Blair was standing outside of what at first looked like just another West London brick mansion: a tall, well-lit town house with big, clean windows and blooming flower boxes underneath them. A lifetime of shopping had given Blair a sixth sense; she just knew when something good was lurking nearby. Through the street-level windows she could see an ornate Chinese vase stuffed full of white camellias on a pretty gilded table. Blair couldn’t see any clothes but she was absolutely convinced something incredible was inside.
After all, everyone has a special talent.
She rang the doorbell and the door buzzed back, so she pushed it open and stepped into the marble foyer of the elegant house. The open, airy parlor floor was filled with simple displays: an incredible Kelly green crocodile bowling bag perched on top of a broken Corinthian column bathed in the soft glow of a spotlight, a show-stopping pair of red velvet ballerina flats atop a satin pillow. They were so plush Blair couldn’t resist stroking them. A tall Indian girl with long, thick hair smiled at her from behind the antique art nouveau desk. Blair felt a little self-conscious in her Rock & Republic jeans, her gold silk Eberjey camisole and her skimpy sandals, but she wasn’t about to walk out.
“I’m Lyla,” the salesgirl chirped in a clipped English accent. “Do let me know if I can help you find anything.”
Blair walked to the foot of the gracefully curving staircase. Sensing something in the distance, she ascended the marble steps grandly. The steps were exactly like the ones Eliza descends in My Fair Lady, in the scene where she has her society debut.
See, life really does imitate art.
The second floor was nearly empty, except for a floor-to-ceiling three-way mirror against the far wall. Sun flooded in and Blair paused, pretending it was her own private dressing room. In the middle of the space, suspended from a glass hanger, hung a long white dress. It was made of silk, cut along the bias, and seemed to breathe as if it had a life of its own. It was ... beautiful. Whoever wore that dress would be the star of a never-ending love story with herself. Blair reached out to touch the dress, transfixed. Could it be? It was.
It was a wedding dress.
It was her wedding dress.
“Would you like to try it on?”
Blair whirled around to see Lyla from downstairs. She hadn’t heard her coming.
“Yes, definitely,” Blair half whispered. “I think I’m going to need it.”
For what, exactly?
The shop only accommodated one customer at a time, so there was no need for dressing rooms. Lyla explained this, reaching up to remove the glass hanger from its tack on the wall, while Blair all but leapt out of her clothes. She grabbed the gown and slid into it headfirst. The chiffon was as soft and light as fresh whipped cream, and she shivered as it fell down the length of her body.
Avoiding the mirror until everything was perfect, Blair stood by the windows, looking down onto the lush private garden behind the store.
“Here, let’s put this on as well.” Lyla held up a delicate gold lariat necklace and slipped it around Blair’s neck. “I think you’re ready to have a look now,” she murmured, turning Blair so that she faced the mirror.
Blair crossed the room carefully, holding the dress up so she didn’t trip on the delicate hem. There was a small platform in front of the mirror and she stepped up onto it, avoiding her reflection until she was perfectly situated. She let go of the dress, shook her hair back from her face, and then gazed at her reflection.
“Oooh!” she gasped.
There it was: the future. Blair had never seen a more perfect dress in her life. It was so amazing, its beauty rubbed off on her. She wasn’t even wearing proper makeup, but her face had never looked more flawless. She was wearing the wrong bra but her breasts had never looked so full. She felt like she’d stepped off the cover of Town & Country’s summer wedding issue. That old theory—that you just know, somehow, when you’ve found the right wedding dress—seemed to be true.
They’d be married in St. Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue and they’d rent all the rooms in the St. Clair for the guests to stay in and for the reception. Her father would give her away with tears in his blue eyes, whispering, “I love you, Bear,” as he handed her off to Marcus. Marcus would hold her hand throughout the ceremony in that intimate way of his, reminding her that they weren’t just passionately in love, they were best friends.
“It’s really quite something, isn’t it?” Lyla crossed her arms in front of her. She was standing behind Blair, smiling approvingly. Blair met her gaze in the mirror.
“It’s just perfect,” she breathed, her eyes transfixed on the endless train of pure white silk.
“Have you set a date?”
Um, how about a proposal first? And what about, you know, college?
“I’ll take it,” Blair declared.
“Of course,” Lyla agreed. “You won’t be sorry. He’s going to love it.”
Blair nodded back hypnotically, still staring at her own reflection.
“And what about the necklace?” Lyla queried.
Why not? Blair thought.
Oh, yes, why not?
there’s something about danny
The single complaint Dan had about his job at the Strand was that the bookstore lacked one essential, modern amenity: air-conditioning. This morning he was stationed in the completely airless basement, manning the information desk and keeping an eye on special orders, like the request for a skin diseases photo calendar. After a couple of torturous hours, he was definitely ready for some fresh air.
If that’s what you call a smoke.
As soon as his replacement—a scowling, silent guy named Brent who’d worked at the store for about twenty years— arrived to take his place, Dan jogged up the narrow staircase and outside. A concrete ledge ran alongside the square beige building and he perched on it, enjoying the shade as he lit up.
