Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel

by Burgess, Gemma

  Never again. Never, ever again. I’m staying single. Forever. I’m staying away from all dudes. Especially rich kids and liars.

  And I’m going to get a job in fashion.

  CHAPTER 12

  I’m never going to get a job in fashion.

  In the past week, I’ve tried everything. I’ve scoured WWD, talked to the few recruitment agencies that specialize in fashion, searched Craigslist and every fashion website and blog. I e-mailed my resume to all my favorite Manhattan-based designers yet again, just in case the last time I sent it last August, when I first got to New York, it was misplaced. I told them I loved creating clothes; I asked if they needed a junior designer, an assistant, a receptionist, a coffee flunky, shoe polisher, anything.

  Nothing.

  I called everyone nice who I met via my old boss The Bitch food photographer; I phoned Cornelia’s contacts that I used to call to pull samples when she was on her way to some gala. I Facebooked, I IM’d, I tweeted. I called back and back and back.

  Nothing.

  I asked about internships, but they’re booked up months or even years in advance, and the problem is that they don’t pay anything and I need money. I guess this means that every intern in New York either still lives with their parents, or has an enormous salary-type allowance that enables them to pay for a New York apartment and, you know, eat. Which means that only rich kids get fashion internships, and therefore, are first in line and the most qualified for the best jobs. Doesn’t that seem fucking stupid to you, by the way? Shouldn’t it be the hardest working and most talented people who get the best jobs? Sometimes it seems like being in your early twenties in New York is not survival of the fittest, it’s survival of the richest.

  So I applied for sales positions in my favorite designers’ stores. If you work in a Marc Jacobs store, you’ve got to meet him at some point, right? I spent all day yesterday going to all the best stores. I filled out forms and left my perfect Julia-approved résumé and smiled so much that my face ached.

  Nothing.

  Getting a job is the only thing I’ve thought about, the only thing I’ve focused on in the past week. When my thoughts slip back to Stef, and Hal, and the yacht, and everything else, I force them forward. Get a job. Get a life.

  But I’m not getting anywhere. I’m failing.

  New York City is rejecting me.

  Today it was cold and rainy, a typical March day, so I hid in my bedroom, reading romances and drawing and sewing little bits and pieces. Throwing out all my high-end clothes the other night also ripped a hole in my wardrobe, and obviously I can’t afford to go shopping right now, so I decided to take my cheap-ass basics and make them more interesting. For example, I ripped the sleeves off all my shirts and T-shirts. Yes, it’s still cold as hell outside. Yes, I should have thought it through a bit more.

  Anyway, when Julia found me moping in my room earlier (“Are you sick? I have never, ever seen you in the house on a Saturday night before”), she suggested I get the girls together to “brainstorm a solution.” Pia isn’t here, of course. She’s with Aidan.

  But that’s okay. I’m in the warm, cozy kitchen at Rookhaven, eating pizza from Bartolo’s and drinking wine while it rains outside.

  “What the hell is this? I asked for triple pepperoni, this is, like, double at the most,” says Julia, peering at her pizza.

  “I think there’s more than enough processed pig on there,” says Madeleine through a mouthful of spinach and ricotta.

  Julia sighs. “I guess.” She looks up at me. “Pepperoni, Angelface?”

  I grin at her and take a slice. There’s nowhere else in the world that I’d rather be right now than right here.

  “I don’t know when I started drinking wine, but I like it,” comments Julia. “It just tastes so fucking sophisticated.”

  “I started drinking wine about the time I got my first period,” I say.

  Julia cracks up. “You know, I would think you were joking, but I know you too well now. I was drinking Malibu and milk until I was, like—”

  “Twenty-two,” interrupts Madeleine. Julia flicks her the bird.

  “I was allowed watered-down wine at dinner,” I say. “Annabel thought it was the mature, European thing to do.”

  “Well, I’m glad that didn’t backfire on her,” Madeleine says snarkily. I’m not sure what she means by that, but I’m pretty sure it’s not nice.

  “Okay. What’s the latest with the job search?” asks Julia.

