“Let me give you my card,” Antonio purred, reaching into the inner pocket of his black Hugo Boss blazer and removing a silver monogrammed card case. He snapped it open with a flourish of the wrist, and handed her an embossed business card, his dark eyes holding hers until she thought her knees might buckle. “A woman like you is too beautiful to be walking down the city streets—you should be on a runway with men falling at your feet, the best photographers in the world capturing your every move.”
Damn straight, Madison thought, taking the card between her fingers and dropping it into her Furla tote, praying to God that it didn’t get lost among her endless credit card receipts and Trish McEvoy makeup brushes. This guy is definitely cheesy—but good, she thought, moving the hair from her face so that it flowed down across her back. Antonio definitely had game—Madison doubted that Drew could pick up a girl so effortlessly. Drew was cute, but Antonio was . . . hot. And hot completely slayed cute any day of the week.
“Thanks,” Madison said, trying to look both humble and totally irresistible at the same time.
“Call me,” Antonio said, pointing an index finger at her before walking away.
“Maybe I’ll do just that,” Madison murmured under her breath, transfixed by the yummy sight of Antonio’s perfect ass framed by dark washed jeans. Madison floated down the street in a daze, her boots barely touching the pavement. It was all going to be so perfect she could barely stand it. By Thanksgiving she’d be gracing the catwalks of Manhattan, Paris, and Milan—she’d have a hot new career and an even hotter new boyfriend. High school boys were so totally last year . . . Even so, she couldn’t help smiling smugly as she pictured the look on Drew’s face when her glowing visage showed up on the cover of Vogue—or when Antonio picked her up in front of Meadowlark for their first of many dates, a red rose in his hand . . .
No—red roses were a total romantic cliché. Madison stepped into the cool perfumed interior of Barneys, scanning the makeup counters with a practiced eye. He’d be wearing a dark suit, and holding a spotless, white African daisy . . . Madison wandered over to a glass display of imported men’s cologne, spraying the testers liberally. The Acqua di Parma cologne that lingered in the air above her head filled the store with a lemony freshness, and fairly reeked of warm Mediterranean sands and the Italian Riviera—just like Antonio.
Madison sprayed herself liberally with the citrusy scent, and exited the store, blanketed in the summery, lemony musk. This was going to be the best year ever—not only would all eyes be on her, as usual, but those eyes would include most of the entire planet. Look out world—Madison Macallister was about to become a household name, which was unarguably better than just being somebody’s girlfriend. Besides, Madison knew from experience that revenge was sweet—but success was bound to induce a diabetic coma.
And Drew Van Allen was in for the sugar shock of his life.
poison ivy
“Phoebe, darling, is that you? ”
Madeline Reynaud’s voice rang out through the foyer just as Phoebe stepped through the front door of the Reynauds’ apartment, the stiletto heels of her black leather boots clicking jauntily on the Italian marble floor as Bijoux let go of her hand and ran screaming across the foyer and into the kitchen.
“Sebastian,” she called out to their Parisian chef, who, from the mouthwatering scents of roasted meat wafting from the kitchen, was busy making dinner, “I want cooooookies!”
Phoebe frowned, throwing the white wool Tahari trench she carried over one arm onto a polished oak credenza that hulked in the front hall, and tossing her Tod’s cream leather tote on top. “Yes,” Phoebe called out tiredly to her mother, stopping in front of the sterling silver starburst mirror that graced the foyer wall, staring at her reflection in the shining glass. “Coming.” Her cheeks were pink from the chilly outside air, and her eyes glowed in the soft, amber-and-bronze colored lamplight drifting through the apartment from her mother’s extensive collection of rare Tiffany lamps. She was lying to one of her best friends—shouldn’t it show? “You’re a fake,” she murmured to herself. “A fake and a liar. Just like your mother.”
