Everyone said London was gray, overcast, foggy, and depressing, but it had been clear and sunny all week. The trees were in full bloom, there were lush gardens on every block, and every building was ornate and beautiful. Everyone also said that the English were standoffish, with bad teeth and thick accents, and although their teeth and accents were distractions, so far every person Porsha had spoken to had been unfailingly polite.
Of course they had been—she’d only talked to salespeople who worked on commission.
Porsha checked her cell again: no messages. She tossed the phone back into her bag. She understood that a gentleman had to pay extra attention to his guest—family was very important to the English upper class—and Camilla was lovely, really. She really was. Even if she did look like a horse. And Porsha understood, really she did. But she was ready to spice things up a little, and the more Lord Marcus made her wait, the more fidgety and eager she got. Maybe the whole thing was just a ploy to turn her on as much as possible?
Um, maybe.
Strolling down the street in the general direction of her hotel, Porsha felt like a cross between Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—the scene where she goes shopping in a giant black wide-brimmed hat and has all the Rodeo Drive salespeople waiting on her hand and foot—and Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, the beautiful stray who rises from obscurity on the streets of London to become the toast of the town. Except Porsha was neither a prostitute nor a stray from the gutter.
Details, details.
She glanced up and down the street, but every store window, every awning, looked familiar. Had she really made it to all the stores in the neighborhood? Finding great clothes in London was easy, and the exchange rate made it even better. Porsha noticed it the minute she arrived: she had to get cash for a taxi and was surprised at how many bright, pretty, pastel-colored bills she got in exchange for her boring old U.S. dollars. The teller at the bank even gave her a handful of change—including an oversize penny that was worth two cents, not just one, a funny hexagon-shaped coin, and a bunch of thick heavy coins that were worth a whole pound each. If the English used coins for the same thing Americans used bills for, clearly this was a place to find great bargains.
Not that she needed to find bargains.
Porsha was standing outside of what at first looked like just another West London brick mansion: a tall, well-lit townhouse with big clean windows and blooming flower boxes underneath them. A lifetime of shopping had given Porsha a sixth sense; she just knew when something good was lurking nearby. Through the street-level windows she could see an ornate vase stuffed full of white flowers on a pretty gilded table. Porsha couldn’t see any clothes but she was absolutely convinced something incredible was inside.
After all, everyone has a special talent.
She rang the doorbell and the door buzzed back, so she pushed it open and stepped into the marble foyer of the elegant house. The open, airy parlor floor was filled with simple displays: an incredible green crocodile bag perched on top of a broken Corinthian column bathed in the soft glow of a spotlight, and a show-stopping pair of red velvet ballerina flats atop a satin pillow. They were so plush Porsha couldn’t resist stroking them. A tall Indian girl with long thick hair smiled at her from behind the antique desk. Porsha felt a little self-conscious in her jeans, her gold silk camisole and her skimpy sandals, but she wasn’t about to walk out.
“I’m Lyla,” the salesgirl chirped in a clipped English accent. “Do let me know if I can help you find anything.”
Porsha walked to the foot of the gracefully curving staircase. Sensing something in the distance, she ascended the marble steps grandly. The steps were exactly like the ones Eliza descends in My Fair Lady, in the scene where she has her society debut.
See, life really does imitate art.
The second floor was nearly empty, except for a floor-to-ceiling, three-way mirror against the far wall. Sun flooded in and Porsha paused, pretending it was her own private dressing room. In the middle of the space, suspended from a glass hanger, hung a long white dress. It was made of silk, cut along the bias, and seemed to breathe as if it had a life of its own. It was...beautiful. Whoever wore that dress would be the star of a never-ending love story with herself. Porsha reached out to touch the dress, transfixed. Could it be? It was.
It was a wedding dress. It was her wedding dress.
“Would you like to try it on?”
Porsha whirled around to see Lyla from downstairs. She hadn’t heard her coming.
“Yes, definitely,” Porsha half whispered. “I think I’m going to need it.”
