She sighed, feeling the hot August sun warm every inch of her smooth skin. This really was the life. After their press conference at the Soho House on Tuesday, Ken Mogul had handed Chanel and Thad the jet-black key cards to the penthouse and let them know the room was rented for a week. Since Thad had his own apartment in the city, he’d told her she could stay in the room the whole time if she wanted to. Chanel preferred to stay in her own room at home—her parents were hardly ever home, though they wouldn’t exactly approve of her living in a hotel room on her own—but access to the exclusive members-only rooftop pool came with the card, and she certainly wasn’t going to say no to that. The only thing missing was someone special to enjoy it with.
She picked up her cell and dialed a number she knew as well as her own.
“Hey stranger.” Kaliq picked up on the first ring, his slightly sleepy voice sending shivers up her spine. She pictured him still lazing in bed, no shirt on, just waking up from a dream—about her, of course.
“Hey yourself.” She grinned into the phone. “What are you up to right now?”
Twenty minutes later Kaliq bounded out onto the deck of the SoHo House pool, his brown leather flip-flops thwacking against the stone tiles, oblivious to the ogling female eyes that were fixed on his perfect body. In his green Billabong swim trunks and faded gray T-shirt, Kaliq was the only person on the entire roof deck not wearing white.
“Hey.” He smiled widely as he reached her deck chair. A shiver of nervous goose bumps spread over her skin. He sank down into the chair beside her. “You look...comfortable.”
“Cheerio, old chap,” Chanel responded in a playful mock-British accent, and held up the black key card, marked with only four letters—SHPH. “Soho House Penthouse,” she explained with a flirtatious wink.
Kaliq reached for the card to get a closer look, but she playfully swatted his hand away.
He shrugged and took off his shirt, settling into the plush white lounge-chair cushion. “Your fake British accent sounds so lame.” He picked up her glass of lemonade and took a long swig, smacking his lips in satisfaction as he put the half-empty glass back down.
“First you insult my accent, and then you drink my lemonade? You’re in for it, buddy.” She stood and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the pool. They tumbled over the edge and hit the water with a loud splash, narrowly missing an Angela Bassett look-alike in a white one-piece swimsuit and matching head turban doing water calisthenics in the shallow end. Maybe it really was Angela Bassett.
“Excuse me.” The woman scowled, moving away from Chanel and Kaliq as they stood in the water dripping and panting.
Chanel took a deep breath and plunged underneath the surface of the water. For as long as she could remember, she’d loved being underwater, the whole world drowned out, only the sound of gently rushing water in her ears. She opened her eyes, the chlorine stinging them slightly, and saw Kaliq underwater right in front of her, his green eyes wide open too. His hair was standing straight up, and he waved his hand, a liquid “hello” escaping his lips with a rush of bubbles.
She giggled, nearly choking, and suddenly thought of the games of Marco Polo she and Kaliq and Porsha had played when they were younger. Kaliq would always cheat, shouting “Marco!” and then opening his eyes for a moment to see where they were. Then he’d grab the girls with huge splashing lunges, pretending he’d just found them by accident. Kaliq never seemed to care which girl he caught, he’d just grab whomever was in front of him and held on. Chanel closed her eyes, the sting of the chlorine now too much to bear, and shot up to the surface.
Kaliq sidestroked into the shallow end and hopped up onto the edge of the pool, letting his legs dangle in the water. Chanel looked so peaceful floating on her back in the calm water, her silky hair forming a halo around her head, an angelic smile on her face. Being with Chanel was so much less stressful than being with Porsha.
Immediately he thought of his last highly-stressful interaction with Porsha, whom he’d been avoiding since the day before yesterday, when she’d thrown her shoes at him. Porsha had left him hundreds of voicemails, but Kaliq thought he should wait to speak with her until she’d had a little more time to cool off.
Just not in this particular pool.
He knew that Porsha was angry, but he also knew that she’d eventually forgive him, just like she always did. He could still visit her at Yale on the weekends. And Chanel would be here with him in New York. He’d always thought he’d have to choose between the two girls, but now it seemed he could have them both. That was pretty ballsy, if he did say so himself.
