Rice paper girl, I’m the quill, the ink, the well...
“It’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Take your stuff, get on the subway, go to my place. The door’s unlocked—you know my dad always leaves it open. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
“Really?” Yasmine asked tentatively. She’d always been so fiercely independent. Mekhi knew she hated asking for any favors. “Are you sure it’s okay with your dad?”
“It’ll be fine.” He rubbed some dust off the top shelf and it sprinkled in his eye. “You’ll see. I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry.” He rubbed his eyes, listening to Yasmine breathe on the other end of the phone.
“On the plus side, Ken Mogul offered me a job today.” Yasmine laughed bitterly. “It looks like I’m going to have to take it.”
“That’s great!” he cheered, though he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. He was working, and now Yasmine was going to work too. That would definitely put a damper on his romantic plans. When would they have time to ride the tram to Roosevelt Island and drink sake in the park?
“Shit, that’s my call waiting,” she mumbled. Mekhi heard her take the phone from her ear. “It’s Ken. I better get it. I’ll see you at home, then? Your home, I mean.”
“No,” he corrected her. “Yours too.”
Aw.
Mekhi pressed the end button on his cell and slipped back into the narrow aisle of the biography section. He smiled. Maybe Yasmine getting kicked out was actually the best thing that could happen to them. Living together would make their last summer before leaving for college so intimate that it would be even more memorable.
He grabbed a few of the Reagan biographies and crouched, trying to find a place for all of them on a shelf.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a copy of Siddhartha and I just can’t seem to find one. Can you help me?”
Mekhi rose from his crouching position, his knees cracking from bending over, ready with a clever comeback about where to find enlightenment. But once he saw the customer, he swallowed his words.
She was about four inches taller than he was, with long black hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She wore a faded gym tee and white denim cutoffs and had matching green-and-white wristbands on both of her arms. She furrowed her brow a little, but even worried, her brown eyes twinkled. She looked like Zoe Saldana, only sexier and dirtier looking, like Zoe Saldana on her way home from her aerobic striptease class.
“Um, yeah,” Mekhi finally replied, flustered. “Yeah, we should have a copy of Siddhartha. I’m sure we have one.”
“Oh, good,” Dirty Zoe cried, reaching out and squeezing his bony upper arm. “I really want to read it.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, leading her away from the presidential biographies and toward paperback fiction. “It’s actually one of my favorite books.”
It is?
“Oh, gosh, really?”
Mekhi had never encountered a girl who managed to say “gosh” and not sound like a complete moron.
“It comes so highly recommended by my yogi,” she continued.
“Here it is,” he announced, standing on his tiptoes and tugging on the book’s thin brown spine. He handed it to her.
“Cool.” She turned the book over to examine the back cover. “This looks really great. Thanks so much for your help. So you really liked it?” She gazed at him, her round eyes matching the amber brown of the book’s faded cover.
“Well...” Mekhi paused. Books were his area of expertise—why couldn’t he think of anything to say?
Maybe because he never read it?
“It was, um...inspiring.”
“Great. I’m really looking forward to it.” She cradled the book against her chest and leaned into Mekhi a bit more closely. “Maybe I’ll come back when I’ve finished it and you can recommend another book for me?”
“I’m always happy to recommend books to our customers,” he replied smoothly.
“Awesome!” she cried with cheerleaderish enthusiasm. “I’m Nicole.”
“Mekhi.”
“Cool, Mekhi. This book isn’t long, so I’ll be back in a couple of days. Thanks again for your help!” She turned and strolled away, an actual bounce in her step. Mekhi watched her small round butt, which closely resembled two scoops of salted caramel ice cream, disappear behind the News and Current Events section, before remembering that he’d just asked Yasmine to move in with him.
How, um...enlightened.
9
“Bravo!” cried Lord Marcus. “Darling, you’re simply a natural at this!”
Camilla chuckled, tucking her long black mane behind her ears as her red croquet ball rolled through the wicket and came to rest on a patch of perfectly manicured emerald green lawn in the back garden of the Beaton-Rhodes manor. It was the third match they’d played that day, and Camilla had won. Again.