For what, exactly?
The shop only accommodated one customer at a time, so there was no need for dressing rooms. Lyla explained this, reaching up to remove the glass hanger from its tack on the wall, while Porsha all but leapt out of her clothes. She grabbed the gown and slid into it headfirst. The chiffon was as soft and light as fresh whipped cream, and she shivered as it fell down the length of her body.
Avoiding the mirror until everything was perfect, Porsha stood by the windows, looking down onto the lush private garden behind the store.
“Here, let’s put this on as well.” Lyla held up a delicate gold necklace and slipped it around Porsha’s neck. “I think you’re ready to have a look now,” she murmured, turning Porsha so that she faced the mirror.
Porsha crossed the room carefully, holding the dress up so she didn’t trip on the delicate hem. There was a small platform in front of the mirror and she stepped up onto it, avoiding her reflection until she was perfectly situated. She let go of the dress, shook her hair back from her face, and then gazed at her reflection.
“Oooh!” she gasped.
There it was: the future. Porsha had never seen a more perfect dress in her life. It was so amazing, its beauty rubbed off on her. She wasn’t even wearing proper makeup, but her milky chocolate face had never looked more flawless. She was wearing the wrong bra but her breasts had never looked so full. She felt like she’d stepped off the cover of Town & Country’s summer wedding issue. That old theory—that you just know, somehow, when you’ve found the right wedding dress—seemed to be true.
They’d be married on Fifth Avenue and they’d rent all the rooms in the St. Clair for the guests to stay in and for the reception. Her father would give her away with tears in his eyes, whispering, “I love you, Bear,” as he handed her off to Marcus. Marcus would hold her hand throughout the ceremony in that intimate way of his, reminding her that they weren’t just passionately in love, they were best friends.
“It’s really quite something, isn’t it?” Lyla crossed her arms in front of her. She was standing behind Porsha, smiling approvingly.
Porsha met her gaze in the mirror. “It’s just perfect,” she breathed, her eyes transfixed on the endless train of pure white silk.
“Have you set a date?”
Um, how about a proposal first? And what about, you know, college?
“I’ll take it,” Porsha declared.
“Of course,” Lyla agreed. “You won’t be sorry. He’s going to love it.”
Porsha nodded back hypnotically, still staring at her own reflection.
“And what about the necklace?” Lyla queried.
Why not? Porsha thought.
Oh, yes, why not?
14
The single complaint Mekhi had about his job at the Strand was that the bookstore lacked one essential modern amenity: air conditioning. This morning he was stationed in the completely airless basement, manning the information desk and keeping an eye on special orders, like the request for a skin diseases photo calendar. After a couple of torturous hours, he was definitely ready for some fresh air.
If that’s what you call a smoke.
As soon as his replacement—a scowling silent guy named Brent who’d worked at the store for about twenty years—arrived to take his place, Mekhi jogged up the narrow staircase and outside. A concrete ledge ran alongside the square beige building and he perched on it, enjo
ying the shade as he lit up.
The sidewalk was crowded with passersby browsing the Strand’s large outdoor carts, which were full of super-discounted books no one wanted, like Collectible Coins from Contemporary Canada and Tiger: The True Story of the Dog Who Loved a Cat. Mekhi closed his eyes and tuned out the chatter of the bargain hunters. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and thought about Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha.
“Love stirred in the hearts of the young daughters of the Brahmins when Siddhartha passed through the city streets, with his radiant brow, with his imperial glance, with his slender hips.”
Mekhi couldn’t help wanting to be Siddhartha, or at least be more like him. He wished he had someone he could discuss it with, especially since his attempt to chat about it with Yasmine had ended so badly.
A tap on his shoulder interrupted his reverie. He opened his eyes.
“Mekhi?” Nicole stood before him, admiring him in all his Siddharthaness.
Who says wishes don’t come true?
“Hi.” He stood quickly. Nicole was wearing a form-fitting green tank top and white spandex shorts. Her long hair was in two tidy pigtails and her skin had a bold, healthy glow.
