Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  “It’s crazy work, but somebody’s got to do it.” He recrossed his legs and leaned back, studying her from head to toe. “But you look fabulous. Gorgeous. Just like Thad said.”

  “Right. Thad,” she repeated, growing suspicious.

  “Oh my gosh, I totally didn’t introduce myself. I have a tendency to do that. I just talk and talk, because I get nervous usually, although you’re so sweet and pretty I don’t see how you could make anyone nervous, unless it was some boy who wanted to ask you out...”

  Chanel blushed. Who was this person?

  “And I’m still babbling,” he continued. “Oh my gosh, I’m so stupid sometimes. I’m Serge. It’s so great to meet you finally.”

  “Serge,” she repeated. Serge? Serge? Who the hell was Serge?

  “Serge. Thad’s boyfriend?” he clarified. “I can’t believe it’s been so long and we haven’t met before now. I’ll have to punch Thad when I see him. Keeping us apart like this. Ridiculous.”

  Thad’s...what?

  “Oh, Thad talks about you so much,” she lied. “I can’t believe that we never met either.”

  “I guess it kind of makes sense,” Serge admitted, grabbing a tub of concealer off the vanity and fiddling with it. “We’ve got to be kind of discreet, so most of the time I’m just sitting around my room. I mean, we’re not even in the same hotel. I’m holed up at the Mercer. But you know how it is—you’ve been posing with those photos with him all around town. You’re the sweetest. We both really appreciate it.”

  Those photos? The kiss had been just for photographers? Thad had been using her? Chanel slumped against the wall. She couldn’t believe she’d been so mistaken. She’d thought they’d had a real connection, but he was just a beautiful gay guy with an adorable boyfriend he had to keep secret. She had to sit down.

  “Yeah.” Chanel dropped her bag on the ground and took a seat on the sofa, kicking off her wedges and curling her legs up underneath her.“Well, you know, Thad’s the greatest. I’m just happy to help out.” She sighed. It was almost the truth. She should have been annoyed or mad or hurt or something, but really, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t figured it out sooner.

  Not that she’d gotten too many clues.

  “I told him he was so lucky to be working with such an awesome costar. I mean, sometimes his leading ladies get so crazy and possessive they actually think they’re dating. It’s like they can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality. I mean, hello? It’s just pretend.”

  “Mmm.” Chanel nodded.

  “But not you,” Serge gushed. “You’re like an old pro, even though this is your first movie! I want you to be in all of Thad’s movies from now on. Promise you will!”

  “Oh, stop.” Chanel giggled. It was hard to be upset or hurt when both Thaddeus and his boyfriend were so nice.

  “No, I mean it,” Serge cried, leaping out of his seat and throwing himself onto the couch next to her. “You have to come to our place in Palm Springs for the weekend. We’ll have such a ball! And if you’re interested... I think I might know an awesome guy for you.”

  “Oh, really?” That sounded fun.

  And she could definitely trust his taste in men!

  39

  Mekhi had seen Nicole in several variations of exercise gear and, of course, completely naked, but he’d never seen her all put together for an evening out. So when he emerged from the 6 train station at 77th Street he was taken aback to find her waiting for him, a vision in a simple white silk camisole, with her black hair—which he’d never seen down—cascading over her sun-kissed shoulders. Her long, below-the-knee turquoise skirt looked like something she’d unearthed at a flea market.

  Mekhi was wearing the closest thing he had to a party outfit: a sharp gray slim-cut suit, a gift from his former agent, back when he’d been poised to be the literary world’s next big thing.

  Not a fickle almost-college-dropout who cheats on his live-in girlfriend.

  “Hey beautiful,” he called boldly, springing off the last step and onto the sidewalk. Taking the steps was easier since he’d started his exercise regimen.

  “Hey.” Nicole kissed his cheek. “You look good. I hope I’m not underdressed.”

  “No, you’re just right. Should we go?”

  They strolled down Lexington amid clouds of bus exhaust. The early evening light shimmered on the windows of Starbucks.

  “So.” Nicole wrapped her arms around herself as she walked. “I’m still not sure I understand why you were invited to this party.”

