“Thank you, darling!” Bailey squealed. “Step, step, ladies. We need to get you some drinks!” He dashed off in the direction of the bar, pulling the two along with him like puppies on a leash. “Bartender!” he barked at the golden surfer-boy model-type who was behind the bar. His uniform, like those of the rest of the waitstaff, consisted of a low-cut Bailey Winter Garçon cotton-and-cashmere vest over his perfectly defined bare chest.
“What do my pets want?” Bailey cooed.
“Two Negronis.” Blair turned to scan the crowd, a blur of white trousers against the green grass, perfect haircuts and impressive muscles peeking out of too-short sleeves.
Then she spotted them: Ibiza and Svetlana, clad in white. Copycat bitches. Svetlana wore a tacky, stretchy asymmetrical dress that emphasized her basically nonexistent chest. Ibiza had squeezed herself into a backless white hot pants jumpsuit that looked like something Blair’s mother might have worn to Studio 54, like, thirty years ago. Nasty.
Why not do something about it then?
“Here you are.” The bartender handed Blair two tumblers filled with the rich, orange liquid. “I’m Gavin.”
“Thank you, Gavin.” Serena batted her eyelashes at him. “So . . . are you out here all summer?” she asked, leaning against the weathered-wood bar.
“Not now,” Blair snapped, grabbing her friend’s arm.
She had no patience for Serena’s flirting—not when they had a job to do.
“Sorry.” Serena took a small sip of the bittersweet cock-tail. “I was just having a little fun. He’s probably the only nongay guy here.”
“Bailey, I’d like to get a closer look at the DJ booth,” Blair announced.
“Oh, honey, you read my mind.” Bailey guided the two by their elbows around the perimeter of the pool toward the pink-trimmed white cabana that had been erected for the occasion. “He’s positively scrumptious, don’t you think? Oh, shoo, girls.” He waved away Ibiza and Svetlana, who were pawing through the milk crates packed with records. “He’s got work to do!”
“Ve’re helping him,” Ibiza protested, pouting and sipping at her chardonnay.
“Sure you are.” Bailey winked sarcastically at Blair.
“Why don’t we all go over there and chat?” Blair pointed at an all-white seating area next to the pool.
“Yes, yes, you girls go sit—I mean, I had those cushions specially made just for this party. That is the most divine bleached Italian silk. Very rare. Very special. So lounge, come on, look pretty. Go on, run along.” Bailey raised his tiny Tiffany champagne flute in salute. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on our music man, don’t you worry!”
Ibiza and Svetlana arranged themselves on the over-stuffed, raw-silk pillows stationed poolside. Blair and Serena stood above them, grimacing.
“He’s a gay, you do know?” Ibiza sipped her wine and stared coldly at Blair.
Blair looked down at her. It was almost like looking in a particularly fucked-up trick mirror at a carnival. “Yes, I’m aware, thanks.”
“I just thought, you know, you hold hands with him, I tell you, you know, don’t expect anything to happen,” Ibiza continued.
“Why would I expect anything to happen?” Blair looked blankly at Serena.
“I don’t know.” Serena shrugged.
“I mean, what could happen?” Blair smiled, then suddenly tripped spastically forward. Her still-untouched deep-orange cocktail flew at Ibiza’s chest. She grabbed Serena’s arm to steady herself, which caused Serena’s drink to spill all over Svetlana’s head.
What are the odds?
The crowd clustered around the quartet gave a collective, horrified gasp as everything—the white dresses, the white pillows, Svetlana’s white-blond hair—turned a deep tangerine color right before their eyes.
“Oh goodness, what have I done?” Blair used her white-and-cream striped cocktail napkin to dab delicately at the front of Ibiza’s dress.
“Ees ruined, you beetch. Is Versace!” Ibiza waved her away irritably.
“What happened?” Bailey Winter dashed toward them, palms pressed against his cheeks in dismay. His five pugs barked uneasily at the crowd. “What’s going on? Someone spilled? Oh my word! My pillows!”
