The Carlyles (10 page)

Papa Don’t Preach

Jack sat in a low-slung booth at the Star Lounge in the trendy Tribeca Star Hotel. Even though it was only five o’clock and outside the cobblestone streets were filled with shoppers enjoying the warm afternoon, in here it was dark, with candlelight flickering off the rich oak walls. Jack loved lounges when they were empty; she sort of felt like Mata Hari or some other glamorous spy. She needed the escape from her life, where her father was ignoring her phone calls and it appeared more and more likely she’d have to apply for financial aid for college.

Quelle horrible!

She pulled out a compact and looked at herself critically. Last night, she had been forced to spend her first night in her new room in the garret. She’d slept in a tiny twin bed and had woken up in a pool of sweat because there was no air-conditioning, and the exhaustion showed. She’d liberally applied Crème de la Mer eye cream twice today, but she still had large bags gathering under her eyes.

How very pre-guillotine Marie Antoinette.

Jiffy, Sarah Jane, and Genevieve were supposed to meet her, but they had all gone home after school to change. Jack knew there was no way in hell she was actually going home for anything other than sleeping, so she had packed a simple, wrinkle-resistant Stella McCartney sheath dress in her giant royal blue Balenciaga city bag. The satchel also housed her dance clothes from her pointe class this morning, where she’d used her anger to absolutely nail her arabesques. She’d changed in the locker room at school, feeling like a total fucking nomad, and had just arrived at the bar determined to get very, very drunk.

She nodded at the twentysomething waiter. His curly black hair fell over his eyes.

“Another Grey Goose and tonic,” she demanded, batting her eyelashes. He hadn’t carded her before, so it was unlikely he’d card her on her second round.

“Rough day?” he asked knowingly, handing her the drink. Jack nodded noncommittally. A Euro-trashy couple at the other end of the bar were conversing loudly in heavily accented English about whose fault it was that they had gotten themselves kicked out of Pink Elephant the night before.

As Jack idly listened to the couple argue and ignored the waiter watching her, Genevieve, Jiffy, and Sarah Jane burst in, giggling and looking ridiculously dressed up for five o’clock in the afternoon.

“Did you get one of these?” Genevieve handed Jack a white card as she sat down. “I’ll have a split of Veuve,” she said without looking at the shaggy-haired waiter. “In L.A., Breck and I would always stop at the Chateau Marmont for afternoon champagne,” she announced to no one in particular. The waiter quickly stood up and took their drink orders. Jack studied the thick cardstock that Genevieve had handed to her.

COME AND FIND OUT WHAT CONSTANCE MEANS TO ME.

A TEA PARTY TO DISCUSS OUR FUTURE. ADD HONEY AND STIR!

“Yeah,” Jack lied. Didn’t Avery realize what a major mistake it had been to exclude her? “But are you seriously going? Come on. A tea party?”

“Didn’t you think the teacups were cute?” Jiffy asked. “I’d like to go. See what the competition is like.”

Jack frowned. “Avery Carlyle is
not
competition,” she reminded Jiffy primly as she examined the homemade calligraphy. “Besides, it’s not even a real party.” Jack took a large gulp of her drink and gestured for another round. She already felt a little tipsy.

“So why not go?” Sarah Jane said suddenly, as if she’d just had a brilliant idea. Her Prada glasses were poised primly on her nose, and she wore a low-cut black Tory Burch tunic that barely covered her behind, clearly going for the sexy-smart look. She took the card out of Jack’s hands and studied it. “It’s at their grandmother’s town house. My mom says it’s supposed to be spectacular.”

“I have a better idea,” Jack said quickly. There was no way in hell she wanted to see Avery’s grandmother’s
spectacular
town house, which would only remind her of her newfound destitution. “Why don’t we just go out? It’s the second night of school, it’s not like we have anything important to do tomorrow,” she reminded them.

“Sounds fine to me,” Genevieve shrugged. “Honestly, Avery’s tea party sounds pretty boring.”

“Exactly. Who the hell wants to drink tea?” Jack took another swig of her drink, feeling her old confidence come back. She always got what she wanted.

Well,
almost
always.

“Should we pre-party at your place?” Genevieve asked.

