Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  Suddenly the door flew open to reveal an incredibly tall girl sporting super-short cutoffs and a pink tank top. Her skin was dark brown and flawless; her hair was long, jet black, and perfectly straight; and her eyes were huge, brown, and sparkling. She smiled, showing off a mouthful of absolutely perfect white teeth.

  All the better to eat you with...

  “Yeah?” the Blasian model-goddess demanded with a hostile grimace. She looked almost like an evil character in a video game, and Yasmine could imagine being decapitated with a flick of her long lean fighting-machine wrist.

  “Um, yeah, I’m here to see Ken.”

  “Come on up,” Jade Empire muttered, turning around. The heavy steel door slammed shut as Yasmine followed her up a narrow cement staircase and into a huge, bright open room. A forest of rusting steel columns supported the vaulted ceiling, and a bank of windows showcased an incredible view of the Hudson River. The vast space was divided by a long open bookcase and was overflowing with heavy art books, vinyl records, framed photographs, and dusty vases. The latest Kanye West album blasted from tiny speakers mounted to the top of the bookcase, and the music echoed all around.

  “He’s in here somewhere,” Jade Empire explained, clearly disinterested. “You’ve got an appointment, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, just hang out. He’ll show up sooner or later. Good luck with whatever it is.” She shrugged and kicked off her beaded yellow Chinese slippers and shuffled away into the depths of the loft, disappearing behind the bookcase.

  Yasmine turned to the wall behind her, which was covered from floor to ceiling with framed photographs of all different sizes. She recognized some of them—they were Ken Mogul’s own work. Before meeting him, Yasmine had worshipped the filmmaker, and she knew everything he’d ever done. His favorite place in the world was Capri, in Italy, and before turning to filmmaking, Ken had been a renowned photographer. Mixed in with his art photos of half-nude models lolling around on litter-strewn subway platforms were snapshots of Ken crammed into nightclub booths beside famous faces like Madonna, Angelina and Brad, and Samuel L. Jackson.

  “Like what you see?” came a gravelly voice from behind her.

  Yasmine turned to see the dark stubbly face of Ken Mogul himself. He had the unnerving habit of seeming not to blink and he fixed his bloodshot eyes on her with a crazed smile. He wore a plaid flannel vest and old Levi’s chopped off at the knees.

  “Here’s the deal,” he went on without waiting for her response. He wheeled around and Yasmine had no choice but to follow him past the massive bookshelf and into an enormous office with a garage-door-size window. “Here. Sit.” He poured Yasmine a tall glass of what looked like chilled mint tea from a glass pitcher and pointed to a red leather chair across from a paper-strewn table. He poured a glass for himself and sank down into a desk chair, swiveling it aimlessly before tilting back and resting his feet on the desk. “It’s a money job, is all, but just between us, Breakfast at Fred’s is going to fucking rock. Don’t tell the producers, but this is not your average urban flick. I’m thinking Spike Lee. Something human, humorous, and freaking dark.”

  “Uh-huh,” murmured Yasmine, sipping her tea. Not only was she distracted by the director’s office artwork—over his desk hung a bigger-than-life-size picture of the director himself, completely naked, splashing in the waves with the bitchy Jade Empire skank—but she hated this kind of pretentious art talk.

  Better get used to it, Miss NYU Film School.

  “So, what do you say?” asked Ken, openly picking his nose and flicking the findings onto the floor. “I know it’s a major studio, I know it’s big budget, I know it’s romantic comedy. But those are all the reasons I need you. I need your vision to help me deliver something that’s going to make the movie-going public sit up and take notice. ”

  As if they hadn’t already.

  Yasmine stared out the window at some elevated train tracks that had been abandoned decades before and were now sprouting trees and grass, and a big building under construction on the next block. It was everything she was against: a major studio’s romantic comedy. But Ken Mogul needed her; how many incoming NYU freshmen could say the same thing? Plus, it sounded like a shitload of fun, and she had fuck-all to do that summer. That was why she’d come there today in the first place: sheer boredom.

