The Carlyles (14 page)

J
is Shaken, Not Stirred

Jack rode the M4 bus up Madison to J.P.’s apartment late Thursday afternoon, trying not to touch any possibly germy surfaces, silently cursing her father for leaving her so destitute she couldn’t afford cab fare. She and Genevieve had gone to Bergdorf’s after school to buy party outfits, but Jack had quickly discovered that shopping knowing she couldn’t buy anything was like being on Atkins, surrounded by pastries.

There was no way Jack could have gone home, where Vivienne had been chain-smoking Gitanes in bed for three days straight, wearing an eye mask and speaking loudly on the phone in French to pretty much anyone who would listen, including the second of Charles’s three ex-wives. Jack hated all of the pathos and ennui of it, which she knew her mother secretly loved. Vivienne had even suggested that Charles was right, and that Jack
did
need to learn how to suffer. Well, fuck them.

Once she saw the sign for Sixty-eighth Street through the driver’s window, she pressed the dirty yellow tape strip for the bus to stop, holding her hand away from her body in case she contaminated herself. She shook out her auburn hair and walked regally down the bus’s black rubber steps, hoping the Cashman Complex doorman didn’t happen to be looking down the street. She bounded into the ornate entrance, her black Tory Burch flats thwacking against the polished marble floor, and nodded confidently to the doorman.

“Miss Laurent,” the doorman acknowledged as he waved her in. Jack felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t as if she
looked
poor. She pushed the button for the private elevator and hurriedly stepped in, eager to feel J.P.’s arms around her.

Frances, the Cashmans’ unsmiling maid, let her in. Jack glanced around the entranceway at the shiny black marble floors, the huge plate glass windows, the gold umbrella stand. She used to cringe at the penthouse’s mishmash décor and tacky pieces, wishing that J.P.’s family could be more
subtly
rich. But today the opulence just felt overwhelming. She tried to steady herself as she climbed the spiral staircase that led to J.P.’s top-floor bachelor pad.

“Hey.” He was wearing a red Lacoste polo and pressed Ralph Lauren chinos. He smiled, irresistible dimples forming in both cheeks. “You’re looking pretty. Did I get it right?” J.P. teased as he ushered her into his bedroom and closed the door. Every time she saw him—floppy brown hair with a perfect side part, intelligent brown eyes, chiseled jaw, and a body made for rugby or squash—Jack felt like everything was right in her world. He was the prince to her princess. And this weekend they’d be hosting a party, showing all the world how
together
they were.

“Are you okay?” J.P. asked, brushing a lock of auburn hair off her face.

“Fine,” Jack lied. “Just stressed out with ballet.” She ignored the momentary flash of guilt that shot up her stomach. J.P. had fallen in love with her before she got all moody and depressive and poor. She needed to be the girl she was just a few days ago. That was the girl he loved. And surely she’d be that girl again soon.

She hugged him, inhaling his usual scent of Ralph Lauren Romance, and then gave him a slow, smoldering kiss. She took a step toward the bed and slowly unbuttoned her cardigan, locking her green eyes with J.P.’s brown ones and giving him what she hoped was a sultry, come-hither look.

Just then, the door flew open and Dick Cashman burst in. A skinny, bespectacled male assistant trailed behind him, wearing cowboy boots that matched Dick’s.

“Holy mother of hell!” Dick twanged when he saw Jack hastily pull her cardigan around her shoulders. “I’ll let you kids get decent!” He slammed the door as Jack hastily smoothed her blouse. It wasn’t like they were
doing
anything.

Not yet, anyway.

“I guess I should see what Dad wants.” J.P. shrugged and opened the door.

“I’ll come,” Jack groaned. It would be supremely slutty to just hang out in her boyfriend’s room after being discovered in a
compromising position. She pretended that she was Grace Kelly. Surely the Prince of Monaco’s father had walked in on her and the prince back when they first hooked up, right?

Would that have been the afternoon Princess Grace drove off a cliff?

“So, about the crapper,” Jack heard Dick’s voice boom from down the hall as he gave his assistant the grand tour. “NASA designed it. Normally, they’re only on space shuttles. I saw a documentary about them and thought, ‘Fuck me, I’ll buy one!’ Custom made just last week!” J.P.’s father loved to buy ridiculously expensive toys and useless gadgets. But, unlike her father, at least
he
supported his wife and family.

