Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  “They’re incredible,” he gushed. “Come on, sit down. Let’s get some tea in us and talk things over, shall we, ladies?” The designer beckoned to the butler, waving his palm in the air like it had come loose at the wrist. He led them over to an enormous sectional sofa and froze suddenly. “Psst,” he hissed, turning and grinning maniacally at Porsha. “Tea is just a code word for martinis.” He winked.

  Porsha winked back at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. This was not what she’d been expecting.

  It was way, way better.

  25

  “Okay, let’s do a take,” Ken Mogul said to his first assistant director. He slouched glumly in a tall canvas chair emblazoned with his initials, clenching a chewed-up ballpoint pen in his teeth.

  Yasmine focused her camera on the table where she’d be shooting. Fred’s, the Barneys restaurant that was central to the action of the movie, was a mob scene. Instead of the usual lunch crowd, the restaurant was flooded with harsh, industrial lighting and crammed full of the hundred-strong Breakfast at Fred’s crew. They’d moved out most of the chairs and tables to help accommodate everyone, but between the makeup people, prop people, hair people, lighting people, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to the assistant directors, and interns, it was kind of a tight fit.

  Just like the shoe department during the end-of-season sale.

  “Okay, let’s do a take!” the assistant yelled. Everyone scurried away and Ken Mogul waved at Yasmine, who was stationed to his right, peering through the viewfinder of her camera. “Go ahead and roll, Yas.”

  “We’re rolling!” Yasmine shouted proudly. She’d always dreamed of saying that, although she’d imagined saying it inside a morgue or some other grim place where her first independent feature would be set. Certainly not in Barneys with Thaddeus Smith playing the lead. Still, she’d come a long way since directing an adaptation of Natural Born Killers for school.

  Today was the second day of shooting and they were scheduled to wrap a pivotal dinner scene between Thaddeus, playing Jeremy, and indie starlet Miranda Grace, who was playing Helena, the villain. Breakfast at Fred’s was the first film she’d made without her twin sister, Coco. Officially, Miranda was striking out on her own, but really, Coco was in rehab. She’d been replaced by a girl named Courtney Pinard Ken had discovered skateboarding in Washington Square Park, who could actually do the skating stunts Coco had been too wasted to learn.

  On set, Miranda picked up her ice-filled cocktail tumbler, gave it a swirl, then drained it in one sip. She cleared her throat noisily and reached across the table to grab Thaddeus’s hand. “Darling, do you believe in fate?” she asked.

  Her words echoed around the set, which was quiet enough that Yasmine could make out the tinkling of ice in Miranda’s glass.

  “I’m not sure what I believe in anymore,” Thaddeus responded quietly. “I do know one thing, though.” He paused.

  This was the moment that Yasmine—that everyone on set— had been dreading. Chanel was supposed to burst into the restaurant, trailing a tattered mink stole, and join the couple at their table.

  A moment passed. Then another.

  No Chanel. No Holly. No one.

  “Fucking cut!” barked Ken Mogul.

  “Cut, everyone,” echoed the first assistant director calmly, and suddenly the set came alive: a swarm of makeup people and hair stylists emerged from the shadows, teasing Thaddeus’s hair, reapplying gloss to Miranda’s lips. A prop assistant refilled the glass Miranda had been swirling, wiping her lipstick from the rim.

  “Will someone,” Ken whispered, “please tell Miss Fucking Crenshaw to get on her damn mark and make this fucking picture, please?”

  “Sorry, sorry!” called Chanel, stumbling onto the set, brandishing a menacing Bailey Winter stiletto. “I was still in wardrobe. I’m sorry, these shoes, they’re just—”

  “Chanel on the set!” cried the second assistant director.

  Thanks for the update.

  “Holly, Holly, Holly.” Ken Mogul shook his head. “To your mark, okay? Let’s do this again.”

  The army of assistants retreated to the shadows and they ran the scene once more. This time, as Thaddeus was on the verge of responding to Miranda’s question, Chanel burst into the restaurant, right on cue, adjusting the stole that had slipped from her bare shoulder.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” she chirped, striding past the other tables, swishing her tiered chiffon Bailey Winter dress. She dragged over a chair from an unoccupied table and sat.