“Are you smoking?” she demanded, aghast.
“Uh, no.” Mekhi dropped the lit cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out quickly. “I was holding it for this guy Steve. He had to run back inside.”
Nice play, Shakespeare.
“Whew,” she exhaled, fanning the air with her hands. “Smoking is just terrible for you.”
“Oh, I know,” Mekhi agreed earnestly, wiping his hands on his faded green cordurouys. “It’s really bad.”
“I’m so glad I ran into you!” Nicole hopped up onto the ledge and started swinging her legs like a kid who has to pee but doesn’t want to get off the swing. “I wanted to tell you how much I liked Siddhartha.”
“Yeah? That’s great. I was actually just rereading it myself.”
“Really? What a funny coincidence!”
Right. Coincidence.
“So you thought the book was interesting?” Mekhi asked, crossing his legs in a way he hoped looked quasi-intellectual and quasi-athletic. “What are you thinking of reading next?”
“Well, I’m going to read a book my yogi has been working on. It’s about improving the way the brain communicates with the other organs in the body by meditating and doing yoga and chanting. There are, like, fifty chapters and most of them are a hundred pages long. He’s been writing it for, like, eleven years, and he’s going to try and have it published this year and he asked me to look at it for him. Me! Imagine! It’s such an honor.”
An honor? Sounds more like a pain in her well-yogacized ass.
“Anyway, I have to confess,” she went on, looking Mekhi right in the eye. “I didn’t just come by to talk books.”
“You didn’t?”
She didn’t?
Mekhi blushed and looked down at the ground, kicking idly at the cigarette butt he’d claimed wasn’t his. He wished he had it back.
“No, I wanted to see if you’d be interested in getting together sometime. I know that might sound kind of forward, but you know, I’m a person who believes in taking chances. I believe that the universe rewards bold actions, don’t you?”
Mekhi nodded eagerly.
“Anyway, I’m kind of lonely this summer. I grew up here in Greenwich Village but I was in boarding school out west, so I don’t really know anyone in the city anymore. I’m going to UC Santa Cruz in the fall, but I don’t want to spend my last summer in the city all by myself.”
“No, definitely not,” Mekhi agreed. “I’d love to hang out.”
“Awesome!” Nicole cried, hopping down from the ledge. “What’s your schedule like?”
“Well, I work days. So anytime after six.”
“Cool. Do you think you’d be up for Bikram?”
“Sure,” Mekhi nodded, even though he’d never heard of it. He didn’t go out to clubs very often.
“Awesome!” she squealed again. “Give me your number and I’ll call and confirm, but let’s say Saturday?”
Mekhi recited his number and she typed it into her phone. He had officially taken a much longer break than he was entitled to, but after Nicole strolled away he had to light another Newport to calm his nerves. He wasn’t quite sure what Bikram was—a trendy new nightclub? Some new Indian restaurant? Maybe it was a new underground independent film? But it didn’t matter. Yasmine was busy filming, and he’d scored a hot date with a sweet gorgeous girl who loved to read.
Oh, it’s sure to be a hot date indeed.
15
“Cut!” barked Ken Mogul. “Fuck!” He threw his fluorescent green clipboard onto the floor and leapt out of the metal swivel chair he’d been slumped in. “Let’s take ten, please. I need a fucking smoke.”
Chanel’s hands trembled as she held the tip of her Gauloise cigarette to the flame from Thaddeus’s silver Zippo. She inhaled deeply but the nicotine did little to calm her nerves. Memorizing her lines and reciting them properly had turned out to be harder than she thought. On top of everything, it was majorly scary to have Ken, freak show director extraordinaire, yelling at her every five seconds.
“Don’t worry about him,” Thaddeus assured her, running his hands through his hair and smiling at her with his adorable brown eyes. He put his arm around Chanel’s shoulders and squeezed. “I know it’s rough, and personally, I think you’ve done great for your first film. We’re just on a tight schedule, you know, and he’s nervous about pleasing the producers. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you.”