“Phoebe!” Madeline’s voice rang out again, this time with a decidedly exasperated note. “Will you please come into the living room maintenant? There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes and walked toward the sound of her mother’s excited chatter. The Reynaud living room was almost unbearably formal, decorated with lumpy, overstuffed furniture and lots of spindly, gilt-edged little chairs that Phoebe was always nervous to actually sit on—and for that reason it was hardly ever used, except for the rare occasions when Madeline wanted to impress someone. A glittering seventeenth-century French chandelier hung from the ceiling, the sparkling crystals drawing attention to the elaborate crown moldings that were painted the color of fresh cream. A black and crimson rug dominated the large rectangular room, partially covering the shining mahogany hardwood floors underfoot. Madeline and an unfamiliar woman were perched on the larger of the two overstuffed sofas in front of the white marble fireplace, shimmering crystal flutes of champagne clutched in their hands, their heads huddled together, their whispers echoing in the cavernous room. Despite the unseasonably warm temperature, white birch logs snapped and crackled happily on the hearth, filling the space with the cheerful, autumnal scent of burning wood. As Phoebe walked in, Madeline looked up, her blue eyes bright with champagne and excitement. Phoebe knew that combination well, and it made her suddenly nervous.
“This,” Madeline said, twisting her wrist to point toward the stranger in a slow, practiced arc, her gold Cartier Love bracelet sliding in languorously toward her bouclé blazer the exact hue of crushed cranberries, “is Andrea Cavalli, the best personal college admissions coach in Manhattan.”
Phoebe quickly gave the woman a once-over: smart, well-fitted clothes—beige, red, and black Burberry Nova Plaid skirt, and snug, black cashmere blazer, thick, black hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail, square glasses with black rims sitting on the bridge of her nose, and sensible-chic red Ferragamo pumps with a wooden stiletto heel. A gold Tiffany charm bracelet tinkled on her wrist as she pushed the black frames up on her tiny nose. She was nondescript, but in a way that was subtly aware of being so—as if everything she wore, every groomed strand of hair and patch of skin was the way it was for a definitive purpose. It was an artful nondescript. If this were a movie, Phoebe thought to herself, this woman would definitely be cast as a hardcore assassin—like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill—except you wouldn’t see Andrea coming until it was way too late.
“Phoebe—a pleasure,” Andrea said, rising from the couch and reaching out her perfectly manicured hand—clear nail polish—to shake Phoebe’s, whose nails were lacquered in Chanel Vamp, a deep purple-blackish retro shade that Andrea, she somehow knew, would immediately notice. And take note of.
“Andrea,” Madeline said, her voice practically purring with pleasure, “is going to get you into Harvard. And you’re going to do whatever she says—no questions asked.”
Andrea smiled broadly, and sat back down, crossing her legs, which produced a whooshing sound when one thin, silk-stockinged thigh grazed the other.
“Phoebe,” Andrea began, patting the overstuffed crimson loveseat and waiting for Phoebe to sit down. Phoebe walked slowly over to the sofa and plopped down with a sigh, folding her arms over her chest. Like her life wasn’t awful enough right now? Apparently not. Surely what she really needed was some overgroomed college drill sergeant telling her exactly what to do every day of her life until the end of senior year. The thought was almost enough to make Phoebe run screaming from the room, pack her bags, and run away somewhere hot and laid-back—like Brazil, for instance. “The SATs are coming up—fast—and we really need to whip you into shape in preparation. Of course,” she added, turning to Madeline, the lenses of her spectacles shining in the lamplight, “test scores aren’t the only thing admissions will be looking for—especially when it comes to an
Ivy. Do you have any extracurricular activities we can play up on your application?” Andrea stared at Phoebe eagerly, waiting for her to respond.
Extracurricular activities? Phoebe thought wordlessly. Unless Andrea counted making out with her best friend’s brother like a crazed monkey and power shopping as activities, Phoebe knew she was probably out of luck. And from the eager expression on Andrea’s tight, pinched face, Phoebe already knew without being told otherwise that these weren’t the kinds of answers she was probably hoping for.
“Not really,” Phoebe mumbled while furiously chipping the polish off her thumbnail.