  “Can I help you?” snapped Miranda.

  “Cut, please, cut, right now,” Ken Mogul muttered.

  “Cut!” cried his loyal loudmouthed assistant.

  “Miranda and Chanel, please, you’re Helena and Holly now. Make us believe it,” he said. “Miranda, make me believe that you’re a woman who could run the world.”

  Miranda nodded blankly, batting her fake eyelashes. She was from the Lower East Side. She’d gone to a slutty Catholic school. Her favorite food was Kraft mac & cheese. She clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

  Did anyone?

  During the third take, everything seemed to come together. Thaddeus and Miranda sparkled, nailing their lines perfectly, even throwing in some ad-libbed business about that day’s specials. The lighting looked beautiful and natural, with no accidental glares or twinkles, the sound quality was perfect. And Chanel arrived on time, didn’t fumble a line or any of her blocking, and when Ken yelled, “Cut!” it was because the scene was in the bag.

  “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” the director stage whispered to Yasmine. “That’s it for now, people,” he yelled. “Let’s take fifteen.” He turned back to Yasmine and said, in a normal tone of voice: “You’re up, kid. Let’s see what you got.”

  No problem, Yasmine thought. Things might be all fucked up with everything else—like whatever the hell was going on with Mekhi—but she knew what to do with a camera.

  Ken Mogul dragged his canvas director’s chair over to the playback monitor, where he’d be able to screen the footage Yasmine had just shot. Yasmine’s assistant camera guy rolled the footage and Yasmine joined the director, watching over his shoulder.

  The first time they’d run the scene, Yasmine had used a straightforward angle, moving the camera in and then out to capture the subtleties in the performances, but all in all keeping a fairly traditional distance from the actors. It looked wooden and stiff to her; it was clean and tidy but unimaginative. The second time they’d rolled, she’d tried something radically different, zooming in to focus first on Thaddeus’s lips and then panning up to examine his eyelashes. She’d used this strategy with his costar, too, to get a rapid-fire, music video effect that was really impressionistic. It was more challenging than what you usually saw in a movie, but it was also better. On the third take she’d gone even further, letting the camera’s gaze linger on the ice dancing in the glass of water on the table. She thought it was a fitting way to symbolize the characters’ complex relationships with each other. It was some of her best work.

  “What the fuck is this?” asked Ken Mogul calmly.

  Yasmine looked at him. She couldn’t quite read the tone of his voice.

  “I asked you a question,” Ken repeated, spinning around to face her. “What the fuck was that, Yasmine? What the fuck was that?”

  “That was my camera work,” Yasmine replied proudly, but her voice was shaking a bit.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Ken Mogul screamed. Nearby crew members backed into the shadows, and Yasmine could feel all eyes on her. “Yasmine, what is this experimental bullshit? This is not what I hired you for.”

  That was exactly what he’d hired her for! Those had been his exact words, as a matter of fact. Yasmine just stared at him, stunned.

  “That’s it. This is the last thing I need. I’ve got an actress who can’t act, I’m chewing on fucking ballpoint pens because I’m not allowed to smoke on my own fucking set, and now this: little
Miss Indie Film is giving me her bullshit camera work. I don’t need this. You’re fired!” Ken turned away from Yasmine and settled back into his chair. “And you,” he added, pointing to a gofer, “tell Thad, Chanel, and Miranda to stay ready. Thanks to this bullshit, we’re going to have to reshoot.”

  Yasmine opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She was angry, freaking fucking angry, but more than that, she was hurt. Tears welled in her eyes and her throat felt tight like she had to cough. She couldn’t believe what had happened. They’d only just started filming, and she was already fired? First Ruby kicked her out, then Mekhi went and started acting like some sort of Buddhist asshole, and now this?

  “Yasmine, what’s the matter?” Ken demanded roughly. “You deaf? I said you’re fired. Get the hell off my set.”

  Yasmine stuffed her equipment into her bag and stormed toward the escalator. The first movie she made at NYU was going to be about a freak-show movie director who got maimed by a pack of rabid coyotes. And then got hit by a subway.

  See how he likes that camera work.

