Um, besides everything?
An hour later, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of baking cookies and Avery and Baby were sitting next to each other on the black granite counter, kicking their legs back and forth against the cabinets below as they companionably drank from a bottle of organic red wine that had been sitting on the counter forever. Avery took a large swig, swishing the liquid around her mouth thoughtfully. Back in Nantucket, she’d always imagined she’d be sipping champagne at fabulous New York City parties, not sipping homemade wine at home. This internship was becoming one more disaster she could add to an already long list of Upper East Side errors. And she’d been in New York for less than two months.
“Don’t be upset over the intern thing. It was only your first day,” Baby said, as if reading her mind. “Besides, it’s kind of cool that no one knows your real name. That way you can fly under the radar.”
“Thanks,” Avery said, meaning it. “You want real food?” she added. She hopped off the counter and began rifling through a basket full of menus, junk mail, and new-age hippie magazines that had recently come in the mail. Edie never opened the mail. Luckily, she had an accountant who handled all the bills, or else they’d be chased by debtors.
“I’ll take that.” Baby grabbed a magazine called Inner Healing. A picture of a heart that looked like it had been drawn by a four-year-old was on the cover.
“Why do you need that?” Avery asked suspiciously. “You already have a therapist.” Avery pulled out the menu for John’s Pizza and dialed the number. John’s was a totally touristy destination in Times Square, but they had other outposts, and the one over on York and Sixty-third had the best brick-oven pizza ever.
“I don’t think therapy will work for me,” Baby confessed, after Avery had ordered. The back of the magazine was full of weird ads for alternative healers. Color away your confusion with crayons! No thank you. Rebirth into the authentic you. No. Scream therapy. Hah. Find your inner ocean. Baby paused at this one. Are you looking to rediscover your natural self? the text read. That didn’t sound too dippy. And it was way better than Dr. Janus’s freaky Oedipus complex fixation.
“What’s that?” Avery asked nosily. Baby yanked the magazine away, suddenly shy. She didn’t want to tell Avery that she was actually considering trying to find her inner ocean.
“Whatever.” Avery lost interest as she opened the polished chrome door of the never-been-used-until-now oven.
“Are you making cookies?” Owen burst into the kitchen. Their brother had some kind of internal radar that always led him to food. “Yum!” He grabbed three and stuffed them in his mouth.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Baby asked as she tore the find your ocean page from the magazine, folded it, and stuffed it in the pocket of her baggy brown corduroy shorts.
“She had… a game.” Owen paused. Was it field hockey? Tennis? He vaguely remembered Kelsey explaining to him why they couldn’t meet tonight, but he couldn’t remember what she’d said. Whenever they were together, he found it kind of hard to pay attention.
Wonder why?
“Maybe a tennis match.” Owen shrugged and grabbed two more cookies. “Did you order food already?” he asked, flicking through the menus.
“Yeah, I got the pepperoni-sausage heart-attack special just for you,” Avery teased. “But wait, didn’t you have a meet today too?”
“Yeah.” Owen nodded. “Actually, they made me captain.” Saying it sounded pretty cool, even though they’d lost the meet.
“Oh my God,” Avery squealed. “Congratulations!” She squeezed her brother’s arm affectionately. “What did Kelsey say?”
“I didn’t tell her yet,” Owen said. In fact, it might be awkward letting her know, since he was basically replacing Rhys.
In more ways than one.
“What?” Avery demanded. The only thing she loved more than nosing into her sister’s life was nosing into her brother’s. “How have you not told her yet? What do you guys do together, anyway?”
Owen’s ears turned bright red.
“Eew!” Avery squealed.
Owen grinned. He couldn’t help it. Just thinking about Kelsey made him happy.
Or horny. Close enough.
“You need to go on a real date,” Avery commanded, taking in her brother’s gross horndog face. When was he going to learn that city girls were more sophisticated, more mature, more everything than girls in Nantucket?
More uptight?
She pulled out her pink Treo and expertly typed with a maroon-polished fingernail. Owen stuffed two more cookies in his mouth. A date might not be a bad idea.
