The Carlyles (11 page)

“Good!” He clapped his hands together as if this were a cause for celebration.

All that’s missing is the champagne. Oops, she already drank that.

“And when did you begin this?” Charles studied the calendar on the side of his desk.

“Next week.” She stood in front of the desk like the picture-perfect ballerina she was, her spine ramrod straight.

“So, you haven’t officially begun yet?” Charles ventured. He settled one butt cheek on the side of his desk and furrowed his white eyebrows.

“They officially announce it Sunday. At some mother-daughter brunch at Tavern on the Green.”

“I’ll come,” Charles announced gallantly.

“But you’re not my
mother
,” Jack pointed out. Not only was he going to ruin her life, he wanted to embarrass her at a school function?

“Who’s paying your tuition?” Charles asked evenly. “Besides, it doesn’t sound like something Vivienne would attend. It’s time someone took a real interest in your future, Jacqueline.”

“My
future
is ballet,” Jack reminded her dad through gritted teeth.

“Well, if you’re serious about ballet, then you’ll prove you are responsible and I’ll write the check. Are we clear?”

Jack nodded, too angry to speak. She couldn’t believe the key to her entire future was in her father’s brown leather Christian Lacroix wallet—and in the hands of her Constance classmates. If he didn’t pay for dance tuition, she’d have to apply for a scholarship, and there was no way in hell the internship program director, Mikhail Turneyev or Turnmeoff or whatever the fuck his name was, would
ever
give her one.

She huffed out of her dad’s office, past his skinny bitch of a secretary, who was hovering outside the door listening. She whipped out her cell phone and speed-dialed J.P.’s number, but the phone went straight to voice mail. She was about to blabber on about everything that happened, about how she was officially poor and would probably have to eat totally fattening ramen noodles to survive, and to call her back right away, but then she paused. He’d hate her for being so pathetic. He’d hate her for being poor.

“Hey, it’s me. . . . Just give me a call,” Jack said simply after the beep. She snapped her phone closed, set her shoulders back, and elongated her neck.
Perfect,
she repeated silently to herself.
Perfect.

Here’s to the power of positive thinking.

Tainted Love

Home from a ten-mile run after practice, Owen peeled off his sweat-sticky Nantucket Pirates shirt and flung it over the new leather club chair that had appeared in the entranceway. He noticed a new low-slung white linen couch and chairs where the flea-ridden orange couch used to be. It was empty, save for a weird, metallic-looking pillow. Back in Nantucket, even though they’d lived on an acre of land, every night they’d always gathered in the comfortable sunken living room to eat chocolate kisses and share gossip-worthy nuggets of one another’s days.

There are plenty of other girls who’d be happy to share kisses with him!

As Owen made his way to his bedroom, the doorbell rang. “I’ve got it!” he yelled, in case anyone was home. Back in Nantucket, people who came to the door often ended up living with them. One couple, Leon and Gary, had stopped by to ask for directions and had ended up moving in for six months, until they’d decided to move to Amsterdam to cultivate a tulip farm. They still sent four pairs of wooden clogs every Christmas.

“Okay, honey,” Edie yelled back, and Owen could hear the faint sounds of Buddhist chanting from behind the closed doors of her studio.

Owen made his way to the foyer, not bothering to put on a shirt. It was probably just Rhys, there to drop off another Speedo or whatever.

He flung open the door and sucked in his breath. The ethereal, blue-eyed goddess of his semi-pornographic dreams was standing directly in front of him.
Kat.

Doesn’t he mean Kelsey?

They stared at each other for a long, silent moment.

“Hey,” she finally said, breaking the silence. “I heard you were living here. My mother was friends with Eleanor Waldorf. You know—the family who used to live here? We’re neighbors! I’m just up on Seventy-seventh!” Her voice sounded overly cheerful, and Owen could tell she was nervous. Her silvery-blue eyes scanned his torso and she smiled, a little shyly. Owen picked up his shirt and put it on. It was still wet and clung to his body.

All the better to see your six-pack, my dear.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out. It was so bizarre to see her framed in the doorway of his new home, after so many weeks of fantasizing about it. But she wasn’t just Kat anymore, she was
Kelsey,
and he didn’t even know who that was. “Funny running into you yesterday,
Kelsey.
”
He had meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out sounding genuinely happy and polite.

Too much time spent around Mr. Manners.

“I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Kelsey Addison Talmadge. I never
told
you my name was Kat, remember?” A slight smile curled her lips, then disappeared as a serious look came over her face. Her skin was gorgeously tan against the deep green V-neck tank top. A hint of her perky B cups winked up at him. God, she was hot.

“I’m sorry. I needed to see you.” Kelsey played with a large silver ring on her finger. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that night on the beach. But then I felt so guilty, because I’d never cheated before—and never thought I would.” Her blue eyes flashed earnestly. “I just really felt something when I met you, but the timing was all wrong and I was scared and we lived in different places. . . . That was why I didn’t tell you my name; I just gave you my bracelet. I guess I hoped you would somehow find me,” she finished with a shrug. Her eyes were pleading. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m not a bad person, really.”