“Hey, Dad,” J.P. interrupted as he descended the steps from his suite into the foyer. Jack lingered up above. Even from ten feet up, she could see Mr. Cashman wink at his son. Jack buttoned her cardigan all the way up to her neck, trying not to feel embarrassed.

“Sorry about the interruption,” Dick chuckled, striding toward J.P. His male assistant’s cowboy boots made loud clicking sounds on the newly polished floors. “But I wanted to show you what the dogs dragged in.” Baby Carlyle, her high cheekbones streaked with dirt, peered from behind Dick’s bulk.

Surprise!

“Hey!” Baby greeted J.P. enthusiastically. She pulled her tangled hair into a ponytail on top of her head and grinned mischievously. “Sorry I’m late to pick up the dogs, but I found the best place for them to run. It’s Fort Tryon Park in the Bronx, and it’s awesome. Nemo would love it! I was just telling your dad about it.”

“Sounds great for the bitches!” Dick Cashman leaned down to pet Nemo. “Want to take the chopper up there?” Dick offered.

“No!” J.P. said awkwardly. Jack narrowed her green eyes at Baby, who hadn’t even noticed she was standing at the top of the stairs. What the
hell
was that skinny nobody doing in her boyfriend’s apartment?

“Okay, well, whatever you kids want,” Dick Cashman sounded disappointed as he tromped away toward the labyrinthine hall that led to his office. His assistant practically ran after him.

“Thanks!” Baby smiled affectionately at Mr. Cashman’s retreating back. She hadn’t known what to make of J.P.’s dad at first, but the more she talked to him, the more she loved
how random and tacky Dick was. Even though he was one of the wealthiest men in New York, at least he was having fun with his money instead of just using it to make other people feel bad.

“So, you’re here to take the dogs?” J.P. asked stupidly. He sounded weird, and the peach fuzz on the back of Baby’s neck stood on end in warning. She looked up to see Jack Laurent at the top of a spiral staircase, glaring down at her. She wore a cashmere cardigan buttoned high up her long, graceful ballerina’s neck. She radiated evil.

Jack slowly descended, her chin held high, and stood beside J.P. proprietarily.

“Oh, uh, Jack, this is Baby. She’s been helping out with the dogs.”

“We’ve met,” Jack said icily, narrowing her eyes. When J.P. had said he was walking the dogs yesterday, had he been walking them with
Baby Carlyle
? Was
that
what he had been doing all week after school? “And we have the dogs taken care of today,” she added coolly.

Look out, pups, you’re about to see a catfight!

J.P. coughed and took the leashes away from Baby. “Yeah, sorry for not telling you sooner,” J.P. said, but he didn’t make eye contact. Shackleton whined. “Is it all right if you get paid tomorrow?”

Baby looked from J.P., who was staring straight down into Nemo’s tangled fur, to Jack, whose arms were folded across her chest.

“Sure, that’s just fine.” Baby’s voice dripped with sarcasm. She saw exactly what was going on, and if he wanted to play that game because he feared the wrath of his alpha girlfriend, she wasn’t going to stop him. “I’ll stop by tomorrow for the check.” She stomped off, surprised at how hurt she felt.

As she emerged from the Cashman tower, Baby pulled out her cell to dial Tom, and wished for the millionth time that she was there or he was here. It clicked to voice mail immediately and she hurried downtown in the growing darkness, wondering why she suddenly felt lonelier than she had all week.

Poor Baby.

“So your dad
hired
Baby Carlyle?” Jack asked sweetly, once J.P. put his drooling, smelly labradoodle and pugs in the dog playroom all the way on the other side of the apartment. She walked over to the terrace and opened the sliding doors. There was a cool breeze and she could see people walking in and out of Central Park. She belonged up here, not in some musty garret full of castoffs. Her heart slowed down. Everything was
fine.

Doesn’t she mean
perfect
?

“Yeah. To walk the dogs. Is everything okay?” J.P. asked as he sat down at one end of the low-slung, ultramodern calfskin couch. The Cashmans’ study was a huge, multilevel room with tall bookcases full of gilt, unread first-edition volumes. The walls were flanked with statues and frames of varying sizes, mismatched so that a Chagall hung next to a Seurat, which hung next to a portrait of some medieval dude with a scepter and doves flying around his way too small crown.

