Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  Now there’s a scary thought.

  “You don’t have to act. You’re already her. That dress is your dress. That voice is your voice. Own it.”

  “I think they’re waiting for you,” Kristina reminded her.

  Glancing at herself one last time in the bulb-lined vanity, Chanel swallowed. She was as ready as she was going to get, but it was going to take a miracle to pull this off.

  A miracle named Porsha Sinclaire.

  She stepped out of her gleaming chrome trailer and onto the sidewalk. St. Marks Place felt even more claustrophobic than usual: it was crowded with an army of crew members and a forest of incredibly hot lights. Ken Mogul was slumped in his usual director’s chair, smoking a cigarette, since they were shooting in the open air and not the pristine environs of Barneys, and fiddling with his iPhone.

  Porsha waited between the two trailers with her loyal shadow/assistant Destiny. The younger girl had a green garment bag stamped with the ornate logo of the designer Bailey Winter tossed over her shoulder, ready to protect Chanel’s gown from the elements when the scene was over.

  “Chanel on set!” called the second assistant director, and Ken’s army of crew began to dash around like ants.

  As soon as he noticed his leading lady, Ken Mogul leapt out of his seat, almost colliding with a four-eyed intern. Behind the director, Chanel could see the chiseled profile of Thaddeus Smith, leaning against his own trailer—a vintage trailer identical to hers, only painted baby blue—chattering into a tiny black cell phone.

  “Holly, love,” cooed Ken, tucking his iPhone into the back pocket of his weirdly inappropriate tuxedo pants. “You look ravishing. The costume is absolutely flawless.”

  Chanel was wearing Bailey Winter’s blue velvet dress and the prettiest silver bow-tie flats. Of course her legs were long and perfect, not that she ever exercised.

  Exercise? How inelegant.

  “Thanks,” Chanel replied shakily. She couldn’t wait get this over with.

  “Good,” Ken barked. “Let’s get some light in here! This is the real thing, people!”

  Chanel strolled over to her mark on the set, just as she’d practiced walking yesterday.

  “Let’s get light,” called the assistant director.

  The light changed: the rest of the room grew darker but the spot on Chanel was intensely bright. She didn’t even blink. She looked up into the light and she couldn’t see anything but the light, and couldn’t think about anything but standing there in the light. She was Chanel. She was Holly. She didn’t know who she was anymore. She just was.

  Own it, she reminded herself.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Holly,” Ken called from somewhere out in the darkness.

  She was ready.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked to the bottom step of the tenement’s stoop. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t count her steps, she didn’t stumble or run. Mounting the steps, she turned to face the cameras, inhaling deeply.

  “It’s a nice night,” she sighed. “It’s always a nice night.”

  She climbed to the top step and sat down. She could see Ken Mogul watching her intently as he puffed on a cigarette. She could see Porsha, standing very still and squinting critically. She paused and then, with a heartbreaking little tremor in her voice, she began to sing.

  Moon River, wider than a mile...

  I’ll be crossing you in style, someday.

  Dream maker, you heartbreaker...

  She sang through all the verses of the song, unaccompanied. The set was completely quiet and the light so strong she forgot for a moment who she really was, where she really was. For the moment, she was Holly, and she was singing her heart out.

  She finished the song and a tiny tear rolled down her cheek. She stared into the light, blinking and half smiling. She’d always been the center of attention; in fact, she was so used to it she barely noticed anymore. But this was the first time she’d ever felt like a star.

  There was a long moment of complete and utter silence. No one moved. No one spoke.

  “Holly,” whispered Ken quietly, but everyone could hear him—it was that quiet. “That was incredible. Where the fuck have you been keeping that, sweetheart?” He leapt out of his chair and dashed onto the set to scoop her up in his arms. Some of the crew actually started clapping. Even Porsha.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Ken Mogul cried, holding Chanel closely against his chest and spinning her around in a circle. “A star is born!”

  Ken smelled like sauerkraut and espresso. It made her eyes tear. But that was okay—she was already crying.