She looked so beautiful and sweet and sincere, and before he knew what he was doing, Owen pulled her into a tight embrace. He could feel her heart flutter against his chest. He put his hand on her cheek and breathed in her apple-scented shampoo.

“I’m glad you found me,” Owen said, simply, not quite sure what to do next. Right now, hugging her was even better than all of the dirty dreams he’d been having.

Oh, really?

Owen’s iPhone started to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the display. Just as quickly as his heart had soared, it sank.

“It’s a text from Rhys,” he said, looking into Kat’s blue eyes.

“You’re friends with him?” she asked in confusion.

Owen shrugged. He read the text and wordlessly handed the phone to Kat.
WANT TO JUMP OFF A FUCKING BRIDGE. WILL SETTLE FOR COCKTAILS. YOU HOME? I’M NEARBY
.

A look of concern flashed across Kat’s face. “I guess I shouldn’t be here,” she murmured.

Owen nodded in agreement, even though he wanted nothing more than for her to stay.

“Kat—I mean, Kelsey . . .” Owen corrected.

“I like being Kat with you,” she whispered. “We can be whoever we want with each other.”

Owen nodded. What she was saying didn’t even make that much sense, but it
did
seem romantic.

The downstairs buzzer rang. Kat and Owen froze and stared at each other.

Owen’s mind raced. “Wait in here,” he said hurriedly, pulling Kat toward Avery’s immaculately decorated room, a tasteful blend of beige and white and peony pink that Avery had ordered from some designer as soon as they moved in. He pushed Kat inside.

The buzzer rang again and he leaned in closer. Finally, they kissed. He’d meant it to be a peck, but by the time their lips met, it was urgent and passionate, and he wished he could just close the door and lay her down on the bed and . . .

Right, because that would be the perfect way to christen his sister’s new six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheet set from Bergdorf’s.

His phone vibrated with another text.

AT YOUR DOOR. WHERE THE F ARE YOU?

“I have to go. Wait here until you hear us leave.” Owen felt giddy with excitement and guilt.

“What are we going to do?” Kat asked, sounding like the damsel in distress Owen would do anything to rescue.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said determinedly. He kissed her one more time, and closed the door to Avery’s room, his heart pounding.

“Hey, man.” Owen opened the front door and grinned at Rhys way too eagerly. Rhys’s eyes were red-rimmed and his skin was gray. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, even though it had only been a day since Kelsey broke up with him.

“Cocktail hour?” Owen cajoled.

Rhys cocked his head at his blond, tan friend, who was smiling and trying so hard to make him feel better. As if a bad draft beer would make him feel any better. He felt like
dying.
“I was standing outside her apartment for an hour. I saw her go out and walk uptown, but then I lost her, so I decided to come over here. I know I sound like a stalker,” Rhys continued.

Owen winced. Kat was probably listening in the very next room. And Rhys did sound pretty stalkerish.

“I don’t know where she could have gone.”

“You’re obsessing,” Owen said, not unkindly. He leaned against the tall mahogany doorframe. “She was probably just going to a friend’s house or something.”

That’s one way of putting it.

“I just want to know who’s she’s with.” Rhys shook his head. “She said she’d met someone else. Who could it be?”

“Dude, I don’t know,” Owen said helplessly. He shrugged, and the sweat-sticky T-shirt suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable against his skin. “Let’s go out. Everything always makes more sense over a few beers.”

Cocktail therapy, anyone?

Tea for Two

The setting sun cast patterns of light on the dark blue, late-nineteenth-century Japanese carpets covering the gleaming parquet floors of Grandmother Avery’s town house. Avery sat with Sydney Miller. Sydney Miller of nipple-piercing fame. Sydney Miller, the only guest at her tea party.

Just last year, this very room had been featured in
Vogue
after a Drama League party the elder Avery had hosted, and now, with files from the lawyer’s office stacked in messy piles on the ground, it looked more like a museum installation that was in the process of being taken down.

Except with fewer people.

“Give me those.” Avery pointed to the collection of delicate mini tarts decorated with tiny raspberries that sat untouched on a tray. The pink tray perfectly matched the Chanel suit she had borrowed from Grandmother Avery’s closet.

Wordlessly, Sydney handed her the tray. Glasses of carefully prepared homemade iced tea sat untouched on the side table, condensation fogging their outsides. Avery had thought people could take them as they came in, and that serving iced tea would be a cute way to modernize the time-honored tradition of the tea party.

If cute servers came with the iced tea, that is . . .

“I don’t think anybody’s coming,” Sydney said finally as she gazed around the room. The antique Chippendale chairs Avery had dragged over from the dining room were all lined up, facing the small wrought-iron balcony that jutted into the solarium from the second-floor study. Grandmother Avery had had it constructed for its sight lines—when the sun set, whoever stood there appeared to be illuminated. Edie had always scoffed that her mother had gotten the idea after seeing the musical
Evita
. Still, it was dramatic, and Avery had been planning to go up there and give a short speech, and then use the rest of the time to mingle and get to know the other Constance girls.

The doorbell rang. Avery shot an
I told you so
glance at Sydney and her matte-black lipstick, and sprang up from the oversize armchair. She winced in pain as her size nine feet strained Grandmother’s size seven Ferragamo pumps.

