In Too Deep (12 page)

skyrockets and flight

Phoebe Reynaud walked along Eight y- third Street, me
- andering destinationless around the Upper East Side the way she always did when she needed time alone to think. And actually getting some alone time hadn’t been exactly difficult today, as Madison and Casey had been scooped up by Edie in her silver Mercedes coupe directly after school let out, and, after a few air kisses in Phoebe’s general direction, Sophie had run off for another appointment with her party planner, leaving Phoebe standing on the pavement, antsy, restless, and in no mood to call her dad’s car service.

Things with Jared were definitely heating up, and she felt powerless to stop it from happening. After that afternoon in the park, she swore that she was never going to see him again—but later that night when he texted her, she found herself answering back, and the night passed in a flurry of flirtatious, sexy text messages that made her blush just remembering them. Even though it was exciting, Phoebe didn’t feel right sneaking around—it made her feel too much like her mother, and right now, there was no one on the planet that she wanted to imitate less than Madeline Reynaud.

As she passed by the window of the new Pinkberry store, she suddenly developed a massive craving for green tea frozen yogurt, and her stomach began to growl softly in the most annoying way possible. Subsisting all day on a few bites of raw tuna was totally exhausting—what she really needed was a small dish of frozen yogurt, with some fresh raspberries on top . . . Five minutes later she was back on the street, cup in hand, her spoon digging into the sweet creamy treat as she walked down the street, the darkness of her mood lifting slightly as the yogurt melted in her mouth, leaving only the acidic, slightly herbal taste of fresh berries and green tea behind.

As she crossed onto Ninety-first Street, Phoebe noticed a familiar figure walking up ahead, her black Jimmy Choo pumps clicking authoritatively on the pavement, a black John Galliano wool cape trimmed in white fox fur swirling around her slim frame. Her head was bent forward, her dark hair pulled back in a twist, a silver cell phone pressed to her ear. Phoebe squinted her eyes, pulling off her sunglasses for a better look, and tossed her half-eaten fro-yo into a metal garbage can at the curb. What was her mother doing down here at this hour? She usually spent every Thursday afternoon at her aerobics class—or so Phoebe had previously thought.

Ever since she’d found those love letters and pictures in Madeline’s closet, Phoebe had avoided her mother as much as humanly possible, spending as much time out of the apartment as she could. Even when she was home, Phoebe preferred to camp out in Bijoux’s room rather than have to engage in some forced conversation with her parents—or listen to them fighting, which happened more and more lately. Phoebe’s pulse quickened as she realized that Madeline had no idea she was behind her, that this was the perfect opportunity to follow her and find out just who this guy coming so disastrously in between her parents really was.

Madeline’s cape swirled around her in a sudden breeze that sent a mass of dried leaves falling to the ground in a rush of orange and brown, and she stopped in front of the Excelsior Grand Hotel, the doorman in his red and gold jacket and cap opening the door for her before she disappeared inside, snapping her cell phone shut in one gloved hand. Phoebe stood at the curb and counted to fifty slowly in her head before approaching the hotel entrance, smiling widely at the doorman as he held open the heavy, ornate door while she slipped inside. The décor of the lobby was strictly Upper East Side chic, which in laymen’s terms meant totally boring, with lots of tall, potted palms everywhere, and overstuffed couches and chairs in the lounge area upholstered in creamy shades of bronze and taupe. Phoebe’s dark eyes swept the room, searching for the mother’s swirling black cape, her heart falling dejectedly as her ears rang with the sound of the elevator doors closing at the far end of the lobby.

Phoebe walked over to the lounge area and sat down on a puffy, beige chair placed strategically behind the green fronds of a potted palm, and slid her sunglasses over her face for good measure. There was no way she could’ve followed Madeline into the elevator anyway, she told herself. And besides, even if she had somehow managed to trail Madeline to her room without being discovered, she knew that she wouldn’t have been able to bring herself to knock on the door. As curious as Phoebe was, she didn’t want to confront her mother until she knew more—and certainly not in public. As far as Phoebe knew there was only one way in—or out. Madeline would have to come down sometime. And when she did—preferably with her man in tow—Phoebe would be waiting for her.