“I learned from the master,” she giggled excitedly.
“When is it going to be my turn?” Porsha whined. She’d been waiting for ages to get her chance to swing the mallet. She was definitely in the mood to hit something.
Behind them the ivy-covered gray stone West London mansion rose up like a fortress. Porsha hadn’t been invited inside yet, nor had she met Marcus’s parents.
“Mother has one of her headaches,” he’d explained, causing Camilla to erupt into a fit of honking laughter. Porsha wondered if Lady Rhodes had a tendency to bring a bottle of gin to bed with her, but she didn’t ask, preferring to glare menacingly at Camilla instead. There was something so “I’m in and you’re out” about her, Porsha just wanted to rip her head off like some kind of ugly royal-cousin-Barbie that would still be on the shelves long after Christmas.
“I believe that ends our game,” Lord Marcus called apologetically. “Shall we have another go?”
“Whatever,” muttered Porsha, sipping her fourth Bombay martini of the afternoon. The sprawling ancient stone mansion was framed by hundreds of perfectly cone-shaped bushes. Even the massive trees had been trimmed into unnatural shapes. Porsha was beginning to feel like Alice at the Queen of Hearts’ palace in Wonderland. She lit a cigarette and puffed on it greedily. “Can we get some more refreshments?” she asked of no one in particular.
When in doubt, have another.
“I’m knackered,” sighed Camilla as she collapsed into the wrought-iron chair next to Porsha’s. “Having fun?” she asked, putting her hand on Porsha’s, which was curled up into an angry little fist.
Weren’t she and Marcus supposed to be in love? Why wasn’t he undressing her in his elegant bedroom? Why did he want to pal around with his nag of a cousin? Why wasn’t he at least playing footsie with her beneath the table?
She squinted at Marcus, looking for a sign, some hint of his true feelings. A wide grin spread across his clean-shaven face and his hazel-green eyes sparkled with merriment. He seemed completely oblivious. Just having the time of his life in the warm summer sun. Porsha sighed. Maybe she was being nasty and judgmental. She glanced at Camilla. Maybe she’d disappear soon, and she and Marcus could have sex beneath a weird shaped tree.
“The time of my life,” Porsha snapped.
“I daresay I’m starved,” Lord Marcus exclaimed, rolling up the sleeves on his white linen button-down before taking a seat at the glass-topped table. He reached for a tiny silver platter that was laden with delicate cucumber sandwiches and popped one in his mouth.
“You’re always hungry when I’m around,” Camilla giggled. She poked him in the belly and sipped her martini delicately. “Remember that time I came to visit you at Yale and we went to that gorgeous little town in Vermont for a weekend ski?” Camilla turned to Porsha. “We were on the slopes all day and all I wanted was a nice soak in the tub. When I got out, Marcus had ordered everything—everything!—off the room service menu so we could eat by the fire.”
Porsha was overcome with the urge to grab her mallet and smack Camilla over the head. She looked at Marcus, who was blushing. Maybe he and Camilla we
re the kind of cousins who liked to play doctor. Even after they were too old to play. Didn’t Horseface realize she was Marcus’s girlfriend?
“Oh, Cam, I’m sure Porsha doesn’t want to hear about our ski weekend.” Marcus stood up, waving the empty sandwich plate at the butler.
Porsha stood up, too. “Anyone up for another game, set—whatever it’s fucking called? Maybe I can take a turn this time.”
“Oh, I think I’m all worn out. I ought to have warned you,” Marcus apologized. “Camilla is an absolute whiz at games.”
Well, fine then.
“Speaking of whiz,” Porsha muttered under her breath. “I need the loo.” She’d picked up quite a few Britishisms in the last couple of days.
“Oh my.” Camilla blushed.“There’s that Yank wit.”
And there’s that Brit bitchiness.
“Just inside,” Lord Marcus instructed. “Through the library and on your left.”
“I’ll find it,” huffed Porsha, stumbling a little as she started toward the house. The gin had gone straight to her head. “Don’t get up.”
