In Too Deep (15 page)

“I guess,” Phoebe said morosely, more depressed than ever. “I mean, I look at my own parents and I
know
that they must’ve been happy once, right?” Phoebe took a deep breath and went on before Jared could begin to speak. She felt like if she didn’t keep talking, she’d probably just explode all over the macramé wall hangings, making the hideous décor even uglier. “They must’ve been in love at some point—and if they were then where did that love
go
?” Phoebe dropped her head to the table, resting it on her forearms. “Ugh. I sound like a bad pop song,” she said with a moan.

Jared laughed, reaching across the table and placing his hand on her arm. At the touch of his warm skin on hers Phoebe sat up as if she’d been scalded by a cup of hot water, pulling her arm away from him for the second time. Phoebe looked out the window at the passersby: a woman in a ranch mink jacket strolled by, a dachshund puppy wearing a Burberry sweater tucked beneath one arm. Steam swirled out of the sewer grates at the curb and into the rapidly darkening gray October sky. For reasons she couldn’t explain to Jared, and certainly not to herself, she felt her eyes beginning to well up with tears. Why couldn’t she just have a normal family—one that ate dinner together every night and actually asked each other questions about their day? Why couldn’t she have a family that really loved each other in a way that was both true and permanent? Phoebe knew down deep in her heart that she’d trade it all—the luxury apartment, the money, her endless collection of bags and shoes—for a family life that didn’t make her want to cry every day, for parents who still loved each other. Every time she walked through the front door of her apartment, it was like walking into prison. The tension in the air was so incredibly thick that she tiptoed around on eggshells, never sure when her parents would begin fighting again. The death knell of their soured relationship hung solidly in the air like thunder before a heavy rainstorm—and it filled the apartment and her life with the most horrible sense of expectation. It wasn’t that Phoebe necessarily
wanted
her parents to get divorced, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she and Bijoux could keep living this way. As much as she hated the idea of her family splitting up, sometimes the thought of being able to live without the constant fighting didn’t sound like such a bad idea . . .

“It just makes me wonder,” Phoebe went on, blinking back the tears, her eyelashes slapping against the skin of her cheeks, her arm still tingling from where he’d touched her, “can
anyone
live happily ever after anymore without cheating?” She looked up, her eyes meeting Jared’s level gaze, and held her breath, goose bumps popping up all over her body.

“I think I could,” Jared said softly, his blue eyes never leaving hers. “With someone like you.”

Phoebe’s mouth fell slightly open, and she closed it in a hurry, trying to hide the shocked expression that must’ve been all over her face. Jared reached across the table determinedly, taking her hand in his own again, and holding on firmly, his fingers sliding down to wrap around her bare wrist.

“Meet me tomorrow night at midnight in the entertainment lounge,” he whispered, his eyes locking on hers with an intensity that scared and thrilled her all at once. She felt hypnotized as she nodded wordlessly, watching in slow motion as he pulled her to him across the table. Before Phoebe knew what she was doing, she was on her feet and leaning forward, her lips touching his with a shock of surprising softness—right in the middle of a hideous coffee shop on Ninety-sixth and Park. As she closed her eyes and finally surrendered, she didn’t care who saw them together, stretched across the red vinyl booth—she was lost in the warmth of his kiss and the strength of the hand that held her captive. And, captive or not, all Phoebe knew was that she never wanted to get away—even if it made her feel uncomfortably close to becoming her own cheating, philandering mother, even if it meant sneaking around for the whole rest of her life.

Even if it meant betraying her best friend.

grandmotherly advice

“Casey Anne, I know it’s been a bad day when I see
you digging into the ice cream
right
after dinner,” Nanna cackled, as she loaded their dinner dishes into the dishwasher, and switched it on with a loud rumble that filled the room with ambient noise.

