Jack looked up. She watched as Owen’s eyes flicked over Kelsey’s body, barely registering Rhys standing behind her.
“Hi,” Jack said authoritatively in Kelsey’s general direction. She was trying hard not to be bitchy, though of course she’d noticed Kelsey’s ridiculously casual dress. And she’d sort of gone overboard on that whole enamel accessory trend, wearing about five bracelets on each wrist.
Not like she was judging.
“Table’s ready,” their waiter said. He instantly rolled his eyes when he took in their teenage double date. He’d clearly assumed the reservation was for Lady Sterling, not her son. They were escorted to a ridiculously tiny black booth in the corner and offered a bottle of sake.
“Hi, I’m Owen. Nice to see you again.” Owen offered his hand to Kelsey, feeling ridiculous as they all crowded into the booth. The booths were separated by sheer white curtains, embroidered with elaborate flowers and butterflies. With the curtain closed, it sort of felt like they were in one of those old-fashioned train cars from a movie like Murder on the Orient Express. It would be really romantic on a date, but for this occasion it just felt like torture.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kelsey said, playing with the chopsticks sitting on her black enamel plate. The way she said it wasn’t bitchy, exactly, but her tone sent a shiver of fear up Owen’s spine. She sounded like she really didn’t care, like she was meeting any asshole member of the swim team and she’d be nice, but not any nicer than she had to be. Owen pounded down his saketini and reached for the bottle of sake.
“Who wants some?” he offered, holding up the bottle. He didn’t look at Kelsey. Or Jack. Or Rhys.
“Sure,” Rhys said affably. “So, I was telling Kelsey that you’re from Nantucket. Her family has a house on the Cape.”
“It’s totally different,” Kelsey and Owen said at the same time.
“Sorry,” Owen quickly apologized. Kelsey shook her head and sighed heavily, as if Owen had just exploded in a string of swear words. Owen tugged the collar of his shirt. He looked at the curtain again, suddenly reminded of the Sartre play No Exit, which they’d read in French class last year. In the play, three characters find themselves in hell, tortured only by one another. It was sort of how he felt right now. Whenever Kelsey looked at him with that awful expression of indifference and disgust, he felt a little stab in his chest. And yet, he couldn’t stop looking at her. It was utter torment.
“So, how are you, Jack?” Rhys tried to start a conversation again, grasping at straws. He smiled at the redheaded, freckle-faced girl. She and Owen looked good together, but something just seemed… off. And he didn’t know why Kelsey, who was usually so friendly, was being so standoffish to Owen.
“Are you okay?” Rhys whispered to Kelsey. She was looking down at her fingernails.
“I’m really happy I’m here with you,” Kelsey whispered, loudly enough for Owen and Jack to hear. Rhys gulped his glass of sake, which burned his throat. He wasn’t really sure what Kelsey meant. She almost sounded angry, but when he turned again to look into her eyes, she had an eager smile pasted on her face. Weird.
“This is a nice place,” he commented desperately, looking at the random sculpture of a tiger set up on a ledge above Owen’s head. It looked like it was ready to attack.
Just like some members of the dinner party.
The waiter whisked open the curtain and looked at all of them, disappointed that he hadn’t caught them making out under the table or doing something completely inappropriate so he could kick them out. “Compliments of the chef.” He set down a plate of steaming edamame. The small green nubs reminded Owen of the praying mantises that were always in their garden in Nantucket. “Ready to order?” the waiter asked brusquely.
Owen consulted the menu, suddenly not feeling hungry at all. It didn’t matter. Rhys was rattling off dishes as if he were freaking Japanese. Owen smiled tightly and noticed Kat’s hand on Rhys’s knee. He felt like he was going to be sick.
“Got it,” the waiter huffed as Rhys finished his elaborate order, and closed the curtains again.
“Are you okay?” Jack whispered in Owen’s ear.
“Yeah.” Owen nodded as he grabbed a piece of edamame. Rhys now had his hand on Kelsey’s shoulder and was edging his fingers underneath the straps of her sundress. Owen abruptly reached over for Jack’s hand but accidentally tipped over her glass.
“Sorry,” he apologized, dabbing lamely at the countertop with a thick cloth napkin. He felt like a jerk.