She clopped along the flagstone path, smoothing the wrinkles in the white shirtdress she’d changed into especially for their afternoon of lawn games. The house was surprisingly cluttered and smelled of rotting flowers. Of course the furniture was beautiful and the rugs especially so—apparently Lady Rhodes sent a buyer to Marrakech every other year to add to her collection. But a stained-glass window in the library made the house feel oddly churchlike, and Porsha felt strange wandering around alone, knowing Lady Rhodes was upstairs somewhere nursing a hangover.
Alone in the powder room, she lit another Silk Cut, her new favorite English cigarette, and studied her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror as she exhaled. She narrowed her eyes and tucked in her chin, practicing the sexy look she’d fix on her boyfriend. One more drink and she’d suggest heading back to Claridge’s for a late afternoon romp. Lawn games were all well and good, but she was in the mood for some real exercise. She smoked the entire cigarette and pocketed a piece of the French-milled, shell-shaped soap just because.
Old habits never die.
Outside, a new batch of martinis had been mixed, and Lord Marcus offered a fresh glass to Porsha as she took her seat.
“She’ll want an ashtray,” Camilla quipped, nervously eyeing the inch of ash at the tip of Porsha’s cigarette.
“I’ll use the lawn, thanks,” Porsha replied flatly, taking a swig from her glass, spilling only a little on the table in the process.
“Darling, wait,” Lord Marcus jovially reprimanded her. “We’re having a toast. We were waiting for you.”
“What’s the occasion?” asked Porsha, holding in a burp.
“While you were inside, Camilla gave me the most wonderful news.”
She’s going to Switzerland to get her enormous nose fixed? She’s finally coming out of the closet as a big fat dyke? She’s decided to become a nun?
“She’s extending her stay. She’ll be with us all summer long. Isn’t that glorious?” Lord Marcus clinked his glass against hers.
Camilla took a dainty sip of her drink and put her hand protectively over Porsha’s. “We’ll be such good friends, we’ll be almost like sisters,” she promised, this time sounding more like the evil witchy stepmother who wants to eat Hansel and Gretel.
Porsha smiled tightly and drained her glass quickly before turning back to Camilla. “I always wanted an older sister.”
Marcus wrapped his toned arms around the two of them and squeezed them into a group hug. “I knew you two would get along.” He kissed them each on the cheek, and Porsha closed her eyes, trying to pretend Camilla wasn’t there.
Thank goodness she’s always had a vivid imagination.
10
Chanel’s rubber flip-flops thwacked noisily against the black-and-white-checked marble floor of the Chelsea Hotel hallway as she made her way to room 609, where Ken Mogul was putting up her costar, Thaddeus Smith. The Chelsea was probably the most famous hotel in New York City. Home to iconic artists and celebrities, it had once suffered a terrible fire and all its famous residents had been forced out. Now it was mostly a tourist trap, but it still had a historic sixties allure, and its basement housed a dark trendy bar, aptly named Chanel.
Chanel couldn’t understand why Thaddeus got to stay in a hotel and she had to live in a shabby apartment with no A/C. She’d been sitting alone, too hot to move, since Trey left, when Ken had called and told her to come down for an impromptu rehearsal with Thad. Chanel took a deep breath, fiddled nervously with the zippers on her gray Balenciaga bag, and knocked on the chipped door to room 609.
“Hi, you!” she squealed happily when Yasmine Richards opened the door. It had only been a little over two weeks since graduation, but it felt like this was their twentieth reunion or something. Yasmine was wearing a black silk dress and the coolest silver flat sandals Chanel had ever seen. “You look amazing!”
Yasmine opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Ken. “Chanel,” he called slowly. He was perched on the windowsill inside the large main room of the hotel suite, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. “Welcome to our universe!”
“Nice to see you again.” Chanel giggled as she stepped through the door and crossed the room, which was flooded with light from 23rdStreet. The walls were painted a mint green that reminded her of the dorm bathrooms at Hanover Academy, the New Hampshire boarding school where she’d spent her junior year. There was an over-stuffed brown couch with cracks and splits in the leather along the armrests, and dozens of little potted cactuses lined the windowsill. Chanel could see an unmade king-size bed through the French doors.
