“So, where to?” J.P. asked companionably, shifting gears from their aborted Barneys mission. He draped his arm over Jack’s navy Sutton Studio cashmere sweater–covered shoulder. Jack wiggled away.
“Let’s just go home,” Jack said, crossing her arms over her chest. Suddenly, she felt cold and exhausted and didn’t know if she could face one more thing not going to plan.
“Sounds good.” J.P. smiled broadly as he held his hand up to hail a taxi, not missing a beat. It was like it was all he’d wanted to do all along. Because maybe it was?
Jack tried to conceal a sigh. She wouldn’t say no if J.P. suggested getting a drink at Rose Bar or dinner at Balthazar. But Jack knew he wouldn’t. It wasn’t until this week that she’d realized just how much J.P. loved hanging out at home. Maybe he’d always been like that, and she just hadn’t noticed because they hadn’t been living together.
As Jack got into the taxi and it sped downtown to the lofts, a wave of claustrophobia rushed over her. Genevieve, Sarah Jane, and Jiffy’s nights were just beginning. They’d probably go for cocktails, followed by dinner, followed by more drinks at a bar and maybe a club. They could get home whenever they wanted, and they certainly didn’t have to worry about coming home to dog pee in their sustainable bamboo beds.
But of course they could do what they wanted—they were single. And it wasn’t like Jack wanted that. Besides, after Friday night, she and J.P. would definitely have something to do with all their free time at home.
That’s the spirit.
a gets the buzz
“Name?” A burly bouncer stepped in front of Avery as she moved toward the glass door of Thom on Wednesday night, the bar where she was meeting James to talk about the Jack Laurent story. He didn’t seem to think twice about taking the intern to drinks.
“Avery Carlyle,” she said confidently, even though her heart was thumping against her chest. She was on the verge of a breakthrough, and she was determined not to let anything fuck it up. Maybe her first week at Metropolitan had sucked, and maybe she did have to work on a story about Jack, but she was working on it with a super-important journalist who took her seriously. She wore a scoop-back dress by The Row with gray suede pointed-toe ankle boots and had pulled her long wheat-blond hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck in an effort to look serious and smart, yet sexy.
“Go on in. Your date is waiting for you,” the bouncer said, his eyes flicking appreciatively up Avery’s ensemble.
“Thanks.” Avery walked through the door and down the narrow, candlelit black spiral staircase into the bar. She couldn’t believe she was actually here. Thom was an ultra-exclusive bar and eating club on Thompson Street in the West Village owned by Manhattan media mogul and billionaire Towson Wexler. Anyone who was anyone came here because not only did they have a firm no-cameras, no-BlackBerrys, no-blogging policy, but also the only way to get in was to call Towson’s assistant and make a reservation.
“Aviary!”
Avery glanced over to see James waving to her from a low-slung black leather banquette in the corner. Avery smiled broadly, not even caring that his Scottish accent made her name sound like a home for birds.
Anything beats Intern.
James wore a paisley tie and a gray pin-striped Hickey Freeman suit, but instead of making him look totally gay, the paisley set off his sexy five o’clock stubble, giving him a slightly European look.
“Hi James,” Avery said, sitting down next to him.
“A drink?” he asked, motioning to the waiter.
“Vodka gimlet,” Avery confidently told the blond waitress, who nodded and slithered off. Vodka gimlets were what her grandmother always ordered, and to Avery were synonymous with sophistication and glamour.
“Vodka gimlet. You certainly are a Ticky trainee.” James smirked, sipping from his water glass. Avery noticed he didn’t have a drink. Weird. Instantly, the waitress came back and placed her drink on the black lacquer table in front of them.
“So tell me, Avery, which story of mine has been your favorite?” James asked, his blue eyes probing hers. He scooted closer to her on the bench so they were now seated on only one rigid black cushion. “I always love to hear what beautiful girls think of my writing.”
Avery smiled like an idiot, racking her brain for an answer. In truth, she usually just skimmed the actual articles of Metropolitan and mostly focused on the fashion spreads. “You know, it’s really hard to pick just one,” Avery said, hoping that didn’t sound too much like a cop-out. She glanced around the restaurant. Even on a Wednesday night, Barbara Walters sat in a booth, animatedly gesturing to a cowering white-haired man, while a group of long-haired models gossiped in a corner banquette.
