“My dad says the ceviche is really good.” Drew perused the menu thoughtfully. “Also, the red snapper and the cilantro-lime sorbet.”
Twenty minutes later, after a black leather–clad waitress scribbled down their order in a way that personified bitchy, Madison was on her second margarita and was feeling no pain as she sipped at the salty, tequila-laced concoction. She loved margaritas—it was like drinking almost frozen, slightly salty lemonade, only better. As she stared at Drew’s tanned face in the candlelight, she wondered if she was being too petty about everything. Okay, so he hadn’t called her this summer—or written. And maybe their first time was a complete disaster, but when he smiled at her across the table, reaching out to clasp her hand in his and tickling her palm with slow, catlike strokes that made her want to curl up in the sun, purring like a kitty—all of a sudden the past just didn’t seem to matter anymore. Yeah, right, her inner bitch snapped, that’s definitely the tequila talking…
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” Drew asked as their appetizer of foie gras tacos arrived. “I thought I might go see the new Aldomóvar flick—if you want to come.”
Madison’s fork hovered in the air, and she shot Drew a look like he was seriously disturbed, her green eyes narrowing.
“Subtitles?” she moaned. “Aldomóvar? You must be kidding.” Madison put her fork down at the side of her plate decisively. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”
“Yeah, but…” Drew protested before she held up a hand in front of his face, palm out, cutting him off.
“I know these pretentious art films are like your only reason for living and everything.” Madison picked up the fork again, this time plunging it into the mound of refried beans falling out of the taco. “But we do enough reading at school, Drewster. And there’s no way I’m sitting in the dark for two hours in some stinky art house theater. Movies are supposed to be watched anyway—not read!”
“Some movies,” Drew muttered, taking a large bite of taco and chewing loudly, a decidedly sullen expression replacing the happy grin he’d worn only moments before. Well, tough titty. She’d put up with a lot from Drew, but she really had to draw the line at foreign films…
“Or there’s this show at the Guggenheim that my mom told me about,” Drew said spearing a piece of charred onion and popping it into his mouth.
An art show? Madison raised one eyebrow—all those hours practicing in front of the mirror were definitely worth it—and swallowed a mouthful of ground pork. Madison knew how the day would turn out. Drew would drag her around some over air-conditioned, dusty museum, pointing out the great masterworks of avant-garde art and explaining the surrealist movement or some other dumb bullshit, when she could be out shopping the annual Jimmy Choo sale like a normal person. No, thank you.
“Well, it was just an idea,” Drew muttered, tilting his bottle of Sol back and swallowing rapidly. Madison smiled, looking down at the now-empty plate. The power of the raised eyebrow was that you could totally negate an idea without ever having to say a word: It was complete genius.
During the main course of herb-stuffed sea bass, Drew looked up from his plate, his eyes serious. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about something,” Drew said, taking a deep breath and then coughing loudly, clearing his throat. Drew always got so serious when he tried to get…serious—it was one of the things Madison liked best about him. “Before I left…” Drew stared down at the table, running one finger along the tight weave of the tablecloth. “I didn’t handle things very well…with us.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Madison snapped before she could stop herself. God, why was she such a raging bitch all the time? It was amazing—when Drew was around she always managed to blurt out the worst thing possible. “I’m sorry.” Madison exhaled loudly. “I’ve just been a little…confused—all this time.” Once the words left her lips, she knew they were true, and before she could stop them by thinking of something sarcastic to say, her eyes welled up with tears. She really hated having emotions in public—it made her feel all exposed and oogey—as if she was sitting in front of the whole room in nothing but her pink satin Victoria’s Secret thong. Maybe if she kept talking she’d feel better—anything to stop the tears that were threatening to leak out of her eyes at any moment.
“I mean, you didn’t even e-mail me. For the whole summer it was like…nothing. I almost started feeling like it didn’t even happen.” She took a deep breath, then looked down at the table, wishing she could just be magically teleported out of her chair and back into her bedroom where she didn’t have to suffer this kind of humiliation. That’s right—home’s a whole other kind of humiliation…
After Madison had counted the tines on her salad fork at least a hundred times, she finally looked up. Drew was staring back at her, his own eyes shining wetly in the dim light.