  “I’m not sure,” Mekhi admitted. “I know Chanel from way back...Or maybe Yasmine put me on the list? Who cares? Party’s a party, right?” They turned onto 71stStreet.

  “That’s true.” Nicole nodded stiffly. She looked a little nervous and uptight for someone who was usually so Zen. “Speaking of Yasmine...”

  “Right.” Mekhi dug instinctively into his pockets for his Newports.

  Nicole sighed. “I think maybe you need to think this through. Meditate. Breathe deeply. Center yourself. Eventually you’ll find clarity. I can’t tell you what to do, you know. It’s your life. But I’d like to see you find some answers. That’s all we want in life, after all, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, right,” Mekhi mumbled, looking both ways before they crossed Third Avenue. Maybe a taxi would just plow him down and he wouldn’t have to have this conversation.

  “I don’t know.” Nicole sighed, absentmindedly braiding her hair over one shoulder. “I’m going to Santa Cruz at the end of the summer anyway. I have no claim on you. But we’ve had a great time, haven’t we?”

  “Sure. It’s been amazing.” He paused. “Do you hear that?”

  A dull roar broke the evening’s quiet: the sound of honking horns and idling cars mixed with the occasional scream and the relentless clicks of a thousand cameras.

  “Is that the party?” Nicole remarked. “It’s so...noisy.”

  Did she expect the party of the month to be a quiet affair?

  “Come on,” Mekhi urged, grabbing her hand, thrilled he had an excuse to cut the conversation short. He was not in the mood to discuss the state of his relationship with Yasmine. And the truth was, he had no answers. “I don’t want to be late.”

  Holly Golightly’s quiet street was quiet no more. There were barricades and bouncers stationed at both ends of the block, and a red carpet right down the middle of the street and up to the townhouse. On Second Avenue, the line of limos was two blocks long, and on the corner was a roped off area heaving with reporters and photographers.

  At the door of the townhouse, Mekhi surrendered his invite to the massive goateed bouncer, who nodded gruffly and stamped their hands much more forcefully than was necessary.

  “Want something to drink?” Mekhi asked Nicole as they strolled past a long table set with elegant champagne flutes.

  “I’m not sure I should be drinking tonight,” Nicole replied in such a stern tone that Mekhi couldn’t help but think she was implying that he shouldn’t drink either.

  Well, isn’t she the life of the party?

  Mekhi grabbed two glasses—if she wasn’t going to drink, then he could drink for two—and downed one immediately. Burping quietly, he dropped the empty glass on the table and wound his way through the thick crowd, one hand clutching Nicole’s, the other his chilled champagne. They pushed through the crowd and stepped into the foyer. Nicole bounded through the foyer and up the stairs ahead of him. Maybe she was getting into the idea of this party?

  “This is great exercise,” she observed.

  “Yeah, great,” Mekhi agreed, panting along behind her.

  As they climbed higher, the din of squealing girls and thumping bass grew louder. The crumbly walls of the townhouse were surprisingly solid, but even they couldn’t contain the racket. When they reached the fourth-floor landing, they ran into the overspill from the apartment above: leering at them from the next floor, the final landing, was the disturbingly groomed Jaylen Harrison, pet snow monke
y perched on his shoulder wearing a pink tutu and brandishing a glistening silver magic wand.

  “Romeo!” Jaylen called down to Mekhi in a girly falsetto.

  Mekhi nodded at Jaylen hospitably. He loathed that asshole and his freaky vintage Prada zipper suit. He took Nicole’s hand and pulled her up the steps behind him. It would take some maneuvering to get her safely past Jaylen.

  “Who’s that?” Nicole wanted to know.

  “No one,” Mekhi told her firmly. They hurried up to the top landing, dodging bodies and bulldozing past Jaylen Harrison, until they nearly collided with Yasmine. Again.

  They had to stop meeting like this.

  Yasmine was accompanied by the same little boys she’d had in tow in Central Park a couple of days before, only instead of being smeared with ice cream, the kids were all cleaned up, sporting snazzy blue blazers with brass buttons, seersucker shorts, and perfectly pressed white cotton oxfords. Their hair was parted in slick, tidy hairstyles. They looked miserable.