“It’s fine.” Jack shrugged. Surprisingly, she wasn’t even put out by the small droplets landing in a starlike pattern on her black Vivienne Tam cocktail dress. Something about the candlelight, the dark curtains, and the fact that Rhys and Kelsey were totally ignoring them made it feel like they were in a romantic world of their own.
The alcohol didn’t hurt either.
Owen was hardly breathing, trying to listen to Rhys and Kelsey’s conversation. Their fingers were intertwined, and Kelsey’s silvery blue eyes looked almost wet. Was she crying? As if on cue, Kelsey glanced over and glared at Owen.
“Did you want to say something?” she asked pointedly. Suddenly, everyone was staring at him. Owen felt his ears turn red.
“No… actually, I think I have to leave.” Owen shrugged apologetically as he fumbled in his pocket. He knew it was abrupt and antisocial, but he just couldn’t be here anymore. He pulled out his iPhone. “It’s… my sisters. They’re having some type of problem,” Owen finished lamely, hoping they’d buy the family emergency story.
“Okay, man,” Rhys looked concerned. “Jack, you can definitely feel free to stay,” he offered generously.
Jack smiled grimly at Owen’s retreating back, barely acknowled-ging Rhys’s lame attempt at politesse. She’d have to give Owen a stern talking-to later. What the fuck was that all about? She’d forgotten what a pain in the ass having a boyfriend could be.
Has she also forgotten he’s not actually her boyfriend?
clothes call
“Miss, this is a private club!” A man wearing a three-piece suit rushed out from behind a mahogany desk. Baby stopped mid-walk and looked around in confusion. Atlas, 3 East Sixtieth Street. She thought that was the address J.P. had given her. She was supposed to meet him and his parents at the club for dinner tonight, but maybe she’d gotten the numbers wrong. She rooted through her green vinyl Brooklyn Industries bag for the piece of paper where she’d written the address.
“Sorry, I thought I was meeting someone here. This is the Atlas Club?” Baby wore an oversize red and black Alive + Olivia tunic dress she’d found in Avery’s closet. It was large on her tiny frame, so she’d belted it with one of Edie’s old hippie-leather belts, and added a few necklaces and bracelets. Fur-clad ladies and tuxedoed men milled around the lobby. A harp and a violin played in the background. She definitely did not fit in.
Again.
“You’re quite sure you’re meeting your party here?” The guy knitted his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows together. He had a tiny mustache that looked like the offspring of his out-of-control eyebrows. Normally, Baby would have found it funny, but right now she was just annoyed. Who was he to tell her that she didn’t belong here? Baby narrowed her eyes at him.
“There you are!”
Baby whirled around and saw J.P. dressed in an impeccable gray suit, trailed by his flashy real-estate developer dad and his former European supermodel mom. A cowboy hat covered Dick Cashman’s Pepto-Bismol-colored bald head and Tatyana Cashman’s low-cut black-and-white shirt only enhanced her voluminous cleavage.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Dick clapped his hand against Baby’s back, almost causing her to lose her balance. She started coughing at the overwhelming cloud of spicy perfume following Tatyana.
“Great to see you.” Baby smiled.
“Mr. Cashman,” the club’s host said reverentially and stepped back.
“How are you?” Dick pumped the man’s hand up and down s
o hard a blue vein throbbed in his temple. “They treatin’ you well? You look a little exhausted. Tell you what, I have a bunch of new casinos out in Vegas. You come out there, play some poker, bring a lady friend, she can see one of those old broad’s concerts, it’ll be great,” Dick announced grandly with a twinkle in his eye. Tatyana wandered off to the large gilt-encrusted mirror set up in the corner and began reapplying her dark lipstick.
“Sir, I . . .Thank you,” the host said, clearly flustered.
“So, I guess I’ll bring the gang up to the usual spot? Baby, you’ve got to try the venison here. Tastes like fucking Bambi. Oh, right, you like to cuddle animals.” Dick shook his head in sorrow.
“No, I eat everything,” Baby said easily. Like many people, Dick Cashman assumed that her bohemian look meant she was a vegetarian.
“Mr. Cashman, sir…” The host shifted uncomfortably.
“Come on, we’re all friends here—call me Dick!” His voice rang through the lobby just as the harpist stopped playing.