Jack turned away from the terrace and walked over to the hammered steel wet bar. She knew she could always call Roger, the butler, to pour them drinks, but it was so much more romantic to mix them herself. She felt very Upper East Side wifey, welcoming her husband home after a long day.

“Are you sure Baby Carlyle is okay?” Jack demanded, splashing Bombay Sapphire and tonic in two highball glasses.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” J.P. shifted on the couch, watching Jack swirl the concoction.

She smiled sweetly as she handed him his drink. “She’s in one of my classes at Constance. Apparently she’s mentally unstable. Her sister said she had some type of problem.” Jack shrugged casually, taking a seat on J.P.’s lap.

“She seems fine,” J.P. answered, sliding Jack onto the couch.

“Looks can be deceiving.” Jack tried to sound unconcerned but really, inside she was sort of freaking out. Why the fuck wasn’t J.P. ravaging her right now? Did J.P. want to walk dogs with some fashionless, skinny nobody like Baby? And why were the Carlyles trying so hard to ruin her life?

She took a sip of her drink and examined the heavy crystal glass she was holding. Her surroundings suddenly seemed so opulent. The gold everything she’d never even noticed before suddenly felt so out of reach. It just wasn’t fair. A frustrated tear began to slip down her cheek. She wanted to punch something.

Doesn’t she mean someone?

“Are you okay?” J.P. asked. “Look, Baby was just walking the dogs. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m not crying over
her
,”
Jack wailed. “It’s just . . .” She really was losing it.

“What, then?” J.P.’s eyes searched her face.

“There was just this dress,” she invented, realizing how stupid she sounded as soon as the words left her mouth. But she couldn’t admit that she was threatened by a dog walker. Or tell him that her friends couldn’t stop talking about Avery Carlyle’s brother. Or about her father not paying for ballet. About her melodramatic mother and her musty garret apartment. After all, who wanted to be seen with a poor
loser
?

But crying over an imaginary dress is okay?

“A dress?” J.P. pulled his hand off her back. “You’re
crying
over a dress?” he asked in disbelief.

“I’m not crying!” A small tear slipped down her cheek.

And the Oscar goes to . . .

Jack gazed at J.P.’s broad, handsome face, wanting him to understand. But she still couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. She wiped her tear away with a pearly pink–manicured finger. “I wanted to wear it to the party,” she added.

“What does it look like?”

She furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “It’s . . . pink,” she said, thinking of the frilly dress the five-year-old who’d moved into her town house had been wearing. “With puffy sleeves. And a white sash.”

“Okay,” J.P. said slowly. “Barneys?”

“Yes.” She snuggled into him. Just being near him made her feel so much better.

“I’ll get it for you. But you shouldn’t worry so much about the small things.” J.P. pulled her tightly into his strong chest, and Jack rubbed her cheek against the soft cotton of his polo shirt. “If you keep stressing over the small things, the big things will kill you.”

You think?

B
Makes a Hasty Exit

For the fifth and hopefully last day in a row, Baby put on the hideous Constance Billard seersucker skirt and waited in the enormous, uncluttered kitchen for Avery and Owen to walk to school. She wasn’t sure why she had even bothered to stay in New York this long. J.P. had been the only person she had met who made it seem like maybe, just maybe, the city would be different, and now she’d discovered he was the same as everyone else.

“So, I got a call from Mrs. McLean at Constance Billard. You skipped some sort of service hour?” Edie walked into the kitchen wearing a flowy white skirt, with blue Bic pens holding her hair into a semblance of a bun.

“Yeah, it was a stupid misunderstanding,” Baby said breezily. She didn’t want to go into detail. It would be so much easier dealing with all of this once she was back in Nantucket.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Edie agreed. “I can imagine Mrs. McLean would be more strict than what you’re used to, but really darling, swearing in French? Can’t you think of more creative ways to get in trouble?” She sat down on a stool next to Baby, stroking her long, tangled brown hair. “If you need to shake things up, do it right.” Edie nodded sagely, stood up, and floated out of the room, like some sort of psychedelic fairy godmother, off to dole out advice to the next wayward person who needed it. Baby paused. Had moving to Nantucket all those years ago been Edie’s way of shaking things up?