“You can kind of picture all the people who’ve had sex here, can’t you?” Yasmine whispered.
Chanel wrinkled her nose. Now she could.
“You know Yasmine, of course.” Ken tossed his cigarette out of the open window behind him. “I’ve asked her to come aboard as our director of photography.”
Not like she had any choice.
“Great, cool.” Chanel winked at Yasmine, who was now busying herself with some serious-looking equipment.
“And I’m Thaddeus,” a sexy voice announced as the star strolled in from the adjacent bedroom.
Thaddeus Smith was taller than Chanel had expected, and his hair was cut clean and short. He was wearing an unremarkable outfit of dark jeans and a faded black polo, the collar standing up with a sort of dorky deliberateness. Chanel had the impression that she already knew him, and in a way she did. She’d watched him romance a sweet-faced Southern starlet in the two romantic comedies they’d done together, she’d seen him flee a homicidal maniac (who turned out to be his long-lost twin brother, also played by him in a challenging dual role). She’d even seen him in a skintight white bodysuit, playing a mute otherworldly creature awakened by the sun’s alignment with an ancient Mayan ruin. She’d heard that familiar baritone before, as he flirted and bantered on the talk shows, and of course she’d scoped out his signature abs in countless Les Best underwear advertisements. In person, he more than lived up to the hype: he was gorgeous, from the stubble on the sharp planes of his face to his dark, perfect feet.
Thaddeus took Chanel’s hand in his and shook it firmly. “It’s so great to meet you at last.” His eyes locked with hers, or was she just imagining it?
“You too,” she breathed.
“I’m glad we’re all here now,” Ken began, lighting another cigarette. He hugged his knees to his chest, perching on the windowsill in his slippery-looking royal blue bicycle shorts. “Scripts out. And Thaddeus, from now on she’s Holly, not Chanel.”
Thaddeus plopped down on the cracked leather sofa, tossing the throw pillows carelessly onto the floor. “Have a seat, Holly.”
Chanel dug into her bag to retrieve her script, then sat on the couch, resisting the urge to immediately snuggle closer to her costar.
Because that just wouldn’t be professional.
Ken closed his eyes
and breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring. He spread his fingers out in front of him like insect feelers, hopped off the windowsill, and staggered toward the center of the room. His eyes popped open when he bumped into the chipped wooden coffee table and a mountain of script rewrites slid to the floor. Then he leapt onto the table and crouched on its edge, leaning in very close to the twosome. “We’re going to start with the big climax. This is the emotional heart of the movie and I want to nail this before we get to any of the other stuff. Everything builds to this moment.”
Ken was crouched so close Chanel could smell his cigarette breath. She held up her script as a barrier and started to page through it. She’d assumed they’d read from the beginning. She knew her lines in the first few scenes but was a little shaky on the second half of the movie.
“So we’ll read through once and then let’s get up, get moving, find our space in the room, and get this going, okay? Yasmine’s going to roll, just to shoot some test footage so you guys can study up on it later. Sound good?” Ken asked, still crouching like a gargoyle on the coffee table.
“Let’s go,” nodded Thaddeus, tossing his script aside.
“Almost ready,” interjected Yasmine, who was linking her handheld camera to one of the director’s laptops.
“And Holly?” asked Ken, resting his chin on his hand while his finger appeared to be up his nose.
“Ready when you are,” Chanel muttered. Shit, shit! She didn’t know a single line. She took a deep breath.
“Darling. You’re always rescuing me. How can I ever repay you?” she began, waving her right hand slowly, deliberately. It felt like a sexy mannerism. A little flair.
“You don’t have to repay me,” replied Thaddeus as Jeremy Stone, in his famously sexy baritone. They were standing by the window, and he leaned in close, the afternoon sun hitting his rugged profile as he took Chanel by the wrist. “It’s me who should repay you. I owe you everything, Holly. You showed me how to be...” He paused intently. “You showed me how to be me.”
Upper East Side #9 Page 4