Casey sighed, looking around Nanna’s comfortable gray and white kitchen, at the white rag rug on the floor, the gray linoleum, and the chipped white kitchen cabinets with their tarnished brass knobs. Nanna’s kitchen definitely wasn’t as luxurious as the lavish restaurant-style spaces that most of the residents of The Bramford installed, but, then again, Nanna wasn’t exactly rich either. The first time Casey had remarked on the difference between Nanna’s kitchen and Sophie’s, Nanna had emitted a loud snort. “Those are kitchens wasted on people who don’t even know how to cook! Fancy marble countertops and hulking stainless steel refrigerators—for what? So they can order take-out every night,
that’s
what!” Nanna yelled triumphantly, smacking her hand down on her own granite countertop for added emphasis.

Nanna and Casey’s grandfather had gotten into The Bram back when it was relatively reasonable—and the fact that their apartment was quickly rent stabilized didn’t hurt either . . . When Casey’s grandfather passed away a few years ago, Nanna had decided to stay on. “New York is my life,” she was fond of stating defiantly. “And The Bram is my home—you’ll have to drag me out of here in a box.” So far, anyway, Casey’s family knew better than to even try.

“It wasn’t a
bad
day exactly,” Casey said, digging a spoon into a rock-hard pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. She hated cherries, but right now she’d probably eat her own arm if it were smothered in chocolate. “More like an unqualified disaster.”

Nanna halted wiping the kitchen counter with a sponge to shoot Casey an annoyed look. “You sound like the spitting image of your mother with all that fancy-pants talk!”

Casey’s mother, Barbara McCloy, was a professor of Women’s Studies back at Illinois State, who was currently on sabbatical for a year, probably at this moment flitting around London and pretending to be an academic. From what Casey could tell, Barbara spent all her time at fancy teahouses and pubs—and a limited amount of time in the library, where she was
supposed
to be researching a book on the history of women and gossip to be published sometime next year by Seal Press. As her mother was a militant feminist who rarely bought new clothes and instead gave Casey endless amounts of grief about hers, the last thing she wanted was to remind anyone of Barbara . . .

“Since I haven’t talked to my mother in weeks, it’s probably the fancy-pants school I’m attending,” Casey said dejectedly, scraping a thin layer of ice cream off the top of the container and sliding the spoon into her mouth. “Soon I won’t even sound like a normal person.”

“Casey, honey,” Nanna said, turning around, the choker-length strand of pearls she always wore matching the luster of her silver hair perfectly. “I hate to break it to you, but you never really
did
.”

“I know.” Casey moaned, her mouth full of rapidly melting ice cream. “Thanks for pointing that out, Nanna.”

Nanna sat down at the kitchen table, running her hand over the bleached pine surface that was nicked and scarred from years of use, and took her gold bifocals from a pearl chain around her neck and slid them over her nose. Nanna didn’t ever believe in “comfortable” clothes or in dressing down, which explained her perfectly pressed wool trousers and white cashmere turtleneck. As always, a beloved pair of black Chanel ballet flats adorned her tiny feet.
Those flats are probably older than I am
, Casey thought with a smile. Although Nanna could often be a royal pain in the ass—especially when she refused to wear her hearing aid—she was, far and away, Casey’s favorite family member. Not that it was a difficult honor to obtain or anything, considering that her mom called once every two weeks—if that—from London, and her dad, having recently been fired from a dotcom in Seattle, called even less frequently. And even when he did manage to pick up the phone, their conversations had lately been reduced to such scintillating topics as the weather, and the state of New York post-Giuliani.

Casey stuck her spoon into the ice cream, moved over to the kitchen table, and sat down beside Nanna, placing the container between them and offering Nanna the spoon.

“So, what’s going on in the glamorous world of Upper East Side infighting?” Nanna asked, a smirk lighting up her soft, deeply lined face. “And what’s happened to your
hair
?” Nanna asked, melodramatic horror animating her voice as she reached out and smoothed a strand of Casey’s already-smooth locks.

“Madison took me to get it straightened,” Casey said defensively, reaching up to pet her own head. Every time she went to bed at night she still worried that somehow, when she awoke the next morning, the curls she detested so much would be back to torture her—like a monster in a fairy tale. “Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s . . . fine,” Nanna said cautiously, peering closer. “But, Casey, honey—do you think it’s really
you
?”

“Who knows?” Casey sighed. “At least I don’t have to spend two hours in the bathroom every morning trying to make myself presentable anymore.”