  The others look up, waiting for my response. It feels weird—but kind of nice—to be the center of attention in the group. In the past, that’s always been Julia, the loud one, or Pia, the drama queen. (I’m probably the one sitting on the sidelines with a drink and a cigarette making comments.)

  “Helmut Lang, A.P.C., 3.1 Phillip Lim, Opening Ceremony, Rag & Bone, Acne, Maje, Sandro, Alexander Wang, Marc Jacobs, Steven Alan, Intermix, Scoop…” I tick off all the names on my fingers as I chew my third slice of pizza. “I have applied for retail jobs with all of them. Not even a design job, just retail! But they still want someone with retail or fashion experience.”

  “So, plan B,” says Julia.

  “That was plan B! Plan A was getting a job with the actual designers! Plan B was to be humble. Start from the ground up…” I sigh, and look around the table at the girls. “I’m not even eligible for the ground. I’m somewhere below sea level.”

  “Just keep trying,” says Julia. “Madeleine, if you don’t man up and finish that fucking pizza I will never talk to you again.”

  Madeleine picks up her half-eaten slice and takes a tiny nibble. “Look, Angie, it’s not like you’re the only person looking for a career. The job market is a nightmare right now. Remember that Newsweek article? We’re Generation Screwed.”

  “What happens to us, then? What will happen to Generation Screwed? The grads that can’t get a job?” I look around the table. “Like, seriously. What if we never get jobs? Will we all become homeless? Destitute?”

  “What does destitute even mean, anyway?” says Coco.

  “It means to not have the basic necessities of life,” says Julia. “None of us are in any danger of that.”

  “So you’ll ask your parents for money,” says Madeleine.

  “Like fuck I will.” The words come out far more vehemently than I want them to. The girls all look at me in shock. I mumble out an explanation. “My dad lost a lot of money, you know, in the last few years, the economy and everything … and with the divorce, I just, um, I don’t want to make his life more difficult.”

  Everyone is quiet for a moment. No one wants to ask if I’ve heard from my father. They probably guess that the answer is no. Annabel, meanwhile, has called at least three more times. I still haven’t answered. I’ll call her back after I speak to my dad.

  “What about volunteering at New York Fashion Week?” says Julia. “I just read something about girls who do that to get started in fashion. They dress the models and assemble gift bags, stuff like that.”

  “New York Fashion Week just finished,” I reply. “The next one is months away. Plus, I can’t volunteer, I need to earn money.”

  “Bartolo’s is looking for a bartender. Jonah wants to cut his hours back because he got a part on that big lawyer show,” says Coco. Jonah is one of Pia’s friends, a Williamsburg acting/bartending/beekeeping hipster, you know the type. I think Coco has a crush on him.

  “But I want something to do with fashion. I need to learn.”

  And I do. During the interviews last week, store managers kept asking me questions using all these fashion terms I didn’t understand. I mean, I know the difference between a bugle bead and a seed bead—I’ve been reading Vogue since I was eight, you pick that shit up—but there’s a whole world of other stuff I don’t know. Sales terms, merchandising terms, industry acronyms … I panicked and bought a bunch of fashion business books. Probably not the best use of my credit limit right now. Oops.

  Madeleine speaks up. “What did yo
u study at college again? You were at UCLA, right?”

  “Um, yes,” I say. “I went to the University of Pennsylvania first, but I transferred because it was too cold in the winter.”

  “You left an Ivy League college for sunshine?” Madeleine is stunned.

  “Yeah, but … it was really cold.”

  Actually, I left because I thought I was in love with a guy I knew from Boston who went to UCLA, but when I got to L.A. he just dated me—i.e., slept with me—for a few weeks and then didn’t talk to me again. But I don’t want to tell the girls that right now, not on top of everything else. They’d just feel sorry for me … and just because I’ve been dumped by every guy I’ve ever been with doesn’t make me a loser. (Right?)

  “What’s this?” says an icy voice, and we all look up. It’s Pia. “Having a house meeting without me?”

  “It’s just an impromptu pizza night!” says Julia.

