Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  Maybe it was because he was a talented actor, or maybe it was because he was just gorgeous, but somehow he made the dorky dialogue sound almost normal. He was standing so close to Chanel she could smell mint on his breath. Was he really just perfect?

  Yup.

  “I...I ...” Chanel faltered. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  Across the room, behind the camera, Yasmine cleared her throat.

  “Don’t say anything,” Thaddeus-as-Jeremy cooed. “Just stand still and let me look at you.”

  Chanel didn’t move. She couldn’t help but believe everything Thaddeus was saying.

  “I’m going to stop you here,” announced Ken Mogul. “Holly, babes, remember: you’re not Chanel. You’re Holly.”

  “Okay,” Chanel whispered. She didn’t feel like Holly Golightly. She felt like herself and like the perfect guy was right in front of her. She’d spent her whole life not acting fake around guys: it was kind of hard to act around one, especially one so...cute.

  “And quit with that hand stuff,” Ken whined, sounding like a big baby. “Looks like you’re swatting away mosquitoes.”

  “Sorry.” Through the open window Chanel could hear the sound of traffic whizzing by. She kind of wished she were out there instead, window shopping on Mercer Street in Soho with Thaddeus or maybe letting him feed her sushi on the roof of Sushi Samba, just a few blocks downtown. Thaddeus leaned out of the large window and inhaled deeply. Was he reading her mind?

  “Just listen to Thad,” Ken continued with his finger still up his nose. “He’s not Thad, anymore—is he? No, he’s Jeremy. You hear that—his shyness? His nervousness? He’s terrified of you, you see. Terrified and enchanted. Make us all feel that, okay? Make us all fall in love with you.”

  Like that was ever difficult before.

  “Let’s go again.” Ken clapped his hands while simultaneously lighting another cigarette, even though his last one had burned to ash without his even touching it.

  Thaddeus snapped back to attention, leaning in close to Chanel again.

  “Darling. You’re always rescuing me. How can I ever repay you?” she asked, more assuredly this time.

  “You don’t have to repay me.”

  “You must come to my...” She couldn’t remember the rest of the line. She had to glance at her script.

  “Party!” cried Ken. “Party! Haven’t you read the script, Holly?”

  “Yeah,” muttered Chanel defensively, resisting the urge to kick the pile of script rewrites on the floor up and out the large, bright window.

  “Okay, let’s skip ahead a little bit.” Ken rubbed his forehead. “Let’s do the big morning scene. There’s just a little dialogue there, so you should be able to manage that, right, Holly?”

  “Sure.” She felt like she was doing everything wrong, even though she’d only said a few words. Wasn’t there any time to get warmed up?

  “Okay, Thaddeus, you begin,” Ken directed, with his new cigarette torched in hand.

  “Holly,” Thaddeus recited, from memory—his script was still lying on the couch. “I knew I’d find you here.”

  “Will you always know where to find me?” Chanel could see Ken shaking his head out of the corner of her eye, so she dropped her script onto the floor. She could do this. She stood on tiptoe and leaned into Thaddeus’s broad chest.

  “I will if you stand still,” he pronounced softly. “Never run away again.”

  “I promise,” Chanel whispered. It was her last line in the film. She craned her neck, lifting her face to her costar’s, offering herself up to him. She could smell toothpaste and nicotine on Thaddeus’s warm breath, Kiehl’s lotion on his hands, and Tide on his clothes. She was barely touching him, just resting her hands against his firm chest, but she could feel his body against hers, from his strong broad back to his perfect abs, from his lean and muscled forearms to his flip-flopped feet. And she could feel something else: a flicker of electricity in the air, in the tiny pocket of space between their two bodies. Was this acting or was it real?

  “Okay,” Thaddeus stammered. He took a step back and Chanel, who had been leaning all of her weight on him, stumbled a bit. He laughed nervously. “Ken, a smoke?”

  Ken held out a pack of Newports and Thaddeus selected one and coolly lit it.

  “What’d you think, Ken?” he asked, looping his thumb in his waistband.

  “Good. Better. I felt more spark that last time. But Holly needs to pick up the slack. Holly, we can do some rewrites if you’re having trouble with your lines.”

