The Carlyles (16 page)

The Secrets-and-Lies Issue

Jack climbed the stairs exiting the subway at Union Square on Friday afternoon. She was on her way to Peridance, where there was an afternoon professional-level barre class that only cost seventeen dollars a pop, or sixteen dollars each if you bought a book of ten. She was determined to stay in shape, even if it meant taking bargain-basement classes at grimy downtown studios. Her phone rang in her pocket as she crossed Sixteenth Street.

“Hello?” she answered curiously. She hadn’t recognized the number.

“Dick Cashman here!” a voice boomed. Jack hadn’t spoken to J.P. at all today. He’d been moody and silent for most of dinner last night, and Jack had made up for it by allowing Dick to refill her wineglass a few too many times.

“So, you kids are all set for tomorrow night. We’ve got the bar up and running and a special section of rooms just for you. You should be good to go, Jackie baby!”

“Oh, that’s too much,” Jack cooed appreciatively.

Too much is never enough.

“No problem, love helping out the ladies in my life. Now just don’t burn the place down. Insurance, you know.” He hung up and Jack turned to walk in the opposite direction, back to the uptown subway. Who gave a fuck about ballet? It wasn’t like missing a few days of classes would matter. Besides, it was the weekend and she’d had a very rough week. There was an adorable pair of gray suede Manolo boots at Barneys, and she still had a gift card from her last birthday. She deserved a present.

Feeling relieved, she hardly even noticed the subway ride back uptown. It was going to be so much fun to host a party with J.P., like the true power couple they were, and would be forevermore.

BITCHES, WHERE ARE YOU?
she texted Jiffy as she emerged from the subway, feeling giddy. Coming to the Upper East Side from anywhere else in the city had always reminded Jack of the moment in
The Wizard of Oz
where everything turns Technicolor. On the Upper East Side, the sidewalks seemed brighter, the buildings seemed shinier, and everything just seemed better.

That’s because it is.

JACKSON HOLE,
Jiffy texted back, which happened to be the grossest diner in all of Carnegie Hill. The air felt cooler all of a sudden, and Jack pulled her black Ralph Lauren cardigan around her shoulders. Fall was her favorite time of year. It was a season for renewal, and her life was slowly getting back on track.

She got to Jackson Hole on Second Avenue and Eighty-third Street, where Jiffy, Genevieve, and Sarah Jane were crowded into a booth in the corner. “Party time tomorrow night, ladies,” Jack grinned, shooing the middle-aged waiter away without ordering anything. This was not the weekend to get fat.

“Where is it again?” Genevieve asked. She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder. Her white Calvin Klein blouse was buttoned up almost to her neck.

“Cashman Lofts, in Tribeca.” Jack grinned wickedly at them. In a way, she was grateful for pathetic Avery Carlyle and her attempts to become popular. She was the kick in the butt Jack needed to stop crying over her misfortunes, get her shit together, and reassert her dominance over the social scene.

“And I’m not having it at my house, because I don’t want you puking vodka cranberries on my mother’s bed.” Jack narrowed her catlike green eyes at Genevieve. “Again,” she added, remembering how last year Genevieve had hooked up with another one of her father’s lame young actor connections who’d been in town for some experimental play reading. She’d gotten totally drunk and puked all over Jack’s bathroom. It was disgusting.

“Whatever, it’s not like you never got drunk,” Genevieve retorted as she bit into a large onion ring. The grease on the plate glinted in the late afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. Suddenly, Jack felt voraciously hungry. She grabbed two onion rings and shoved them into her mouth, enjoying the salty taste.

“Could we maybe stop by Avery’s party first?” Jiffy rolled a slightly deflated cherry tomato around her no-dressing green salad and then popped it into her mouth. Jiffy was perpetually on a diet to get rid of the five pounds that stood between her hips and her 3.1 Phillip Lim jeans.

“Of course not.” Jack felt a wave of annoyance. Why were they even talking about this girl? “Who actually wanted to go?”

“Well, she has a hot brother.” Jiffy shrugged.

“Okay, so you go and hook up with the hot brother. Report back to us.” Genevieve pulled a Marlboro Red out of her Longchamps hobo bag and lit up. She looked around, daring anyone to reprimand her.

