Blair was overcome with the urge to grab her mallet and smack Camilla over the head. She looked at Marcus, who was blushing. Maybe he and Camilla were the kind of cousins who liked to play doctor. Even after they were too old to play. Didn’t Horseface realize she was Marcus’s girlfriend?
“Oh, Cam, I’m sure Blair doesn’t want to hear about our ski weekend.” Marcus stood up, waving the empty sandwich plate at the butler.
Blair stood up, too. “Anyone up for another game, set— whatever it’s fucking called? Maybe I can take a turn this time.”
“Oh, I think I’m all worn out. I ought to have warned you,” Marcus apologized. “Camilla is an absolute whiz at games.”
Well, fine then. “Speaking of whiz,” Blair muttered under her breath. “I need the loo.” She’d picked up quite a few Britishisms in the last couple of days.
“Oh my.”Camilla blushed.“There’s that Yank wit.”
And there’s that Brit bitchiness.
“Just inside,” Lord Marcus instructed. “Through the library and on your left.”
“I’ll find it,” huffed Blair, stumbling a little as she started toward the house. The gin had gone straight to her head. “Don’t get up.”
She clopped along the flagstone path, smoothing the wrinkles in the white Thomas Pink shirtdress she’d changed into especially for their afternoon of lawn games. The house was surprisingly cluttered and smelled of rotting flowers. Of course the furniture was beautiful and the rugs especially so—apparently Lady Rhodes sent a buyer to Marrakech every other year to add to her collection. But a stained-glass window in the library made the house feel oddly churchlike, and Blair felt strange wandering around alone, knowing Lady Rhodes was upstairs somewhere nursing a hangover.
Alone in the powder room, she lit another Silk Cut, her new favorite English cigarette, and studied her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror as she exhaled. She narrowed her eyes and tucked in her chin, practicing the sexy look she’d fix on her boyfriend. One more drink and she’d suggest heading back to Claridge’s for a late-afternoon romp. Lawn games were all well and good, but she was in the mood for some real exercise. She smoked the entire cigarette and pocketed a piece of the Beaton-Rhodes French-milled shell-shaped soap just because.
Old habits never die.
Outside, a new batch of martinis had been mixed, and Lord Marcus offered a fresh glass to Blair as she took her seat.
“She’ll want an ashtray,” Camilla quipped, nervously eyeing the inch of ash at the tip of Blair’s cigarette.
“I’ll use the lawn, thanks,” Blair replied flatly, taking a swig from her paper-thin Riedel glass, spilling only a little on the table in the process.
“Darling, wait,” Lord Marcus jovially reprimanded her. “We’re having a toast. We were waiting for you.”
“What’s the occasion?” asked Blair, holding in a burp.
“While you were inside, Camilla gave me the most wonderful news.”
She’s going to Switzerland to get her enormous nose fixed? She’s finally coming out of the closet as a big fat dyke? She’s decided to become a nun?
“She’s extending her stay. She’ll be with us all summer long. Isn’t that glorious?” Lord Marcus clinked his glass against hers.
Camilla took a dainty sip of her drink and put her hand protectively over Blair’s.
“We’ll be such good friends, we’ll be almost like sisters,” she promised, this time sounding more like the evil witchy stepmother who wants to eat Hansel and Gretel than one of the three little pigs.
Blair smiled tightly and drained her glass quickly before turning back to Camilla. “I always wanted an older sister.”
Marcus wrapped his squash-toned arms around the two of them and squeezed them into a group hug. “I knew you two would get along.”
He kissed them each on the cheek, and Blair closed her eyes, trying to pretend Camilla wasn’t there.
Thank goodness she’s always had a vivid imagination.
a star is born (sort of)
Serena’s bright orange Hermès rubber flip-flops thwacked noisily against the black-and-white-checked marble floor of the Chelsea Hotel hallway as she made her way to room 609, where Ken Mogul was putting up her costar, Thaddeus Smith. The Chelsea was probably the most famous hotel in New York City. Home to iconic artists like Andy Warhol and rock stars like Janis Joplin, it had once suffered a terrible fire and all its famous residents had been forced out. Now it was mostly a tourist trap, but it still had a historic sixties allure, and its basement housed a dark, trendy bar, aptly named Serena.