James grinned. Avery smiled uncertainly back, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes and hoping he didn’t think she was a total airhead.
“What’s your favorite?” she asked, cringing before the sentence even left her mouth. It sounded like she was asking him what his favorite pet was. She grabbed her drink off the black lacquer table and downed half of it before she could ask him something even more embarrassing.
Like his age?
“Ah, the good old journalism ‘answer a question with a question’ method,” James said.
“Yeah,” Avery said nervously. This wasn’t going as smoothly as she was hoping. Luckily, the bar was lit only by glass Tiffany lamps placed discreetly on side tables, so James couldn’t see the blush that was beginning to spread from her chest up to her face. For a working meeting, this felt suspiciously like a date. Not like that was a bad thing. After all, her sister wasn’t the only one who could score a European.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the World Cup, Carlyle style.
“Well, I’ll tell you, my favorite stories are the ones where we pull back the gilded curtain on Manhattan. I love uncovering people’s motivations and desires,” James said. “You New York girls start young!” His gaze flicked down to Avery’s empty vodka gimlet. Yikes. She needed to remember to slow down. After all, this was work.
“So, tell me about you,” James asked, leaning back against the stiff black leather cushions.
“Aren’t you having anything to drink?” Avery couldn’t resist asking.
“Don’t drink on the job.” James shrugged. “Long story. But you’re an intern, so I say live it up. I promise, the alcohol when you’re young can only help you. It just catches up once you turn thirty,” James said ruefully. Avery wondered how old he was exactly. He looked younger than thirty to her.
“Well,” Avery began, “I’m originally from Nantucket but my grandmother, Avery Carlyle the first, was a lifelong New Yorker. When she passed away, my family came here to settle her estate and so far, it’s been a dream come true. Although it would have been so much better if my grandmother were still alive.” Avery smiled sadly.
“Hmm,” James said, fiddling with the straw in his water glass and sounding politely bored.
“I’m really enjoying New York,” she added desperately. Great, now she sounded like a freaking tourist. Next thing she knew, she’d be asking him to take her on a tour of the Empire State Building.
“Yeah?” James asked lightly. “And let’s get you another drink—you’re all done,” he said, motioning to a passing waitress. Avery liked that he was ordering for her.
“What have you been enjoying the most about the city?” James asked, leaning closer toward her.
“There are no rules,” Avery blurted, backing away a few inches. Now that he seemed interested, she was a little confused. Did she like him? Was this a date? Too many questions were sloshing around her brain.
“No rules. Right-o!” James’s eyes gleamed. “Like, how? Are those all-girl private schools the hotbeds of sin the media would have us believe?”
“Not really.” Avery racked her brain, thinking of some type of story to tell James about her Constance Billard life. It wasn’t like she’d exactly tell him her only friends were her sister and a pierced, tattooed girl who called her
self flexual. “My friend Jiffy always crashes these VIP parties and dinners by RSVP’ing in her sister’s name, and my other friend steals clothes from the fashion closet of the magazine her mom edits,” Avery finally offered.
“Yeah, but that’s schoolgirl stuff. I bet you do that too when you get the chance,” James countered. “Tell me more about the wicked lives of you Upper East Siders.”
“Well, we can get into any club in the city and no one checks IDs. My other friend Genevieve always dates these lame C-list Hollywood actors, but the only reason they go out with her is because her dad is a director.” Avery crossed her legs.
“You need another drink!” James announced, motioning to the waitress, then dropping his hand on Avery’s bare knee. Avery glanced down and saw he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She felt her stomach leap.
Doesn’t she mean churn?
“So, what else, darling?” James asked. Avery blinked, unable to focus. What had they been talking about before? It didn’t matter. James had called her darling! Suddenly an elaborate fantasy of their life together spread out before her. They’d get married and be a literary power couple, capable of making or breaking people’s reputations. They’d have lavish dinner parties at their classic-six apartment, where the Manhattan media elite would gather, the hottest ticket in town. “So, let’s get down to business. How did the Cashman Lofts girl captivate New York?” James raised an eyebrow.
