Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  Chanel continued to smile but her eyes darted around, searching for a cab.

  “Who is she, Thad?” the photographer demanded from behind them. “What are you wearing tonight, Thad?” he continued in an almost mocking tone. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. What about you? What are you wearing?”

  Actually, she was wearing her favorite black Les Best sundress and black Chloe ballet slippers, but she was too freaked out to open her mouth.

  “That’s enough, man!” Thaddeus yelled angrily. He stepped into the oncoming traffic on Clinton Street, waving his arms frantically like a survivor marooned on a desert island flagging down a plane. A taxi pulled over, and he shoved Chanel into the backseat. Then he jumped in behind her and slammed the door. The photographer pressed his camera close to the window and Chanel buried her face in Thaddeus’s broad shoulder, feeling a little like Princess Di must have just before she died.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” Thad barked at the driver.

  As they sped away, the photographer called after them. “That’ll be the cover of the People tomorrow!”

  When they reached 71stand Third, Thaddeus paid the driver and hopped out so he could open her door. Their footsteps echoed into the night, and the distant traffic on 2ndAvenue sounded vaguely like the ocean. Chanel climbed the bottom step of her stoop and then turned. Standing there, she was at eye level with Thaddeus.

  “Would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked, determined that the ugly incident with the paparazzi wouldn’t put a damper on the evening. After all, this was the first time she’d had Thaddeus all to herself. There was no angry director, no fussy cinematographer, no script to follow. She wasn’t going to let this moment pass.

  He shrugged. “Maybe we should just sit here for a while.” He sank down onto the stoop. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she breathed, delicately pulling at her dress before sitting down next to him.

  “That fucking photographer,” he growled sulkily.

  Chanel put a protective hand on his leg. “He was just an asshole.” She smiled cheerfully at him. “Don’t worry about it. Come up and I’ll make you a nice cold mojito.”

  “Sometimes I just get tired of it—the way they talk to you like they know you. The way he called me Thad, you know?” Thaddeus went on, ignoring her invitation. Chanel blinked at the sliver of moon hovering over a 72ndStreet highrise.

  “It must be hard for you. I mean, people probably think they know you. They see your movies, they see you in magazines.”

  But they don’t get to enjoy intimate dinners with him, poor babies.

  “I mean, my name’s not even Thaddeus, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, confused.

  “It’s Tim. My agent thought it should be something catchier.”

  “I guess it worked.” Chanel nodded, wondering suddenly if she shouldn’t change her name. It might be good for her career.

  Yeah, Chanel Crenshaw isn’t catchy at all.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a soft pack of cigarettes. “At least it’s quiet here,” he said, lighting up.

  That’s right. You’re safe, right here, with me. “No photographers here,” Chanel giggled. “Just the two of us.”

  “Working on our chemistry,” Thaddeus laughed. “Our homework. Chemistry homework, get it?”

  Better stick to the script, dude.

  It was easily the best homework assignment Chanel had ever been given, and she was sure she was acing it. The question was how to nuzzle up to him but make it clear she wasn’t rehearsing. She wanted to make sure he saw her as Chanel and not Holly, and that he could distinguish the fake kisses from the real thing.

  “Hello, again,” came a voice from above them. It was Trey, her downstairs neighbor, wearing a navy pinstripe suit. His blue-and-yellow striped tie was loose around his neck and the collar of his white oxford shirt was unbuttoned. She hadn’t seen him since he’d come to her rescue her first day in the apartment, and she’d actually sort of forgotten about him.

  “Hi, Trey.” Chanel wanted to be polite but she honestly hoped he’d just disappear. He was friendly and cute but she and Thaddeus had homework to do.

  “What’s up?” Thaddeus put on that same friendly flirty tone he used on the talk show circuit. He extended a hand to Trey but remained perched on the stoop. “I’m Thaddeus.”

  Trey came down the steps. “I was just getting my mail. Hey, I’m Trey.” He gave Thaddeus’s hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Pull up a step,” Thaddeus joked, scooting over a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “Or we could go upstairs to my place and get a drink,” Chanel suggested hopefully.