“I know, Mad,” he said quietly, “and I’m really, really sorry.”
As much as she didn’t want to, as much as she had trained herself to never allow anyone off the hook with something as easy and simple as an honest, heartfelt apology, she knew that Drew meant it. He was sorry. And even more shocking, she could feel in the pit of her stomach that she was forgiving him—and that wasn’t the tequila talking.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Blah, blah, blah.” Madison smiled, taking a gulp of her margarita, trying to brush off the apology with her usual sarcastic banter and the much-needed sting of alcohol. When things got too heavy, she started feeling like there was a scarf wrapped around her neck, pulling tighter and tighter until she couldn’t breathe. She hated it—even if the scarf was probably from Hermès…
“No, really,” Drew said earnestly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “I was wrong—and I want to make it up to you.”
Madison felt herself softening like the cilantro-lime sorbet Drew’s dad had recommended. What was he doing to her? Now that he’d apologized, and, better yet, admitted that he was wrong, where could they really go from here? Madison wrinkled her brow, pushing her mostly uneaten fish around on her plate. Even if she did forgive him, was it enough? Her first time was supposed to be something she’d always remember, and there were no do-overs in virginity. She’d never be able to go back in time and fix it. Never.
Madison watched as Drew slid his credit card on top of the check and smiled at her across the table, the dimple in his chin crinkling. When they first started dating, she loved poking that dumb dimple with her finger, tickling him mercilessly so that he’d smile and that small indentation of flesh would appear. Madison played with an almost-dry strand of her hair, curling it around her index finger. She already knew that she wanted him back—and the apology was just icing on the cake. Why was she fighting it?
“You want to make it up to me?” she purred.
“Totally,” Drew said as the waitress swooped by like a black leather–clad bird of prey, snatching up the check with her long, black-varnished nails.
“Hmmm.” She sighed, her eyes wandering around the room, playing her well-rehearsed “I don’t give a fuck” act. Sometimes she wondered when exactly she was going to stop rehearsing all the time, and just be herself—whoever that was. “I’ll have to think about it, Andrew,” she said with a smile and a wink. She might have forgiven him, but that certainly didn’t mean that she couldn’t continue to torture him. Actually, it seemed all the more appropriate now.
The waitress was back with the check and Drew reached forward to sign it, but Madison was already up, bag in hand and turning toward the door. “But for starters, let’s get some Pinkberry…I’m starving.”
skipping
dessert
Drew wrapped one arm around Madison’s non ex is tent waist as they walked down Ninety-fourth Street toward the hulking outline of The Bram. He had wanted so much to impress her with La Esquina—and the food was really good—but she’d hardly touched her plate. Whatever—he’d seen this routine before more times than he could count. Madison’s idea of eating was cutting
her food up into tiny, bite-sized pieces and pushing them around on her plate until the whole mess looked more like abstract art than a tasty meal. It was kind of ridiculous: He was the son of one of New York’s most well-known chefs, and he was dating a girl who didn’t eat. Adding insult to injury was the fact that Madison thought Pinkberry frozen yogurt and vanilla lattes were basically two of the four food groups.
“Did I tell you what happened between Phoebe and that boy she met this summer out in the Hamptons?” Madison asked, taking a bite of the so-called frozen yogurt, which they had waited on line two hours for. Pinkberry was almost harder to get a taste of than the tacos at La Esquina. “Well, there was this guy she met at the beach and he was, like, totally into Phoebe, and…”
Drew nodded along, half pretending to listen and half actually trying to follow along with Madison’s story. While her particular brand of cattiness was de rigueur for Madison, Drew was more than familiar with these occasional bouts of girl talk, during which Mad gave a play-by-play reenactment of events occurring at some party or club or beach house or equally fabulous and exclusive place. When he was younger, Drew had always considered being exposed to this kind of blabber a sort of occupational hazard of knowing and dating girls. But as he walked up the street with Madison that night, he found himself wondering if that was the case. There was no doubt in his mind or, um, pants that he was completely, totally, stupidly attracted to Madison and while he had more than a bit to make up for in the in-the-pants department—considering what happened the last time they tried to bump and it got ugly—he was quite certain that the bedroom end of things would improve quickly if they tried again. But this SophietalkedtoRyanwhotalkedtoJessicawhotalkedtoJohnwhowenttosee Beth… bullshit made him wonder if the epic party in his pants that a mere glimpse of Madison incited was actually worth his while. And she wouldn’t watch Almodóvar! If the line had to be drawn somewhere—and it most certainly did—wasn’t that where to draw it?