“Dick, then,” the host said, blushing red and motioning for him to come closer to him. “You’re one of the most loyal and generous members of the club, and, as you know, we love meeting all your friends and family.” He glanced meaningfully at the LV carrier hanging from Tatyana’s fleshy arm that contained one of the Cashman’s three dogs. “However, as you also know, we’re a club based on standards, and I’m afraid the young master’s guest simply is not dressed for the occasion. But, of course, if you’d like, you could sit at the bar, or the young miss could run home and change…” he said discreetly. Baby turned red. She felt like she was in Pretty Woman, when Julia Roberts, the hooker with a heart of gold, gets kicked out of a Rodeo Drive boutique. Next to her, J.P. was awkwardly shuffling from foot to Gucci loafer-clad foot.
“Nonsense, we can eat at the bar. Closer to the booze! Come on!” Dick roared. He sidled up to Tatyana, squeezing her enormous ass. It was encased in a pencil-thin Prada skirt that only looked good on prepubescent European models.
“Sorry about that. I can go home and we can meet up later.” Baby shrugged as they entered the elevator, which was run by a million-year-old attendant. A dress code? It was one thing for school, but for a restaurant to be so strict just seemed absurd.
“No, it’s fine. It’s my fault, I should have told you.” J.P. furrowed his brow in concern and squeezed her hand harder. They entered the bar area, where they sat down in a line.
“Four Glenfiddiches on the rocks,” Dick called gallantly. “Scotch always fixes everything. And the menus. And, hey, do you have any of those bar snacks?”
Although the room was dark, with brocade curtains, it was still light outside, and Baby could see the corner of Central Park out the window. Horses and carriages were gathered along Central Park South, and runners paused on the corner, stretching. Baby sighed. She felt like she needed to run.
“You okay, really?” J.P. asked in concern as two heavy glass tumblers were planted in front of them, followed by pesto- and prosciutto-layered mini sandwiches. Baby guessed those were the bar snacks. They were a far cry from the days-old Chex mix at the Upper West Side pub she’d gone to with Sydney. She took one of the elaborately constructed sandwiches and nibbled on the corner.
“My dad loves it here. You know that old Marx brothers joke, ‘I won’t be a member of any clubs that’ll have me’? My dad is the opposite. He belongs to, like, every club in the city,” J.P. babbled. Baby forced a smile. Maybe J.P. was nervous around his parents, but he sounded like he was trying to impress a golfing buddy. She squeezed his hand again, then pointed at a lady in the next room who held a drink in each of her hands and leaned against the piano for support. She looked like she was ready to break out into song at any moment, and at a place like this, Baby wondered if anybody would be able to stop her. J.P. cracked a wide grin and shook his head. Baby ate the rest of her sandwich, relieved. It was just J.P. Her boyfriend. So, yeah, he had grown up in this life of ridiculous excess, but who was she to judge? She’d grown up sleeping outside, with a mom who hosted weeklong bacchanalia parties on the beach. In a way, it was sort of the same thing.
Minus the private clubs, private helicopters, and private investments.
“Well, I’m going to get the venison,” Dick announced to the bar. “Shall we just get it for everyone? And some more drinks. Surprise us.” Dick tipped his cowboy hat jovially at the bartender.
Because of course, cowboy hats are part of the dress code.
“So, Baby, vat are you vearing to zee party on Saturday?” Tatyana asked, pursing her platypuslike lips. She leaned in so close that Baby had to swerve to avoid getting Chanel lipstick smeared all over her cheek.
“I don’t know yet.” Baby shrugged. She hadn’t really thought about what she was going to wear to the swim team dinner, even though it was tomorrow night. Benefits in Nantucket were either on the beach or in the firehouse.
“Maybe we could go shopping togezzer. But ze problem is you are so skinny! Eat, eat!” Tatyana pushed another sandwich toward Baby, who hastily accepted it. If she didn’t, J.P.’s mom would probably end up feeding it to her. Tatyana sneaked two sandwiches into the carrier and the dog let out a low growl. “Eez settled then.” She turned back to Baby. “We shop for ze perfect dress for you tomorrow.”
“No, don’t worry about it.…” Baby trailed off. She imagined herself with Tatyana Cashman as her stylist. By the end of the day she’d be wearing dark lipstick and ass-tight gold pants.