  She turned back to Ken. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Ken took his feet off the desk and fiddled with his papers, finally unearthing a beaten pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth but didn’t light it. “The female lead was supposed to be my wife,” Ken continued, “but, as you already know, I’ve decided to go in another direction.”

  “Wife?” Yasmine could hardly believe that anyone would dream of marrying a googly-eyed, neurotic, conceited freak like Ken Mogul.

  “Jade. I think she showed you in.”

  Miss Congeniality was Mrs. Mogul?

  “Oh, right.” Yasmine couldn’t resist taking another peek at the nudie photo behind the desk. It looked like a scene from a pirate porn movie.

  Freaks of the Caribbean?

  “Well, now she’s not speaking to me because I’ve decided to go with Chanel. Chanel’s going to be huge. And so are you.”

  “I’m honored,” Yasmine replied. “I really am. But you’ll have to let me think about it, okay?”

  Better think fast, honey. Hollywood waits for no one!

  4

  “I’m going to 169 East 71st Street,” Chanel Crenshaw said to the cabbie as she slid into the taxi’s backseat. She rolled down the window and let the warm late morning air blow across her face. Aah, summer. All her life summer had meant parties at her family’s estate in Ridgefield, Connecticut, or long sunny afternoons in the park, reading old magazines and slurping Stoli-and-cranberry popsicles with Porsha. Now, for the first time ever, Chanel had a job. She turned a thick manila envelope over in her hands and removed the letter she’d already read several times.

  Holly: You must suffer for your art. You must BE your part. Pack your bags. The keys in this envelope are the keys to your new life— the original life of Holly. See you soon. Kenneth.

  It was an odd letter, sure, but what else did she expect from a world-famous eccentric like Kenneth Mogul? He was her director, so she figured she better do as directed.

  She patted the two old Kate Spade tote bags beside her. They still smelled deliciously like the ocean and suntan lotion and contained a stash of underwear, one of her brother Cairo's old Brown T-shirts that she’d swiped the last time he’d been home, a flimsy sundress, her most comfortable Michael Kors flip-flops, her trusty Levi jeans, a second pair of flip-flops, just in case, and a white embroidered top. Only the essentials.

  She stared out the window at the grand steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the lush trees of Central Park, the grand apartment buildings on 72ndStreet, the panoramic vista of Park Avenue, and then at the unfamiliar ugly modern towers on Third Avenue. Ew.

  “We’re here, miss,” the cabdriver announced, grinning at her in the rearview mirror with a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. One tooth even had the initial Z stenciled into it.

  Maybe for Zorro? Chanel wondered.

  “Oh.” She pulled out her Louis Vuitton wallet and thumbed through the cash. Then she climbed out of the taxi, balancing her packed-to-the-brim tote bags, and scanned the townhouses for the right number.

  There was number 171, and there was number 167, but there were some unmarked buildings in between the two, and she couldn’t figure out which was hers. She lugged her bags to the nearest stoop and sat down. Judging from some of the boxy, low buildings on the street, the place she was moving into wouldn’t be quite on par with what she was accustomed to. She dug out a cigarette and lit it, stepping aside as a stream of foul-smelling gray smoke billowed out of a grate in the gutter.

  Wake up, Dorothy: you’re not in Kasas anymore.

  It was funny how everything could change so quickly—she’d gone from be
ing Chanel Crenshaw, senior at Emma Willard and sometimes-model, to being Chanel the working actress. It didn’t seem so long ago that her biggest worries had been remembering where the Maison Margiela sample sale would be this month, or bickering with Porsha in the VIP room at the 40/40 Club, or hooking up with Kaliq wherever he wanted—which, for a short while, had been everywhere and all the time.

  It’s a hard knock life.

  “You lost?”

  Chanel looked up...and up, and up. Standing above her was a gorgeously tall guy with broad shoulders, tapered fade haircut, and a satiny brown complexion. He was wearing a plain gray suit and stiff navy tie, but his smile was so charming she was willing to overlook his dorky office ensemble.

  But would she be willing to overlook the dorky plaid boxers he was probably wearing underneath?

  “I’m just looking for this address,” Chanel sighed, handing the stranger her keys with the number 169 painted on them in red.

  Some girls really know how to work the damsel-in-distress thing.