Serena couldn’t understand why Thaddeus got to stay in a hotel and she had to live in a shabby apartment with no A/C. She’d been sitting alone, too hot to move, since Jason left, when Ken had called and told her to come down for an impromptu rehearsal with Thad. Serena took a deep breath, fiddled nervously with the zippers on her gunmetal gray Balenciaga motor-cycle bag, and knocked on the chipped door to room 609.
“Hi, you!” she squealed happily when Vanessa Abrams opened the door. It had only been a little over two weeks since graduation, but it felt like this was their twentieth reunion or something. Vanessa was wearing a black silk jersey wrap dress and the coolest silver flat sandals Serena had ever seen. “You look amazing!”
Vanessa opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Ken. “Serena,” he called slowly. He was perched on the windowsill inside the large main room of the hotel suite, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. “Welcome to our universe!”
“Nice to see you again.” Serena giggled as she stepped through the door and crossed the room, which was flooded with light from Twenty-third Street. The walls were painted an astringent mint green that reminded her of the dorm bathrooms at Hanover Academy, the New Hampshire boarding school where she’d spent her junior year. There was an over-stuffed brown couch with cracks and splits in the leather along the armrests, and dozens of little potted cactuses lined the windowsill. Serena could see an unmade king-size bed through the French doors.
“You can kind of picture all the people who’ve had sex here, can’t you?” Vanessa whispered. Serena wrinkled her nose. Now she could.
“You know Vanessa, of course.” Ken tossed his cigarette out of the open window behind him. “I’ve asked her to come aboard as our director of photography.”
Not like she had any choice.
“Great, cool.” Serena winked at Vanessa, who was now busying herself with some serious-looking equipment.
“And I’m Thaddeus,” a sexy voice announced as the star strolled in from the adjacent bedroom.
Thaddeus Smith was taller than Serena had expected, and his thick dirty blond hair stood on end, giving him an extra inch or so. He was wearing an unremarkable outfit of dark jeans and a faded black Lacoste polo, collar standing up with a sort of dorky deliberateness. Serena had the impression that she already knew him, and in a way she did: she’d watched him romance a sweet-faced Southern starlet in the two romantic comedies they’d done together, she’d seen him flee a homicidal maniac (who turned out to be his long-lost twin brother, also played by him in a challenging dual role). She’d even seen him in a skintight white bodysuit, playing a mute otherworldly creature awakened by the sun’s alignment with an ancient Mayan ruin. She’d heard that familiar baritone before, as he flirted and bantered on the talk shows, and of course she’d scoped out his signature abs in countless Les Best underwear advertisements. In person, he more than lived up to the hype: he was gorgeous, from the golden stubble on the sharp planes of his face to his tanned and perfect feet.
Thaddeus took Serena’s hand in his and shook it firmly. “It’s so great to meet you at last.” His light blue eyes locked with her dark blue ones, or was she just imagining it?
“You too,” she breathed.
“I’m glad we’re all here, now,” Ken began, lighting another cigarette. He hugged his knees to his chest, perching on the windowsill in his slippery-looking royal-blue bicycle shorts. “Scripts out. And Thadd
eus, from now on she’s Holly, not Serena.”
Thaddeus plopped down on the cracked leather sofa, tossing the throw pillows carelessly onto the floor. “Have a seat, Holly.”
Serena dug into her bag to retrieve her script, then sat on the couch, resisting the urge to immediately snuggle closer to her costar.
Because that just wouldn’t be professional.
Ken closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring. He spread his fingers out in front of him like insect feelers, hopped off the windowsill, and staggered toward the center of the room. His eyes popped open when he bumped into the chipped wooden coffee table and a mountain of script rewrites slid to the floor. Then he leapt onto the table and crouched on its edge, leaning in very close to the twosome. “We’re going to start with the big climax. This is the emotional heart of the movie and I want to nail this before we get to any of the other stuff. Everything builds to this moment.”