The sidewalk was crowded with passersby browsing the Strand’s large outdoor carts, which were full of super-discounted books no one wanted, like Collectible Coins from Contemporary Canada and Tiger:The True Story of the Dog Who Loved a Cat. Dan closed his eyes and tuned out the chatter of the bargain hunters. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and thought about Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. “Love stirred in the hearts of the young daughters of the Brahmins when Siddhartha passed through the city streets, with his radiant brow, with his impe-rial glance, with his slender hips.” Dan couldn’t help wanting to be Siddhartha, or at least be more like him.
He wished he had someone he could discuss it with, especially since his attempt to chat about it with Vanessa had ended so badly.
A tap on his shoulder interrupted his reverie. He opened his eyes.
“Dan?” Bree stood before him like a fit, blond daughter of a Brahmin, admiring him in all his Siddharthaness.
Who says wishes don’t come true?
“Hi.” He stood quickly. Bree was wearing a form-fitting green tank top and white spandex shorts. Her blond hair was in two tidy pigtails and her skin had a bold, healthy glow.
“Are you smoking?” she demanded, aghast.
“Uh, no.” Dan dropped the lit cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out quickly. “I was holding it for this guy Steve. He had to run back inside.”
Nice play, Shakespeare.
“Whew,” she exhaled, fanning the air with her hands. “Smoking is just terrible for you.”
“Oh, I know,” Dan agreed earnestly, wiping his hands on his faded green cords. “It’s really bad.”
“I’m so glad I ran into you!” Bree hopped up onto the ledge and started swinging her legs like a kid who has to pee but doesn’t want to get off the swing. “I wanted to tell you how much I liked Siddhartha.”
“Yeah? That’s great. I was actually just rereading it myself.”
“Really? What a funny coincidence!”
Right. Coincidence.
“So you thought the book was interesting?” Dan asked, crossing his legs in a way he hoped looked quasi-intellectual
and quasi-athletic. “What are you thinking of reading next?”
“Well, I’m going to read a book my yogi has been working on. It’s about improving the way the brain communicates with the other organs in the body by meditating and doing yoga and chanting. There are, like, fifty chapters and most of them are a hundred pages long. He’s been writing it for, like, eleven years, and he’s going to try and have it published this year and he asked me to look at it for him. Me! Imagine! It’s such an honor.”
An honor? Sounds more like a pain in her well-yogacized ass.
“Anyway, I have to confess,” she went on, looking Dan right in the eye. “I didn’t just come by to talk books.”
“You didn’t?”
She didn’t?
Dan blushed and looked down at the ground, kicking idly at the cigarette butt he’d claimed wasn’t his. He wished he had it back.
“No, I wanted to see if you’d be interested in getting together sometime. I know that might sound kind of forward, but you know, I’m a person who believes in taking chances. I believe that the universe rewards bold actions, don’t you?”
Dan nodded eagerly.
“Anyway, I’m kind of lonely this summer. I grew up here in Greenwich Village but I was in boarding school out west, so I don’t really know anyone in the city anymore. I’m going to UC Santa Cruz in the fall, but I don’t want to spend my last summer in the city all by myself.”
“No, definitely not,” Dan agreed. “I’d love to hang out.”
“Awesome!” Bree cried, hopping down from the ledge. “What’s your schedule like?”
“Well, I work days. So anytime after six.”
“Cool. Do you think you’d be up for Bikram?”
“Sure,” Dan nodded, even though he’d never heard of it. He didn’t go out to clubs very often.
“Awesome!” she squealed again. “Give me your number and I’ll call and confirm, but let’s say Saturday?”
Dan recited his number and she typed it into her hot pink Razr. He had officially taken a much longer break than he was entitled to, but after Bree strolled away he had to light another Camel to calm his nerves. He wasn’t quite sure what Bikram was—a trendy new nightclub? Some new Indian restaurant? Maybe it was a new underground independent film? But it didn’t matter. Vanessa was busy filming, and he’d scored a hot date with a sweet, gorgeous girl who loved to read.
Oh, it’s sure to be a hot date indeed.
lights, camera, but no action
“Cut!” barked Ken Mogul. “Fuck!” He threw his fluorescent green clipboard onto the floor and leapt out of the metal swivel chair he’d been slumped in. “Let’s take ten, please. I need a fucking smoke.”
Serena’s hands trembled as she held the tip of her Gauloise cigarette to the flame from Thaddeus’s silver Zippo. She inhaled deeply but the nicotine did little to calm her nerves. Memorizing her lines and reciting them properly had turned out to be harder than she thought. On top of everything, it was majorly scary to have Ken, freak show director extraordi-naire, yelling at her every five seconds.
“Don’t worry about him,” Thaddeus assured her, running his hands through his dark blond curls and smiling at her with his adorable light blue eyes. He put his arm around Serena’s shoulders and squeezed. “I know it’s rough, and personally, I think you’ve done great for your first film. We’re just on a tight schedule, you know, and he’s nervous about pleasing the producers. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you.”