“Why not go with her? It would be nice to get a new dress.” J.P. leaned in to whisper in Baby’s ear. “You guys would have fun.”
Have fun? Baby’s smile faltered. Since when did Shopping for Party Dresses + Baby Carlyle = Fun? Didn’t he know her at all? And even if she did get barred from fancy private clubs for being a little, well, unique, wasn’t that what he liked about her?
“Okay, thanks, that’d be great,” Baby mumbled, picking at a new appetizer that had appeared, a tasteless lump of gelatinous substance that looked like tree bark. Tatyana nodded appreciatively, happy to be of service.
“Well, now that that’s settled, I’m takin’ my lady for a hoedown!” Dick pulled Tatyana up and over toward the dance floor. They swayed to some old-school Frank Sinatra. It was really cute, in a way, and Baby knew J.P.’s parents meant well—and so did J.P. She felt her Nokia against her hip and willed herself not to think about what fun things Sydney, Mateo, or any of the other URs were up to right now.
“You know what’d be really fun?” Baby whispered to J.P., suddenly inspired. She took another swig of scotch and wiped the back of her mouth with her hand. “What if we made a pact that wherever we were, whenever it happened, if one of us called each other and decided to go to… oh, I don’t know, Barcelona, we’d take the next plane out. Nothing except passports. What do you think?” Baby bounced up and down on the thick cushion of the bar stool in excitement.
“Just… go?” J.P. asked in confusion. “What about school?”
“Write a report about it! Come on! Live a little. Not now,” she added. “But sometime soon. When I call you. Or when you call me.” Baby’s eyes searched J.P.’s. He had to say yes. Behind them, Dick was groping Tatyana’s ass, their dinner apparently forgotten, as the piano player played “Strangers in the Night.”
“I’m in,” J.P. finally said, his face breaking into a smile. Baby smiled back in relief. She could hardly wait to experience the world, especially with her boyfriend by her side.
“Salud!” J.P. added randomly. It meant cheers in Spanish. He held up his glass and Baby joyfully clinked it with hers.
Salud indeed.
hey people!
ready to benefit?
It’s the first big party of the season. The annual St. Jude’s swim team benefit may officially benefit those less fortunate—technically, the proceeds go to buying public schools pool time at the Y—but with a date auction that pretty much encourages hooking up, it really benefits all of us. It’s become a fall tra
dition, the kickoff to mischief, the official nod that in between studying for AP tests and participating in every extracurricular activity possible, we ought to put down the books, take off the uniforms, kick up our heels, and misbehave. Since it’s for charity, don’t be shy about raising your paddle high for that butterflyer with the killer shoulders or the cutie you want to personally tutor you in the breaststroke. But for the newbies, remember: This is a school-sponsored event. Meaning? Get your flasks ready and be prepared to flip the sober switch at a moment’s notice. You never know when an adult will wander over to the young and fun tables to “bond.” Don’t say I didn’t warn you!
With that in mind, it’s come to my attention that there have been more than a few etiquette breaches lately. While I don’t want to sound old-fashioned, it’s in all of our best interests not to totally embarrass ourselves at the first big event of the year. To help, here’s a handy reminder of proper behavior.
No texting under the table. Instead, go the infinitely more romantic and Henry James–ian route of sending your potential hookup a note through the waiter. Bonus if your note is to the waiter.
Dress appropriately. With panties. In addition, gentlemen, even if your date is wearing a cleavage-baring Chloé dress whose bejeweled straps “accidentally” slide down, you do not have permission to stare at her chest.
Remember the golden rule of drinking: one drink per hour, maximum, and please drink one glass of Pellegrino for every flute of Veuve. As if any of us can keep track.
So roll this list up and stick it in your cigarette case. Or smoke it. Good parties happen only when you break the rules!
sightings
A setting up camp at Serafina on Sixty-first and Madison, nursing her third cappuccino with a line of boys out the door. Interviewing prospects for the benefit? B shopping with J.P.’s mom, at Barneys. And Bergdorf’s. And Bloomingdale’s. Oh dear. Let’s hope they have something to show for it that isn’t too shiny and stretchy! O, looking a little sad, as he ran around the Central Park Reservoir over and over again. Building up his endurance for tonight? J, S.J., and G standing outside the Ninety-second Street Y. Hoping to get some early bidding in, ladies?