  “Why don’t I just grab some beers?” Trey offered. “I’ve got some inside. Then we don’t have to bother with all those stairs.”

  Cool. I kind of like it right here. Nice breeze. Good company.” Thaddeus grinned at Chanel.

  “Me too.” She smiled back, even though she’d much rather have been upstairs and alone with him. If he wanted a breeze, she could always open a window.

  Trey lived on the parlor floor, so it only took him a minute to dash inside and fetch three cold bottles of Heineken.

  “Thanks.” Thaddeus sighed as he cracked the top and tossed the cap onto the next step.

  “Long day?” asked Trey.

  “Seriously,” Thaddeus agreed. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a summer associate at Lowell, Bonderoff, Foster and Wallace,” Trey explained before taking a long swig. A car honked loudly in the street. Chanel looked at her watch. This conversation was really quite riveting, but frankly, she’d rather be soaking in a salt-and-sage bubble bath.

  “They’re my lawyers!” Thaddeus exclaimed excitedly, like Trey was the most interesting guy he’d ever met. “You don’t know Sam, do you?”

  “I know of him,” Trey replied. “He’s a partner over in the LA office, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s a real pit bull. God, I remember one time I was having this contract dispute with a studio and—”

  “It’s a small world,” Chanel yawned and pointed her ballet-slippered toes.

  “Here’s to a small world.” Thaddeus lifted his bottle and clinked it against Trey’s and then Chanel’s.

  She chugged the entire contents of her beer and inched a little closer to Thaddeus. Even if their conversation was deathly boring, she knew she was in the presence of two sweet young gentlemen who would probably carry her up four flights of stairs to her apartment if she happened to drink too much and couldn’t walk.

  After all, she’s always depended on the kindness of strangers.

  16

  Porsha burst into the lobby of Claridge’s like a woman on a mission, which was exactly what she was. She had to get back to her suite and sift through the packages she’d had delivered. She was particularly interested in revisiting the show-stopping wedding gown that had been her week’s biggest purchase. At ten thousand pounds it was a splurge, even for her, but it was so perfect that it was worth every penny, and Porsha knew her mother would agree. And if she didn’t, Porsha knew her father, Harold J. Sinclaire, would: he was a fabulous gay man living the high life in the south of France. If anyone understood the thrill of finding the perfect wedding dress, he would.

  She’d been meaning to schedule a weekend rendezvous with her dear old dad in Paris—surely it was time for Marcus to meet her parents? It was only a couple of hours away by the Chunnel, and it would be so fun to take a romantic train ride with her boyfriend and leave cousin Camilla behind. As she marched through the lobby, she spied the concierge standing behind her neat little desk. Perfect, Porsha thought. She could have her make the arrangements! Porsha stormed across the marble tiles to where the woman stood, scribbling notes in some sort of leather-bound ledger.

  “I need some assistance,” Porsha ordered. “Tickets to Paris.”

  “Madam! Ms. er, Beaton-Rhodes?” asked the concierge, a short, pr
im Asian woman sporting circular John Lennon-type glasses and a no-nonsense bob.

  “It’s Miss Sinclaire, actually,” Porsha corrected her.

  Not Mrs.

  Yet.

  “Yes, of course,” the concierge apologized. “Madam, I’m just confirming your reservation for another week. Is that accurate?”

  “Sure, sure.” Porsha waved her hand. She had business to attend to. “Like I was saying, I want to go to Paris. Like, immediately.”

  “That’s fine, then. I’ll just need a credit card. For the room charge.”

  “Can you just bill Lord Marcus?” Porsha asked, irritated. “He’s handling the whole thing.”

  “I see,” nodded the concierge, making a note in her little leather notebook. “And will his Lordship be visiting soon? We’ll need him to sign.”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Porsha. She was on her way to set up the perfect romantic evening—lingerie, champagne, the whole thing—but technically she hadn’t spoken to him all day, so he didn’t even know that they had a date.

  “Well, I’m afraid we’re going to need to schedule a time for his Lordship to drop by and sign the papers,” the concierge replied firmly.

