Drew walked over the high-gloss cherrywood floors, forgetting, as always, to kick off his dirty Adidas running shoes, and followed the mouth watering scents into the kitchen. His dad, Robert Van Allen, stood at the huge, stainless steel Viking stove, flipping the contents of a cast-iron skillet up in the air with a practiced turn of the wrist. His dad wore a pair of jeans so faded they almost looked colorless, with a black T-shirt. A clean, white kitchen towel was thrown over one shoulder. Even though his dad was in his early fifties, he still looked the same as he had when Drew was nine—black hair shot through with gray, and a craggy face dominated by a closely clipped salt-and-pepper beard.
Robert Van Allen had started out a kid from Bensonhurst, who wanted nothing more than to cook for one of the top restaurants in Manhattan. Self-taught, he worked his way up at Jean Georges in a meteoric rise from line cook to grill man to saucier to head chef—all in a dizzying three years. After a four-year stint as head chef at Balthazar, he made a fortune opening a series of restaurants dedicated to providing the Bistro comfort food he loved—French country classics like steak frites, Dijon chicken, and steak tartare—at unbeatable prices. Now, he considered himself mostly retired, and, when he wasn’t managing his restaurants or dreaming up new menu items, he liked nothing better than to putter around in their kitchen perfecting some new culinary masterpiece.
“The prodigal son returns!” His dad spoke without even turning around, intent on the meat sizzling away in the skillet.
“True dat,” Drew said, opening the stainless Sub-Zero fridge and rooting around inside. Predictably, it was so ridiculously packed that you could never find anything—not that he knew what he was looking for exactly. All he knew was that he hated curry, and he was fucking starving. An iced tea bought at a deli does not a meal make, he thought, pulling out some weird leafy vegetable he didn’t recognize and zeroing in on a snowy round of goat cheese drizzled with truffle oil. Score. Now if he could just dig up some bread, he’d be in business…
“I hope you’re not planning on eating that.” His dad gestured at the cheese with the black plastic spatula he held in one hand, “because I am concocting an Indian feast that would make Ghandi weep.”
“You know I hate curry,” Drew muttered, opening the pantry. He was on a single-minded search for bread—preferably his dad’s amazing whole grain bread. He had no time to debate the suck-value of noxious spices. Give him some stinky cheese, some crusty bread, maybe a little red wine and he’d be happy for weeks. “And besides, Ghandi was on a hunger strike—he’d probably eat anything.”
His dad snorted loudly, turning back to the stove and poking at the chicken sizzling in the pan. “Maybe you weren’t aware of it,” he said, covering the pan with a heavy lid, “but I am redefining the entire concept of South Asian dining even as we speak. A radical step forward in the world of haute cuisine is taking place right now in this very apartment…” His dad pulled out a crisp baguette de campagne from a cabinet hidden beneath the immense kitchen island and threw it down on the butcher block countertop. “…And you’re telling me that you’re just not interested?” Drew thought he could make out the beginning of a smile peeking out from beneath his dad’s beard as he grabbed the bread from the counter and broke off the tip, smearing the crusty loaf with truffle-infused goat cheese deliciousness. Yum.
“Yeah, Dad,” Drew mumbled after he’d taken the first bite, “that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“I thought so,” his dad said triumphantly, sliding the mass of brightly colored chicken parts reeking of curry onto a large, oval serving platter. “Well, don’t come crying to me later when you realize your mistake.”
“Don’t come crying to me when you get food poisoning from that mess,” Drew smirked, gesturing toward the chicken with the end of his bread. Drew grabbed a knife from the bamboo cutting board and sliced the baguette down the middle lengthwise, then spread the bread thickly with the entire round of soft, fluffy cheese. He reassembled both halves together like a monstrously large goat cheese Subway sandwich. All he really needed was this sandwich, a nap, and he’d feel like a human being again—maybe he’d even figure out what to do about Madison.