  36

  The rooftop bar at the Oceana Hotel was a madhouse. It was crowded on any given summer night, but throw a couple of movie stars into the mix (okay, one movie star and one soon-to-be movie star) and it was chaos. The open-air rooftop bar and pool was more a place to see and be seen rather than a place to talk and be heard, so Chanel was a little disappointed when Thaddeus suggested it. Now that the pressure of filming was off her shoulders, Chanel wanted to really talk to him, to get to know him as a person, not a costar. She’d heard a rumor that he was going to be leaving town after the wrap party, which was tomorrow, so that didn’t leave them with much time together—and she hoped that something might finally happen between them, off-camera.

  Apparently that was the only rumor she’d heard about him.

  “What are you drinking?” Thaddeus shouted when their waitress approached to take their order. They were seated in what was supposedly the VIP section, but there was nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the narrow terrace, except for the fact that they had the best, most unobstructed view of the Hudson. At least they’d chosen the right night to drink by the river. Fireworks were going off all over, in celebration of something or other. Gay Pride, maybe? Or maybe there was a marathon today. Chanel could never keep things like that straight.

  “Margarita,” she practically shouted into his ear.

  Thaddeus repeated this to the starstruck waitress, who hurried off to fetch the drinks that would probably be on the house. Thaddeus never had to pay for anything, but then again, Chanel had never really had to pay for anything either. The notorious fashion designer Les Best had given her a ton of clothes when she modeled for his perfume ad, and guys were always buying her drinks or picking up dinner no matter where she went.

  Guess stardom was in her stars.

  Thaddeus idly drummed on the surface of the table in time with the Fetty Wap song that was blaring out of the cleverly hidden speakers. He stared out over the Hudson and smiled.

  “It’s a great night,” he observed.

  “It is,” Chanel agreed. She was squeezed in between Thaddeus and the protective railing that snaked around the terrace. “I’m so glad we get to be out and not have to worry about going over our lines or what Ken’s going to yell at us tomorrow.”

  “Fucking tell me about it.” Thaddeus lit a cigarette, took a quick drag, and then passed it off to Chanel.

  Chanel inhaled the slightly damp butt—she’d already made out with Thaddeus on camera, so a bit of his spit didn’t bother her—as the waitress set down their drinks. Thaddeus slid her cocktail across the table to her. “A toast,” he suggested, lifting his pink cosmo into the air.

  Pink cosmo?

  “Definitely.” Chanel clinked her glass to his. “To an incredible movie.”

  “To an incredible costar,” Thaddeus corrected, cocking his eyebrow. “And an incredible debut.”

  He draped his arm over the back of the bench and pulled Chanel a little closer, resting his left hand on her left shoulder. “The fireworks are going to really get going soon, huh?” He nodded toward the river, where a small one had already exploded.

  The DJ started playing a mellower tune, something by the Raves.

  “I know this song!” Chanel cried. It sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it.

  “It’s the Raves,” Thaddeus explained.“I’m pretty tight with their drummer.” He reached over
and took the burning cigarette from Chanel, inhaling furtively.

  “Really? I know the girl singing. Her name’s Bree. We went to high school together. Wait, I think she might have dated your friend, the drummer, what’s his name...?”

  “No.” Thaddeus laughed. “I don’t think she’s quite his type.”

  Oh? And what type is that?

  Chanel wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but she hadn’t come there to discuss Bree Hargrove’s romantic life. She sipped her sugary drink and batted her eyelashes at the crowd of girls that had assembled just beyond the velvet rope bordering the VIP area. The girls, all boasting hideous weaves and way too much eyeliner, were giggling and taking pictures of her and Thaddeus with their cell phones.

  They’re probably going to e-mail them to some gossip website, thought Chanel with annoyance. A massive round of fireworks erupted with a violent bang, and Chanel gave a frightened little yelp, burying herself in Thaddeus Smith’s warm, muscular embrace.

  “Don’t worry.” He laughed. “It’s just noise.”