“They do this!” barked Ibiza, the tangerine stain spreading across her hideous formerly white jumpsuit. Between the stain and her brassy highlights and too-orange tan, she was beginning to look like a clementine-colored Oompa Loompa. “They do on purpose!”
“We better go get some towels....” Blair backed away from the scene and into the still-stunned-silent crowd.
“Towels.” Serena nodded seriously. She pulled at her own white-blond locks, tying the ends in a knot to hold them in place.
“I need a minute alone, please!” Bailey Winter raised his hands and started shooing. “Everyone, please, just back to the party. Pretend I’m not here.”
That’s right: ignore the weeping man in neon argyle surrounded by barking dogs.
“We’ll give you a minute.” Blair grabbed Serena’s hand and pulled her through the crowd of men. By the time they reached the lawn, both of them were nearly hysterical with giggles.
“What now?” Serena gasped. “We can’t go back there.”
Blair dropped her crystal-cut tumbler to the ground, where it landed with a thud. “Can we make it over this?” She stood on her tiptoes to more closely examine the redwood fence that separated the Winter estate from the Archibald residence.
Of course you can. In heels.
“Definitely.” Serena placed her glass on the spongy grass and pulled herself up onto the fence.
Blair followed her, easily maneuvering her body over the fence and landing on the grassy lawn beyond it. She inspected her pale yellow dress—there was a stain across the bodice from where she’d touched the fence. “Bollocks,” she swore.
No pain, no gain.
“Blair? Serena?”
Blair looked up from her ruined dress to find exactly who she’d secretly hoped to find in the Archibalds’ yard.
“Hello, Nate.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.
“I heard someone scream. I thought it was a wild animal or something.” Nate looked dazed, like he’d been napping.
Or smoking, more likely.
“I was worried about you guys,” he went on.
“That’s sweet,” Blair cooed, reaching out to take Serena’s hand. “Now take us home.”
“What do you mean?” Nate blinked, staring at them like he was still trying to figure out if they were real or just an apparition. “Home, here? Of course. Come on in—”
“No, home!” Blair and Serena shrieked in unison. Then they took off running across the perfectly trimmed lawn toward the driveway, where Nate’s father’s pride and joy, a hunter green Aston Martin convertible, sat basking in the cool night air.
Road trip!
it’s all about timing
“Well, well, well, look what the hairless cat dragged in.” Chuck Bass slid his titanium Christian Roth sunglasses down his nose and fired a crooked smile at Vanessa. She’d barely taken two steps into Bailey Winter’s expansive yard before Chuck had stepped into her path and started clucking at her. His pet snow monkey, Sweetie, was perched on his shoulder, wearing a sequined sailor outfit, bobbing up and down on its hind legs and tugging at the collar of Chuck’s pale pink Hugo Boss polo. It occurred to Vanessa that Sweetie was quite possibly using it as toilet paper.
“Oh, hey, Chuck.” She vaguely remembered that this guy was bad news—Dan didn’t like him for some reason, and she’d heard people gossip about him, although you couldn’t ever really trust that.
Is that a fact?
“You just missed the show, honey.” Chuck popped his polo collar back into place and smiled insinuatingly. “Blair and Serena, up to their old tricks.”
“Thank God they’re here.” Vanessa released an audible sigh of relief. After all, she’d come specifically to see them, following a hot tip from the nanny next door, a svelte Irish
girl named Siobhan who, despite being a servant like Vanessa, seemed to be at the center of the Hamptons social scene. She felt moderately self-conscious about her outfit— actual black capri pants that she hadn’t just cut off herself and a simple black cotton shell she’d bought at Club Monaco just before leaving for Amagansett—but she figured it would be okay since her friends were here.
“They were, darling.” Chuck was distractedly checking his text messages. “You totally missed it. Hurricane Blair left some real damage in her wake.”
Behind him the scene was pandemonium: a deeply tanned near-midget was kneeling by the edge of the swimming pool crying hysterically, while a thick crowd of gorgeous gay men moved further and further away from him. Standing nearby, in the middle of some orange-splattered white pillows, were two very familiar girls. “But isn’t that—”
“Blair and Serena? Don’t be fooled, darling. Total impostors. Look closely.” Chuck went back to texting in his BlackBerry.