  Pia looks from Julia to me and purses her lips. “Right.”

  I suddenly realize that Pia is threatened by Julia and me becoming friends. God, I never thought she was that the jealous type. Then again, I don’t think she’s ever had two of her best friends independently make real friends without her, either. I would know: I’ve been her best friend forever, and I sure as hell never made an effort with anyone else before Julia.

  “Pia, I’m so glad you’re here,” I say. Pia looks at me with a little more warmth. “I’m having a total career crisis, you know—”

  “A lack-of-career crisis,” interrupts Julia.

  “Totally,” I say. “And I really, really need your advice.”

  “Okay!” Pia sits down happily and grabs the bottle of wine and a slice. Quick to forgive, that’s my Pia. But wait a minute—

  “Why are you here? Why aren’t you with Aidan?” Julia asks the question the same moment I think of it.

  “He has a work thing,” Pia says, through a mouthful of pizza. “I don’t like his coworkers. They’re all, like, forty. They patronize me like I’m just a stupid little girl. I’d rather be with you guys.”

  “Good. We’d rather you were here with us, too.” Julia turns to me. “Angie. Let’s start with education. What was your major?”

  “Anthropology at Penn,” I say. “And theater at UCLA.”

  “Theater!” exclaims Coco excitedly. “I could totally see you as an actress.”

  “They were cliquey asshats,” I say. “I just kept to myself and took as many of the design-led things as I could. I barely passed. Then I applied to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising and to the Art Institute of California. I didn’t get in.”

  “You never told me that.” Pia is always shocked when she discovers things I haven’t told her. But it’s not personal. I never tell anyone anything.

  So I just smile. “Rejection is not a good look for me.”

  “What about Project Runway?” exclaims Coco excitedly.

  “Like hell.”

  “I think you should go back to college,” Madeleine says. “Apply to FIT or Parsons or something. If this is really what you want, and there are no jobs out there right now, then study more so you can get the advantage over every other fashion wannabe.”

  “I agree, but I can’t,” I say. “College costs money.”

  “No shit,” says Pia. “Have you heard from Stef?”

  “No,” I say. “Hopefully the yacht capsized.”

  “Do you want to get revenge?” asks Julia hopefully.

  I shake my head. “I just want to forget about it. Sweep it under the rug, pretend it never happened. That’s the way I was brought up.” I’m kidding, kind of, but no one laughs, so I get up to grab my sea salt caramels from the fridge and toss two to Julia. I found out this week that she shares my sea salt obsession. “Anyway, I have bigger things to think about. Like my career. Or lack thereof.”

  “You should start a blog,” says Julia. “A fashion blog.”

  “Everyone has a fucking blog,” I reply, through a mouthful of caramels. “I want a job. I want something I can feel passionate about.”

  I flush slightly, embarrassed to hear myself talk so emotionally about wanting something. Being this open isn’t really my style.

  “You should start your own line,” says Pia, reaching over for a caramel.

  “My own line of what?”

  “Accessories,” she says thoughtfully. “Leather bags, or bracelets, or something like that. Something that’s one size fits all, right? So you don’t need to worry about fitting models and stuff like that, and women of all body types can buy them.”

  “You are a terminal entrepreneur.” Another snide remark from Madeleine.

  “All I’m saying is, every woman wants at least one new bag every season,” says Pia.

  “I don’t,” says Julia.

  “It’s a great idea, ladybitch, but I don’t know how to do leatherwork,” I say. “I wish I did. I wonder if I could take a class … Wait, that would cost money. So would materials to start my own line. And I still need to pay rent, remember? And have a life.”

  It always comes back to money.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to run a business,” I add. “I just want a job.” Silence. I guess my career crisis talk is over. And we didn’t find a solution. I take a cigarette out and prop it in the corner of my mouth. “Well, thanks again for listening, you guys. I’m not sure how the whole group-hug thing works but let’s just pretend I instigated one.”

  “Poker time!” says Julia, throwing me the deck of cards we always keep in the kitchen. “Shuffle up, Angelface. I’m gonna wipe the floor with you guys. That’s why they call me the Swiffer.”