“I’m making a reservation for you at One if by Land, Two if by Sea for tomorrow night. It’s super romantic.” Avery nodded authoritatively, as if the deal was settled. If he was going to hold on to Kelsey, he needed to treat her right. “Pick her up in a town car and don’t forget to bring flowers.”
Owen smiled as he hopped onto one of the steel bar stools surrounding the kitchen island. It was sweet of his sister to organize this, but it almost sounded like she was the one who needed the date. He was about to offer to set her up with one of the swim team guys when the buzzer rang, announcing their pizza delivery.
Saved by the bell.
who says j can’t go home?
“Morning, gorgeous.”
Jack felt a hand stroking her bare shoulder. She snapped awake, staring at the unfamiliar sea foam-green wall above her. Where the fuck was she?
She turned and saw J.P. standing above her, holding a gold C-emblazoned mug and wearing a cashmere bathrobe. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Thanks.” Jack grabbed the cup, trying to remember how she’d gotten to J.P.’s. She was still wearing her jeans and paper-thin C&C California tank top from last night. Finally she remembered coming to his apartment, drinking six vodka sodas in quick succession while bitching to J.P. about her mom and Paris and her ridiculous acting revival, then falling asleep.
The hazelnut smell of the coffee suddenly made her feel extremely nauseated.
“You all right?” J.P. asked in concern. “My dad wants us to have breakfast with him and my mom. Is that okay?” he asked anxiously. Jack nodded, even though the thought of food made her feel more than a little sick.
“I just need to shower,” she said, throwing an arm over her pounding head.
“Want company?” J.P. asked hopefully. When she’d left her apartment last night, it had seemed like a good idea for them to do it, but it felt sort of gross to lose her virginity on a night when she’d just found out she was either leaving the country or homeless. Instead, she’d gotten extremely drunk and passed out fully clothed.
Great solution.
When Jack didn’t answer, he just shifted on the edge of the bed and stroked her long red hair. It was a little weird to be together in the morning, with him barefoot and wearing a robe. She’d slept over before, but only when his parents were out of town and the rest of their friends were also passed out on every available bed and couch.
“I need a shower.” Jack pulled away. She needed a lot of things: a not-crazy family, a place to live, a deep-tissue massage. But for now, a shower would do.
Finally, Jack was clean and feeling slightly less disgusting, even though the only underwear she’d had to change into was the extremely sexy set she’d planned to wear last night. She examined herself critically in the bathroom mirror. Had all the stress made her skinnier? Her face looked angular, and now that her blond highlights had grown out into a much more natural russet color, she looked older and more sophisticated. She pulled her hands through her hair and washed her face, then used J.P.’s toothbrush. She knew it was totally unhygienic, but morning breath would be so much grosser.
She exited J.P.’s bedroom suite and slowly navigated her way toward the downstairs study. There she found J.P. engrossed in a copy of The Economist and drinking his large mug of coffee. J.P. could be so middle-aged sometimes.
“Bo-ring,” Jack announced, pulling a
way the magazine as she flopped onto the leather club chair next to him. Animal heads were mounted to the wall, in a lame attempt at British hunting lodge décor. Jack used to hate how everything in the Cashman Complexes was jumbled and over-the-top, with modern design sitting next to antiques next to whatever super expensive toy Dick Cashman had purchased. But by now, she was used to it, and the mishmash décor almost felt homey.
Roger, the Cashmans’ British butler, glided into the room and offered her a glass of water, iced with lemon. Jack took it gratefully and sighed to herself. For all she knew, by next week she’d be living in some gross, water-stained apartment in Paris. It was too depressing to even think about.
“Looky what the cat dragged in!” Dick Cashman boomed as he entered the double doors on the other end of the room, trailed by two blond clipboard-holding women wearing matching Prada suits.