Two hours later, Phoebe was totally bored and had exhausted all her entertainment, including her French homework and several rounds of Spot the Prostitute. She closed her French work-book and stretched her arms over her head, yawning loudly as the elevator doors opened with the chiming of bells, and she saw her mother begin to walk through the lobby arm-in-arm with a tall man in jeans and a brown leather jacket, wearing a dark blue fedora that partially obscured his face. Phoebe sank back in her chair and peered through the palm fronds, her heart pounding. Even though the hat blocked most of his face, Phoebe could see enough of it to know for sure that it was the same guy from the picture—for one thing, he had a salt-and-pepper beard.

Phoebe watched awestruck as her mother threw her head back and giggled at something the man whispered in her ear. Phoebe couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother laugh at something her father said, and she started to get a hollow feeling in her chest as she watched her mother—obviously so happy—in the arms of another man.

As they approached the front door, the man removed his hat and leaned in for a kiss. As his lips touched Madeline’s and they both closed their eyes, Phoebe craned her neck to get a better look, balancing her elbows precariously on the slippery wood of a polished side table. What she saw made her reel back in her chair in shock. The man kissing her mother, making her laugh, meeting her in hotels in the afternoon, sending her love letters, was none other than Drew’s father, Robert Van Allen. “Holy shit,” Phoebe whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth, suddenly terrified that Madeline would somehow sense her presence and turn around. Luckily for Phoebe, lovers were nothing if not oblivious—and her mother was clearly no exception as she walked out the front door of the hotel with Drew’s father, never once giving the lobby, the hotel, or anyone in it, a second glance.

Phoebe sank back in her chair, her thoughts spinning. Not only was she sneaking around behind Sophie’s back with Jared, now her mother was sneaking around with Drew’s dad, of all people. What were the odds? The Upper East Side had to be the most incestuous zip code on the entire planet! She thought that when she finally found out who her mother was seeing, that she’d somehow magically know what to do next. But as she slung her quilted Chanel tote over her shoulder and stood up, Phoebe Reynaud felt the room tilt dizzily before her eyes. As she walked out the revolving door of the hotel, turning around and around in the circular glass portal, Phoebe knew that it wasn’t just the wildly spinning door that was making her feel more turned around than ever before . . .

female bonding

“Just a bit off the top, darling—I don’t want to get
scalped,” Edie murmured as she stared at her own image reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that covered the walls of the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon. “Bald is
not
a good look for me,” she added, patting her chin-length blond bob with one hand.

“Like you would know,” Madison snorted from the next chair, her head a mass of silver foils. With the silver tinfoil sticking out of her head, and her slightly smudged eyeliner, Casey realized that this was the only time since she’d met her a month ago that she’d ever seen the teen dream looking less than perfect. It almost made her want to do totally girly things with Mad—like have a sleepover, try on each other’s clothes, and let down her guard completely so she could confide all her worries about Drew.
Almost
.

“Darling,” Edie continued, totally oblivious to Madison’s sarcasm, “strange things happened in the seventies, you know. And I was there,” she said dreamily as the black-clad stylist standing behind her began to separate her hair into sections with the pointy end of a steel comb. “We all were,” she added, raising a glass of white wine to her lips and draining it in one thirsty gulp.

O . . . kay . . .
Casey thought, catching Madison’s eye in the mirror. Madison rolled her eyes and shot Casey a “what the fuck” expression that was so totally what Casey had been thinking that they both cracked up at the same time, shoulders shaking.

“Stop moving,” Madison’s stylist hissed as she affixed the last piece of silver foil in place with a hard pat to Mad’s platinum blond head. “Do you want your highlights to be crooked?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Madison asked sweetly. “Do you want to get paid?” The stylist, her own hair twisted into a blond French twist, gave Madison a hard, tight smile to match her hairdo. Madison simply ignored her, sipping slowly at her own glass of white wine and inspecting her face in the mirror.