  “I think you mean they call us the Swiffer,” I say. “If we’re the ones you’re wiping the floor with, you know? If you’re doing the wiping, we should call you the maid or something.”

  Julia snorts. “The maid. Hilarious.”

  Coco leans over and gives me a huge hug.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You don’t have to thank people for hugs,” says Julia. “You just have to hug them back.”

  “Oh, my God, I’ve got it,” says Madeleine. “Look.”

  She throws New York magazine open on the table in front of me.

  It’s an ad. For salespeople.

  At the Gap.

  There’s silence.

  I stare at Madeleine in slight disbelief, my cigarette wilting in the corner of my mouth. She stares back, a sunny “isn’t this hilarious” smile on her face.

  Suddenly, I don’t want to play poker anymore.

  “I’m going upstairs.”

  I stomp up to my room, flop down on my bed, and stare at the ceiling, trying to fight the tears pooling in my eyes. Hello again, empty gray bedroom. Hello again, empty gray life.

  I’m so lost.

  I automatically reach into my nightstand, shove aside my Harlequin and M&M’s. There’s no vodka, but then miracle of miracles, at the very back, I find half a bottle of Wild Turkey I’d totally forgotten was there. It’s not my favorite tipple, but it does in a pinch. Guaranteed escapism.

  As I’m unscrewing the lid, cigarette propped in the corner of my mouth, it suddenly hits me.

  This is the moment that everything always goes wrong for me.

  The moment that I walk—or dive—away from my problems. That I leave the restaurant, bar, house, car, party, conversation, or, let’s not forget, yacht. The moment that I press the self-destruct button and bury myself in booze, or drugs, or men, in order to pretend that I’m feeling better than I am. That I’m not alone.

  I swivel up to sitting, placing my feet on the floor with a thump, and put the alcohol back in the nightstand, the cigarette back in the pack.

  At that moment, the doorbell rings.

  Then there’s a thumpthumpthump of Coco running up the stairs, screaming my name.

  “Angie! Angie, it’s a guy, he says he wants to see you, something about the yacht, I didn’t ask him in, I didn’t know if you’d want me to—”

/>   Hal? Stef? Heart hammering in fear, I jump up and run out of the bedroom and downstairs, almost before Coco has finished talking.

  The guy waiting politely outside the front door in the freezing cold is so bundled up in a huge coat, boots, and hat that you can barely see his face. But I recognize him immediately.

  It’s the tall, annoying dude with the intense frown. The clean-cut one who laughed when I was stuffing my face with sandwiches and followed me in the dinghy all the way to shore.

  It’s the boat boy.

  Sam.

  CHAPTER 13

  “What do you want?”

  “I … Wow, really? That’s how you say hi?”

  I take a deep breath. Calm, Angie, calm.… What the hell is Sam the boat boy doing at my house in Brooklyn? Thousands of miles away from Turks and goddamn Caicos?

  I look up at Sam and try to maintain eye contact. He’s at least six foot four. I hate the way men being taller than us automatically puts us at a conversational power disadvantage, don’t you? But I can feel the girls hovering protectively behind me in the hall, which gives me the confidence to just talk normally rather than slam the door in his face. “Hi. What do you want?”

  Sam smiles, all perfect teeth and effortless confidence. “I’ve got your stuff. Your weird coat. Your bag. Your—”

  “My stuff!” I’m delighted. “Thank you thank you thank you! Ahh!” My fur/army coat! My makeup! My passport! The clutch that I made out of vintage silk scarves! I already replaced my old phone, but I got to keep my number, thank God.

  “Also I wanted to see … see if you were okay.” He frowns, as if not sure how to say it.

  I frown back. “I’m just peachy.”

  “Really? That was pretty wild.”

  This guy is a living reminder of a memory I’d do anything to erase. I just want to get rid of him, though I can feel the burning curiosity of everyone in the hall.

  “Yes, thank you.” I affect my coldest voice. “It was a difficult situation, but—”