It doesn’t?
“Do you really think so?” Chanel wondered, burrowing into Thaddeus’s protective embrace. Normally she wouldn’t have been quite so touchy-feely with a guy she’d only known for a couple of days, but Thaddeus wasn’t your average guy. It was more than the simple fact that he was a movie star: they were pretending to be in love. They’d already kissed eight times for the stupid climax scene. Cuddling on the couch like old friends seemed natural.
“Listen up!” boomed the director, striding back into the room, tucking his pack of Marlboros into the chest pocket of his rumpled denim shirt, which, oddly enough, had the sleeves cut out, so it was really more of a vest than a shirt.
Chanel shivered at the sound of his voice and Thaddeus put his hand protectively over hers.
“I lost it back there,” Ken apologized. “Let’s call it a day, shall we? Yasmine and I have to go over our shot list anyway, but I want you two to keep working. Go to dinner—it’s on me.”
“Thanks, Ken.” Thaddeus stood and stretched, yawning noisily and giving off the heavenly odors of sweat and cologne. “It really has been a long day. I could definitely use a drink.”
“And this will give you a chance to work on your chemistry, right, Holly? Get to know your leading man. Talk to him, listen to him, learn from him. I really want to see you meld, okay?”
Chanel nodded and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray perched precariously on the arm of the brown leather couch. She could meld, especially with Thaddeus, but maybe not while Ken was watching.
“Good,” grunted the disgruntled director. “So go, have a bite. That’s your homework.”
Dinner with a major Hollywood hottie? Is there extra credit?
After gorging themselves on the city’s best steak—mixed with two delicate quail eggs and served with a healthy portion of sea-salt-encrusted French fries—Chanel and Thaddeus emerged from As Such on Clinton Street, currently the coolest, most crowded spot for the summer. They’d shared a bottle of champagne and a molten chocolate cake with fresh huckleberries for dessert, and Chanel had tipsily blurted out the story of how she’d wound up not getting asked back to Hanover Academy last fall.
She’d spent the summer in Europe, partying with her older brother, Cairo, and flirting with Frenchmen. Cairo had left for Brown in August, but Chanel had stayed and stayed. School just seemed so boring and unnecessary when the beach
es in St. Tropez were so inviting, even in September. Thankfully Emma Willard, the New York City all-girls private school she’d attended since kindergarten, had been kind enough to take her back.
“I’d sort of thought I was bound for community college and living with my parents for the rest of my life,” she admitted. “Now here I am acting in this movie, living on my own, and going to Yale in the fall.” She grinned drunkenly and a little seductively at Thaddeus. “I guess you just never know what’s going to happen.” Secretly, it was an invitation to kiss her. But they were in a crowded restaurant full of starers and gossips—it was probably best that he didn’t.
“Should we go?” Thaddeus asked, as if he couldn’t wait to take her somewhere more private.
As the pair stepped outside onto the crowded steaming street corner, they were startled by a sudden insistent cry.
“Thad! Thad!” A bulky, bearded figure emerged from the shadows wielding a camera. He snapped pictures as he hurried toward them, the bright flash illuminating the otherwise dark stretch of street.
Thaddeus put his arm protectively around Chanel’s waist, a phony but still charming smile plastered to his handsome face.
Chanel smiled, too. She was used to having her photo taken for newspaper society columns. She’d even modeled a few times, but it felt a little scary to be hounded like this.
“Let’s go,” sighed Thaddeus. He waved at the photographer. “Okay, man, that’s cool, that’s enough. We’re going.”
But the guy trailed them, weaving and bobbing like a boxer, snapping and clicking the camera’s shutter so quickly it sounded like machine gun fire. He finished a roll, deftly reloaded the camera in a matter of seconds, and kept shooting.
“That’s enough,” Thaddeus ordered, more firmly this time. He tugged on Chanel’s arm, pulling her across the street, “Come on. Let’s go.”
Upper East Side #9 Page 6