  “I think our cover is blown,” Chanel told him, gesturing with her eyes toward the gaggle of girls.

  “I’ll never quite get used to it.” Thaddeus frowned. “I mean, no doubt some fuzzy little picture of us will end up in the papers.”

  “Yeah, it’s weird,” Chanel whispered, accidentally grazing Thaddeus’s ear with the tip of her nose.

  “Do me a favor?” Thaddeus asked.

  Before Chanel could open her mouth to answer, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. The timing was perfect. Over the Hudson a massive explosion of fireworks resounded with a bang, their lights twinkling and then fading in an instant. It was totally corny but totally romantic: a totally Hollywood moment.

  Like, whoa.

  37

  “Bro! Kaliq!” Anthony Avuldsen leaned out the window of his black BMW, honking the horn.

  Kaliq was locking his bike to a PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING sign on the edge of Main Beach’s dirt parking lot. He was supposed to meet Tawny but Anthony’s appearance was a welcome surprise. After talking to Porsha on the phone...he just couldn’t help but feel like he was with the wrong girl. Plus, he was about twenty minutes early.

  There’s a first time for everything.

  “Hey,” Kaliq called, strolling over to the driver’s side of the car. “What’s going on?”

  “Not much.” Anthony grinned. “I was just on my way home from the beach, but why don’t you get in and we’ll go for a ride?” He reached into the car’s ashtray and plucked out a freshly rolled joint, waving it in the air. “Just a quick drive, you know?”

  That was all the invitation Kaliq needed. He walked around the car and hopped into the passenger side, settling into the soft, cream-colored leather seat.

  Anthony turned down the stereo and pressed a button so that Kaliq’s window lowered quickly. He circled the car around the parking lot and out onto the street. “Go ahead and start it up,” he urged.

  Kaliq grabbed the joint, pulled his trusty Bic from his sock, and lit it.

  “Good time the other night at Imani's.” Anthony reached over to take the joint from Kaliq. “Sorry you couldn’t make it.”

  Kaliq exhaled a long plume of smoke out the window. He studied his reflection in the windshield: he hadn’t had time to shave that morning and was looking kind of stubbly. His T-shirt was filthy and his deodorant had given out hours ago. His jeans were grass-stained and dingy. He was sporting an incredible tan but still looked a bit unhealthy, probably because he hadn’t been sleeping much, and his eyes were a little bloodshot.

  Is lack of sleep really the culprit here?

  He turned to take the joint back from Anthony and studied his friend more closely: Anthony was wearing a pair of crazy printed shorts, some beat-up old sneakers, and a pair of sunglasses. He had a tan to rival Kaliq’s but no bags under his crystal-clear eyes and he looked like a million other guys in the Hamptons: like a guy on vacation, driving home from the beach, having a quick smoke. Kaliq exhaled unhappily. The weed was great but it didn’t change the fact that he was tired, he was bummed out, he was...jealous. Why did Anthony get to chill at the beach all day while he had to work like a dog?

  Maybe because Anthony didn’t steal performance-enhancing drugs from his lax coach?

  Kaliq drummed on the windowsill in time with the old Kendrick Lamar CD on the stereo and drifted off for a moment, imagining the ideal summer. He’d be at the beach, of course, surfing at Montauk or just lazing around on the sand, tooling around in his dad’s Aston Martin convertible, smoking with Anthony and his other friends from the lacrosse team, staying in bed with Porsha until the early afternoon. Or maybe he’d take Porsha sailing for a couple of weeks along the coast of Maine. Teach her how to fish. Eat lobster. Have lots of sex. Sleep. Have more sex. Go for a swim. Sex again.

  “Bro, you there?” Anthony asked.

  “Sorry,” Kaliq mumbled, coming back to reality.

  “It’s cool.” Anthony pulled up to a red light. Three girls sauntered by in bikini tops and surf shorts. They were only about thirteen but they were still cute. “So what’s the deal with that Tawny chick, man? She’s sexy.”