  “What do you mean?” Chanel sank into the worn couch. She hadn’t made too many mistakes, had she?

  “If there are too many words, you know,” he explained, pronouncing the words loudly and slowly, like he was speaking to someone whose English wasn’t so good. “If you’re having trouble remembering all of them.”

  Was he calling her stupid?

  “No, it’s fine,” she sighed wearily.

  “She’ll get the hang of it.” Thaddeus sat down beside her. He rested his soft hand on her bare knee, giving her leg a supportive squeeze.

  You know I will, Chanel agreed silently. God, was she already in love? Sometimes she was almost too easy.

  No comment.

  “Of course, of course,” agreed Ken. “We just need some more rehearsal time, I think. What do you think, Yasmine?”

  Yasmine hadn’t even caught everything on camera because they hadn’t given her enough time to set up her equipment. “It was great,” she lied enthusiastically. After all, it was only rehearsal.

  And by the looks of things, they were going to need lots more of them.

  11

  “Honey, I’m hoooome!” Mekhi stuck his head into the doorway of his little sister Bree's bedroom. “Yas?”

  “Hey.” Yasmine stood up from behind Bree's painting easel. The cozy room was still lined with Bree's canvases—washed-out landscapes, architectural drawings of famous New York buildings like the Dakota on 72ndStreet, some nude portraits. Yasmine saw Mekhi avert his eyes from just in case they were his sister’s self-portraits. She wrapped her arms around Mekhi’s skinny frame and squeezed. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here.”

  “It’ll be great,” he assured her, plopping down on the bed. “We’ll make it our Big New York Summer. I’ve been thinking all about it. All the things we’ll do together—pedaling those stupid boats in Central Park, bagels from H&H Bagels on our days off—”

  “Um, that sounds great, but I’m going to be really busy with work, you know? It’s going to take a lot of work to get this movie right.” She nodded toward the computer screen where Chanel Crenshaw's beautiful face was paused, her eyes half closed. She was reviewing the rehearsal footage from this afternoon, and if it was any indication of what the finished film would look like—well, it wasn’t pretty.

  “Right.” Mekhi pouted a little. “Of course.”

  On the up side, the longer Chanel fumbled through her rehearsals, the more time Yasmine had to experiment with her camera work. She was going to give him something better. She was determined to do something truly avant-garde and unusual, something that would really wow Ken Mogul and his producers. She was the master of mixing humor with tragedy. She would show the used condom stuck to Holly’s shoe, the tarnished side of the party princess!

  “Where’s your dad?” she asked, changing the subject. It was only a matter of time before she ran into Mekhi’s poet dad, Rufus, wearing his usual stained Mets T-shirt and too-snug cargo shorts. She was hoping to see him before they had a middle-of-the-night run in. Who knew what he’d be wearing then?

  He shrugged. “You talk to Ruby?” He dug into his pockets and retrieved a battered old pack of cigarettes, lit one, and then lay back on Bree's lumpy narrow bed. “I hope you guys made up. Life’s too short, you know?”

  “Huh?” Yasmine asked lazily, lying down next to him. Ruby had sent a couple of apologetic text messages, but Yasmine was too mad to bother reading them all the way t
hrough. She could imagine Ruby squeezing Piotr’s back zits while they had sex in his paint-splattered studio—aka her old room. She snuggled her almost-bald head into Mekhi’s ropy neck and whispered, “I can’t really deal with it now, you know?”

  “That’s too bad,” he observed solemnly. “I always admired your relationship.”

  “Sure.” She couldn’t resist giggling a little. “Are you feeling okay?”

  Mekhi turned toward her so their noses were almost touching. Yasmine kissed his smoky-tasting lips. Her touched her face. “You know, I never realized it before, but happiness is, like, right there in front of you, you know what I mean? It’s like us—like you’re all I need to be happy, and you’re right here, in my house. I mean, I know you’ll have to work a lot and everything, but it’s so great. It’s actually so much easier to achieve happiness than it is to embrace ugliness.”

  Yasmine bit her lip. She loved Mekhi, but she really hoped he wasn’t about to pull another embarrassing proclamation of undying devotion like he had at his own graduation. Some things were better left unsaid.