“Jeannette? Candice? This is my girl Jack,” Dick said, thumping her on the back. Jack tried not to cough. “Jeannette and Candice are working with me to drum up some talk about our new outpost downtown.” Dick winked. With his ruddy pink face, small cowboy hat, and tight pants, he looked like the jovial owner of some barbecue restaurant in Texas, not the wealthiest real estate mogul in New York. His latest property, the Cashman Lofts, was an eco-chic luxury building in Tribeca where everything was green.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” one of the women murmured politely, extending an elegantly manicured hand in Jack’s direction. Jack shook it weakly. She didn’t want to entertain Dick’s employees. All she wanted to do was crawl under J.P.’s Asprey blanket and go back to sleep.
“She’s not my daughter—although she will be in a few years! She’s my son’s little lady,” Dick explained. “Here, let’s get some food in the breakfast nook!” Dick turned abruptly, leading them through the apartment and into an expansive Italian marble–floored kitchen. While the study looked like an English hunting lodge, the kitchen looked like it belonged in an airy Santa Monica bungalow. It was amazing that Dick was such a good real estate developer, since his personal taste was so off. “All right, let’s sit!” he announced.
“Thanks so much for inviting me to breakfast, Dick.” Jack smiled through her teeth. Even after all these years, it felt weird calling someone’s dad Dick.
“Are they working you too hard in your tutu classes?” Dick asked in concern once everyone was seated around the rugged wood table. “Or is my son not taking care of your needs? You don’t look so good!” He squinted his bulbous eyes at Jack, as if trying to get a better look.
“I’m fine,” Jack mumbled. She wondered why she’d ever agreed to have breakfast with J.P.’s family.
“Jack’s upset because she found out her mom’s moving to Paris,” J.P. piped up helpfully. Jack glared at him mutinously. She certainly didn’t want to get into her family’s fucked-up life in front of all these people. It was bad enough trying to deal with it on her own. Roger poured coffee and plunked baskets of scones in the center of the table. Jack wondered if there was some way she could excuse herself without seeming totally rude.
“Moving?” Dick Cashman bellowed as his wife, Tatyana, walked in, carrying two tiny puggles in her arms. Tatyana was a Russian ex-supermodel who’d gained fifty pounds since her prime and now had absurd cleavage. She was clad in a silk red kimono, but her hair was in an updo and she was wearing way too much red lipstick, as if she were about to present at an awards show, circa 1988.
“Who eez moving?” she asked in her heavy accent as she took a scone from the center of the table and stuffed it into her mouth. Crumbs stuck to her bright red lipstick and one of the dogs whined, clearly hoping to get a bite.
“My mother is moving to Paris for work and expects me to come with her,” Jack explained, wanting to stab J.P. with a fork for bringing it up.
“Moving to Paris? Jackie, baby, you can’t leave New York. You are New York.” Dick winked for what felt like the twentieth time in ten minutes. Suddenly his face turned even pinker. He clapped his hands together. “You know, we’re using the penthouse of the Cashman Lofts as a showroom, and what better way to add some glamour to the shack than with a pretty little lady?”
“She eez perfect.” Tatyana appraised Jack as if she were a racehorse, leaning in to look at Jack’s face. Jack tried not to cough from the cloyingly overbearing scent of her spicy perfume. “She could be the face of Cashman Lofts. Elegance and modernity. Zat is zee point? She is zee girl!”
Jack blinked. What were they talking about? Why would a building need a face?
“It could work.” Candice nodded to Jeannette. Or Jeannette nodded to Candice. It was impossible to tell, since they both had shoulder-length, blown-dry hair, Botoxed foreheads, and super-bony collarbones. The two women pulled out their BlackBerrys and began typing frantically.
“Well, what do you think, Jackie baby? Want to move in? Be the face of the green movement?”
Jack looked at Dick in disbelief. He wanted her to live in the Cashman Lofts? She wouldn’t have to move to Paris with her dramatic, crazy mother?
“I’d love to,” Jack said smoothly. She resisted the urge to hug everyone, even J.P.’s fat, weird mom and Dick’s robo-assistants.
“Great, great. It’ll be great. We’ll call Page Six, New York, Harper’s, Metropolitan and get them over here. Show them the new face of green living in New York. It’ll be very hot.” Jeannette rubbed her hands together. Jack nodded giddily.