  “Yeah,” Kaliq replied, passing the joint back. “She’s cool. I don’t know, though. Maybe I’m off girls right now or something.”

  Anthony burst out laughing, choking a little on the joint. “Right, right. I’ve heard that before.”

  “Shit, man,” Kaliq clarified. “She’s just no Porsha, you know what I mean?”

  “Well, there’s only one Porsha,” replied Anthony in his stoner drawl, stubbing out the roach in the car’s built-in ashtray. “So, you two getting back together?”

  Kaliq shook his head miserably. He was stuck with life as an indentured servant. Porsha was busy being a fashion expert. He’d been so stupid, always fucking everything up with her, always taking her for granted or mistakenly hooking up with her best friend or whatever, that he’d been blind to the reality that without Porsha his life was nothing.

  Looks like Porsha isn’t the only drama queen.

  38

  Chanel crept up the creaky metal steps to her trailer quietly—or as quietly as was possible in her clunky Michael Kors wedges. She wasn’t even supposed to be there; the actors had all been released from their duties and the only people around were the crew responsible for striking the set. But Chanel had decided to tag along with Porsha that Wednesday—she wanted to grab the tiny black dress that Bailey Winter had designed for her to wear, as Holly, in the climactic party scene in the movie. It was the perfect thing to wear to her real party the next night.

  Stepping into the trailer, Chanel switched on the light and closed the flimsy door behind her. The vanity was still littered with makeup and hair supplies, and all of her costumes, lovingly labeled and steamed to perfection by Porsha’s stalker/intern, were hung, an inch apart, on a rolling rack.

  Gotcha. Chanel grabbed the perfect little black dress. It was cut to fit her proportions exactly, and though the thin shoulder straps were covered with a subtle spray of beading, it was otherwise sleek and simple. This was so much easier than shopping.

  Right, shopping is a total drag.

  Tearing open the plastic cover that kept the dust at bay, Chanel slipped the dress off its hanger and wadded it up into her bag. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to just help herself to the costumes. Stealing it out of the trailer gave her a rush she’d only experienced one other time, when she was ten and stole a Bonne Belle bubblegum Lip Smacker from the mall. A knock on the trailer door made her freeze, petrified.

  “Who is it?” she asked shakily, quickly zipping up her orange Hermès tote.

  “Thad?” A thin, gorgeously tanned guy poked his head through the trailer door. His spiky brown hair was in artful disarray, and beneath his perfectly arched eyebrows his eyes were huge and blue, with long beautiful lashes. He wore a snug black sleeveless tee and sported intricate tattoos of fish up and down
his skinny arms.

  “No, it’s me,” Chanel apologized. “Thad’s trailer is the next one over.”

  “Oh my gosh!” The boy blushed deeply. “I’m so sorry. I guess I should know better than to go charging into trailers.”

  “No, no, it’s okay.” Chanel relaxed when she realized he wasn’t there to bust her for stealing. “I’m Chanel.”

  “Oh my gosh, hi!” the stranger cried, skipping into the trailer, wallet chain jingling, hands extended, letting the door slam behind him.

  So much for stealing clothes in the still of the night.

  “Oh my gosh, Chanel. It’s so good to meet you finally.” He grabbed her free hand in both of his and held it.

  “Um, you too,” she stammered. He had the faintest accent that she couldn’t quite place and she was drawing a total blank. Was she supposed to know this guy?

  “Damn, would you look at me? Just barging in here? You’re in the middle of something and I just swoop in like any gushing fan off the street. I’m so sorry. You must think I’m crazy.” The boy released her hand and shook his head, laughing.

  “No, no, I’m not busy or anything,” she lied, clutching her tote close to her chest. “I was just picking up something I left behind.”

  “So Thad said you guys are all done shooting?” the boy asked. “Do you mind if I sit? I’m gonna sit.” He settled into the chair in front of the vanity and crossed his legs.

  Please sit.

  “Yeah, we’re done. Thank God!” Chanel tried not to look as perplexed as she felt. Who was this guy?