Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  “Porsha just came back from London in a hurry. With some ..parcels.”

  “What parcels?” Kaliq already felt extremely high. Was it him, or was Jaylen such a huge asshole he was almost not human, like an android or something.

  “Well, when she was in London, Porsha bought a bunch of things she just couldn’t live without. Like a wedding dress. And one of those old-fashioned English baby carriages. Then she booked a ticket back to New York.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Kaliq demanded. A big white event-tent set up on a lawn caught his eye. A frou-frou bride and mangy-haired groom holding a guitar were posing for pictures by an old oak tree not far from it. Wannabe rock star types were always getting married in the Hamptons.

  “Porsha’s back in a big hurry, packing a wedding dress and a baby carriage...I don’t know.” Jaylen sighed impatiently. “You do the math.”

  That math wasn’t hard—even for a stoner.

  It would definitely take a major event to convince Porsha Sinclaire to cut her trip short. Had she come home to plan her wedding? Kaliq wouldn’t put it past her, but he just couldn’t imagine Porsha putting on a wedding dress and marching down the aisle unless he was there, too, in a tuxedo, right by her side. Of course they weren’t even together anymore, but somehow it was impossible for Kaliq to imagine Porsha—his Porsha—marrying anyone but him.

  Kaliq was beyond relieved when they pulled into the winding gravel driveway of the Braxton estate. He needed to be alone with this news and another, much larger joint.

  “Thanks for the ride, man,” Kaliq muttered distractedly, fumbling with his roach as he climbed out of the car.

  “If you want to talk some more, Kaliq,” Jaylen called through the passenger window, “I can come in. We could order sushi.”

  Ignoring Jaylen's pathetic, lonely offer, Kaliq retrieved his bike from the trunk and trudged up the driveway. He needed to clear his head.

  He also needs to learn not to believe everything he hears. (Not that we don’t all make that mistake from time to time.)

  18

  Chanel stepped out of a flaming yellow taxi onto a crowded stretch of Fifth Avenue, wearing a simple black dress and a pair of enormous sunglasses, courtesy of the designer Bailey Winter. She was in costume—even Chanel wouldn’t prance around the city in the middle of the day in a cocktail dress—rehearsing the opening scene of the movie. Holly had to peer into the display windows of the famous jewelry store Tiffany and Company while eating breakfast after a long night out, just like Audrey Hepburn did in the original movie.

  Gripping a takeout cup of coffee and brown paper bag full of pastries provided by the prop department, Chanel strolled primly toward the elegant building, counting the steps to herself, slowly and deliberately. One, two, three, four.

  “Watch it,” barked a suited businessman, brushing by her as he snarled into a cell phone.

  “Sorry,” Chanel mumbled, feeling flustered. She walked back to the curb, turned around, and retraced her steps. She tried to keep her back perfectly straight, the way Ken had instructed her to, but she had to focus on making a direct path to the store, too, which was nearly impossible because there were so many people around. She finally made it, but the windows were completely blocked out by tourists, frantically snapping pictures of the window displays. That was definitely not in the script.

  A chubby older woman in a tennis skirt held her camera out to Chanel, gesturing that she wanted Chanel to take her photograph. Chanel shrugged, dropped the paper bag onto the street, and took the camera. She focused and took a picture of the woman, smiling and pointing to the Tiffany logo.

  “Thanks! And now may I take a picture of you? You work for the store, right?”

  Chanel was flabbergasted. Of course she must look like some moronic walking window display, hired by Tiffany in hopes that the nod to the old film would sell more jewelry. She kept a smile plastered to her face while the woman snapped away, then picked up her paper bag and walked back to the curb. A bus roared past, sending a blast of hot exhaust up her dress.

  Aaah, summer in the city.

  Chanel looked up at the store, her whole body trembling with frustration. It was nearly a hundred degrees, she was sweating and overdressed, people were staring, and she just wanted to go home—to her parents’ penthouse, not her cat-piss-scented dump—and change into linen boxers, a wifebeater, and some comfy flip-flops, and spend the afternoon drinking Coronas and watching an Empire marathon. She’d always managed to excel at everything, from school to horseback riding to boys, all without even trying. She’d been sure acting would come as easily to her as everything else she’d tried in her life, but so far Ken Mogul was clearly unhappy with her performance.