  “Well,” he grinned, “I think I know exactly where this building is. Because I actually kind of live there.” He extended a hand to help Chanel to her feet. “Hey, I’m Trey Bridges.”

  “Chanel Crenshaw,” she replied, smoothing her skirt and smiling the sort of sly, wide-eyed smile that Audrey Hepburn was famous for.

  No wonder she got the part. Just like Holly Golightly, Chanel was a master of the she-can’t-possibly-be-that-beautiful-and-that-innocent-allure that made guys flock to her.

  “Well, Chanel.” Trey bent down to pick up her two overstuffed totes. “Let’s head on home.” He unlocked the door to number 169, a white townhouse with black trim and ivy climbing up the side of it. He shoved the heavy old black door open to allow Chanel to step inside first.

  A true gentleman!

  “So,” he began as the door slammed behind him. “You visiting Therese?”

  “No.” Chanel frowned as she inspected the vestibule’s creaky wooden staircase, lit only by a pretty but dim wrought-iron chandelier. The whole place reeked of dead old lady, as though it hadn’t been touched since its original owner died thirty years ago. Yet it was still charming and semi-grand, in its own way. “I’m moving in, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Trey laughed as he started to climb the wooden steps, which groaned and squeaked noisily. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Well,” Chanel began, “I’m in this movie, and this morning I got a note from my director telling me to pack my bags and come here, and now here I am. I think it’s to help me get into character or something.”

  “Movie star, huh?” Trey asked.

  “Something like that,” Chanel answered, mildly embarrassed.

  “Wow.” He turned to shoot her a slow, shy smile. “This is a nice building, but I’d think most movie stars would just want to stay somewhere a bit more glamorous, like the Hilton or something.”

  “We’re doing an urban retelling of Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she explained, choosing the exact words Ken Mogul had used to describe his big-budget debut, Breakfast at Fred’s. “This is where Holly Golightly lived in the original movie, but I guess you probably knew that already. It’s supposed to make me feel just like she does. It’s my first movie.”

  “Oh yeah?” Trey asked as they reached the landing, where the black-and-white mosaic-tile floor was missing a few tiles. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a wild city girl—that’s my part—who meets this innocent guy from the country who’s trying to make it as an actor.” She conveniently left out that the guy would be played by super-hot actor Thaddeus Smith. “Then, this uptight Upper East Side girl wows him with her money...and things like lunch at Fred’s, the restaurant at Barneys?” Chanel hoped what she was saying made some sense. She had a tendency to ramble and lose track of the plot.

  As if any guy she’d ever talked to even cared.

  They turned up another staircase and Chanel went on, starting to feel a little winded as she spoke. “The other girl ruins his innocence, which is, like, the one quality that would make him a success as an actor—and turns him into a jaded New Yorker. Then it’s up to my character to save him.”

  “So does that means we’ll be neighbors all summer?” Trey asked, sounding adorably hopeful.

  “Actually, just for a couple of weeks,” she admitted. Breakfast at Fred’s was a big-budget picture, but Ken Mogul had only twelve days scheduled for the actual filming.

  They reached one landing and walked down a narrow hall. Then he turned and led her up another flight of steps. “How far up are we going?” Chanel wondered out loud. She was slightly out of breath.

  Better lay off those hardcore French cigarettes.

  They reached another landing, walked down another hallway, and started up another flight. Was it possible that he was just leading her up to some dark, hidden date-rape lair? Should she be scared? She patted her skirt pocket, checking for her cell phone, just in case.

  “I’m at my first job, too,” he explained. “I’m a summer associate at Lowell, Bonderoff, Foster and Wallace. The law firm? I was there until four last night, so that’s why I’m going to work now. I don’t usually have to work so late, though.”

  At last they reached the top floor, where the ceiling was low and the hallway was dark. Chanel could see the sweat on Trey’s forehead. She wasn’t sure if it was from all those damn stairs or because of her.

  “Here we are,” he announced.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Trey followed her inside and dropped her bags on the ground with a thud that echoed off the walls of the empty apartment. Two bare bulbs protruded from the urine-colored ceiling, which was marred with water stains.