Vanessa looked again and realized that Chuck was right—the brunette and blonde she’d first taken for Blair and Serena were not quite as pretty or healthy-looking as the originals. The fact that their once-white outfits were both marred by sloppy, barfy-looking stains further cemented it. She squinted at them, realizing they were the faux versions she’d seen on the beach only hours before.
Just what she needed—a reminder of her horrible after-noon with the terror twins. The rest of their time at the beach had been uneventful enough, but the moment they returned to the house, Ms. Morgan had dug into her about what SPF she’d used on the boys, what books they’d read, and how she’d really prefer Vanessa not ruin their dinner with Cheez-Its. Vanessa had nodded patiently, then raced to her upstairs room and quickly changed into something relatively presentable. Then she’d dashed out of the house and into the night, refusing to let the minor fact that she didn’t have either a driver’s license or a car get in her way. She’d grabbed one of the twins’ tiny bicycles from the hook from which it was suspended and pedaled toward civilization, figuring that it would only be a matter of time before she came across someone who could direct her to where Blair and Serena might be. Luckily, she’d bumped into Siobhan after about one block.
“Do you know where they went?” Vanessa turned to see Chuck Bass disappearing into the crowd, his hand raised high above his head to avoid spilling his drink.
Great. No Blair, no Serena, and now, no Chuck. Vanessa had a vision of herself alone, shivering on the beach, trying to avoid the perverts and murderous models.
Just another night in East Hampton.
Well, there’s only one cure for a lonely night, Vanessa reasoned as she dove into the crowd, slipping through a trio of shirtless musclemen, making a beeline for—where else?— the bar.
“Vodka martini.” She smiled at the bartender, giving him her best yes-I’m-on-the-guest-list look. She almost never drank, but holding a martini might give her a new outlook on life.
The bartender went right to work and smoothly handed over a glass. Clutching the stem, Vanessa turned back into the crowd, unsure who to talk to. There was Chuck, laughing as he made small talk with a very tall man, and there were the two impostors from the beach, frowning and pathetically dabbing at their stained outfits with damp napkins.
Tough choice.
Vanessa wove through a thicket of linen-pants-clad types, heading toward the edge of the pool. “We meet again,” she offered by way of introduction. “I’m Vanessa.”
The blond girl stared at her dumbly through her tear-blurred slightly crossed eyes.
“You again.” The faux Blair glared at her. “We must go change.” The girl grabbed her friend’s hand and started walking away from Vanessa. “Maybe you should also change.”
Vanessa resisted the urge to pitch her drink at the girl’s bucktoothed face.
Sliding off her flip-flops, she took a seat and dangled her feet into the aqua-colored water. She sipped her martini nervously, trying to drink her way through that horrible I’m-at-a-party-and-no-one-is-talking-to-me shame. Then she glanced at her watch, fiddled with her outfit, and stared at the placid surface of the swimming pool, pretending to be engrossed in each task.
“Yooo-hooo. Excuse me, dear.”
Had someone called security?
Vanessa turned oh-so-casually to come face-to-face with Bailey Winter himself, the gaytastic designer she’d crossed paths with on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s the day before she was excommunicated, and the host of the party she just happened to be crashing.
“Hi!” She smiled enthusiastically, hoping to make him forget he hadn’t invited her to his soirée.
“Oh dear.” The designer produced a floral-printed silk hankie from the breast pocket of his navy blue linen blazer and dabbed at his red eyes with the tip of it. “I’m all at sixes and sevens. My cushions, you see—they’re ruined.”
Vanessa frowned at the booze-stained ivory cushions perched at the edge of the pool. “That’s too bad.”
“Oh, every cloud has a silver lining, honey,” he announced dramatically, his tears spontaneously drying up. “And dare I say, I think you are positively sterling! Who are you and where did you come from? You’re just the most delicious little thing.” Still clutching his handkerchief, Bailey Winter reached up and caressed Vanessa’s cheek.