Just then, Avery Carlyle herself walked by, enormous Dean & DeLuca bags swinging on her slender arms. She looked as carefree as ever. Jack narrowed her eyes. How could she possibly look so calm when her social demise was so completely imminent?

“Avery!” Jack called commandingly. Avery turned, her blue eyes opening wide in confusion. Her face reddened for a second, but then she squared her jaw and marched over to the table.

“Jack.” Avery steeled herself and stood at the table. Anyone would think that they were all friends, a perfect picture of the New York City private school world. She surveyed the four girls, pleased when Jiffy at least gave her a small half smile. Maybe they
could
all be friends? She smiled warmly back. All this situation required was some grace and poise, even though she felt Jack’s hostility. What was Jack’s problem, anyway? It wasn’t like Avery was out to steal her boyfriend or anything.

Because really, who would do that?

“Avery,” Genevieve dripped sweetly. “So glad to see you.”

Avery was suddenly reminded of a documentary she’d seen about shark attacks; they surround their prey before tearing them apart.

“So, where are you off to?” Jack asked. “Don’t you have something to steal or some Constance community service to go to? Oh, right,” she pretended to remember. “That’s your sister.”

Avery smiled sweetly, keeping her cool. “I was just picking up a few things for my party tomorrow night. I would love it if all of you came.” She looked directly at Jack. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest, but her voice was steady. Grandmother Avery would have been so proud of her grace under pressure. She saw Jiffy nod, and felt a glimmer of promise. If she could get Jiffy, maybe the other girls would follow.

“I know that in Nantucket you were Miss Crab Queen or whatever, and don’t worry, you’ll probably still hold that title here,” Jack began. Genevieve and Sarah Jane giggled. Avery flushed. Back in eighth grade she’d been crowned Miss Nantucket Lobster Queen. How had Jack found out about that? “And I got the memo that your grandma was a big deal in the fifties. We all saw the costume retrospective at the Met three years ago. Who cares? Go write a Rizzoli art book about her or something, but stop trying to be her.” Jack stood up so that the two girls were facing each other, eye to eye.

Avery seethed. Fine, Jack could be a bitch to her, but to make fun of her dead grandmother? She felt her eye begin to twitch, a warning sign that tears were about to flow. “The party is at eight. Here’s the information.” She coolly handed out the printed flyers Sydney had helped her make in the Constance Billard computer lab during lunch. She had to admit, they looked fun, edgy, and totally professional—much better than her teacup gimmick.

“Saturday?” Jack pretended to study the purple and white flyer. “As you’ve undoubtedly heard by now, I’m having my own party that night, otherwise I would have loved to come. But you and Sydney will have fun together, I’m sure.” Jack took a celebratory onion ring from Genevieve’s plate and chomped on it, blinking at Avery with a bored smile.

“Have fun at your party, Jack,” Avery said calmly, amazed at her poise. “If any of you change your mind, you’ve got the info. See you.” She stalked off, ignoring the giggles behind her. She made it half a block over to Park Avenue before the tears began to fall.

Avery leaned against a sandstone building to collect herself. When she looked downtown, she could see the graceful arc of the Chrysler building reaching up to the sky. She squeezed her eyes shut, the tears blurring her vision so that all the buildings radiated light. Grandmother Avery wouldn’t just give up. She’d turn up at Jack Laurent’s party looking fabulous and poised and steal all the desirable men from Jack and her friends. Or she’d make sure the party never happened in the first place.

Avery marched determinedly downtown to the empty town house and booted up her computer, realizing how stupid it was not to own a fucking BlackBerry. Nantucket social engagements could be planned in a day planner, but here, she needed something immediate. She logged onto the Constance Billard home page and searched the directory for the address of Jack Laurent, half hoping it would be in some godforsaken place like Queens or the Upper West Side. Instead, the address was listed as Sixty-third between Fifth and Madison—right by her grandmother’s house.

She flew out of her building and practically ran down to Jack’s. She rang the doorbell, pressing her pale pink–polished finger against the bell over and over again. Finally, a little girl wearing a silver tiara and a flouncy purple tutu over a patterned Oilily dress came to the door. Her pale blond hair was pulled into a neat braid down her back.

“Is Jack home?” Avery asked sweetly, hoping she had the right house.

“Who’s Jack?” the girl asked in confusion. Avery stared at the girl’s light blond hair and realized that she looked nothing like Jack. She felt her face turn red again.