“Oh, by the way.” His dad arranged two portions of chicken on plates with scientific precision, then grabbed a squeeze bottle so he could arrange the accompanying bright yellow sauce in little squiggles and swirls that decorated the plain white china like one of his mother’s paintings. “We’re having a welcome home party for you two weeks from today—you know, just you and a hundred of your closest friends. Boudin is doing the catering.”
“Great.” Drew took a huge bite of baguette and rolled it around in his mouth. This was just what he needed right now. He couldn’t have been less stoked if his underwear was on fire. Even the fact that his dad’s newest Cajun-fusion restaurant was doing the catering did absolutely nothing to cheer him up. “Do I have to be there?”
“What do you think?” Allegra Van Allen swept into the room in a brown and blue batik-printed caftan and a haze of the Egyptian Musk she always wore. A thick stack of gold bangles jangled at her wrists, and bronze, Roman-inspired sandals were laced up her tanned ankles. Her black hair hung loosely down her back, and spots of magenta paint dotted her forearms like measles. From far away, his mother looked about twenty-five, but when you got up close, the small lines feathering out from the corners of her eyes couldn’t help but give her real age away. “I’m an artist,” she was fond of proclaiming loudly at parties when the subject of Botox came up, “not a socialite.”
Technically she was kind of both, but Drew knew better than to argue with his mother—she usually won.
“I think I’m horrified,” Drew said, shoving more bread into his mouth, his jaws working furiously.
“Well, get over it.” His mom smiled as she swung open the refrigerator door, pulling out a frosty bottle of Blue Moon lager and prying the top off with a bottle opener, the muscles of her forearms flexing.
“Who did you invite, anyway?” Drew muttered, shoving the rest of the sandwich into his mouth in one huge, greedy bite. “The whole Upper East Side?”
“Basically.” His mom grinned, her blue eyes sparkling as she grabbed two frosted mugs from the freezer and poured the beer. “And some of Soho, too.”
“Great,” Drew said glumly. This was just what he needed right now. “Did you invite the Macallisters?”
“Did you manage to kill all your brain cells in Amsterdam?” His mother’s brow wrinkled as she feigned confusion. “Of course I invited the Macallisters! Don’t tell me you have a problem with that—not after all the time you spent with Madison last spring.”
“What’s going on with you two, anyway?” His dad picked up the plates and moved into the bright yellow dining room, placing them down on the long cherrywood table where the Van Allens ate nightly—when they all happened to be home, which wasn’t very often.
“I don’t know.” Drew sighed, swallowing hard and running a hand through his hair.
“You don’t know, huh?” Drew’s dad said, wiping bits of yellow-tinged coconut milk off his hands with a dishtowel. “I know what it’s like to not know, Drew. It’s tough not knowing, but if there’s anything that can help you out, it’s the advice of a guy like me who knows what it’s like to not know.”
Great, Drew thought. Here we go again. Drew could feel his mother’s eyes lock on him the instant his dad began to speak and he knew that if he were to look over, she would be sipping at her drink intently, trying to hide her laughter behind the glass.
“Now, before I met your mother, Drew, when I first came to New York I knew this girl named…”
“Marissa?” Drew half-coughed, half-laughed.
“Her name was Marissa,” his dad said with surprise, sitting down at the dining table and picking up his fork. “How did you know that?”
“Because you’ve told us this story a million times, maybe?” His mother burst out laughing, stabbing her chicken with a fork and releasing a
cloud of curry-scented steam in the air. “Ah, the infamous Marissa…”
Drew’s dad placed his fork at the side of his plate and surveyed his son calmly. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re bored of my stories?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you,” Drew said, walking toward his room and shutting the door behind the sound of his parents’ laughter, and then the unmistakable sound of two pairs of lips meeting and retracting. He shook his head, smiling. He was probably the only kid in Manhattan to have two still-happily married parents—and things could definitely be a lot worse than having a dad who told the same stupid story over and over. Drew kicked a pile of dirty laundry out of the way, maneuvered around his still-unpacked suitcase, and sat down on the bed, grabbing his laptop. He couldn’t help but wonder if Madison would someday be one of those stories, if someday he’d be the one standing in the kitchen telling his own son about the one who got away.