“No!” Jack cried instinctively. Last year, the best part of the evenings had usually been getting ready in her sprawling bedroom. They would put on her iPod and dance around to old-school Madonna and other cheesy music they would all die if anyone found out they actually listened to. They’d drink champagne, take ridiculous pictures of one another, and try on different outfits from Jack’s walk-in closet. Jack had always thought it was kind of immature, but now, she’d do anything to go back to the way it used to be. “I mean . . .” Jack hesitated for a second. “We’re renovating.”

“Really?” Jiffy’s eyes widened.

“Okay, that all makes sense now.” Genevieve nodded pointedly to Sarah Jane, who nodded in agreement.

“What?” Jack asked defensively.

“Oh, we just thought we saw a truck outside your house yesterday. It must have been the renovators?” Sarah Jane asked as she swirled the lime in her drink.

“Yeah,” Jack said, relieved. “It sucks. Basically, we’re gutting the whole bottom floor and we’re staying in the attic.”

“Why don’t you stay in a suite at the Regency or something?”

“You know my mom,” Jack sighed, as if that explained everything, even though Jack made it a priority to keep her mother as far away from her friends as possible. “She wants to be on the premises to make sure the decorators don’t fuck up.”

“I guess we can get ready at my place,” Genevieve sighed dramatically. She lived in a modest two-bedroom on Fiftieth and Third with her mom. It was positively tiny compared to Jack’s town house, and Genevieve constantly bitched about it, reminding them that her mother was an actress, even though she was just a former soap star now starring in a weird avant-garde musical downtown.

“Okay.” Jack motioned to their waiter. Everything had begun to feel deliciously fuzzy. She would go over to J.P.’s after a night of dancing with the girls and maybe something—
it
—would finally happen. “Another Grey Goose and tonic,” she enunciated carefully as the waiter approached. It wasn’t like she was drunk or anything.

Of course not.

“And the check as well,” Jack directed steadily. She pulled her black AmEx out of her Gucci wallet.

“Right away,” the waiter said, turning on his heel with the card in his hand. Almost instantaneously, he came back.

“Your card was declined.” He handed it back to her. Jack was speechless. She felt Genevieve’s questioning stare bore into her.

“I’ll get it.” Jiffy mercifully pulled her own black AmEx from her green and white Kate Spade bag. Despite her Little-Bo-Peep-goes-on-a-picnic purse, Jack felt like hugging her.

“I was using a different card in Paris. I guess there was a freeze on it or something,” Jack lied, her heart pounding. First her dad took her home away and now this? Was she seriously cut off?

“So, where are we going to go? Can we start at Tenjune?” Jiffy asked, naming an obvious club in the Meatpacking District.

“You know, I actually don’t want to go out anymore,” Jack said suddenly. “I haven an early ballet class tomorrow. But you guys should have fun.”

“But it’s so early now,” Genevieve whined.

Jack didn’t bother to give any more explanation. She burst out of the hotel and walked quickly over to Houston to find a cab. The air was hot and sticky and an MTA bus drove by, blowing a cloud of exhaust on her tanned knees. Her Stella McCartney dress billowed upward. Oh God. Could she even
afford
a cab? She felt dizzy and emotional and very, very drunk. She pulled some crumpled singles from her voluminous blue leather bag, knowing they wouldn’t be enough.

She spotted a subway entrance and wobbled over, marveling at all the different letters and numbers. The green 6 looked familiar. Didn’t that go to the Upper East Side?

She followed a horde of people onto the green line, pretending not to study the map of the stops above her as one guy kept stepping on her foot with his loafer. Finally, after countless stops riding alongside a mariachi band, Jack got off at Fifty-first Street. She hurriedly walked up to the imposing Citigroup building on Fifty-third and Park, where her father’s office was. The sun was beginning to set, and it reflected in blues and oranges off the skyscraper’s modern steel and chrome tower. The last time Jack had been inside was when she was eleven.

Men and women in crisp business suits hustled through the enormous lobby, and Jack immediately felt out of place in her cocktail dress and blue Balenciaga school bag. “I’m Jacqueline Laurent. My father works on the twenty-second floor. Emerging markets,” she rattled off quickly to the large, white-haired man sitting behind a security desk. He quickly picked up an office phone.