Madison stopped talking as she paused on a corner to fix the strap on her shoe, her slender back arching as she reached down for the small silver buckle, a streetlight a block behind throwing her ass and the dipping curve of her hips into silhouette. Drew stopped thinking for a moment…and then a few moments more. The tiniest bit of drool rolled out of the corner of his mouth, as his feet shifted uncomfortably.
“So anyways,” Madison went on, “it was this totally crazy thing because…”
Drew was back in the land of the living. Or maybe the land of the blind or impotent. He wasn’t quite sure. But what’s a life without Woody Allen! his head screamed. Madison positively hated Woody Allen. How could he seriously date a girl who hated practically everything he loved? His pants just shrugged in reply. They could deal.
Drew, on the other hand, finally decided that he could not.
“Listen, Mad,” Drew said, his first words spoken in nearly five blocks, “I think I’m going to have to call it a night.” They were standing on the sidewalk in front of The Bram, and Madison had begun to tug expectantly at his hands.
“Nonsense,” Madison purred, instantly slipping back into sex kitten role and pulling Drew in for a kiss. “You just got here.” Drew tried to move away, but her arms snaked around his neck and held on tight. She was smiling and she was gorgeous, her tanned skin glowing in the moonlight, but for the first time he knew that it wasn’t really enough. It was as picture-perfect a movie moment as he could’ve hoped for, but Drew couldn’t deny the fact that it just didn’t feel right. What are you doing? the sex-crazed voice inside him called out. She’s the hottest girl on the Upper East Side—maybe all of Manhattan—and you’re leaving her out here on the sidewalk?
Guess so, Drew thought, shifting his weight uneasily, and trying to avoid her green-eyed gaze. Maybe I’m an idiot, he thought, looking down at her long, tanned legs and perfect, light pink pedicure. Okay, I’m definitely an idiot, but idiot or not, I don’t think I can do this anymore.
“Really, Mad, I’ve got to go.” Drew said as he pried her arms from his neck and broke away. Without another word, he turned and began to walk very briskly toward home. He didn’t dare turn back.
mani, pedi,
meltdown
Sophie leaned back on a pile of burgundy and gold silk pillows at the Jin Soon spa, and sighed luxuriously as a tiny Asian woman with chopsticks protruding from her sleek, dark hair placed Sophie’s feet into a basin of warm milk, the scent of raw organic honey drifting across the room. Sophie always felt so relaxed the moment she walked in the door of the tiny salon with its walnut woodwork and gleaming silk, earth-toned pillows and fabrics. The salon was so soothing that she’d probably still come even if the experience was less than amazing—luckily for her, the pedicures were to die for. Besides, Sophie always did some of her best thinking during her weekly mani/pedi while her hands and feet were being massaged with honey and essential oils—and this Saturday was no exception.
Sophie flexed her toes in the hot, fragrant milk and perused the selection of polishes, her hand hovering over OPI’s Her Royal Shyness, a light, iridescent pink that looked completely fabulous with a tan and strappy sandals. The weirdest thing about being adopted was how not weird it was. Even though the news had been hard to take at first (Okay, that was an understatement), when the word adopted fell from her mother’s lips, all the disconnected puzzle pieces of her life suddenly fell into place. In a way it was strangely liberating: She didn’t have to worry about fitting into her crazy family anymore because they weren’t actually her family at all, not biologically. Not that she was speaking to any of them at this moment anyway…
The bell on the front door tinkled softly, and Sophie looked up to see Phoebe standing in the doorway wearing a Miss Sixty jean skirt with a Free People orange tank shot through with gold thread, a stack of gold bangle bracelets climbing halfway up her bronzed arm. Phoebe’s face lit up when she spied Sophie lounging against the cushions in the back of the room, and she raised her hand, waving happily, her brown eyes shining.