  26

  It was eerie, stepping out of the elevator at Barneys and onto the quiet, dark ninth floor. It was like one of those super-lifelike moments in a really vivid bad dream, when you end up somewhere familiar, but it’s all horribly wrong. But this was no nightmare. It was the opposite, really—a dream come true.

  Just twenty minutes before, Porsha had been innocently taking “tea” with Bailey Winter and her mother, but she’d been dispatched to Barneys before she could drain her first martini.

  “Fashion doesn’t wait!” Bailey screamed in his girlish tenor. “Go. Go!”

  Guess she got the job.

  He wanted Porsha to dash to Barneys and consult with the Breakfast at Fred’s on-set costumer, to get the final measurements for the principal cast. The seamstresses in his workshop needed them in order to get the costumes for the climactic party scene ready in time. So far this job had all the makings of a Porsha Sinclaire fantasy: fashion, glamour, a bit of drama. The only downside was Destiny.

  Oh, right. Her.

  Bailey Winter had mistaken Brice's girlfriend for Porsha’s friend and insisted on hiring them both to be his eyes and ears on the set. But Porsha was not going to let the presence of her young imitator ruin her victory. In fact, she was going to use it to her advantage. Clearly, she could get Destiny to do her bidding.

  She started in the taxi, instructing Destiny on how to behave when they got to the set. “Let me do the talking. The talent won’t like it if you pipe in,” Porsha directed like an old pro. She’d traded her easily acquired English accent for Hollywood lingo without missing a beat.

  Destiny followed behind Porsha like an adoring puppy, out of the elevator and down the black marble ninth-floor hallway toward Fred’s. They were marching with such purpose they couldn’t help but collide with the black-clad, tear-smeared bald figure who appeared out of nowhere, running at full clip. Yasmine knocked into Porsha, who knocked into Destiny, who was so close on Porsha’s heels she fell to the ground with a little yelp, her sandals skittering across the marble floor without her.

  “Damn it!” Porsha swore before recognizing her old roommate.

  “Jesus. Fuck. I’m sorry,” Yasmine managed. Her cheeks, even her scalp, were blotchy and there were tears dripping off her chin.

  “Are you okay? You’re all...red,” Porsha observed lamely. Yasmine was clearly upset, but Porsha was supposed to be inside measuring Thaddeus Smith’s inseam!

  And we all know where the inseam leads...

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” muttered Destiny as she pulled herself back up to her feet, even though no one had been talking to her.

  “Destiny, Yasmine,” Porsha introduced the two. Then she wrapped her arms around Yasmine and air-kissed her on each cheek. “But really, what’s wrong?”

  Yasmine just sniffled in response. She was so upset she didn’t trust her voice. What was she supposed to do now? Where was she supposed to go?

  “Okay, Destiny,” Porsha barked, relishing her role as boss. “Stay here and make sure Yasmine’s okay. I’ve got to get moving. Bailey’s orders!” She squeezed Yasmine’s shoulder in a show of support and smiled weakly. “You know I love you!” she cried, then dashed down the hall and through the swinging doors of Fred’s. “Excuse me,” Porsha said loudly to no one in particular as soon as she stepped inside. “My name is Porsha Sinclaire. I work with Bailey Winter. I need to speak to someone in charge here.”

  No one moved, and no one responded. Then Porsha felt a tap on her shoulder and heard a familiar voice.

  “I think I can help you,” offered Chanel.

  “Hey.” Porsha turned to see the grinning face of her best friend. Or were they not friends now? They’d had so many ups and downs it was honestly sometimes hard for Porsha to remember if she liked Chanel again or if they weren’t speaking to each other.

  “You’re back!” Chanel squealed. She grabbed Porsha and hugged her tightly.

  Looks like friends forever.

  “I’m back,” Porsha echoed, enviously assessing Chanel’s chiffon Bailey Winter dress.

  “Tell me everything,” Chanel insisted, pulling away from Porsha and inspecting her closely. “Since when are you working for Bailey Winter? I thought you were in London!”

  “I got a job,” Porsha explained matter-of-factly. “It just seemed like the responsible thing to do, you know. I thought it would be good to have some career experience under my belt.”

  “That’s great!” Chanel practically screamed.