  She wondered if even Porsha Sinclaire, the world’s most die-hard Breakfast at Tiffany’s fan, would have been able to put up with Ken Mogul’s maniacal tirades.

  She started her approach toward Tiffany’s once more.

  “Look, sweetheart,” a stocky, loud-voiced Southern woman cried, pointing out Chanel to her balding paunchy husband, who was sporting a winning ensemble of pleated khaki shorts and a knockoff Lacoste polo, topped off with black socks under his cheap leather mandals.

  “Well, now I’ve seen everything,” the man exclaimed.

  “It’s just like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, isn’t it?” the woman continued, approaching Chanel. “Yoohoo, dear, is this some kind of publicity stunt?”

  Chanel pretended not to hear. Who knew Manhattan’s sidewalks were so treacherous? She retreated back to the curb and steeled herself, then made the walk again.

  Now that’s dedication.

  She might have looked like a funny tourist attraction to the people walking by, but inside she was a seething, frustrated actress on the verge of a major temper tantrum. The truth was, Chanel didn’t even want to act anymore; she wanted to give up and walk over to Barneys and see if anything new was on the racks. But of course she couldn’t do that: first, because it was closed due to filming, so she was partly responsible for her own worst nightmare, and second, because she had never really failed at anything before and was secretly every bit as competitive as her sometimes best friend, Porsha.

  “Nice ass,” called a deep voice from behind her.

  Chanel turned to see a guy leering at her from the backseat of a passing taxi. Gross. Audrey Hepburn never had to deal with this sort of crap.

  No, but then again, Audrey Hepburn’s ass was kind of flat. But at least she could act.

  19

  Porsha couldn’t tell if the pounding was in her head—she’d put away quite a few whiskeys on the plane—or if it was real. She lifted her head. No, it was real, and it was coming from the door to the bedroom where she’d crashed last night, the room formerly occupied by her hippie stepbrother, Tahj Campbell.

  “Porsha Cornelia Sinclaire!”

  There was more pounding. It was her mother and her voice sounded...different. Was she sick? Did she have something in her mouth?

  Eleanor Campbell pushed the door open and stomped into the dark bedroom, perching on the edge of the mattress. She was carrying a mug of coffee and was dressed in her summertime sleep outfit, a flouncy, way-too-short peachy slip and matching robe.

  “Wake up!” she shrieked hoarsely.

  Porsha pulled the covers over her head and moaned. Why was her mother carrying on like this so early in the morning?

  “Porsha Sinclaire,” her mom hissed. “I’m serious, young lady. Come out from under there. We need to have a little chat.”

  “I hope you know I barely slept,” Porsha snapped, sitting up and snatching the coffee from her mother’s hands. She took a long sip and tugged at the flimsy white camisole she’d chosen to sleep in.

  “First,” Eleanor ranted, “what are you doing home?” Gripping her robe with one hand, she leaned in and studied her daughter’s face. “You’re supposed to be in London!”

  For a fiftysomething-year-old who’d just had a baby, Eleanor looked pretty good in the
morning. Porsha wondered if her mom had had something done to her face while she was away, or maybe it was some new eye cream Porsha would eventually steal.

  “Something came up.” Porsha reached for the eyepads she kept in a drawer in her bedside table, placing one over each eye.

  “Well, next time you might think to give me a call and let me know what you’re up to.” Eleanor snatched the eye pads away. “I had a call this morning from American Express. I don’t like it when my credit card company knows my daughter’s whereabouts before I do.”

  “What?” Porsha demanded, sitting up a little straighter.

  “American Express called because someone charged a $4,000 plane ticket to my account,” Eleanor scolded. “I was about to call the police. Then I noticed the new blue leather Hermès luggage set in the foyer.”

  “I came in late,” Porsha explained. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “That’s only part of the problem.” Eleanor stood and paced around the room. “Porsha, it’s about time you learned some responsibility. You’re not a child anymore. You’re going to have to learn how to manage your money.”

