Madison warily opened her eyes, her annoyance fading completely as she stared down at the contact sheets. Each small frame of film held a miniature Madison in its center, her white-blond hair shining in the light. Her body looked long and lean, her limbs as sculpted as if she spent every day at the gym, subsisting on nothing but energy bars and air—which she definitely did not. Her eyes looked knowingly into the camera, and even in the shots where she was obviously uncomfortable there was something compelling about her stance, the determination in her green eyes slicing through the lens.
“I can’t believe that’s really me,” Madison murmured in disbelief, reaching out and tracing her own image with the tip of one finger, pulling the contact sheets closer to take a better look. “I thought it was a total disaster. I mean, Sam and I didn’t exactly become best friends or anything and—”
“What he thinks does not matter,” Antonio said, waving a hand dismissively. “What matters is what the camera thinks—and it is clearly in love with you.”
“I guess,” Madison stammered, “but I don’t really know how to model, and I’m just not really sure I want to do this after all.” Madison pushed the contact sheets away and took a deep breath, tapping her heel against the bar stool nervously. Before she walked into the restaurant, she’d all but convinced herself that she was going to turn Antonio down—the shoot was such a disaster and she didn’t relish the prospect of doing another one any time soon. So she’d managed to kick Sam where it hurt—so what? At the end of the day, there would always be some other photographer trying to get into her pants, some other random guy who thought that just because she was a model she was dumb and easy. Dumb—maybe sometimes. But easy? Never. After all, Madison thought, picking up her Negroni and making a face when the bitter liquor hit her tongue, a girl’s got to draw the line somewhere . . .
“Listen to me, cara.” Antonio said, taking her hand in his own. When his hand touched hers, Madison felt herself go all limp—just like the alligator she saw on Animal Planet last week who rolled over, completely vegged-out and hypnotized because some animal expert rubbed its scaly belly in the right spot. If this is what it felt like when Antonio so much as touched her hand, she was definitely in real trouble if he ever so much as grazed her belly with one of his fingers. She’d probably fall into some kind of a lust-induced coma, only to wake in twenty years, first asking for Antonio—and then a Diet Coke . . .
“Madison, cara, you were born for this.” Antonio caressed her palm, shivers radiating from her hand all the way down to her spine—she felt like her vertebrae were melting right into her chair. “You must reconsider. What can I do to convince you?” he asked, his dark eyes sparkling.
“Well, I don’t know . . .” Madison demurred, sensing an opportunity to make Antonio an offer he couldn’t refuse—and why would he want to anyway? If she really was as gorgeous as everyone was telling her, he should be fairly panting to take things to the next level. But since the whole fiasco with Drew, Mad knew that her confidence just wasn’t what it had once been. Drew’s rejection hurt more than she would ever let on to anyone else—even admitting it to herself stung like a shaving nick, one that wouldn’t stop bleeding all over the place. . . . “My friend’s having a party at Marquee this Saturday night. Be my date and I’ll think about it.”
Antonio smiled, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it softly before releasing her. “It would be my pleasure to accompany you,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face.
“I’m not promising anything, Antonio,” she warned, her face serious. “I still haven’t talked to my mother about all this,” she added, taking another tiny sip of the noxious Negroni and pushing it away, scowling like a pouty baby. It really wouldn’t hurt to string Antonio along a little longer, Mad told herself. And showing up at Sophie’s party with Antonio at her side would definitely rocket her reputation into the stratosphere—not that her reputation really needed any help in the first place . . .
“Perhaps she will be there Saturday night?” Antonio asked, downing the rest of his drink, which, for his sake, she hoped tasted a hell of a lot better than her own—and signaled the bartender for the check.
“Unfortunately,” Madison said, “but I can’t promise she’ll be, umm, particularly coherent or anything.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” Antonio said with a chuckle, placing a platinum Amex on top of the check and handing it to the bartender. “If she is anywhere as beautiful as you, I’m sure I will recognize her immediately.”
Madison snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, she’s all right—except she’s about a million years old!” Madison stood up, smoothing down her dress.
“I will pick you up in my car, yes?” Antonio asked, sliding his Burberry trench coat from the back of the chair and slinging it over one arm.