  You can say that again.

  “Did you learn that on the job?” she teased. “I didn’t know they offered free, New Age self-help lectures at the Strand.”

  “I’m not talking about work.” He sucked on his Newport hard and defensively. “I read Siddhartha during my break this afternoon. Life’s just so short...I mean, we can only hope to find some meaning in this life, you know?”

  The only book Yasmine knew him to have spoken as passionately about was The Sorrows of Young Werther, a creepy book about a moody, depressive guy who kills himself in the end because his girlfriend marries someone else.

  “All right, I’m officially confused. What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked into his deep brown eyes.

  “I’m talking about the meaning of life,” he replied simply.

  Or was he talking about a certain perfectly-perky, round-butted Zoe Saldana lookalike?

  12

  Kaliq guided his trusty bicycle off the gravelly road and onto the dirt shoulder in front of the Oyster Shack, managing to avoid a replay of his humiliating wipeout yesterday. After their ice cream, Tawny had taken him to get his tire fixed at Bob’s Gas 'n' Dogs and it was as good as new. He breathed in the fresh air appreciatively. He’d only smoked a third of a joint that morning, so his head was clear.

  That’s a first.

  Even though it was only six o’clock, the Oyster Shack was crowded with kids in shorts and tank tops eating fries and drinking canned Bud. Leaning the bike on the kickstand, Kaliq ambled over to the red picnic bench where Tawny sat smoking a cigarette, a devilish little smile on her full pink lips.

  Normally Kaliq would have felt kind of stupid meeting a girl on a bike, but he kind of enjoyed the workout, the breeze in his face and the wind in his hair. Of course, he could enjoy the wind in his hair behind the wheel of his dad’s vintage Aston Martin convertible parked in his garage only twenty minutes away. But the car was the Captain’s pride and joy, and Kaliq wasn’t allowed to drive it alone, much less into one of the Hamptons’ less desirable neighborhoods, like Hampton Bays.

  After they’d shared an innocent ice cream cone and gotten Kaliq’s bike fixed yesterday, Tawny had suggested they meet up for dinner today. Kaliq hardly needed convincing; like a good ex-girlfriend, Fate always pulled through for him, right when he needed her. Just when his loneliness had started to get him down, he’d happened to meet confident, sexy Tawny.

  “You made it,” she chirped, stubbing her cigarette out on the table and tossing the butt in the grass behind her. She was wearing a peach-colored bikini top and a white wrap-around skirt that showed off her tanned, round-but-firm thighs. Her wavy blonde hair was down, grazing her freckled shoulders, and her pink lips matched the bikini straps that were sliding off her shoulders. “Without falling.”

  “Yeah, no accidents this time.” Kaliq laughed, shaking his head. He flipped down the collar of the clean but faded light blue shirt he’d changed into after work and slipped onto the bench across from her. “So I’d say the day is going pretty well.”

  “How was work?” Tawny asked as she smeared some goopy vanilla-scented stuff on her lips. Kaliq could smell it from where he sat.

  “Just the usual: backbreaking manual labor.” He’d spent all of yesterday and today nailing new shingles onto Coach Michaels’s roof. His hands were riddled with calluses and his arms ached. “I’m working for my coach, so it’s not like I can slack off. He’s kind of an asshole. I guess it’s just like practice.”

  Only without the stick. And the ball. And the rest of the team.

  “You must really like him, though, to want to work for him all summer,” Tawny countered.

  Kaliq shrugged, rubbing his hand over his stiff neck. “I guess.” No need to tell her about the stolen Viagra and the withheld diploma, right?

  Best not.

  “Poor boy,” she cooed. “Maybe you need a massage. I can practice on you. I’m going to be an LMT after I graduate.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about. LMT?

  Low-class mega-slut townie?

  “A licensed massage therapist, silly! I can’t believe you didn’t know that. Anyway, I talked to these people at this spa in Sag Harbor and they might let me do an actual internship. You know, practicing on real people? I’m so psyched.” She leaned in across the table and began massaging Kaliq’s forearm, using both of her hands and applying a surprising amount of pressure, her long manicured fingertips scraping his skin like ice scrapers on a car windshield. “See?” she asked. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

  It did feel good, sort of, but Kaliq was much more interested in the view. Tawny was leaning so far forward that her impressive pear-shaped boobs were totally visible.