“You mean Jack?” Avery momentarily felt her mood darken. She’d like to talk about something else. Like herself. Or like herself and James. She hurriedly gulped down her vodka gimlet, realizing midway through it had just been refilled.
“She’s… different,” Avery said finally.
“How so? How did she wind up in that loft?”
“She has… special circumstances,” Avery finished mysteriously. “She’s close with her boyfriend’s family. And, of course, she’d never be one to turn down a free apartment. Her own living situation was a little bit complicated….” Avery trailed off.
“Well, her boyfriend must be head over heels for her to have his father give her an apartment, no?” James asked.
“Well, sort of…” Avery began, then paused. She certainly didn’t know how close J.P. and Jack could be when just two weeks ago J.P. had been declaring his love for her sister.
“I don’t really know if there’s anything between them, so much as what J.P. has to offer. Or at least, what his family has to offer,” Avery whispered confidentially. She clipped her words, trying not to slur. “Jack sort of finds opportunities. And I think having an apartment was important to her,” she finished, thinking of the miserable attic Jack had been living in. Avery considered telling James about it, but stopped herself. Yeah, Jack had been a bitch to her, but there was no need to sink to her level.
“So, Dick Cashman must really like her then,” James nodded.
“I guess so. I don’t know why,” Avery snorted, crossing her leg. All of a sudden, her foot made contact with her half-full glass, sending the liquid all over James’s pants. “Christ! Fuck!” James swore, standing up. The spreading stain made it look like he’d peed his pants.
“Sorry!” Avery squeaked in horror. She frantically dabbed the area close to his crotch with a napkin, then stopped. Why was it that whenever something was going well with a guy, something went freakishly wrong? “I didn’t mean to!”
“Don’t worry!” James grabbed her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it. “I think it was adorable. You’re a little minx, I can tell.”
Avery smiled numbly, not sure if she should smile or cry. At least James didn’t think she was a total disaster.
“Fascinating stuff you were telling me.” James shook his head. “But, I suppose I have to get you home, Cinderella,” he said, helping Avery stand up.
What a fairy-tale ending.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Wednesday, October 20, 7:00pm
Subject: Swim Team Throwdown
Gentlemen,
The team’s just not meshing, and that’s affecting your performances in the pool. I’m hosting a pasta dinner at my apartment on Friday night at eight o’clock to get us all on the same page for the big meet against Unity on Saturday. Attendance is mandatory. Call Carlyle if you have questions.
—Coach
r parties like a dirty hippie
Rhys lay on his bed on Wednesday night, aimlessly tossing his Hacky Sack up and down. It was kind of cool the way the colors all merged together as it turned in the air, he thought. He pulled out the monogrammed Tiffany lighter he’d embarrassingly stolen from his dad’s office and lit up the roach he had in his pocket. He couldn’t tell if it was good or if it was—tapped out? Smoked out? He took a drag and held the smoke in until he could almost feel his lungs expand, then exhaled easily. It was as if his years of swimming had primed him for being a champion pot smoker. He’d been baked since the other day and finally, for the first time, felt relaxed. He’d skipped school to hang out in the park, and suddenly, he felt like the first sixteen years of his life had been a mistake.
“Rhys?” The strident voice of Lady Sterling carried down the hall.
“Come in,” Rhys muttered, stuffing the Hacky Sack inside his Frette pillowcase. He certainly didn’t want to wind up demonstrating his Hacky Sack skills on an episode of Tea with Lady Sterling.
What about his champion pot-smoking skills?
“Darling, we need to know if you’re coming to the wedding this weekend? I know there are a lot of people who’d love to see you.” Lady Sterling walked into his bedroom carrying a Domino’s pizza box in one hand and Estella, one of her many corgis, in the other. At least it was probably Estella—they were kind of hard to tell apart. Usually the corgis spent all their time at the Sterling compound in Bedford unless Lady Sterling was shooting a segment with them.
“I’ll take that,” Rhys said, swinging his legs off the bed and grabbing the pizza box. He’d never had Dominos before, but after smoking up, it was all he could think about. It was like his life wouldn’t be complete unless he had a pepperoni and pineapple pizza. And now it was here. Rhys grinned tenderly at the greasy cardboard container as he set it on his desk. Estella emitted a low-pitched whine of protest at being separated from the pizza.