Chanel opened one eye and discovered Kaliq staring at her. With a rush of water, she stood up, her wet hair falling down her back in a slick mass. Winding it around her hand, she squeezed the water out and then tied her hair into a neat knot. Her swimsuit straps had fallen down again, and she hitched them up before anything embarrassing happened.
Not that it’s anything Kaliq hasn’t seen before.
“Impressive.” He smiled, kicking a little water up at her with one caramel foot. “Um, putting your hair up without a barrette or whatever,” he stammered. “Not the swimsuit-almost-falling-off part. Not that I’d mind that,” he added.
“Really now?” She hopped up on the ledge beside him, her hair promptly falling out of its not-so-secure bun and draping messily over her shoulders. “Because along with that key card comes a very beautiful, very empty hotel suite.” She inched a little closer to him on the pool ledge.
Kaliq grinned, the sun bouncing off the water and making his green eyes glitter even more than usual. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a voice behind them.
“Chanel Crenshaw!” a syrupy high-pitched voice exclaimed. They both turned to see Bailey Winter, all five feet of the famous designer, dressed in a white linen suit, a hot pink handkerchief in his pocket and an enormous pair of white sunglasses perched on his head. His houseboy, Stefan, was behind him, manning the leashes of Bailey’s five pugs. “You remember Stefan,” he chirped with a wave behind him. “And of course you remember Azzedine, Coco, Cristobal, Gianni, and Madame Gres,” he tittered, gesturing at the dogs.
How could anyone forget?
“Of course!” Chanel jumped up and gave Bailey a damp hug. “It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed affectionately.
After Bailey had designed the costumes for Breakfast at Fred’s, he’d invited Chanel and Porsha to be live-in muses at his East Hampton summer home. Their stay had had its share of problems, mainly due to a pair of skinny Eastern European models determined to make their life there a living hell. In a horrendous scene at one of Bailey’s famous parties, they’d ruined his furniture, horrified the guests, and then run out of the party—and away from the Hamptons—without so much as a goodbye. Chanel had felt so guilty for leaving on such bad terms that she’d written Bailey a note later on in the summer, apologizing for their behavior and thanking him for their stay. He’d written back saying that he couldn’t possibly hold a grudge against someone so lovely and talented, and that she was welcome any time.
“What are you doing back in the city?” She grabbed a white towel and wrapped it around her midriff.
The little man folded up his sunglasses and put them into his pocket. “The Hamptons get so dull at the end of the summer. All the fun’s here in the city!” He waved his petite hands in the air. “You certainly are at the center of all the action. I can’t believe my little Chanel is becoming a big, big movie star!” He shrieked and grabbed her hands. “I just went to a screening of Breakfast at Fred’s, and of course the costumes are to die for, if I do say so myself, but you, my dear, are the icing on the German chocolate cake!” he added, pinching Stefan’s toned behind, apropos of nothing.
Angela Bassett was lounging on a deck chair a few feet away with a little white Chihuahua curled at her feet. She looked up from her copy of Vogue, and her dog jumped down to sniff Cristobal’s butt curiously.
That’s one way to say hello.
<
br /> “Chanel Crenshaw, from Breakfast at Fred’s?” the woman demanded loudly in a Jamaican accent. So she wasn’t Angela Bassett after all. “I thought you looked familiar. I absolutely adored that movie...”
A crowd began to form around Chanel. Suddenly it hit Kaliq that she was starring in a big-time film, and that she was about to become really famous, a movie star. He wondered if from now on it was going to be like this all the time, getting stopped on the street, mobbed by fans, paparazzi following them everywhere. Chanel smiled shyly as she autographed someone’s towel. He could already see the gossip columns, wondering why the accomplished young starlet was hanging out with a loser still stuck in high school. Not that he cared what other people thought, but still. It would be...weird. He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he had a joint with him, and then remembered that he did—in the pocket of his now-soaking shorts. Oops.
He picked up his towel and started to dry off. Then he heard his phone’s muffled ring and found it underneath his T-shirt. He looked down at it, grateful for something to do besides watching Chanel and feeling dumb and useless. “Hello?”