  “It’s nice,” he observed gamely.

  It is?

  Chanel strolled around the apartment’s main room, almost losing her balance on the sloping, creaky wood floor. Three windows faced the street, with tattered screens and a view of the solid brick old people’s home across the street. Out of the back window off the tiny kitchen, Chanel recognized the fire escape from the original Breakfast at Tiffany’s, where Holly Golightly had strummed her mandolin and sung “Moon River.” Porsha got teary every time they watched that scene. Chanel pushed a window open. The apartment had a stale, claustrophobic gag-inducing smell, like sweaty feet and sardines.

  “But where’s the furniture?” she asked, her voice dangerously close to a whine.

  “And who’s this?” Trey added. A black cat wandered into the living room from the bedroom at the back of the apartment.

  Well, that explains the smell.

  Chanel pulled out her pack of cigarettes and poked her head out that famous kitchen window, hoping to feel inspired, but all she felt was nervous and a little lost. Why was she there again?

  Because she was about to star in a major motion picture—hello?

  “He’s cute.” In the kitchen, Trey crouched down to stroke the cat behind its ears.

  Chanel turned, lighting her cigarette as she watched her handsome neighbor playing with the cat, who apparently lived in their building too.

  See? The views aren’t all bad.

  5

  “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me where I can find the romance novels?”

  Mekhi Hargrove was crouched on the floor, making sure the biographies were alphabetized by subject, not author. When working at the Strand, New York’s best—and biggest—bookstore, it was important to pay attention to details like the proper arrangement of the biographies.

  Whatever turns him on.

  “We might have a few on the shelves by the stairs, but we don’t have a romance section,” Mekhi explained, unable to hide his displeasure.

  “Thanks,” the woman replied cheerfully as she strolled away to browse the dusty books and whatever romance novels were still left on the shelves.

  The Strand was legendary not just for its incredible selection but also for its highly educated, highly snotty staff, and Mekhi was th
rilled to have gotten the job. He’d seen the Help Wanted poster after dropping his sister, Bree, off at Kennedy on her impromptu trip to visit their mom in Prague and take some art classes, and he’d been feeling a little down about what he was supposed to do with his own summer. When he saw the poster in the store window, it really felt like a sign.

  Now here he was, shelving books at the best store in town. But compared to other bookstores, the Strand had zero atmosphere. There was no music, no coffee. Just rows and rows of mismatched bookshelves crammed with books.

  Pushing a creaky cart overloaded with dusty volumes, Mekhi made his way down the narrow aisle of the biography section. His job involved spending lots of time on his own and ignoring customers, which gave him plenty of time to think: about literature, about his poetry, about what Evergreen College in Washington state was going to be like, and mostly about what his last summer in New York—and his last summer with Yasmine—was going to be like. He’d made a big scene at his graduation when he’d declared he wouldn’t be enrolling in college at all so he could stay by her side, but as it turned out, he was looking forward to driving out west in the metallic blue '77 Buick his dad had given him as a graduation present. It was the perfect car for a road trip. He’d be just like Jack Kerouac in On the Road, tearing up the highways and making love to the land and sky with the words that crept into his head as he drove along. He’d leave poems for all the women he met—the mysterious lover they’d never quite have. Until then, he’d have one last perfect summer in the city with Yasmine, his first love.

  Mekhi grabbed a copy of Malcom X's autobiography off the top of his cart and crouched on the dusty wood floor of the store trying to find the spot where it belonged. His mind began to wander as the words came to him:

  Hot hands steer the wheel

  You’re my gears, my pedals

  Stir up the dust. Lust. Lust. Make it last

  Sure, it was a little cheesy, but God, that was how he felt right now. He started making a mental list of classic romantic New York dates: Seeing Shakespeare in Central Park, riding the Staten Island Ferry just for the hell of it, watching the sun rise over the 59thStreet bridge. Maybe a drive out to Jones Beach in the Buick, the salty wind blowing through the open windows, Yasmine’s hair blowing behind them...Okay, well, not her hair—she basically had no hair—but maybe she could wear a long silk scarf or something. He could see it now. It was going to be the most romantic summer.