“Atta girl!” Dick clapped his hands in approval. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get some food on the table!” he commanded. Almost immediately, Roger and a bevy of other people came out of the kitchen carrying silver platters piled high with eggs, pancakes, and fresh fruit. Jack grinned. She could definitely get used to this.
“Guess what we’re going to do when I move in,” Jack whispered to J.P., once Tatyana and Dick were safely digging into their omelets and Candice and Jeannette were huddled over their BlackBerries. She was glad she’d gotten too drunk to do it last night. They’d do it once she moved into the lofts. It would be a perfect way to begin her perfect new life. And the best part about it was, it was all free.
You know what they say: Nothing comes without a price….
r is for really pathetic
“Rhys, darling, are you okay?” Lady Sterling popped her head into Rhys’s room on Saturday afternoon. With her ramrod-straight posture, elegantly white hair, and unlined face, she looked like a wig-wearing Nicole Kidman.
“Yep,” Rhys murmured. In truth, he’d woken up an hour ago and wished more than anything he could fall back asleep. In times like this, most other kids would head straight to their parents’ supply of Ambien. But most other kids didn’t have a mom like Lady Sterling, the hyper-energetic hostess of the hit manners and culture show Tea with Lady Sterling. Cheerfulness and making the best of things were her personal religion.
“Are you sure?” Lady Sterling lifted her nose in the air like a German shepherd sniffing out trouble. Rhys glanced up unenthusiastically. Sitting up required way too much energy. His flat-screen TV in the corner was tuned to a baseball game, the Yankees versus the Red Sox. Not like Rhys gave a fuck who won.
Because on Channel Rhys, it’s all Sterling versus Carlyle, all the time.
“Yeah, fine.” Rhys pushed himself off his bed and brushed wordlessly past his mom. He sat down at his messy, book-strewn desk and turned on his Mac Air. Maybe his mom would think he was doing homework and leave him alone. “I might be getting a cold or something. I’m probably contagious,” he lied.
“Rhys, darling, you’re not fine. Anyone can see you’re in crisis. You quit the swim team.”
Rhys sighed and shook his head, wishing for the millionth time he could have parents like Hugh’s, who spent most of their time at the opera or at their country house in Provence. Instead, his mom enjoyed prying into every single aspect of his life, eager to uncover some type of trend that she could break on her show, usually with him as a guest star. In the past, it had been t
olerable because Kelsey would often join him in the segments. For one show they’d tried out trapeze lessons on the West Side, and in another, he’d demonstrated helpful lifesaving techniques in the Sterlings’ basement pool. But now the only segments he could film were “How to Be a Loser” or “How to Not Notice When Your Best Friend Is Hooking Up with Your Girlfriend.”
“Your father and I were talking,” Lady Sterling continued, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. “You need something to revive you after the recent Kelsey upset. We’re heading to London next weekend for Cousin Elfie’s wedding, and maybe you should come. There will be some beautiful young ladies there.” Lady Sterling nodded, no doubt thinking of the far-flung branches of their family tree.
Isn’t that still, um, gross?
In fact, despite her accent, Lady Sterling was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and not Greenwich, UK, but everyone, including some of their more distant cousins, seemed to forget that. Most believed it was Lady Sterling herself—and not her husband, the thin, unassuming Algernon Sterling—who was directly descended from royalty. “I think your second cousin Jemimah is fifteen or sixteen. And I heard she just got her braces off, so I’m sure she looks lovely,” Lady Sterling cooed.
“What?” Rhys glanced up sharply, the thought of dating one of his cousins finally tapping his brain awake. “And wait, how do you know about Kelsey?” He squinted at his mom. He hadn’t said anything about it for precisely this reason.
“Kelsey called to tell me. But what would young love be without drama? Without intrigue, without the chase? Rhys, I can see that this is a formative moment for you.” Lady Sterling beamed as she stalked across to the windows and flung open the drawn shades. “What we need to do, darling, is sit down and figure out how to win her back.” Rhys cradled his head in his hands and sighed. So while Kelsey was sleeping with his ex–best friend, she was also buddy-buddy with his mom?