She sighed, looking around their expansive new kitchen. Back at home, the kitchen was always a gathering place, but so far no one had even cooked here. She sat on one of the sleek metal bar stools lined up by the sleek black granite counter. She pulled her hair into a sloppy side ponytail and hit speed dial 1 on her cell.

“Hey, Babe,” Tom said in his sleepy-stoner voice. It had been her favorite thing to wake up to during the summer.

“Hey!” She tried to sound upbeat as she grabbed an orange from the carved teak bowl on the counter and poked through the skin with her thumb.

“Morning.” His voice was gravelly. She could hear his car horn beep and wished he were turning the corner of her street in his dusty Cougar, ready to drive her to school.

Baby sighed. The last morning they’d spent together, they’d been up all night. Last Friday, they had lasted all of five seconds at a crowded club in the Meatpacking District. After making a hasty exit, they’d giggled as they ran across the avenues, stopping in Gray’s Papaya on Sixth to share a hot dog and then making out under an awning by the Coffee Shop in Union Square. By the time they began to make their way home, the sun was rising and they’d gotten free muffins from a friendly vendor at the greenmarket. It all seemed so long ago.

“So, what crazy adventures have you gotten yourself into, hippie girl?” Tom asked. Baby bit down on a section of orange. It was embarrassing to admit that so far, the highlight of living in the most exciting city in the world was walking some spoiled Upper East Side kid’s dogs—for free.

Not exactly the glam life.

Just then, Avery and Owen burst into the kitchen, talking excitedly.

“Okay, write down your list of people. Swimmers in green pen. Actually, any athletes in green pen. Everyone else in blue.” Avery amended, frowning at a clipboard as if she were working the door at Bungalow 8. All she’d been able to think about for the past two days was her second party and how much better it was going to be than her first. First of all, there would be actual alcohol, and second of all, there would be boys—the two key ingredients to winning over all the Constance girls.

Amen.

Baby turned to the corner so she wasn’t interrupted. “Not too much is happening here. The usual, I guess. So, what’s going on with you?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Hey, hold on. . . .” There was static at the end of the line. Baby held the phone closer to her ear. Everything in Nantucket just felt so . . . far away. “Sorry, I’m actually picking Kendra up right now so I sort of have to run. I’ll miss you tonight.”

“Why can’t you have the party on Saturday night? I could come then,” Baby pleaded.

Avery stopped mid-sentence with whatever she was saying to Owen, something about getting his teammates to be extra friendly. She wrestled the phone away from Baby and put the little Nokia to her ear.

“Tom? Yeah, Baby won’t be coming up for the weekend. She has a party she has to attend here on Saturday. Looks like it’ll just be you and your bong.” Avery grinned wickedly.

“Give it back!” Baby hissed at Avery as she yanked the phone away. “Sorry about that. So, can you change the party to Saturday?” she asked, lowering her voice. She hated to sound like she was begging, but she’d rather spend eight hours traveling on a gross Greyhound bus to be by his side at the bonfire than go to Avery’s trying-to-fit-into-Bitch-Central soiree.

“Oh man, I totally would, but everything’s set. We’ve got the kegs, we’ve got the food, and it’s all ready, you know?” Tom said. In the background she could hear a car door open and slam.

“I guess so,” Baby replied woodenly, not really understanding why Tom couldn’t just move the party. What else did the Nantucket kids have going on Saturday night? Baby slowly put her orange down, surprised at herself for thinking that. It was as if she’d absorbed the bitchy attitudes of the girls around her.

Didn’t we tell you it was contagious?

“Hey, Babe, I gotta go,” Tom said abruptly. “Have fun and stay out of trouble.” He hung up. Baby listened to the silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds, then slowly put it back into her messenger bag.

“So I already told all the guys about it, and they’re totally down for the party,” Owen stroked his new blond goatee. He grabbed Baby’s orange and dug out a few sections. He looked surprisingly good with his half beard, like an actor in a Shakespeare film.

Or a pirate. All he was missing was a peg leg.

“You’re having a party?” Edie drifted back into the kitchen at the sound of chattering voices. “Where will it be?” she asked, leaning on the countertop and absentmindedly rearranging the fruit into a haphazard pyramid. She was no doubt thinking about the summer solstice party she’d hosted last year, where everyone had ended up in a drumming circle on the beach.

If you substitute “black-tie gala” for “drumming circle” and “beach” for “town house,” it’s
sort of
the same thing.