“Go on up,” the man replied in a thick Bronx accent. Jack walked into the silver elevator, knowing that she had to control her temper. She focused on the weather report playing on the elevator’s small TV screen. Tonight would be pleasant, with a chance of a storm.

Just like someone we know.

When she got off on the twenty-second floor, a skinny woman with eyebrows tattooed several inches above her eyes was waiting for her.

“Good evening,” the woman said curtly, motioning Jack to follow her into the large office in the corner.

“Jacqueline!” her father announced. He stood up from behind his heavy oak desk and clasped both of her hands with his, but didn’t embrace her. Jack looked down at his shock of white hair. She wasn’t sure when she had grown taller than her father. He sort of looked like a pudgy Santa Claus rather than a high-powered business executive and former government official.

She smiled, trying not to appear drunk. All this was probably a silly mistake. Maybe her father was trying, in some warped, clueless guy way, to woo Vivienne back—and Jack, her nice canopy bed, and black AmEx card were just caught in the crossfire.

Sure, that seems likely.

“You haven’t answered my calls.” Her father gestured for her to sit down, and Jack eased into one of the black leather chairs that faced the enormous plate glass windows overlooking Park Avenue.

“You didn’t answer my calls, either, Daddy,” she said calmly. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and gave him a helpless, lost-puppy look with her big green eyes.

“Your mother didn’t tell you what we decided,” Charles stated. He walked to a silver coffee service on the opposite side of the room. “Coffee?”

Jack shook her head, seething. This wasn’t a casual coffee date. This was her
future.
“Why doesn’t my credit card work?” she blurted.

“Why did you leave Paris early?” Charles countered calmly. He poured himself tea in a white porcelain cup, and Jack was suddenly reminded of Avery’s stupid party. He took the chair next to Jack’s. His intelligent eyes searched her face for answers.

“I . . .” Jack paused. “I wanted to make sure I had time to get back in shape before the internship program. I wanted to get every-thing in order.” Her voice wavered as she lied.

“To get everything in order in the Hamptons?” Charles stated flatly.

Jack blushed. Well, so what? Did she deserve such a brutal punishment? She’d had to take the
subway
for God’s sake!

Mother Teresa in the making.

Charles stood up and placed his teacup on the desk with a clatter. “Jacqueline, I’m doing this for your own good. I loved your mother very much. I don’t want you to become like her. I want you to know the value of hard work. Until you prove to me that you can handle responsibility and follow through on commitments, I am not financing your lifestyle. I will pay for school and that’s it. But not ballet. If you loved ballet as much as your mother thinks you do, then you would have stayed in Paris and finished your course.” He smiled and sat down behind the desk again, as if his tough-love speech made up for his absentee parenting.

Jack felt like she’d been slapped. Small tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she noticed the chip in her maroon nail polish. Her dad
couldn’t
just cut her off, could he?

Actually, he just did.

“What about the house?” Jack bleated, not caring how desperate she sounded. Let his two assistants and gaggle of suited minions hear her bawl. Maybe
they’d
take pity on her.

Charles regarded Jack and his face softened momentarily. “I had to get rid of it. It was a huge money drain, and honestly, you and your mother don’t need all that space. Of course, you could come live with me and Rebecca and the girls,” he offered. “I would love to have you in our family.” Jack shook her head wordlessly. Rebecca was only eight years older than she was. Besides, she couldn’t just desert her mother. Vivienne would be a mess. She already was a mess.

“I will chalk up the Paris experiment as a foolish mistake if you show me you’re responsible,” Charles continued, as if he were hammering out a diplomatic negotiation with a particularly belligerent and not especially powerful country. “If you can do that, I’ll be happy to support you and your endeavors. Can you do that, Jacqueline?”

Jack
had
to continue ballet. On the slick black stage of Lincoln Center, or on the shiny wood floors of the rehearsal studio, she felt free in a way she wasn’t in any other aspect of her life. Ballet made her special, it made her beautiful, it gave her an edge. It made her Jack, not Jacqueline. She locked eyes with her father.

“I have a leadership position at school,” Jack countered. What was it called again? “I’m the . . . student liaison to the board of overseers.” Or she would be in a few days. She gave Charles a
so there
stare.