“Long time no see. What are you up to right now?” Porsha’s voice surprised him. She sounded downright chipper, and not angry at all.
“Hey...” he mumbled, wandering to the very edge of the roof. The city was sprawled out beneath him, the low townhouses of the Meatpacking District giving way to new Chelsea condos and the midtown high-rises beyond.
Chanel noticed him wander away and hoped he was talking to Porsha, perhaps calmly explaining that he and Chanel would both be staying in the city this year...together. Of course she felt slightly guilty stealing Kaliq away, but once Porsha was happily settled in at Yale—her dream school—she’d forget all about them.
“Thank you soo much.” The Jamaican woman’s voice broke into her thoughts. She proudly waved her autographed Vogue. “Binky and I are such fans. Aren’t we, Binky?” She swept up the tiny dog with one arm. Binky strained in her arms, reaching for Cristobal’s wiggling and whimpering form at his owner’s feet.
“Of course.” Chanel nodded. “My pleasure.”
Bailey grabbed her arm and began to whisper in her ear. “You must be my only muse. I’ll dress you exclusively in my designs, just like Audrey Hepburn and Givenchy!”
But Chanel barely heard him, distracted by the sight of Kaliq putting his T-shirt back on. He waved, mouthing, “I’ll talk to you later,” as he backed toward the exit. She sighed. So much for taking advantage of her hotel suite.
That’s okay—they have the rest of their lives to spend together. Don’t they?
26
Kaliq rounded the corner of 19th Street and crossed 6th Avenue, without waiting for the walk signal. The Container Store loomed up ahead, its huge display windows and royal blue awnings a little too showy for a store that sold plastic storage bins and shower racks.
Kaliq pushed through the glass doors and into the enormous store, taking in the high ceilings and fake Romanesque columns. He searched for a familiar head of hair as he strode down the wide central path, glancing down endless aisles with labels like SHELVING, CLEANING, HOME OFFICE, KITCHEN, and BATH. The store was heavily air-conditioned, and he could feel goose bumps forming all over his still-damp body. He’d felt bad running out on Chanel like that, but he’d been so relieved when Porsha had called and invited him to come dorm room shopping. She sounded almost normal—a thousand times calmer than she’d been when he’d last seen her—and he wanted to take advantage of her being in a good mood. At least she couldn’t kill him in such a public place.
Don’t be so sure—that girl loves to make a scene.
Finally he spotted her, looking radiant in a sea-green cotton sundress—not the most practical outfit for dorm room shopping, but then Porsha was never practical. Her hair was a little longer than he last remembered it, and streaked with strands of gold. He blinked, wondering if the chlorine had done something to his eyes. She was standing by a desk that advertised custom-made closets, arguing with a harried-looking salesgirl in a dark blue apron that read CONTAIN YOURSELF! A long line of people stood behind her, shuffling their feet impatiently and checking their watches. Of course, Porsha could have cared less.
Of course.
Her little brother Brice and stepbrother, Tahj, were with her, piles of oddly shaped bins stacked at their feet as they waited for Porsha, their faces slack with boredom. Brice pulled a set of plastic clips out of the packaging and stuck them all over his clothing, clipping the last one over the bridge of his nose. Tahj was reading a book covered in ribbed cardboard, one of the display books that stores used to make the living room displays look lived-in. Kaliq had always assumed those books were blank inside. Given the glazed look in Tahj’s eyes, maybe they were.
“Hey guys,” Kaliq called over to them. Tahj and Brice looked up and smiled relieved smiles. Now that Kaliq was there, they could be excused from Her Highness’s service.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Porsha observed. “One sec.” She turned back to the salesgirl. “Thanks for your help,” she snapped icily, stepping away from the desk. “They’re all morons,” she announced loudly when she got closer to Kaliq. “They won’t design a special storage system for my dorm’s closet just because I don’t have the exact dimensions. Isn’t that, like, what they get paid for?” She rolled her eyes and turned to Tahj and Brice. “Well, what are you two waiting for?”