  This from the woman who bought each of her children a private island in the South Pacific!

  “Mom,” Porsha whined.

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” Eleanor ordered sharply. “You know I never say no to my children, you know that, don’t you? I’ve always given you whatever you wanted, haven’t I?”

  Well, wasn’t that her job?

  “Yes, I have.” Eleanor had never given a parental lecture before, and Porsha could see she was getting into it. “But this is too much. I talked it over with Cyrus and we agreed that something has to be done.”

  Excuse me, why was her mother discussing her private business with Cyrus Campbell, her stupid, red-faced, tacky-assed stepfather? “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Porsha yawned, draining the coffee cup. She wondered how long this particular chat was going to last. The whole thing was just so...boring. She needed more sleep, and a long bath, and a facial to get rid of all the London grime, and maybe a haircut and a few face-framing highlights to go with her cleansed and exfoliated face.

  “What I’m talking about, Porsha, is this American Express bill.” Eleanor shook a wrinkled fax. “I had them send it over as soon as the woman on the phone told me about your...shopping exploits.”

  Oops.

  “Well, Mom,” Porsha admitted, “I might have gone a little overboard on the wedding dress, but once you see it, I know you’ll agree—”

  “Wedding dress?” her mother gasped. “I guess that explains the eighteen-thousand-dollar charge. What is this about a wedding?” She sat down on the bed and fanned herself with her diamond-encrusted fingers. “I feel like I’m going to faint! You’re getting married? Oh, Porsha! I don’t know what to say!” She threw her arms around Porsha and burst into noisy tears. Then she abruptly sat up. “No, wait, I do: over my dead damn body you’re getting married! Have you lost your mind?!”

  Porsha rolled her eyes. “No, Mom, I’m not getting married. At least, not right away. Anyway, that dress was only ten thousand, not eighteen.”

  Oh, yes, that’s much better.

  “No, my dear, innocent child.” Eleanor shook her head. “Didn’t you realize that the exchange rate is almost two to one?”

  “Look,” Porsha declared hurriedly, “I’m sorry, okay? I only bought a few things, and they’re all for school.”

  Yeah. We all wear wedding gowns to freshman orientation.

  It didn’t look like she was going to escape any time soon. Porsha picked up the new issue of W she’d left on the night table. She’d bought the oversize magazine to keep her occupied on the long flight, but the complimentary bourbon had ended up being a much more interesting diversion.

  “Porsha.” Eleanor sighed and squeezed Porsha’s knee through the hemp-blend bedspread. “I don’t mind you buying a few things—but a wedding dress?” She paused. “Still, I bet it’s quite a dress.”

  “It is!” Porsha exclaimed. This was the mother she knew and sort of loved.

  “Even so, I’ve talked it over with Cyrus, and I’m going to call your father this afternoon, but I think he’ll agree that, since you’re home now, presumably to stay—”

  “I’m definitely not going back to London,” Porsha interjected, trying not to feel emotional about her dramatic departure from Marcus’s hometown. Had he even noticed she was gone?

  “—this is the perfect opportunity for you to find some work for the summer. A job.”

  A what? No comprende, señora.

  The room was spinning. “What did you just say, Mom? A job?”

  “Yes, dear. A job.”

  Porsha fell back onto the pillows and threw her arm over her eyes. “But I’ll die if I have to work.”

  “Don’t overreact,” Eleanor insisted. “It’ll be a terrific experience before starting school.”

  “Have you ever worked?” Porsha demanded. She began to flip through the magazine angrily, almost tearing the pages as she turned them. She’d just fled a country, having been spurned by the love of her life. A lecture from her never-worked-a-day-in-her-life mother on the merits of employment and pulling herself up by her bootstraps was the absolute last thing she needed.

  “That’s beside the point,” Eleanor replied evenly. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you helping to pay some of these exorbitant bills. If you’re going to spend this much, you’re going to have to earn something.”

  Work for the summer? Porsha closed her eyes—no one she knew was working during this, their last summer vacation ever. No one! Well, except for Kaliq, but that was a punishment. There was Chanel, too, but that wasn’t really a job—it was a dream come true.