If the shoe fits, wear it. But if it doesn’t fit . . . don’t.

She opened the heavy oak door to greet Baby, flanked by three dogs lined up in size order. “Surprise!” Baby smiled mischievously as a large poodle-cross wiggled his butt against Avery’s bare leg, grinning and slobbering maniacally. Two tiny puggles were winding their leashes around the bigger dog’s legs.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Avery blurted, pushing the dog away with her knee. Was this Baby’s idea of a joke?

“Nemo, you freak, didn’t you get enough of that in the park?” Baby wrestled the dog away. “I’m just heading back from the park. I was so close, I thought I should stop by. Do you want me to come back after I drop them off?” Baby held up the leashes. The large dog lunged toward Avery’s crotch once more.

“No!” Avery cried, slamming the heavy oak door. She sighed wearily.

“Who was that?” Sydney yelled.

“No one,” Avery replied woodenly as she reappeared in the sitting room. She grabbed another tart and nibbled on its edges.

“I told you, Bitch Central.” Sydney joined Avery next to the dessert tray and popped a whole mini tart in her mouth. Avery could see flashes of her silver tongue ring as she chewed.
At least she came,
Avery thought.

“And there’s no booze,” Sydney remarked, picking up another tart. “These fuckers are good,” she commented, grabbing two more.

“A kegger just didn’t seem like an appropriate venue to discuss my plans to run for a school-sponsored position,” Avery declared indignantly, pinning a stray lock of blond hair back into her bun. She collapsed onto a peach jacquard–upholstered wingback chair in exhaustion.

“Are you kidding? People would have come for a kegger. A tea party to talk about a school-sponsored position? Do you know how lame that sounds?” Sydney laughed dryly, then saw Avery’s hurt expression and softened her tone. “Generally, around here, a party has boys, alcohol, a few girls passed out in the bathroom, and some majorly sketchy hookups going on,” she said matter-of-factly. “They didn’t do that where you were from?”

“Yeah, but that was
Nantucket
.” Avery wrinkled her nose in distaste. She’d assumed she’d left those types of parties behind. Wasn’t New York City supposed to be more
sophisticated
? Was that all her classmates cared about? Hookups and drinking?

In a nutshell, yes. Although we’re very discriminating about who we hook up with and what we drink.

Sydney nodded and sat down on one of the chairs in front of Avery, as if she were a kindergartener listening to story time. “Why do you think I want to get out so badly? People here are so unimaginative.”

“Then why did Jiffy and all those other girls say they’d come?” Avery stood to grab a cucumber sandwich. She couldn’t bear to see the food trays looking so full.

“Because they assumed there would be boys and booze and the same type of thing they’re used to at every party. Probably one genius was tipped off by the teacups, actually read the invitation, and spread the word.” Avery sighed. “Can I ask you something?” Sydney continued without waiting for Avery’s answer. “Why do you even want this position so much?”

Avery paused to think about it. She wanted to be SLBO because it seemed like something her grandmother would have done. Then again, maybe people were different in Grandma Avery’s time—maybe they had a different idea of what constituted a good party, a good life, a good time. She remembered when Grandmother Avery brought her as a date to a holiday charity ball at the Met. She was six, and had worn a dark blue velvet dress from Bergdorf’s. Impossibly tall Christmas trees surrounded the dance floor as Count von Arnim, a dapper Bulgarian royal and a friend of Grandmother Avery, whirled her round and round. She remembered peeking outside and seeing puffy snowflakes fall in the dark expanse of Central Park and thinking that Manhattan was the most magical place in the world. Did that world still exist?

“It’s just important,” she said softly, twirling the solitaire diamond pendant at her neck. Maybe New York had changed, or maybe she was going about things all wrong.

“Also, the outfit’s cute, in this ‘I’m on the board at the Met’ way . . .” Sydney commented, gesturing to Avery’s skirt. “But unless you have plans to host a charity luncheon, you should probably lose the suit.”

Avery sighed and took off the beautiful pink suit jacket, laying it against the pink embroidered chair. She pulled the pins out of her hair and shook it out so the blond locks cascaded down her shoul-ders. She no longer knew what her grandmother would recommend.

“Want to grab a beer?” Sydney offered, making one more trip to the food table. “I sort of want to check out some strip clubs downtown. I’m thinking of doing some sort of independent study on female objectification this semester.”

“No thanks,” Avery declined, barely listening.

“Okay,” Sydney said, unfazed. “Call if you change your mind—I’m starting at Scores!”

She made her way out the door, leaving Avery alone in the already-darkened solarium with the trays full of delicate tarts. Avery grabbed one more and glared, mutinously, at the still-full iced tea glasses, thinking of all the Constance girls who were supposed to be here, drinking out of them. She idly wondered where Jack Laurent and her bitchtastic friends were at this very second. Probably having cocktails somewhere and laughing at her sad attempt at popularity.

Then, just as quickly as her self-pity had come, it went. She stood and tossed the entire tray of tarts into the trash. She wasn’t the Queen of Tarts, she was Avery fucking Carlyle, and she’d let those bitches know it.

Off with their heads!