“Thank God for
that
,” Nanna said dryly, a twinkle enlivening her blue eyes. “Now, let’s get back to the gossip!” She rubbed her papery hands together in undisguised anticipation.

“Well—you know that guy Drew who I’ve been hanging out with?” Casey said slowly, her hair momentarily forgotten.

“Is
that
what you kids call it these days?” Nanna snorted, sticking the spoon into the ice cream and pulling out a huge chunk. “In my day it was called
dating
,” she said, popping the ice cream into her mouth and closing her eyes as it melted. “Or keeping company.”

Casey giggled, licking vanilla ice cream off her freckled hand. “No offense, Nanna, but your day was like a million years ago.”

“Don’t I know it, honey,” Nanna said, sighing dramatically before passing the spoon to Casey. “So, did this young man do something stupid?”

“Not exactly.” Casey plunged the spoon back into the ice cream, waiting for it to soften up a bit more. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ve got all night,” Nanna said, prying off another chunk of ice cream and putting it in her mouth with a smack of her lips. “Since Arthur canceled our date, I’m a free agent.” Arthur was a retired Navy captain that Nanna had been seeing for about a month—almost as long as she’d been with Drew.

Casey pulled her bare knees up to her chest, resting her feet on the seat of the wooden chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Well, Drew has this ex-girlfriend, Madison.”

“You mean Madison Macallister?” Nanna inquired, swallowing hard. “The same Madison Macallister who lives directly above us in the penthouse?”

“The
very
same,” Casey said dryly, exhaling loudly. “And I think he still likes her. I was over at his place today helping him with this film he’s making about rich kids on the Upper East Side, and he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her—even when I left the room and didn’t come back.”

“It sounds to me like this Drew character might just be the kind of boy who can’t keep what he really wants straight,” Nanna said, poking a large-knuckled finger into Casey’s knee intermittently for emphasis.

“I guess not,” Casey said, wrapping her hand around her Nanna’s. Her grandmother’s hands were something that she had always loved. Holding them made her feel like a child again, sitting on Nanna’s lap and playing with the larger veins that stood up in relief under her weathered skin. Grabbing a hold of her Nanna’s hands now made her feel so much better—better than the cherry and vanilla ice-cream madness she had been shoving down her throat. “I think he thinks he wants me, but at the same time, he thinks he’s supposed to want Madison. Or at least that’s what everyone
else
thinks,” Casey continued, her brain so overworked by all the thinking about Drew thinking about thinking that she felt it would surely explode.

“Well, I’ll tell you what
I
think,” Nanna said, squeezing Casey’s hand with a strong, reassuring grip that belied the age and wear of her joints. “I think that this boy needs to be taught a lesson; needs to be shown a bit of humility. He needs to know that you know that he’s not the
only
rich, young, smart, attractive and eligible young man on the Upper East Side.”

“And how would I go about doing that? Based on what I know of the Meadowlark student body and the price of an iced soy milk latte at the coffee kiosk,” Casey said throwing her arms into the air, the panic of her voice making her gestures seem just
that
much wilder, “I don’t think there’s
anyone
who’s not
worth
dating around here, so to speak. Except for me, that is. So what am I supposed to do?”

Nanna laughed around the silver spoon that was carrying a decidedly ungrandmother-sized bite of ice cream into her small, rose-colored, grandmother-sized mouth. “Aren’t you going to some fancy shindig next weekend?”

“I have no idea what a ‘shindig’ might be,” Casey said with faux confusion. “I’m going to Sophie’s sweet sixteen on Saturday—but that’s a whole other problem. Did I tell you that it’s going to be part of that show
My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen
?”

“My spoiled . . .
what
?” Nanna mumbled, her mouth full of ice cream.

“You are
such
an ice-cream hog,” Casey said, prying the spoon from Nanna’s hand.

Nanna patted her tiny, round stomach, grinning widely. “How
else
do you expect me to keep my girlish figure?”

Casey rolled her eyes, digging her spoon into the half-empty pint, holding the rapidly melting ice cream poised before her open mouth. “So,
My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen
is this reality show on the Pulse Network where a TV crew follows around a bunch of ridiculously overprivileged socialites as they plan their sweet sixteen parties.”