“I see,” Andrea said frostily, turning to Madeline conspiratorially. “Well, it’s definitely clear why you need me.” Andrea pulled a black leather Hermès notebook from her Burberry tote, flipping through the pages. “Desperately,” she muttered distractedly as she unclipped a Montblanc pen from the notebook, and began to scribble furiously on the unlined, white page. “Now I recommend that Phoebe and I meet at least once a week—with two or three phone sessions thrown in for good measure, and there’s always my daily focus e-mails as well—to keep her on track. It’s so easy these days for young people to become distracted,” she added, smiling thinly at Madeline, who began to nod sympathetically, her pearl drop earrings from Van Cleef & Arpels pulsing whitely in the light.
Phoebe’s mouth fell open. Kill me, she thought, glaring at her mother, who ignored her, as usual, and continued to gaze at Andrea approvingly. “Does Dad know about this?” Phoebe asked her mother, her eyes narrowing. “It seems like there’s a lot he doesn’t know lately.”
“Your father and I have discussed it,” Madeline answered frostily, reaching up to pat her dark, shining hair, which was smoothed back in a French twist. “And he agrees that you are clearly in need of some direction.”
“I have direction,” Phoebe snapped. “I’m going to be a fashion designer—remember?”
“I’d prefer not to,” Madeline said dryly, flashing Andrea an exasperated smile. “You’re going to Harvard Business School just like your father—it’s all been decided.”
Phoebe felt herself deflate like the delicate chocolate soufflés at Le Cirque once you stuck a fork in them. Like every other girl in Manhattan, and probably the entire planet, Phoebe loved clothes. She adored everything about them—the way rough tweed felt under her hands, and the whisper kiss of the softest cashmere grazing her ear. Last winter her grandmother had taken her to the fall collections in Paris, and it remained the most exciting moment of Phoebe’s life. At the Dior show, the clothes swirled down the runway with a life of their own, the silk and brocade gleaming in the bright, white lights. At the end when John Galliano himself stepped onto the runway, blowing kisses at the audience as he pranced down the catwalk, Phoebe jumped to her feet and clapped furiously, tears springing to her eyes. At that moment, she wanted more than anything for her designs to grace that runway someday, to see a young girl in the crowd clapping excitedly over her creations. But if she was forced to go to Harvard Business School and spend her days in marketing class, and her nights making spreadsheets with Excel, Phoebe knew she’d probably never get the chance.
“We’ll start next week,” Andrea said, standing up and brushing off her skirt with one hand as if she’d been sitting on a hay bale instead of a twenty-thousand-dollar antique sofa with Baroque scrolled legs and gilt edging. “I’ll send you an e-mail with all the details sometime tomorrow, Phoebe,” Andrea said briskly, grabbing a Burberry trench from the arm of the sofa and throwing it over her arm like she was stanching a wound.
“Let me walk you to the door, Andrea,” Madeline purred, standing up and straightening the hem of her nubbly cranberry Chanel skirt, the heels of her black Manolo Blahnik ankle boots tapping the hardwood floors like Morse code as they exited the room and moved into the hallway without so much as a backward glance.
Phoebe tried to fight the tears that were welling up in her blue eyes. She felt small, like her whole life had been shrunk down to fit perfectly in a tiny Kate Spade clutch, her dreams squashed to fit her parents’ unrealistic expectations. She felt like things were moving too fast lately, getting more complicated when all she wanted was for things to be simple—they way they used to be before she fell for Jared, before her family began to fall apart. As much as she wanted her life to slow down and just stop, it seemed to be speeding up faster and faster—whether she liked it or not.
And Phoebe knew that if she wasn’t very careful, it wouldn’t be long before her entire life became someone else’s, and her future spun completely out of her grasp.
secrets revealed
Casey plopped down on Sophie’s bed, kicking off her scuffed, cream-colored Old Navy ballet flats, and grabbed one of Sophie’s oversized down pillows, hugging it to her chest like a teddy bear. “So, what’s up?” she asked, momentarily resting her cheek against the cloudlike surface. God, Sophie’s pillows and sheets were so supremely soft that she wouldn’t have been surprised if Sophie had informed her they were fashioned from the tender skin of newborn babies. Maybe that’s why high thread counts were so ridiculously expensive . . .