And as he stretched out on the bed and checked his e-mail, he realized that not only wasn’t he ready to become his father, he also wasn’t ready to let Madison go just yet.
better late
than
never…
Madison flopped down on her white Siberian goose-down comforter and exhaled loudly. Drew had only been back for a nanosecond and already everything was even worse than before he’d left. Maybe now that she was home, she’d be able to calm down—though just thinking about the way Drew had flirted with that horrible Casey girl right in front of her, she seriously doubted it. Was he just trying to piss her off? Make her jealous? Had he suddenly developed a brain tumor? There had to be some reason to explain his decidedly dumbass behavior. Even though Madison didn’t know if she even wanted to be with Drew anymore, she wasn’t sure she was ready to give him up either—especially not to some terminally uncool, frizzy-haired loser. After all, she was Madison Macallister: She had a reputation to uphold and a legend to create.
Madison stared up at the sky-blue ceiling above her head, the only slice of color in her otherwise monochromatic bedroom lair. Her room was the only place in their overstuffed, overdecorated pent house apartment where she felt comfortable anymore. Her mother, Edith Spencer Macallister, was going through a truly unfortunate Baroque period, and two months ago had ordered the apartment completely redone, and the Danish ultramodern furniture burned. Now, the massive, sunken living room was covered in muted frescos starring demented round-faced cherubs—complete with gold-leaf trim—and the minimalist style Edith had favored last year had been replaced by massively uncomfortable, sprawling antique furniture with way too many spindly legs. Swirling silk-damask drapes in shades of French blue and gold, and tinkling crystal chandeliers hanging everywhere certainly didn’t help the space feel less like a museum. All the apartment needed now were a few peasants and a guillotine. Every time she entered the Louis XIV nightmare that her apartment had become, Madison was happier than ever that she had declared her own room with its white-on-white decor, and sleek chrome furnishings, completely off-limits.
A sharp rap on the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Madison sat up and crossed her legs beneath her as Edie entered the room in a cloud of Vera Wang perfume, a bronze Norma Kamali sheath dress hugging her bony size-zero frame, and strappy gold Jimmy Choo sandals on her feet. Ancient Roman coins spilled from her throat in a shower of gold, and a platinum-and-diamond ring sparkled on her left hand—in which she held a large, cream-colored envelope. Her blue eyes, expertly outlined in bronze liner, were as unfocused as ever due to her chronic pill popping. Edie referred to her monthly intake of Valium as her “therapy.” Madison had quit trying to get her mother to stop overmedicating years ago, but if Edie wanted to float through life in a haze of prescription narcotics, then who was she to stop her? They’d played that game for as long as Madison could remember—and she was tired of losing.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, sitting down on Madison’s bed and crossing her slim ankles.
“Where else would I be?” Madison snapped, pulling a hair tie from her wrist and pulling her slightly tangled blond hair back in a ponytail.
“I see someone forgot to take her Prozac,” her mother said with annoying calm, reaching over and straightening the rumpled corner of the comforter.
“Someone around here certainly needs medication,” Madison said dryly, picking at a loose thread on her fifteen-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, “but I think we both know it isn’t me.”
Edie shook her head, the corners of her lips turning up in a smile. “Tsk-tsk,” she clucked, “I guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“I woke up on the wrong side of my life this morning,” Madison said, her green eyes flashing, “but that’s besides the point.”
“Well, maybe this will cheer you up.” Edie threw the envelope she held down on the bed and smiled, showing rows of brilliantly Zoom-whitened teeth—courtesy of Dr. Haven, cosmetic dentist to practically the entire Upper East Side.
“What is it?” Madison asked suspiciously, picking up the heavy envelope to examine the return address.
“The Van Allens are throwing a welcome home party for Drew,” Edie said excitedly, squeezing Madison’s arm.