Come over, Sophie mouthed, waving back.
’Kay, Phoebe mouthed back, holding up one index finger in the air while conversing briefly with the receptionist, a thin Asian woman dressed head-to-toe in black linen.
As Phoebe crossed the room, Sophie wondered if she should tell her about being adopted. So far she hadn’t told anyone—until today, she really didn’t know how she felt about it herself. Her feelings seemed to change every five minutes, and whenever she thought about meeting her biological mom, her thoughts raced like a socialite in the depths of a cocaine binge. Besides, she wasn’t sure that she wanted Madison to find out yet. And Phoebe’s only real fault was that she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life—either she came right out and told Madison everything, or she was such a bad liar that Madison figured it out, wheedling and whining it out of her in a matter of minutes.
“Hey!” Phoebe said brightly, leaning over to air-kiss Sophie on both cheeks. When she leaned in, Phoebe’s shiny, dark hair fell across Sophie’s face, and Sophie could smell the familiar scent of Dolce & Gabbana’s Light Blue—Phoebe’s signature perfume. “I thought I might run into you here.”
“Well, duh!” Sophie laughed as Phoebe plopped down beside her, pulling off her tangerine Kate Spade ballet flats as Sophie pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I only come here every Saturday!”
“True dat,” Phoebe muttered while choosing her polish, finally settling on The Thrill of Brazil—a hibiscus red that brought out the caramel tones in her tanned skin. “Which pedi should I get?”
“I’m having the milk and honey.” Sophie sighed, closing her eyes as her feet were patted dry with a soft terry towel.
‘I always get that one,” Phoebe said, shaking the bottle of polish vigorously and holding it up to the light.
“That’s because it’s the best,” Sophie said smugly as lavender and vanilla essential oils were massaged onto the soles of her still slightly damp feet.
“Maybe I’ll get the Summer Oasis,
” Phoebe mused as she looked at the list of ser vices on a white, laminated card near the pedicure station. Another tiny Asian woman came out from the back, sitting down at Phoebe’s feet and smiling. Sophie wondered if they somehow manufactured them in a storage room or something. They reminded her of the set of Russian dolls her father had brought home for her on his last business trip to St. Petersburg, one fitting snugly inside the next.
“So what are you doing here?” Sophie wondered aloud. “Didn’t you just get a pedi on Tuesday?” The bracing scent of mint and cucumber wafted over as Phoebe immersed her feet in a basin of spring water and fresh cucumber slices and mint leaves.
“Yeah,” Phoebe said, leaning back on the burgundy cushions, “but I really wanted to get out of the house.” Phoebe frowned, bringing her hands up to her temples, massaging her head with her index fingers and closing her eyes.
“Why—what’s going on?” Sophie asked, turning her body to face Phoebe. Well, as much as she could with her feet in someone else’s hands.
“Nothing,” Phoebe muttered. “You know—the usual.”
“Are they fighting again?” Sophie asked tentatively as the first sweeping strokes of polish were applied to her toenails. She knew that Phoebe’s parents weren’t exactly enjoying a second honeymoon recently. The last time she’d hung out at Phoebe’s place she could hear the Reynauds arguing halfway down the hallway before she even rang the doorbell. Not that she could understand what they were saying anyway, as they fought both lightning fast and in French. When she’d asked Phoebe about it, Pheebs brushed the whole thing off with a curt, “Don’t worry about it,” and turned the music up in her bedroom to deafening levels, drowning out the sound of shouting.
“When are they not?” Phoebe said with a sigh. “Don’t say anything to Mad, but it’s getting really bad lately.”
“I won’t say anything,” Sophie promised, trying her best to look sincere. Although she felt bad for Pheebs, she knew that if Madison asked her point-blank about the Reynauds, Sophie would probably crumble under her unrelenting stare. And, besides, what fun was it hearing other people’s darkest secrets if you couldn’t ever repeat them? Which was exactly why she wasn’t going to tell Phoebe anything about her own completely screwed-up family…not yet, anyway.
The Elite Page 13