  “Fine,” snapped Porsha. “I’ll figure out a time.”

  A group of Italian tourists meandered by, randomly snapping pictures of Porsha while she fumed.

  “Well, Miss...”

  “Sinclaire,” she repeated.

  “Miss Sinclaire, we’ll need to have that signature on the bill by tomorrow, or I’m afraid we’re going to have to release the suite. We do have an interested party.”

  “Fine,” Porsha replied icily. “I’ll call him right now.” Porsha dug out her telephone and selected the only number in her speed dial. Lord Marcus’s phone rang and, as she could have predicted, there was no answer. She opted not to leave a message. She’d already left three that day. She didn’t want him to think she was insane.

  Like buying a wedding dress is sane?

  “He’s not answering,” Porsha informed the concierge. “He’s very busy at work right now, but I’m sure I’ll hear from him tonight. I’ll arrange for him to come by and settle the whole matter, okay?”

  It had only been a few days, but Porsha had already lapsed into a Madonna-like English accent, clipping certain consonants and using phrases like “the whole matter.”

  “That’s fine.” The concierge nodded. “Just do remember that he’ll have to sign the bill by tomorrow or we’ll be obliged to release the room. I do hope he’ll find a moment to get away from his wife and come by.”

  “Excuse me?” Porsha demanded.

  “I’m sorry?” the concierge replied snottily.

  “What. Did. You. Say?” Porsha could feel the tips of her ears glowing hot with fury. For a moment she forgot about the dress waiting for her upstairs in her luxurious suite. She forgot about the maid, who would happily mix Porsha whatever drink she requested as soon as she walked in. She forgot about the in-room massage she’d been itching for. She forgot about Paris.

  “I believe I said, I hope he’ll find a moment to get away from his life and come by,” the concierge answered sweetly.

  “You did not,” Porsha whispered tightly, leaning across the counter, her voice very quiet. “You said wife.”

  “I’m sure you misunderstood,” the concierge replied.

  “Well, I’m sure you misunderstood!” Porsha shouted. She had never been shy. “I heard what you said.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course. I’ll just need to have his Lordship pop by to sign the papers and the matter will be settled.”

  “He’s not married. She’s his cousin,” Porsha went on. “And I’m his girlfriend.” She was practically shouting. On the other side of the lobby the Italians turned to look.

  The concierge blushed deeply. “If we can just keep our voices down.”

  “Fuck that.” Porsha had had it with England, with everyone’s polite prattle, with the British insistence on quiet dignity. Porsha wasn’t interested in quiet or in dignity. Fuck this bitch, fuck Britain, fuck Lord Marcus and fuck his horsey cousin Camilla. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be home. “You know what? I don’t want the room. I want you to call British fucking Airways and book me a ticket immediately. One way, first class. To New York.” Porsha dug into her bag and found her black American Express card, which she tossed onto the desk angrily.

  “One way to New York, first class,” repeated the concierge. “Virgin has flights at eleven daily. I’ll see if we can get you a seat.”

  Virgin. How appropriate.

  Not.

  17

  “Kaliq Braxton. I can’t believe my eyes.”

  “Hey, Jaylen,” muttered Kaliq. On his way home that afternoon, he’d noticed his front tire was a little low on air, so he’d pulled into the BP station on Springs Road. It had been an incredibly hot day, the kind of day with no ocean breeze to break up the haze, so Kaliq’s hours of backbreaking labor had left him sweaty, sunburned, and exhausted. Judging from the horrified look on Jaylen Harrison's smooth butterscotch face, Kaliq figured he must look pretty terrible.

  That’s a first.

  “What happened to you?” gasped Jaylen. He pulled his vintage Ray Ban aviators down the length of his nose and handed the gas station attendant a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Nothing happened, man,” Kaliq responded, annoyed. He removed the hose from his tire and bounced the bike up and down to check the pressure.