  Porsha’s eyes suddenly came to rest on the page in front of her. Speak of the fucking devil. There, smack-dab in the middle of the latest reports on all the society gossip, was a photograph of Chanel Crenshaw arm in arm with the designer Bailey Winter. Porsha remembered when that photograph had been taken, at Winter’s runway presentation the previous season. She and Chanel had been seated in the front row—naturally—and when the designer had come out to take his final bow, he’d noticed Chanel in the audience and pulled her up onto the runway with him.

  Tuning out her mother’s relentless drone, Porsha scanned the page to see whether there was some news about Chanel. And indeed there was: the gossip column was all about how Bailey Winter had signed on with Ken Mogul to provide the costumes for Mogul’s new film project, Breakfast at Fred’s. It wasn’t enough that Chanel got to star in a movie with Thaddeus Smith; she also got to wear custom designs by one of the best living American designers?

  “I just think it’s a matter of responsibility, Porsha,” her mother declared. “You know, when you turn twenty-one you’ll get access to your trust fund, and your father and Cyrus and I need to know that you’ll handle the money responsibly. We feel very strongly that a job is the perfect way for you to learn to manage money and carry out other people’s wishes, not just your own.”

  Porsha glared at the ugly eggplant-colored bedspread. Fine, she’d get a summer job. But she was not going to settle for anything less than the most glamorous summer job imaginable.

  “You know,” she mused, “maybe you’re right. Maybe a job is just what I need to keep myself busy this summer.”

  “Yes!” her mother cried happily. “I knew you’d come around!”

  “And maybe you can help me get one?” Porsha asked sweetly.

  “Of course!” Eleanor agreed. “I’m sure we can make some phone calls and find you something wonderful in no time at all!”

  There was, of course, only one telephone call she needed her mother to make. Being the daughter of Eleanor Campbell, Bailey Winter’s most loyal couture client, would surely come in handy when it came to landing an assistantship on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s.

  If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em!

  20

  Fu
rtively cupping the butt in his palm, Mekhi took a long last drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, stubbing it out quickly and exhaling smoke into the breeze. He was stationed on a bench at the corner of 6thAvenue and Houston and could see Nicole crossing the street. He didn’t want her to catch him smoking—again.

  “Mekhi!” Nicole called out, dodging the battalion of cabs creeping up 6thAvenue, waving excitedly. She was wearing short, stretchy black pants that flared a little at her calves and a turquoise sports bra and was carrying a water bottle. She trotted through the traffic and up to the bench. “Hi! It’s so good to see you.”

  “You too,” Mekhi replied, oh-so-casually closing his book and grinning at her.

  “Oh! You’re reading The Way of the Artist!” she exclaimed. “I love that book.”

  “Really?” Mekhi had a feeling she might. “That’s a funny coincidence.”

  Sure it is.

  “Totally,” giggled Nicole. “First Siddhartha, now The Way of the Artist? You must be the Strand’s spiritual expert.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Mekhi lied. “Everyone they hire has a different specialty.”

  “Cool.” Nicole grabbed his hand and yanked him up off the bench. “Now come on! We’re going to be late.”

  “Okay,” Mekhi agreed cheerfully. “I hate missing the previews.”

  “Previews?” Nicole asked. “We’re not going to the movies. Remember? We’re going to Bikram.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Mekhi replied nervously. Bikram, Bikram, Bikram. Not a movie. Maybe a restaurant? “Right. Um, good, I’m, uh, starving.”

  Nicole laughed. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry for some exercise myself. Let’s hurry so we don’t miss this class—the evening sessions are even more intense than the ones I usually take. And maybe afterwards I’ll buy you a Jamba Juice.”

  Class? Jamba Juice? She might as well have been speaking Swahili. Mekhi had no idea where they were going but he followed Nicole down the street, making idle chitchat about books he hadn’t actually read and getting more and more worried. It didn’t seem likely that they were going to a restaurant. Then Mekhi looked up and saw it, looming in the distance: a hand-painted sign with a funny, Indian-style font that proudly proclaimed BIKRAM. It wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t a restaurant. Bikram was a kind of yoga. Nicole was taking him to a yoga class.