“That’s supposed to cheer me up? A party? What am I—six?” Madison pulled away, uncurled her legs, and walked over to her dressing room, which had been converted into an enormous walk-in closet. She began sifting through her jeans, looking for her favorite pair of Rock and Republic Stevie jeans with the pink Swarovski crystals on the back pockets. Drew couldn’t even act like a normal human after being away for three months—what were his chances of being able to pull it off at this party? Well, screw him, she wasn’t going. Not even if he begged. OK, maybe she’d consider if he really begged—and brought her flowers. And Godiva chocolates. And told her that she was right—every time they fought for the rest of their lives. Then she could probably live with it.
“You know, Madison,” her mother began in the measured, I’ve-had-just-about-enough-of-your-shit tone Madison had heard more times than she could count, “if this is the way you speak to Drew, it’s no wonder that he hasn’t been around lately.”
“Oh, really?” Madison said coolly, sticking her head out from the closet, her face expressionless, her hands filled with denim. “You think so?”
“Definitely.” Edie shook her blond, shoulder-length, heavily blown-out mane—courtesy of Frederic Fekkai—vigorously for emphasis. She loved helping Madison with her boy problems; it made her feel as though she was fulfilling some great maternal duty.
“He hasn’t been around because HE’S BEEN IN AMSTERDAM FOR THE WHOLE SUMMER!” Madison screamed, finally losing what was left of her patience, and throwing the armload of jeans on the floor as her MacBook erupted in a jangling of bells.
“Amsterdam,” Edie mused thoughtfully, examining her glossy, French-manicured nails. “Hmm. When did he get back?”
Madison rolled her eyes, walked over from the closet and sat down at her desk, logging on to Gchat. “Today, Mother. He got back today.” Madison turned around and pointed to the invitation laying on the bed. “Hence the need for a welcome home party.” God, why didn’t her mother take the hint and just leave? Every time Edie attempted any kind of mother/daughter bonding, it was always a disaster. Most of the time, it was hard for Madison to believe that she and her mother were even remotely related, much less mother and daughter.
“Well,” Edie said brightly, “I’m sure you have your hands full with the first day of junior year coming up so quickly.” She got up, absentmindedly smoothing the material of her dress with the palm of one hand. Edie walked toward the door, then paused, motionless for a moment, one hand on the knob. “It is Monday, isn’t it?”
Madison rolled her eyes so hard it felt as if they might get stuck there and start rattling around in her skull. “Yes, Mother, school starts Monday.”
“I knew it,” Edie said triumphantly, closing the door behind her.
&nb
sp; Madison shook her head as she checked her e-mail, deleting a shitload of spam from her inbox. She couldn’t exactly blame her father for running for the hills last year. Living with Edie was like living in the fucking looney bin. But having a father you saw on the first Sunday of every month—if he didn’t cancel—was like having no father at all. Madison didn’t know exactly what it was that her dad did for a living—something with finance, maybe? But what ever it was, it kept him preoccupied enough with fifteen-hour workdays and chronic overtime. Even before the divorce, she’d gotten used to not really having a two-parent house hold. Even on the rare occasions when her father had been home, he’d immediately locked himself in his office and yelled at people on the phone all night long.
The computer sounded again, signaling an instant message.
dva1990: “Of all the computers, on all the networks, in all the world, she had to walk into mine…”
Madison smiled, despite her anger. Drew knew that Casablanca was the only “old” movie that she loved. In fact, it was the only movie they’d ever been able to agree on—usually she thought anything in black-and-white was outdated and boring. On their first real date, he’d taken her to a midnight showing at the Angelika, and they’d sat in the darkness, both mouthing every word along with Bogie and Bergman.
socialiez666: Um, technically aren’t you walking into mine?
dva1990: Good point.
dva1990: Sorry about today. U have plans for breakfast tomorrow?
Madison smiled as her fingers flew across the keyboard.
socialiez666: Care to make me an offer I can’t refuse?
The Elite Page 5