Ken was crouched so close Serena could smell his dank-cigarette breath. She held up her script as a barrier and started to page through it. She’d assumed they’d read from the beginning. She knew her lines in the first few scenes but was a little shaky on the second half of the movie.
“So we’ll read through once and then let’s get up, get moving, find our space in the room, and get this going, okay? Vanessa’s going to roll, just to shoot some test footage so you guys can study up on it later. Sound good?” Ken asked, still crouching like a gargoyle on the coffee table.
“Let’s go,” nodded Thaddeus, tossing his script aside.
“Almost ready,” interjected Vanessa, who was linking her handheld camera to one of the director’s laptops.
“And Holly?” asked Ken, resting his chin on his hand while his finger appeared to be up his nose.
“Ready when you are,” Serena muttered. Shit, shit! She didn’t know a single line. She took a deep breath.
“Darling. You’re always rescuing me. How can I ever repay you?” she began, waving her right hand slowly, deliberately. It felt like a sexy mannerism. A little flair.
“You don’t have to repay me,” replied Thaddeus as Jeremy Stone, in his famously sexy baritone. They were standing by the window, and he leaned in close, the afternoon sun hitting his rugged profile as he took Serena by the wrist. “It’s me who should repay you. I owe you everything, Holly. You showed me how to be . . .” He paused intently. “You showed me how to be me.”
Maybe it was because he was a talented actor, or maybe it was because he was just gorgeous, but somehow he made the dorky dialogue sound almost normal. He was standing so close to Serena she could smell mint on his breath. Was he really just perfect?
Yup.
“I ...I ...” Serena faltered. “I just don’t know what to say.”
Across the room, behind the camera, Vanessa cleared her throat.
“Don’t say anything,” Thaddeus-as-Jeremy cooed. “Just stand still and let me look at you.”
Serena didn’t move. She couldn’t help but believe everything Thaddeus was saying.
“I’m going to stop you here,” announced Ken Mogul. “Holly, babes, remember: you’re not Serena. You’re Holly.”
“Okay,” Serena whispered. She didn’t feel like Holly Golightly. She felt like herself and like the perfect guy was right in front of her. She’d spent her whole life not acting fake around guys: it was kind of hard to act around one, especially one so ... cute.
“And quit with that hand stuff,” Ken whined, sounding like a big baby. “Looks like you’re swatting away mosquitoes.”
“Sorry.” Through the open window Serena could hear the sound of traffic whizzing by. She kind of wished she were out there instead, window shopping on Mercer Street in Soho with Thaddeus or maybe letting him feed her sushi on the roof of Sushi Samba, just a few blocks downtown. Thaddeus leaned out of the large window and inhaled deeply. Was he reading her mind?
“Just listen to Thad,” Ken continued with his finger still up his nose. “He’s not Thad, anymore—is he? No, he’s Jeremy. You hear that—his shyness? His nervousness? He’s terrified of you, you see. Terrified and enchanted. Make us all feel that, okay? Make us all fall in love with you.”
Like that was ever difficult before.
“Let’s go again.” Ken clapped his hands while simultane-ously lighting another cigarette, even though his last one had burned to ash without his even touching it.
Thaddeus snapped back to attention, leaning in close to Serena again.
“Darling. You’re always rescuing me. How can I ever repay you?” she asked, more assuredly this time.
“You don’t have to repay me.”
“You must come to my . . .” She couldn’t remember the rest of the line. She had to glance at her script.
“Party!” cried Ken. “Party! Haven’t you read the script, Holly?”
“Yeah,” muttered Serena defensively, resisting the urge to kick the pile of script rewrites on the floor up and out the large, bright window.
“Okay, let’s skip ahead a little bit.” Ken rubbed his weirdly red forehead. “Let’s do the big morning scene. There’s just a little dialogue there, so you should be able to manage that, right, Holly?”
“Sure.” She felt like she was doing everything wrong, even though she’d only said a few words. Wasn’t there any time to get warmed up?
“Okay, Thaddeus, you begin,” Ken directed, with his new cigarette torched in hand.
“Holly,” Thaddeus recited, from memory—his script was still lying on the couch. “I knew I’d find you here.”