  “Mekhi,” Yasmine stammered, clearly surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I...I thought maybe you put me on a list...before...” he stammered. “I didn’t think you’d be here, after, you know—”

  “Their sister worked on the movie.” Yasmine put her hands on top of the boys’ heads. “So I had to.”

  “Hi,” said Nicole uncomfortably. “I’m Nicole. We sort of met the other day.”

  “I’m Yasmine.” She smirked. Nicole? What kind of preppy name was that?

  “I’m Edgar,” offered one of the twins, puffing his chest out proudly. He removed his hand from Yasmine’s and extended it in Nicole’s direction. Maybe he’d forgotten his little puking episode?

  “I’m Nils,” said the other boy, gently pushing his brother out of the way and beaming at Nicole. Mekhi couldn’t help noticing they sounded a little like mini Jaylens.

  They start early, those Upper East Side boys.

  Nicole knelt down and looked at the two little boys intensely. “You guys have really clear auras.”

  Yasmine snickered. Mekhi cocked his head and studied her. She was basically the same: shaved head, lots of attitude, but instead of her usual black jeans, she was wearing fancy-looking shiny black trousers and instead of a black cotton tank she was wearing a semi-sheer top that was soft and delicate—it might even have been silk. She looked almost feminine, and although it sounded strange, sometimes Mekhi forgot she was just that: a girl.

  “Want to go somewhere and talk?” he asked tentatively

  Yasmine shrugged. “If you can tear yourself away.” Nicole had the boys in her lap and was reading their palms.

  “We kind of have a lot to talk about, don’t we?” Mekhi allowed.

  That’s the understatement of the year.

  40

  Because the apartment didn’t have any real furniture to speak of, the drunken crowd had turned the large main room into an impromptu dance floor. Porsha had downed three martins, so she was ready to answer the call of duty and dance her cute little ass off. Besides, she’d memorized the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and knew what was expected of her. Sure, Chanel was Holly—there was no denying that at this point—but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t have a great fucking time, too. She had plenty of booze and the party of her dreams at her disposal.

  Not to mention a sexy guy.

  “Hey,” Trey murmured in her ear. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She shimmied a perfect imitation of one of the partygoers from the original movie’s big party—but only a true expert like her would recognize that bit of choreography. Her flapper-inspired dress moved sexily in time with her body’s gyrations, and she clutched an old-fashioned cigarette holder in her hand. The only touch she’d decided to skip was the diamond tiara.

  She didn’t need the headgear to play the part of a princess.

  “Dance!” she commanded, grabbing hold of Trey’s long smooth fingers and pulling him closer to her. He had the nicest, wide-open smile she’d ever seen and was so tall and clean looking.

  “Yes, ma’am!” He unbuttoned the top button of his light blue oxford shirt. His near-dorkiness was such a turn-on!

  Porsha drew closer to him, enjoying the way his tremendous height made her feel tiny and delicate and sexy. She could smell the soap on his skin and the beer on his breath, and the rest of the crowd receded into the background as she gazed up at his bright smile dreamily. In that moment, it was hard to remember that she’d ever liked anyone else, including Lord Whateverhisnamewas or Sir Stoner.

  “So, you know...” Porsha batted her eyelashes suggestively. “Chanel’s heading back to her parents’ apartment for the rest of the summer, but I think I might stay here...”

  “We’ll be neighbors.” He smiled. “That could get us in trouble.”

  “I kind of like trouble.”

  Hello, understatement.

  “Well then...” Trey grinned. He bent down and kissed her slowly. His lips were the flavor of the sweet ale he’d been drinking all night and something pepperminty. He was delicious. It was a perfect, perfect first kiss.

  Afterwards she smiled back at Trey before surveying the room. She was slow dancing with him even though everyone else was jumping and spinning to the upbeat Beyonce CD the DJ had just put on. Porsha pulled Trey’s warm body even closer, despite the fact that it was basically a hundred and ten degrees inside the overcrowded apartment. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Stoner himself. Fucking fuck. Even now, she could still count on Kaliq to ruin a perfect moment.