“You ordered that? I thought it had been a mistake, but…” Lady Sterling shook her head sadly, her gold Cartier necklaces clinking against each other.
“Thanks, Mom!” Rhys added, hoping Lady Sterling would just go away. Luckily, the pungent smell of pepperoni and greasy cheese seemed to mask the thick scent of pot that Rhys was sure was clinging to him.
“You could have had Anka make something.” Lady Sterling narrowed her eyes. Anka was their stern Romanian housekeeper and the only person in the world who could stand up to Lady Sterling.
“Ah well, you’re a growing boy, so I suppose it’s fine. Right, Estella?” Lady Sterling cooed toward the dog, who was clawing her way out of Lady Sterling’s arms, desperate to get to the pizza.
“Thanks again, Mom!” Rhys repeated himself desperately, hoping that she’d take the hint and leave.
Instead, Lady Sterling sniffed the air suspiciously. “Are you planting something in here? It almost smells like the herb garden,” she mused.
Wonder why?
“Um, no,” Rhys said uncomfortably. God, he was hungry. The smell of the cheese wafting from the pizza box was practically killing him.
“Okay, then. Well, I’m off to prepare for the trip back across the pond! And I do wish you’d reconsider coming with us. I was speaking with your father and we thought maybe if you came, we could tour a few of the schools over there. Boarding school might be what you need, although of course, I’d miss you terribly….” Lady Sterling trailed off.
“I’m fine,” Rhys said, shaking his head. It was true. Ever since he’d met the Darrow kids, everything had seemed so much easier.
That happens when you skip o
ut on everything hard.
“Ah, well, your father and I may do a tour ourselves, then. You know he loves to relive his boarding school days.” Lady Sterling shook her head fondly. “Feel free to invite some of the swim team fellows over while we’re gone. Even if you’re not on the team anymore, you’ve known those boys for years. You seem like you need some cheering up. You can have Anka prepare,” Lady Sterling offered. She looked softly at her son. “I know things have been hard for you lately.”
Oh, she has no idea.
“Thanks, Mom.” Rhys nodded, not looking up until he heard the sound of his mother’s Prada flats disappearing down the cherrywood hallway. He hurriedly stood up, shut the door, and locked it for good measure.
He pulled up the white top of the flimsy pizza box and inhaled the scent of the cheese. He placed a slice in his mouth with one hand, logging on to his e-mail with the other.
Swim Team Throwdown, read the subject line of the only e-mail in his inbox. He clicked on it. Grease fell on the keyboard as he scanned the e-mail announcing a pasta party for the team before their big meet against Unity. Suddenly the greasy cheese in Rhys’s mouth made him feel sick.
Fuck it. Fuck the swim team and their lame parties. Rhys scrolled down to the bottom of the e-mail and deftly hit the unsubscribe link to make sure he wouldn’t get any more e-mails about the swim team. He didn’t need them. In fact, he was going to throw his own party. With his real friends. He opened another e-mail, typing in Lucas’s address to spread the word. Maybe he and Lisa would end up being lovers and have hippie babies and then move to Canada and live on a farm and raise alpacas. Snow-boarding alpacas.
Aw, don’t we love stoner daydreams?
house and garden
“Hurry!” Jack hissed at the cabbie through clenched teeth. It was Wednesday evening, and instead of a night of drinking and gossiping with Sarah Jane and Genevieve at an exclusive MoMA garden party, she was freaking out in the back of a cab, racing back down to her apartment in Tribeca. She’d been planning to talk to the girls about J.P.’s annoying new domesticity while smoking cigarettes and getting way too drunk on rosé in the sculpture garden. She felt like she’d aged thirty years in a weekend, and had been looking forward to just acting like a dumb teenager for the night. But instead, she’d received a phone call from J.P. as soon as the skinny, bitchy girl manning the door had allowed her in. He’d called to tell her that he and his parents were expecting her for dinner at her apartment. She’d had to leave Sarah Jane and Genevieve, who had been flirting with a cute older guy with a Scottish accent, and hail a cab in the middle of the absurd mid-town evening traffic. Now they were finally almost downtown.
Take a Chance on Me Page 12
