub?

Hillary sees a commotion over by one of the tables. Curious, she picks up her second glass of wine and moves closer. She suddenly sees Chub Tushwell, who is having his picture taken with a glamorous blonde.

“Oh, there you are, Chub!” Hillary cries, reaching for him. Unfortunately, she forgets her hand is still holding a glass of wine, which promptly sloshes right over the head of the blonde. The crowd gasps. The blonde sputters. The photographers go into a frenzy.

“Oops,” says Hillary Jo Higginbotham, but it is too late. Nancy Smith is gathering her things and hurrying back to her office, where she will write, “The Celebrity Bowl-a-thon to benefit Third World Artists will be next month. We wonder if you-know-who will be there. Hint: the last syllable of her last name rhymes with ’scum.’”

And later that week, “High Profile” printsa photograph of “Chub Tushwell and date.”Another Dallas celebrity is bom. And another one dies.

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