  Despite the thick heat, Jaylen was wearing madras board shorts and a gray cashmere hoodie. He looked as perfectly primped as usual, his thick eyebrows arched tidily above his piercing brown eyes, his square chin shaved smooth. He extended a hand to help Kaliq to his feet.

  “Given up on cars?” Jaylen asked, nodding at Kaliq’s bike. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone green on us.”

  “Yeah.” Kaliq looked hopefully toward the tastefully gray-shingled BP gas station for someone to save him from Jaylen.

  “Let me give you a ride.” Jaylen rattled the ice in the plastic cup of chilled mocha latte that he’d drained. “It’s a hundred degrees out and you look like you’ve been through hell. I don’t want to imagine how you’ll look after riding all the way back to Georgica Pond on that bike.”

  Kaliq weighed his options: half an hour sweating versus ten minutes alone with Jaylen Harrison?

  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  “Let’s go.” Kaliq sighed. The thought of Jaylen's air-conditioned gray Jag was too hard to resist.

  Jaylen unlocked the car’s trunk and Kaliq stuffed the bike into it—he wasn’t sure it would fit, but the trunk was surprisingly big and they were able to rig it so only the tip of the tire poked through. Kaliq slid onto the white leather seat and slammed the heavy door, fastening his seat belt and gearing up for the ride.

  Jaylen turned on the ignition and the car immediately flooded with cold air and Drake's newest CD.

  “I’ve been lying on the beach in Sag Harbor all day, feeling retro,” Jaylen explained, turning the volume down. “So...let’s catch up.”

  “Catch up,” echoed Kaliq blankly. He could tell from Jaylen's tone of voice that he was going to launch into a barrage of questions. Talking with Jaylen was like having a job interview.

  “I assume you heard about Porsha.” Jaylen fiddled with the air conditioner, even though it was already freezing. He pulled out onto the road connecting Hampton Bays to East Hampton, which Kaliq had practically memorized by now. Wine-grape fields alternated with tasteful Colonial-style, gray-shingled houses, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the dark blue ocean behind someone’s backyard.

  “Porsha?” Kaliq asked as they passed the Oyster Shack on the left. He’d been so preoccupied with Tawny, even saying Porsha’s name aloud felt weird. She was off in England for the summer with her new British boyfriend as far as he knew. She seemed far away when he thought about her, even though their paths would soon cross again. She might be madly
in love with that new English dude, but there was no way Porsha Sinclaire was going to abandon her lifelong dream of going to Yale in the fall. A September reunion on campus was inevitable.

  “She’s ba-a-a-a-a-ck.” Jaylen drew it out like a creepy little girl. He rattled the ice in his cup and slurped up the coffee-flavored water that had gathered at the bottom. “Just got off the plane this morning.”

  “Oh yeah?” Kaliq fiddled with the shoulder strap on his seat belt. Porsha was back from London? That was news.

  “Yeah.” Jaylen nodded casually, turning the stereo down further. “I wonder if she and Chanel have kissed and made up. Again. If you know what I mean.”

  “Porsha and Chanel never could stay mad at each other for long,” Kaliq muttered, drumming his thumb against the door handle in time to the music. He would know—he usually caused the rifts between them.

  “It’s good news for Chanel, though,” Jaylen added coyly. “She could really use a friend right about now.”

  Kaliq didn’t respond. Everything Jaylen said made him feel a little uneasy, like the world was moving on without him. He’d only been in the Hamptons for a week, and already he didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

  “Word is she’s having a little trouble with the whole acting thing,” Jaylen observed. “But I’m sure she’ll come out on top. She always does.”

  “Acting, right,” Kaliq repeated. He’d forgotten about Chanel’s movie. It seemed totally alien from his life as a day laborer. Kaliq was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for a smoke. He shoved in the car’s electric lighter. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Jaylen shrugged. “No matter how much trouble Chanel might be having, it’s nothing compared to the mess Porsha’s got herself into.” He drove fast, veered right at a fork, and caused the tires to squeal. The houses were getting grander and the lawns bigger the farther they drove.

  “What trouble?” Kaliq demanded, igniting the half-smoked joint he’d wisely saved for just such a moment.