“Well, I was hoping to do it at Grandmother’s house,” Avery began, knowing her mother wouldn’t say no. She’d toyed with the idea of renting out a club and had even visited a few Meatpacking District hot spots. But then she realized clubs were for people whose apartments were too small to have
real
parties, and Grandmother Avery’s town house had already been home to so many historic soirees. Besides, who didn’t love a house party?

“That’s a terrific idea!” Edie clapped her hands together, her ever-present turquoise bracelets jangling. “I’d love to invite some people—when are you thinking?”

“Saturday,” Avery admitted, adjusting her jewel-embellished gray Marc Jacobs headband in her thick blond hair. Even though Jack Laurent had announced that
she
was having a party that same night, Avery was not about to change her plans. It made her all the more determined to throw the best party the Upper East Side had ever seen, and show Jack once and for all that she meant business.

Edie’s face fell. “But that’s the opening night of the chinchilla exhibit. I got together with one of my old friends, Piers Anderssen? He’s now a Brooklyn experimental artist, but he just went with it. He turned his whole apartment into an indigenous rain forest that will be open to the public on Saturday night. I need to be there.”

“That’s okay!” Avery said quickly. She loved her mom, but her eccentricities had been weird enough in crunchy Nantucket. Besides, it wasn’t going to be a mingle-with-parents-as-you-sip-tea kind of party. She’d already tried that approach and wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

“Okay.” Edie frowned. “It’s nice to hear you kids are already fitting in.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Avery kissed her mom’s peppermint-scented cheek and motioned for her brother and sister to follow her out the door to school.

It was weird to walk to school together, Baby thought as they got into the elevator. It reminded her of elementary school.

“So, back to the party,” Avery said as the elevator doors opened into the lobby. “I really need to know who’s taken and who’s available and—”

“You know what? I need to stop and get some juice. I’ll catch up with you,” Baby said when they were outside. She didn’t want to listen to Owen and Avery chatter about the stupid party.

“Are you sure?” Baby saw a flash of sisterly concern run across Avery’s face, but it quickly disappeared. “Okay, see you later.” She shrugged.

Baby bought a lukewarm tea from a street cart on Fifth and loitered until she lost sight of them. She deliberately walked uptown slowly and entered the Constance doors just as the first bell rang. She walked into French class a few minutes late, without even stopping by her locker to grab her textbook. Madame Rogers already hated her, so the chance she would be called on was next to nothing.

“Vous êtes très en retard,”
Madame Rogers said sternly.
You are very late.
She didn’t even look up from the board, where she was explaining the subjunctive.

“Doesn’t she mean retarded? Look at her shirt!” Baby heard Genevieve whisper to Jiffy.

Even Avery didn’t look up.

“Je m’excuse,”
Baby muttered, walking over to take a seat by the windows.

“Vous devez vous rendre dans le bureau de la directrice.”
Madame Rogers stood in front of Baby’s desk.
You must go to the headmistress’s office
. “You cause disruption or you don’t bother to show up. You’re not welcome in this class anymore,” she said firmly. Baby looked up. She hadn’t been expecting to be kicked out of class, especially when she hadn’t done anything. Her face burning, she stood, ready to stomp down to Mrs. M’s office.

“Comment dit-on
loser?” Baby heard Jack whisper as the door closed. Baby shook her head. Forget about waiting for three strikes—she was out now. She walked down the hall to the deserted lobby, practically slamming into Mrs. M.

“Baby, it seems we had a miscommunication and you didn’t quite understand that our student service hours are mandatory. I want to remind you that they are. I’m looking forward to seeing you this afternoon.” Mrs. M smiled at her with her warm brown eyes, still giving her the benefit of the doubt. If Baby didn’t hate it so much here, she would almost like Mrs. M. But she knew what she had to do.

“I won’t be able to make it.
Ever
.” She didn’t turn around to see the look of shock on Mrs. M’s face as she walked toward the door. “Sorry.” Once the door closed behind her, she skipped down the steps and let out a piercing whistle. A cab screeched to a stop as all the girls in the first-floor classrooms turned to stare out the window.

“Port Authority,” Baby said smoothly to the cabbie, rolling down the window. Mrs. M had arrived at the top of the imposing Constance stairs and was staring down at her. Baby gave her a small wave, then leaned her head back against the leather seat.

That’s one way to make an exit!