  “So, um, you’re still in high school, then?” Kaliq mumbled, remembering that it was his turn to say something. “I just graduated.” Saying that felt good. It made him feel manly.

  Oh boy.

  “I’m graduating next year,” she explained, moving her hands from his forearm to his chest, which was tight from hammering. “I can’t wait. I’m so sick of high school. I figure I’ll get my certification, you know, get a house in the Bays. If you’re good, you can make good cash from the summer crowd and you don’t have to work the rest of the year. That’s definitely my plan: make a good living mooching off summer people.” She laughed.

  “Cool.” Kaliq was having trouble concentrating on what Tawny was saying because her boobs were practically in his lap. He’d tuned her out so completely she sounded kind of like the parents in a Peanuts cartoon. Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. Her lips looked so full and pink and soft, and she smelled like vanilla.

  He pitched his head forward and lightly kissed her, touching her cheeks gently. Her mouth tasted like Coke and some sort of artificial but totally delicious fruit.

  After a few moments she giggled and pulled away. “We can do that all night, but I want to know about your plans too,” she went on, sitting back down and taking his hand. “You can tell me all about it over dinner.”

  “Sure, yeah.” Kaliq stood and patted his pocket to make sure he’d remembered to bring his wallet. He wondered if the Oyster Shack accepted platinum American Express. He licked his lips, which tasted sort of slick and fruity now themselves and would probably make his beer taste like piña colada. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you my whole master plan.”

  Kaliq Braxton has a master plan?

  “Sounds impressive.” Tawny giggled again as she stood and gathered up her cigarettes, her lighter, and her gold pleather clutch with buckles all over it.

  “Well, I’m starting Yale in a couple of months—”

  “Yale? Really? Damn, that’s a good school.” She linked her arm with Kaliq’s. “And expensive.”

  Then again, education is like a Birkin bag—how can you put a price on such things?

  13

  Porsha
crossed her legs and leaned back in the high-backed leather chair. Lifting the white porcelain teacup to her lips, she took a dainty sip of lukewarm tea and smiled at Jemima, the salesgirl who was hovering over her. “Miss Sinclaire,” Jemima tittered, handing Porsha a small navy blue leather portfolio. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Porsha opened the book. Inside were her black American Express card, a receipt, and a pen, which she grabbed, signing the dotted line without glancing at it.

  “Lovely. Now, I’ve had your parcels packed up and they’ll be off to Claridge’s shortly. Can I do anything else for you? Fetch a taxi, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” Porsha smiled gracefully. “I think I’ll walk.”

  She had been sitting comfortably in a private back room in a new boutique called Kid in West London for an hour, keeping Jemima, a pretty brunette with terrible teeth, busy fetching every style of boot they stocked. As she tried on the twenty-plus pairs of boots, she’d had two cups of tea, glanced at the new issue of French Vogue, and made a telephone call to Lord Marcus. Voicemail. She wondered if he was working, or if he was off with Camilla somewhere, buying new croquet mallets, or...

  Or what?

  Porsha didn’t give up easily and she was determined not to let yesterday get her down. Maybe Marcus and Camilla needed to get their cousinly bonding thing out of the way. They’d undoubtedly soon tire of each other’s company. Besides, Marcus was likely to forget Camilla’s name when he caught a glimpse of Porsha in her new, knee-high black boots and her new black lace corset and matching boy shorts, which she planned on modeling for him that very night in between courses during the champagne-and-chocolate room service dinner she’d planned.

  Tucking the still-warm credit card back into her new wallet, Porsha dropped it inside the limited-edition bag she’d picked up the day before and walked out of the store and onto the quiet stretch of Press Street. She’d been to London only once with her family, when she was twelve. They’d stayed at the Langham Hotel just off Regent Street, visited Old Ben and Buckingham Palace, seen the crown jewels, watched the changing of the guard, drunk tea, and eaten scones. As far as she could remember, she’d spent most of the trip listening to Beyonce on her iPod. But that was London as a tourist. Now that she lived here, things were totally different.