“Jacqueline Laurent?” Avery asked in confusion. “Is your mother home?”

“Is Jack the name of the lady who lives in the attic?” the girl lisped, chewing on the end of her flaxen braid with her one front tooth.

“I don’t think so. . . .” Avery trailed off.
The attic?

A tall, stunning woman wearing high-waisted gray Theory pants and a crisp white Ralph Lauren button-down came to the door. Her flawless skin made her look like she’d stepped out of an Estée Lauder ad. She squinted at Avery in the late afternoon sun.

“I’m sorry,” Avery said in her most sophisticated voice. “I’m looking for Jacqueline Laurent. She gave me this address.”

“We just moved in. She lives upstairs now,” the woman said shortly. She pursed her collagened lips and eyed Avery up and down disparagingly before exhaling a deep, dramatic sigh. “It’s a rather unique situation that I can certainly tell you I didn’t sign up for. Satchel can show you where she is, but in the future, I will remind Jacqueline and Vivienne to inform their guests of their proper address,” she said crisply.

“Okay, “ Avery agreed, confused. What other address could they possibly have?

“Satchel, baby, can you show this nice lady upstairs?” the woman asked, dropping to eye level with the girl and over-enunciating her words. Satchel nodded solemnly, as though she were used to her mother making everything sound like a press statement.

Satchel held out a tiny, sticky hand for Avery and led her through the apartment, bypassing a huge kitchen with two Sub-Zero refrigerators, an ornate dining room and living room with Louis XIV furniture, and past two mahogany staircases spiraling upward toward the back of the house. The town house certainly looked more put together than the Carlyles’ new apartment had when they’d first moved in. They’d torn through all the boxes haphazardly on their first day, when no one could find Rothko and Edie had been convinced someone had packed him by accident.

“I just started kindergarten,” Satchel said importantly as they traipsed through room after cavernous room. “It’s good but it’s hard. We only have one nap time and one snack, but I have seventeen friends!” she said proudly.

“Wow, that’s a lot,” Avery said, using her
I really don’t talk to little kids very much but I’m going to try to sound enthusiastic
voice. “I don’t have as many friends as you.” Admitting that made Avery feel instantly lame.

“How many do you have?” Satchel pressed.

Avery remembered back to kindergarten, when it was all so easy. There had only been twelve kids in their class, so she and Owen and Baby had pretty much ruled the social scene, despite the weird organic snacks their mother always packed for them. When had everything become so complicated?

“I have twenty-five friends,” Avery said, making up a number. She couldn’t believe she’d just lied to a five-year-old. Luckily, Satchel wasn’t even listening, and scampered ahead of her, sliding on her lacy pink socks.

“Here it is,” she said solemnly, opening a door and pointing to a rickety set of wooden stairs. “I would be scared to live in the attic,” she added in a whisper.

“Me too,” Avery agreed. She stared at the nondescript white door that was clearly some sort of servants’ entrance. This was where the infamous Jack Laurent lived? Did her friends know? If it hadn’t all been so bizarre, Avery would have laughed.

“Can I go now?” Satchel asked. Avery nodded, hand poised to knock on the door.

“Will you be my friend?” Satchel asked seriously, before leaving.

“Sure,” Avery smiled.

“Yay! I’m going to tell my mom I have eighteen friends!” Satchel yelled, carefully holding on to the railing as she walked down each step.

Avery started to knock on the door, slowly at first, then more incessantly. The door resounded hollowly. Finally it opened, and there was Jack in pink Juicy sweats and a white Michael Stars T-shirt. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Avery.

Jack started to close the door in Avery’s face, but Avery held it firmly open. Jack’s heart thudded in her chest, but she tried to maintain her poise.
Perfect, perfect, perfect,
she chanted to herself and tried stare Avery down with an ice princess glare.

“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.

“I wanted to drop by to let you know I’ve canceled my party,” Avery said very slowly, dripping with fake friendliness. “Since it’s silly for us both to have one on the same night.” She tried to peek beyond Jack to get a sense of what the apartment looked like. A scratched hardwood hallway flanked by ugly blue bookcases led into a small, yellow-painted efficiency kitchen. Beyond that Avery could see a living room with dusty blue couches that looked like they’d been involved in an L.L. Bean factory explosion. A cracked Pottery Barn umbrella stand holding a broken black umbrella stood by the entrance.