They sighed and grabbed the piles of stuff from off the floor, following her as she strode purposefully to the back of the store. Kaliq lingered behind them, fingering the wet joint still in his pocket. Porsha could be a little scary when she got into decorating mode, but at least she wasn’t unleashing her, um, energy in his direction. He felt sorry for Tahj and Brice, though. Tahj had piled everything into a big laundry basket and was struggling to hold it upright.
“Hey man. I saw some carts by the front of the store. Want me to go grab one?” he offered.
Tahj shook his head, his short dreadlocks knocking back and forth. “Sis refuses to use a shopping cart,” he told Kaliq helplessly.
“I heard that,” Porsha snapped without turning around. “Shopping carts are for old ladies,” she declared, continuing at her manic pace. She stopped at the kitchen section, touching a steel wine rack. She turned and smiled mischievously at the three boys. “Besides, who needs a cart when you’ve got three strapping young men to carry your things for you?” She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, grabbing the wine rack with one hand and placing it on top of Tahj’s mounting pile.
“This is child abuse,” Brice complained from behind a polka-dot hatbox, his voice nasal from the clip on his nose, his Brooks Brothers khakis torn at the knees. Who knew what he would look like after four years of high school in L.A.? He placed the hatbox on the floor and grabbed the white wire bin on the shelf in front of him, which was filled with boxes of snacks. He passed over the crackers and Pringles, pulling out a box of cookies.
“Brice, those are display items—you know, to show how much you can fit in the bins?” Porsha scolded, now holding up a set of glass measuring cups.
“He’s hungry. I should take him home,” Tahj offered eagerly. “I mean, uh, since you and Kaliq probably want some alone time and all,” he added, already putting the overloaded laundry basket at Kaliq’s feet.
“Fine.” Porsha sighed, returning the measuring cups to their shelf. “Kaliq and I can handle this ourselves.”
“Thanks,” Tahj nodded quickly. He grabbed the bag of cookies from Brice. “I’ll make sure we pay for these. Later!” They made a dash for the front of the store, as if they were trying to outrun a tornado.
Hurricane Porsha?
“Hey,” Kaliq murmured. Porsha was reading the instructions on a speed mixer. He was suddenly aware of how alone they were—and remembered what had happened the last time they’d been alone together.
At lease she’s wearing soft rubber flip-flops.
Porsha seemed calm now, but maybe
she’d just been waiting for Tahj and Brice to leave. If that mixer was plugged in, it could really do some damage to his face. But, then, to his utter relief, she smiled.
“Hey, yourself,” she responded, her eyes shining. “I’m glad you came. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about the other day. I got...carried away. And I’ve been thinking about it. We can totally make this work.” She gave his hand a squeeze and then dropped the mixer back on the shelf with a loud thump. “You never know what surprises the future may bring.”
Kaliq felt his body sag with relief. He hadn’t even realized how tense he’d been.
“Let’s go to Bedroom,” Porsha suggested. Then she giggled. “I said to bedroom, not to bed. Don’t get your hopes up, horndog.” She turned on her heel and started walking down the gleaming white aisle, an extra flirtatious swish in her step.
Kaliq bent down and picked up the massive laundry bin stuffed with carefully selected items. “Seriously, Porsha, why do you need all this stuff? Where are you going to put it?” he asked when he’d caught up with her, his arms sagging under the bin’s weight. Suddenly he remembered the description of hell in Danhite’sInferno from eleventh-grade English class. There were different circles of hell, and everyone suffered according to their crimes. Was carrying the leaden bin his penance for sleeping with Chanel? Was he doomed to carry that guilt for all eternity?
The Curse of the Container Store—coming to a Netflix near you.
“I admit, fitting everything into a tiny dorm room is going to be a challenge.” Porsha paused at a shelf filled with clear plastic boxes and bins of every shape and color. She ran her hands over a huge set of colorful stackable drawers, opening each drawer one by one. “But I had the Yale housing office fax me a floor plan this morning. If we loft my roommate’s bed way up close to the ceiling, we should have just enough space for a double bed and a dresser and maybe even a small love seat.”
Upper East Side #11 Page 14