Yes, yes, yes, Madison thought while nodding happily, unable to keep her eyes from noticing his perfectly square jaw, or the fact that his dark eyelashes were about a foot long. Why do guys always have the longest lashes? Madison pondered, trying to distract herself from thinking the usual lust-filled daydreaming that occupied her brain when she was around Antonio, pushing rational thoughts to a tiny, dust-filled corner in the back of her skull.
“Eight o’clock?” she asked as her cell phone began to buzz noisily. Madison reached into the pocket of her shearling coat and pulled out her cell, the word EDIE flashing across the tiny screen. Looking at her phone in undisguised annoyance, Madison switched off the ringer, throwing it back into her pocket. She’d wait until she was safely outside before calling her back—there was nothing worse than looking like an infant whose mother still kept tabs on her in front of a guy she was trying to impress. And, more than anything, Madison wanted Antonio to be impressed. Not only was he unbelievably gorgeous, but she knew that bringing him to Sophie’s party as her date would drive Drew completely over the edge. And then she’d have him right where she wanted him . . . completely tortured—a jealous, hormonally ridden, angsty nightmare of seething regret—which could only be seen as totally unattractive to a certain newly straightened Midwest moron . . .
“Until then,” Antonio said, leaning in and kissing her on both cheeks, his lips lingering just a touch too long on either side of her face, applying pressure that was both gentle and firm. Madison closed her eyes at his touch, already planning the drop-dead gorgeous outfit she’d surely find to wear on Saturday night . . .
that’s entertainment
Phoebe stepped into The Bramford’s first - floor entertain - ment lounge, swinging the heavy oak door shut behind her and switching on the lights. The lounge had once been one of The Bram’s most popular amenities, featuring a giant movie screen, state-of-the-art popcorn machine, and an enormous, adjacent, sculptured outdoor garden that nannies mostly used for picnics in the summer months. But since most of the current tenants had apartments equipped with their own private screening rooms, and, being October, it was way too chilly for picnics anymore, the lounge was mostly deserted at this time of year—not to mention this late at night.
Phoebe flopped down on an enormous black leather couch. The fawn-colored Christian Louboutin knee-high boots she’d stolen from Madeline’s closet earlier were tucked into a pair of faded jeans. The room was empty and quiet, and Phoebe shivered, crossing her denim-clad legs, and pulling her black cardigan tighter around her body, the edges of a robin’s egg-blue camisole peeking out from the soft cashmere.
Phoebe looked around at the room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows covering one wall, and the plush red velvet curtains surrounding the movie screen. At least once a month, The Bram Clan had a slumber party—of sorts. They would drag a pile of Sex and the City and Footballers’ Wives DVDs down to the lounge and spend an entire evening watching one episode after another while painting each other’s nails—and gossiping furiously, of course. Phoebe sighed, her heart racing. She knew this was total madness—anyone could walk in at any time, even Sophie, although, as caught up as she was in planning her up
coming party, it was highly unlikely. What am I doing here? Phoebe moaned inwardly, closing her eyes and leaning her head back on the soft leather as the door opened with a creak.
Phoebe sat up, the blood thudding in her veins as Jared entered the room wearing a navy blue sweater that looked so soft she immediately wanted to bury her face in it, and a pair of baggy jeans he’d belted tightly so that the blue and green plaid of his boxers showed over the waistband. Jared grinned happily at the prospect of finding her already there, and walked across the room with long, loping strides before sitting down beside her, pushing his dark hair from his eyes, picking up her hand and enfolding it in his own.
“Wow,” he said, smiling. “You beat me here. You must’ve really wanted to see me.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes and dropped his hand. “You wish,” she snorted, looking away before the smile that was slowly creeping across her face completely took over. “I was just bored, so I came down here early.”
“Yeah, right,” Jared said, reaching over as lazily and calculated as a cat to take her hand once again. “And I changed my shirt seven times before coming down here because I was just indecisive.”
Phoebe laughed, turning to face him. When his blue eyes met hers, she knew that looking him straight in the face was definitely a bad idea—not to mention the obvious fact that within five minutes of walking into the room, he was holding her hand like he owned it. Looking at Jared was like being sucked into a spinning, dizzy vortex. If she looked at him for long enough, there was no telling what might happen. Did she really want to find out?