  Kaliq was hand in hand with someone Porsha definitely did not recognize, and not one of those slutty, Burberry-wearing L’école girls, either. This girl was definitely not wearing Burberry but rather...Target.

  Everything about this girl was exaggerated—her boobs, her lips, her makeup. It all looked fake. Worse than her overteased hair and ridiculous orange-bronzed skin was her outfit: she was wearing jean shorts and a sequin-encrusted tank top and had accessorized her party ensemble with dirty espadrilles and a bought-on-a-street-corner purse. She looked like nothing Porsha had ever seen. She was a disaster. Porsha glanced at Bailey Winter standing on the other side of the room. She’d have paid money to hear what he was whispering to Les Best just then.

  “Something wrong?” asked Trey, nuzzling at her neck.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered pulling out of his embrace. “I just need a minute.”

  It takes more than a minute to get over seeing your first love with someone else, though.

  41

  “Are you okay?” Yasmine asked, because Mekhi had been quiet too long and was starting to creep her out. “Let’s sit.” She gestured toward the windowsill behind them. The window overlooked the backyard and was open a bit, admitting a gentle evening breeze. Down in the back garden a group was huddled around a forlorn lilac bush, smoking.

  “Things have really changed since graduation, huh?” Mekhi reached out but put his hand down before actually touching her. “I don’t know what’s happened this past couple of weeks.”

  Cut off my fingers. I can’t feel anymore.

  Can’t feel you. Or you. You.

  “I guess what’s happened,” Yasmine began, sternly but not unkindly, “is that you’ve met someone else. It’s okay. I mean, I’m hurt, I guess. But mostly I wish you hadn’t tried to keep it from me, especially after you made that scene at Porsha’s graduation party about staying with me this fall—”

  “Scene?” Mekhi repeated. “I made a scene?” He’d talked to her privately, in a corner. There’d been no scene. Okay, his graduation speech had been a scene, but thankfully she’d missed it.

  “Anyway that’s not the point. The point is,” Yasmine continued, “I haven’t been completely honest either.”

  A unattractive drunk girl whom Yasmine remembered was an extra on the movie stumbled up the stairs. She glanced at Yasmine but pretended not to recognize her. Being at this party was definitely not Yasmine’s i
dea of a good time.

  Party pooper.

  “You’re seeing someone?” Mekhi looked like he was going to cry.

  “No, of course not.” She swatted at the air in front of her. “But I have some weird news. Your dad said I could rent a room from him...even though we’re broken up...”

  Mekhi winced and rubbed the sole of his shoe against his ankle. He hadn’t really thought they were officially broken up, but he guessed they were now. “And?” he asked.

  “And I said I wanted to.” Yasmine looked at Mekhi, to see if she could read him, but he was still rubbing his shoe against his leg like a dog with an itch. “I mean, I can’t really afford much, and he said he’d give me a really good deal, so...”

  “Well,” Mekhi said after a moment. “I don’t think it’ll be weird.”

  It won’t?

  “I think it’ll be fun,” he continued.

  It will?

  “So, friends?” he asked.

  “Friends,” Yasmine confirmed.

  Friends...?

  42

  Thaddeus Smith downed his icy mojito and leaned toward Chanel, whispering sexily, his breath scented with the spicy rum. “Who is that?” he asked.

  He didn’t point but there was no need to: anyone would know exactly who Thaddeus Smith was talking about. Kaliq Braxton had arrived.

  They were huddled together in the minuscule kitchen, the best place to survey the entire room, and from that outpost Chanel had a clear view of Kaliq for the first time since the night of Porsha’s wild graduation party. While Chanel had danced her butt off, Kaliq had sat on the floor, looking more high than usual, until he’d finally stood up and randomly kissed little Bree Hargrove. Captain Braxton had been so pissed when Kaliq failed to actually bring home his diploma that the day after graduation he’d driven Kaliq off to East Hampton himself, to begin his summer of labor. Chanel hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye but she’d known she’d see Kaliq again soon. And here he was, sporting a deep, been-outside-all-day tan that made his already-perfect teeth look whiter and his already-stunning eyes gleam even more green. His chest looked broader, his forearms stronger. Of course Thaddeus Smith had noticed him.