“Okay, before I start, you have to promise that you won’t say anything—to anyone.” Sophie sat down on the bed next to Casey cross-legged, leaning her elbows on her knees. Sophie wore a pair of butter-soft cashmere sweatpants in bright orange, and a plain white wifebeater with a rip in one shoulder strap. Even in her casual clothes, Casey couldn’t help noticing that Sophie was still stupidly pretty—which would’ve usually intimidated Casey to the point where she froze up and became unable to put words together like a normal human being. But despite her good looks, Sophie was the one member of The Bram Clan around whom Casey felt almost comfortable. There was something about Sophie’s wide-eyed grin and easy playfulness that made Casey feel like she wasn’t existing perennially on the very fringes of coolness, ready to topple into the abyss of loserville at any second. Around Mad or Phoebe, Casey felt like she always had something stuck in her teeth, or that her hair was threatening to branch out and take over the planet. With Sophie, she felt like it might just be okay to simply kick back and be herself.
“Sure.” Casey threw the pillow to the floor and crossed her legs, mirroring Sophie’s pose exactly. “Who would I tell, anyway?”
Sophie stared at Casey like she’d eaten a brain tumor for breakfast and rolled her green eyes, giggles sprinkling her words like nuts on a sundae. “You never know what might, ahem, ‘slip out’ in the heat of passion . . .”
Casey picked the pillow up off the floor and threw it at Sophie, who ducked it cleanly, smiling wickedly. Nothing was in danger of “slipping out,” though she’d rather bury herself in the noxious, gray cement they were using to repave Fifth Avenue than admit that to Sophie, but it was true—things between her and Drew were definitely not at the slipping out—or in—level yet. They were definitely getting there with every lingering, delicious kiss—but it wasn’t like they spent hours ripping off each other’s clothes every day after school or anything. Unfortunately for you, her inner dating Nazi snapped.
“I mean it,” Sophie went on, her face solemn. “You really can’t tell anyone—especially not Mad.”
Now Casey was really intrigued. Why would Sophie rather confide something so obviously important in her, and not the girls she’d known for her entire life? With uncanny accuracy, Sophie read the confused expression that must’ve been all over Casey’s face, and continued before Casey could even begin to verbalize her question.
“I can’t tell them—not yet anyway. The reason I’m telling you is because I haven’t known you forever. You know?” Casey nodded, though she still wasn’t sure exactly what Sophie meant. Sophie raised her arms over her head, pulling her streaky, honey blond hair back in a messy bun and securing it with a tortoise-shell clip plucked from the violet carpet, which stood out in sharp contrast to the lavender walls of Sophie’s bedroom. Maybe, Casey thought, I don’t know anything about fashion—or interior design�
��but it kind of looks like Barney threw up in here . . .
“So . . .” Casey said, leaning forward. “What’s going on?”
Sophie took a deep breath, picking up a manila folder at the foot of the bed and opening it across her lap, her hands placed strategically over the contents. “A few weeks ago my parents told me that I’m adopted,” Sophie said quietly, her voice emotionless, her gaze level and direct.
“Oh my God,” Casey murmured. “Are you okay? I mean, what did they say?”
Sophie looked away, blinking rapidly. “Oh, some bullshit—apparently they were having problems getting pregnant after my idiot brother was born, so they adopted me as some sort of deranged consolation prize for not going through a round of IVF.” Sophie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, still looking away.
“Wow. Umm. Wow.” Casey felt like she’d suddenly become a drooling idiot—in the blink of an eye, her whole vocabulary reduced to a rapid succession of one-syllable words. The problem was that she just didn’t know what to say. What was the correct response to something this personal and deep? “I’m sorry” didn’t exactly sound right, and “bummer” definitely wasn’t going to cut it.
“And that’s not all,” Sophie continued, moving her hands away from the open manila folder and placing it in Casey’s lap. “Look,” Sophie said, pointing at the photograph pinned to the top of the thick sheaf of legal documents. “That’s her. My mom.”
In Too Deep Page 5