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Jared said quietly, reaching over and smoothing the dark hair from her face. “And I’m not sure I want to.” His lips moved closer and closer to hers, until she felt the warmth of them on her own, her mouth opening as she responded to his touch. As they continued to kiss, Phoebe felt herself falling backward until she was lying horizontally on the leather couch with Jared above her. Somehow, the weight of his body on hers, as delicious as it was, made her feel like things were moving too fast, spiraling out of control. She put her hands on his chest and pushed hard, sitting up and running a hand through her tangled hair.
“We can’t do this,” she said, breathing heavily and all at once overcome with fear. “It’s wrong. We’re wrong for doing it.”
“Does it feel wrong to you?” Jared asked, exhaling loudly and sitting up, his blue eyes glittering with impatience. “Because it doesn’t to me. When I’m with you I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Phoebe sat motionless, Jared’s words hanging in the air between them. It may have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her in her life—anyone with a penis, that is. But it didn’t change the fact that they were sneaking around, that despite her best intentions, she’d become nothing more than a carbon copy of her own mother: lying, orchestrating clandestine meetings, hurting the very people she was supposed to love. It had to stop—now. And if Jared wasn’t going to make it stop, then Phoebe knew it was all up to her.
“I can’t see you anymore,” Phoebe said woodenly, stumbling to her feet and trying to ignore the aching pain that threatened to rip her chest apart as she walked toward the door.
“C’mon, Phoebe!” Jared said, jumping to his feet and following her. “Don’t do this!” She could feel the warmth of his body as he stood behind her, his breath on the back of her neck, but she didn’t dare turn around. As she stood there, she prayed that he wouldn’t try to touch her—she knew that if she felt the warm pressure of his hands on her flesh, she’d turn around to face him, open her arms, and give in. You’re your mother’s daughter all right, she thought, her body trembling so hard she felt as if she were about to crack in two. Weak, weak, weak . . .
When she finally spoke, the voice that came out of her throat was hoarse, shaky, and not at all her own. “I have to,” Phoebe said, turning the knob with one hand and walking out the door before Jared could say another word.
shake your groove thing
Casey followed Phoebe down the red carpet in front of Marquee, stopping short as Phoebe paused at the entrance—which was currently blocked by a buffed-out, bare-chested guy holding a clipboard. He was dressed in a pair of red satin shorts, red-and-white athletic socks, and not much else, his blond hair hanging over his eyes, his exposed bare skin tanned to a buttery shade of caramel. Casey tried to smile as flashbulbs exploded in her face, the bright flashes of light causing red and green spots to appear in her line of vision.
Phoebe turned back to Casey, a wicked gleam in her eye. Yummy, she mouthed, rolling her eyes in the doorman’s direction for further emphasis. Casey could barely hear herself think, what with all the noise from the screaming crowd of hangers-on and wanna-bes clamoring for entrance beyond the red velvet ropes, not to mention the insistent, pounding disco that was blasting from the club at such a pitch, they’d heard it from at least fifty feet away. The bass buzzed through the vintage Jordache jeans she’d found while rummaging through the bargain bin of a thrift store downtown called Cheap Jack’s—and they were so unbelievably tight that they looked as if they were painted on. Earlier that evening, she’d been forced to get Nanna to wrestle the zipper into place with a pair of pliers as Casey lay faceup on the bed, gasping for air. No wonder everyone smoked so much pot in the sixties and seventies, Casey thought, as Nanna helped her up. You’d have to be very stoned indeed to forget the fact that the skintight denim was most certainly cutting off the blood flow to your brain . . .
The black tube top shot through with metallic gold thread that she wore and the pair of gold Jimmy Choo platform sandals on her feet were borrowed from Sophie’s overstuffed closet. Casey tapped one of the shoes against the soft red carpet, trying to smile gracefully into the cameras, waiting for her head to explode from the relentless disco beat, the insistent shriek of whistles being blown from inside Marquee’s dim interior. “Just keep them,” Sophie had said offhandedly last night from the depth of her cavernous, grape-colored closet. As Casey had looked around at the shelves stuffed with designer purses—some with the tags still hanging off—she wondered for the millionth time since moving to the Upper East Side what it would be like to give away a six-hundred-dollar pair of shoes, just because you felt like it.