  “I’ve been thinking about a career in fashion,” she added casually. The hundred-odd-person crew of Breakfast at Fred’s gaped at her, just waiting for Ken Mogul to verbally chop off her head. Porsha went on in an oblivious loud voice, eating up the attention. “Everyone has a calling, and I think fashion is mine.”

  “What about London? What about Lord Whatsisname?” Chanel demanded. Were the rumors about his English fiancée actually true? She didn’t usually listen to gossip, but there had to be a reason for Porsha to give up a royal romance in London to come home and take a summer job.

  “It’s a long story.” Porsha sighed dramatically. She was a working woman with a past. Now if Chanel would just loan her that dress...

  “Tell it to me tonight,” Chanel whispered excitedly. “Ken’s putting me up in my own apartment. You should totally come over. Shit, screw that—move in with me!”

  “Well...” Porsha hesitated. She’d moved around a lot lately: the Plaza Hotel, Williamsburg, the Yale Club, London. And wasn’t she supposed to be home, close to her baby sister?

  “Did I mention that I’m now living on East 71stStreet?” Chanel knew full well that Porsha Sinclaire of all people would recognize that address.

  Move into the apartment from Breakfast at Tiffany’s?!

  “I just need to pack my bags,” Porsha responded stoically, as if she could hide the fact that she was practically peeing in her pants with excitement. “I’ll be there tonight.”

  She threw her arms around Chanel in a fit of impetuous enthusiasm. Everything always had a way of turning out just right, especially when Chanel was involved. This time they really would stay friends forever.

  If you can call the next few days forever!

  27

  Mekhi slipped into the disgusting employees-only restroom in a corner of the basement of the Strand clutching a tiny black tote bag emblazoned with the logo of the literary magazine Red Letter. Double-checking that the door was locked tight, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and unbuttoned his corduroys, dropping them to the floor. He paid no attention to the literary graffiti a generation of disaffected Strand employees had scrawled all over the walls. He had only ten minutes to meet Nicole in Union Square and he had to get out of his everyday clothes—which reeked of smoke—and into something cleaner and more exercise-friendly.

  So he wasn’t the most athletic guy in the world. His relationship or connection or whatever with
Nicole was based on more than Lycra clothing and naked yoga sessions. Nicole had opened Mekhi’s eyes, helped him think about the world in a way he never had before. Bending and posing in a hot room with a sweaty naked guy leaning into him wasn’t Mekhi’s idea of a romantic evening, but reading Nicole’s favorite books was stimulating and thought-provoking. He’d done so much in his life already—had a poem published in the New Yorker, interned at Red Letter, sung his original songs with the Raves—but it was kind of thrilling to discover something deeper and more meaningful than fleeting fame.

  Finding enlightenment in less than a week—it must be some kind of world record.

  He pulled a clean bright green T-shirt over his head, smoothed out his tousled twists, and laced up his New Balances. He popped a piece of icy mint gum into his mouth and exhaled into the palm of his hand to double-check his breath: not a trace of tobacco. He wadded up his work clothes and stashed them in his employee locker, then jogged up the stairs and out of the store, toward nearby Union Square.

  Nicole was waiting for him near the statue of a placidly smiling Gandhi in the southwest corner of the bustling park near skanky-but-getting-better 14thStreet. “I like to go there sometimes,” she’d told him over the phone. “To read and reflect on Gandhi’s message of peace.”

  Don’t we all?

  Nicole had braided her black hair and wound it tightly into a bun at the base of her neck. She was sporting a clean white T-shirt emblazoned with the Adidas logo and iridescent blue running shorts that were cropped short and showcased her well-muscled, lean long legs. When she spied Mekhi, she stood and waved excitedly.

  “Right on time!” When he reached her, she threw her arms around him in a warm embrace. “Namaste,” she whispered. “You smell nice.”

  “Thanks,” Mekhi responded with relief as he inadvertently breathed in the bouquet of Nicole’s organic sage deodorant and the patchouli oil she wore dabbed behind each ear.

  “Let’s get warmed up,” Nicole ordered. She released Mekhi from her embrace, turned, and put her right foot on the bench where she’d just been sitting, then leaned in, shifting all her weight to that leg.