“Will you always know where to find me?” Serena could see Ken shaking his head out of the corner of her eye, so she dropped her script onto the floor. She could do this. She stood on tiptoe and leaned into Thaddeus’s broad chest.
“I will if you stand still,” he pronounced softly. “Never run away again.”
“I promise,” Serena whispered. It was her last line in the film. She craned her neck, lifting her face to her costar’s, offering herself up to him. She could smell toothpaste and nicotine on Thaddeus’s warm breath, Kiehl’s oatmeal lotion on his hands, and Tide on his clothes. She was barely touching him, just resting her hands against his firm chest, but she could feel his body against hers, from his strong, broad back to his perfect abs, from his lean and muscled forearms to his flip-flopped feet. And she could feel something else: a flicker of electricity in the air, in the tiny pocket of space between their two bodies. Was this acting or was it real?
“Okay,” Thaddeus stammered. He took a step back and Serena, who had been leaning all of her weight on him, stumbled a bit.
He laughed nervously. “Ken, a smoke?”
Ken held out a pack of Marlboro Reds and Thaddeus selected one and coolly lit it.
“What’d you think, Ken?” he asked, looping his thumb in his waistband.
“Good. Better. I felt more spark that last time. But Holly needs to pick up the slack. Holly, we can do some rewrites if you’re having trouble with your lines.”
“What do you mean?” Serena sank into the worn couch. She hadn’t made too many mistakes, had she?
“If there are too many words, you know,” he explained, pronouncing the words loudly and slowly, like he was speaking to someone whose English wasn’t so good. “If you’re having trouble remembering all of them.”
Was he calling her stupid?
“No, it’s fine,” she sighed wearily.
“She’ll get the hang of it.” Thaddeus sat down beside her. He rested his soft hand on her bare knee, giving her leg a supportive squeeze.
You know I will, Serena agreed silently. God, was she already in love? Sometimes she was almost too easy.
No comment.
“Of course, of course,” agreed Ken. “We just need some more rehearsal time, I think. What do you think,Vanessa?”
Vanessa hadn’t even caught everything on camera because they hadn’t given her enough time to set up her equipment. “It rocked,” she lied enthusiastica
lly. After all, it was only rehearsal.
And by the looks of things, they were going to need lots more of them.
you think you know someone
“Honey, I’m hoooome!” Dan stuck his head into the doorway of his little sister Jenny’s bedroom. “Vanessa?”
“Hey.” Vanessa stood up from behind Jenny’s painting easel. The cozy room was still lined with Jenny’s canvases— washed-out landscapes, architectural drawings of famous New York buildings like the Dakota on Seventy-second Street, some nude portraits Vanessa saw Dan avert his eyes from just in case they were his sister’s self-portraits. She wrapped her arms around Dan’s skinny frame and squeezed. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here.”
“It’ll be great,” he assured her, plopping down on the blue-flannel-duvet-covered bed. “We’ll make it our Big New York Summer. I’ve been thinking all about it. All the things we’ll do together—pedaling those stupid boats in Central Park, bagels from H&H Bagels on our days off—”
“Um, that sounds great, but I’m going to be really busy with work, you know? It’s going to take a lot of work to get this movie right.” She nodded toward the computer screen where Serena van der Woodsen’s ethereal face was paused, her eyes half closed. She was reviewing the rehearsal footage from this afternoon, and if it was any indication of what the finished film would look like—well, it wasn’t pretty.
“Right.” Dan pouted a little. “Of course.”
On the up side, the longer Serena fumbled through her rehearsals, the more time Vanessa had to experiment with her camera work. She was going to give him something better. She was determined to do something truly avant-garde and unusual, something that would really wow Ken Mogul and his producers. He’d mentioned Godard. But she was the master of mixing humor with tragedy. She would show the used condom stuck to Holly’s shoe, the tarnished side of the party princess!
“Where’s your dad?” she asked, changing the subject. It was only a matter of time before she ran into Dan’s Beat poet dad, Rufus, wearing his usual stained Mets T-shirt and too-snug tan cargo shorts. She was hoping to see him before they had a middle-of-the-night runin. Who knew what he’d be wearing then?