For her own sixteenth birthday last June, her mother had taken Casey and her best friend, Marissa, to Chicago for the weekend. They’d stayed in a swanky boutique hotel just off Michigan Avenue, where the management provided goldfish bowls in the room in case you felt lonely during your stay. During the nightly wine-tasting in the lobby, Casey and Marissa had giggled over tiny sips of wine, then flailed around their room before dinner, pretending they were totally wasted. That whole weekend she’d felt so grown up, running around in the big city, the very picture of glamorous sophistication. But now, for the first time, she was painfully aware that next to Sophie’s party, her birthday weekend might as well have taken place at Chuck E. Cheese.
And the situation with Drew was definitely not helping the matter any. They’d suddenly gone from hanging out every day to waving tentatively as they passed each other in the hallway. As excited as she’d been all week about Sophie’s party, Casey couldn’t shake the feeling that something between her and Drew had gone somehow horribly wrong. Ever since that afternoon they’d interviewed Madison for the documentary, he’d all but ignored her. When she’d first been invited to Sophie’s sweet sixteen, she’d giddily assumed that Drew would ask her to go with him—like a real boyfriend. She’d lain on her bed and fantasized about standing on the brightly lit dance floor, her arms entwined with Drew’s as they did the Hustle, a gardenia tucked behind her newly straightened hair, her white silk Oscar de la Renta dress whipping around her body. But as the days inched closer and closer to Saturday, it became suddenly, scarily clear that she’d be most likely arriving with Phoebe. Damn Madison Macallister, Casey thought grumpily. She was always showing up at the worst possible moment and ruining absolutely everything—just bec
ause she could.
The doorman winked at Phoebe and waved them through. Casey followed Phoebe’s short, sparkling silver Versace dress into the club. Only Phoebe could get away with a dress like that—anyone else would just look like a walking disco ball, Casey thought with a smile as she entered Marquee, her eyes adjusting to the dimness and swirl of colored lights that swept the bar and the dance floor. With Phoebe’s dark hair pulled back in a twist, a glittering Swarovski hair ornament in the shape of a flower pinned artfully in the back, Phoebe looked like a star that had somehow fallen out of the sky and landed in the middle of Manhattan. Next to Phoebe, Casey felt like an extra from the set of Charlie’s Angels in her skintight jeans and top. She’d tried to feather her newly straightened hair, but it had weird bends and dips in it from Nanna’s million-year-old brush and hairdryer set that were clearly as much of a relic from the seventies as Casey’s jeans . . .
Casey stumbled as she tried to keep up with Phoebe’s long strides, her Choos catching on the red carpet that extended into the cavernous space of the club as she fell to her knees with a resounding thud. So much for making a grand entrance, Casey thought bitterly as Phoebe turned around, holding out a hand for her to grab.
“Oh my God.” Phoebe moaned good-naturedly. “I so don’t know you right now.”
“That carpet is not platform-friendly,” Casey answered, her face flushing with heat as she brushed off her jeans with both hands, praying that nobody had seen her less-than-graceful entrance—especially the Pulse cameras—which were undoubtedly everywhere . . .
Phoebe squealed, grabbing Casey’s arm and squeezing tightly with excitement as they looked around the room. “Her parents must be feeling seriously guilty,” Phoebe said with a giggle.
Casey could only nod dumbly in agreement as she took in the giant silver crescent moon hanging from the ceiling—complete with a silver-clad go-go dancer riding astride it as it swung from one end of the dance floor to the other, her blond hair flying, her silver hot pants and high boots gleaming in the light. The scene beneath this discofied version of the dish, the spoon, and the cow jumping over the moon was no less spectacular. The room was packed with people, many clad in whites, pastels, and grays, the fabrics all likely smelling strongly of mothballs from the thirty-plus years since they’d seen the light of day, or, uh, a disco ball. But the crush of bodies and polyester was out of the closet, so to speak, limbs and hips moving to the four-four thump of old records, the silky strings and tinny synthesizers escalating to a fever pitch.
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