Silk and snot. How lovely.
“I’m, um, looking for some friends of mine. Blair and Serena?”
“Yes, those two vixens, well, who knows where they’ve gone off to—and who cares!” He gripped her upper arm tightly with his small hand. “You’re what I’ve been looking for.You’re the new new new look. At last!”
“Excuse me?” Vanessa wanted to back away, but if she did, she’d fall into the pool.
“You must stay with me this summer,” he continued, enraptured. “Your energy, your profile, your . . . baldness. They’re positively inspiring! Say you will, my dear. Spend the night. At least one night. Please. Don’t make Uncle Bailey beg,”
“Stay here?” Vanessa surveyed the scene once more: a modern glass-and-concrete mansion, a glittering blue pool, hundreds of perfectly dressed and groomed men, chilled martinis—it was like a Fellini film, if Fellini had ever made a movie about summer in the Hamptons. She felt a surge of creativity that almost took her breath away. Of course! A movie, in the Hamptons! An impressionistic documentary, inter-splicing party footage with first-person interviews, documenting the creative process of one of the fashion industry’s leading forces. It was a little bit Robert Altman, a little bit Grey Gardens. Not to mention that it beat the shit out of booger patrol at the James-Morgans’. “Stay here,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Why, yes. I’d love to.”
She would?
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
Okay, so I know I already interrupted your regularly scheduled programming for an important message, but this is an emergency. I’m putting out an APB—that’s all-points-bulletin in case you didn’t know—on some of our very favorite people. . . .
Missing: A vintage hunter green Aston Martin convertible. Last seen speeding out of Georgica Pond a little after sundown. Reports vary, but my best sources say the car contained at least three people—a guy and two girls—and I’m getting reports that at least one of the girls was wearing white. Could someone be eloping? Please keep your eyes peeled. And now, back to your regularly scheduled dish.
book report
Our first juicy report affirms what I both hoped and feared about those book geeks: they really are freaks in bed. Rumor has it that a certain Harlem-based intellectual salon went from swapping literary thought to swapping spit—and fast. Talk about an introductory “getting to know you” meeting. I wonder if that’s what D and his new friend G had in mind when they sought out “like-minded young men and women” and asked applicants to attach their pictures. . . . Then again, from what I hear, these ea
ger literati saw beyond the shackles of identity—like, um, gender—and simply embraced the soul (and some other things) of the person next to them. I guess that’s what they mean about not judging a book by its cover.
So does this little freak-orgy mean the demise of literary debate? Can people no longer sit around a rambling Harlem apartment and discuss great works of literature without getting frisky? Or does it symbolize the return of freaky group-sex organizations like Plato’s Retreat? (Can I just say . . . ew.) Sorry to disappoint, but for once I don’t know for sure. I will tell you what it means for me, however: I am never, ever going above One-hundredth Street. I don’t care how “stimulating” the event promises to be.
paint by numbers
Speaking of parties with an, ahem, same-sex appeal, I have a bone to pick with a certain flamboyant designer about his latest stylish affair: What’s with the all-white theme? For people who consider themselves free thinkers, the idea itself is just so . . . single-minded (although maybe I’m just smarting from my exclusion from the party, due to the similarly single-minded all-male theme). I suppose it’s a way for the rich and famous to make themselves feel chic and fabulous—anybody remember that rocker whose Greenwich Village apartment was done entirely in white? Even his guests had to match the décor. And while it may look it fantastic for five minutes, it’s so impractical—hello, drunk people, colorful drinks, and white sofas? Can anyone else put two and two together? Personally, I’m up for anything colorful, particularly in summer. To prove my point, a few of my favorite (colorful) things: sunset-pink Cosmos, blue-green ocean water, mint chocolate-chip ice cream, and last but not least . . . tan boys in pastel shirts. Talk about a color combination!
your e-mail
Q: Dear the Gossip Girl,
I am beautiful brunette from foreign land so maybe there is somethings I don’t understand about America. I ask your help to explain to me this please: is bald now beautiful? Do American men like girls to look like this? With shaved head? Please advise.