“God, I look like a wreck,” she moaned, swiping at the smudged liner with two long fingers. “I am so not ready for this test shoot tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”
Casey asked with surprise. Wow—when fame beckoned, it certainly moved at the speed of light. Casey couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have people that excited about her—and as much as she hated it, she couldn’t help feeling a little jealous of Madison’s endless good fortune. Why did amazing things always happen to people who already had everything they could ever want or need? “Don’t you have to talk to Edie first?”

“Technically”—Madison sighed—“I need to show her the contract and get her permission and all that.” Madison frowned into the mirror, clearly finding the prospect of doing so less than thrilling. “I’ll just do it later on after she’s had her tenth drink and fourth Valium of the day,” she said bitterly, looking down at her lap, which was covered by a silver vinyl cape.

It was at times like these that Casey caught glimpses of exactly who the girl behind the perfect Upper East Side veneer really was—and as much as Madison wanted people to believe that she had it all, Casey knew that in reality, Madison was strangely, inexplicably sad, and very lonely. At moments like these, Casey wanted more than ever to become Madison’s real friend—when she was vulnerable, when her guard was let down even for just a second, Casey caught a glimpse of the real person behind Madison’s carefully constructed façade and wanted, more than anything, to know her. Casey snapped out of her thoughts as French twist girl came up behind her, holding strands of Casey’s unruly blond curls between her fingers.

“Now, what are we going to do with
you
?” she inquired coolly, looking at Casey’s hair like it was infested with bugs. “Do you
like
your hair this curly?”

“Uh,
no
,” Casey deadpanned, looking at the stylist like she’d gone completely insane. “But it’s not like I’ve really got a choice.”

“I can chemically straighten it for you if you want,” the stylist said offhandedly as she attempted to get a metal comb through a mass of snarls in the back of Casey’s head, giving up after a few seconds and throwing the comb on her station exasperatedly. “Should last anywhere from four to six months.”

Casey’s mouth fell open as she stared at the stylist uncomprehendingly. Chemical straightening? Why had she never heard of this? “Let me get this straight,” she started slowly, “you can give me straight hair? Like straight straight? Straight like
hers
?” she finished, pointing at Madison who was giggling softly from behind the latest issue of
In Touch
.

“Well, not
exactly
like hers,” the stylist answered, “I mean it won’t be platinum, but, yeah, I can straighten it—if that’s what you
want
.”

“Yes!” Casey shouted a little too loudly, her face turning red as most of the salon turned around to stare at her. “That’s what I want,” she added more quietly, turning to Madison. “Did you know they could do this?”

“Duh,” Mad said, engrossed in a story about Posh and Becks keeping separate bedrooms. “Everybody knows about straightening—how do you think Phoebe’s hair looks so good?” she added triumphantly. “But, truthfully, her hair is really more wavy than curly—she just likes to have it ultra-smooth. She doesn’t do it very often—but you certainly will.
Your
hair is like corkscrew central,” she said with a smile, turning the glossy page, the huge emerald ring on her left hand sparkling in the light.

“But not for long,” Casey whispered under her breath as the stylist left to mix up the straightening solution. She couldn’t quite believe it: She was finally going to have the one thing she’d wanted more than anything for her entire life, the thing she thought was totally unattainable—completely straight hair. And when Drew saw her, hopefully she’d look so amazing that he’d forget all about Madison and her glamorous career. There was nothing like a makeover to make a boy pay strict attention, and Casey planned on looking so good that Drew wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of her—not even for a second . . .

model behavior

“Tha t ’s it, love. Cock your hip for me and give me those
killer eyes . . .”

Sam Wise flew around the huge loft with the grace of a crazed jackrabbit as he leaped and jumped before the dazed-looking model posed before a glaring white backdrop, her straw-colored hair falling over one eye, her hand on her hip as she stared into the lens with an expression that suggested that she’d rather be home cutting her cuticles than standing in front of the camera swathed in designer loot. The model was a walking exercise in jadedness—as far as Madison could tell, she’d spent the majority of the shoot so far trying to look as bored as possible as the flash exploded in her face, giving her the expression of a startled deer.