It doesn’t?
“Do you really think so?” Serena wondered, burrowing into Thaddeus’s protective embrace. Normally she wouldn’t have been quite so touchy-feely with a guy she’d only known for a couple of days, but Thaddeus wasn’t your average guy. It was more than the simple fact that he was a movie star: they were pretending to be in love. They’d already kissed eight times for the stupid climax scene. Cuddling on the couch like old friends seemed natural.
“Listen up!” boomed the director, striding back into the room, tucking his pack of Marlboros into the chest pocket of his rumpled denim shirt, which, oddly enough, had the sleeves cut out, so it was really more of a vest than a shirt.
Serena shivered at the sound of his voice and Thaddeus put his hand protectively over hers.
“I lost it back there,” Ken apologized. “Let’s call it a day, shall we? Vanessa and I have to go over our shot list anyway, but I want you two to keep working. Go to dinner—it’s on me.”
“Thanks, Ken.” Thaddeus stood and stretched, yawning noisily and giving off the heavenly odors of sweat and Carolina Herrera for Men cologne. “It really has been a long day. I could definitely use a drink.”
“And this will give you a chance to work on your chemistry, right, Holly? Get to know your leading man. Talk to him, listen to him, learn from him. I really want to see you meld, okay?”
Serena nodded and stubbed her cigarette out in the mother-of-pearl ashtray perched precariously on the arm of the brown leather couch. She could meld, especially with Thaddeus, but maybe not while Ken was watching.
“Good,” grunted the disgruntled director. “So go, have a bite. That’s your homework.”
Dinner with a major Hollywood hottie? Is there extra credit?
After gorging themselves on the city’s best steak tartare— mixed with two delicate quail eggs and served with a healthy portion of sea-salt-encrusted French fries—Serena and Thaddeus emerged from As Such on Clinton Street, currently the coolest, most crowded spot for the summer. They’d shared a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a molten chocolate cake with fresh huckleberries for dessert, and Serena had tipsily blurted out the story of how she’d wound up not getting asked back to Hanover Academy last fall.
She’d spent the summer in Europe, partying with her older brother, Erik, and flirting with Frenchmen. Erik had left for Brown in August, but Serena had stayed and stayed. School just seemed so boring and unnecessary when the beaches in Saint-Tropez were so inviting, even in September. Thankfully Constance Billard, the New York City all-girls private school she’d attended since kindergarten, had been kind enough to take her back.
“I’d sort of thought I was bound for community college and living with my parents for the rest of my life,” she admitted. “Now here I am acting in this movie, living on my own, and going to Yale in the fall.” She grinned drunkenly and a little seductively at Thaddeus. “I guess you just never know what’s going to happen.” Secretly, it was an invitation to kiss her. But they were in a crowded restaurant full of starers and gossips—it was probably best that he didn’t.
“Should we go?” Thaddeus asked, as if he couldn’t wait to take her somewhere more private.
As the pair stepped outside onto the crowded, steaming street corner, they were startled by a sudden, insistent cry.
“Thad! Thad!” A bulky, bearded figure emerged from the shadows wielding a camera. He snapped pictures as he hurried toward them, the bright flash illuminating the otherwise dark stretch of street.
Thaddeus put his arm protectively around Serena’s waist, a phony but still charming smile plastered to his handsome face.
Serena smiled, too. She was used to having her photo taken for newspaper society columns. She’d even modeled a few times, but it felt a little scary to be hounded like this.
“Let’s go,” sighed Thaddeus. He waved at the photographer. “Okay, man, that’s cool, that’s enough. We’re going.”
But the guy trailed them, weaving and bobbing like a boxer, snapping and clicking the camera’s shutter so quickly it sounded like machine gun fire. He finished a roll, deftly reloaded the camera in a matter of seconds, and kept shooting.
“That’s enough,”Thaddeus ordered, more firmly this time. He tugged on Serena’s arm, pulling her across the street, “Come on. Let’s go.”
Serena continued to smile but her huge blue eyes darted around, searching for a cab.
“Who is she, Thad?” the photographer demanded from behind them. “What are you wearing tonight, Thad?” he
continued in an almost mocking tone. “You’re gorgeous, sweet-heart. What about you? What are you wearing?”
Actually, she was wearing her favorite black Les Best pique cotton sundress and black Capezio ballet slippers, but she was too freaked out to open her mouth.
“That’s enough, man!”Thaddeus yelled angrily.
Was he going to pull a Cameron Diaz?
Thaddeus stepped into the oncoming traffic on Clinton Street, waving his arms frantically like a survivor marooned on a desert island flagging down a plane. A taxi pulled over, and he shoved Serena into the backseat. Then he jumped in behind her and slammed the door. The photographer pressed his camera close to the window and Serena buried her face in Thaddeus’s broad shoulder, feeling a little like Princess Di must have just before she died.
“Let’s go, let’s go!”Thad barked at the driver.
As they sped away, the photographer called after them. “That’ll be the cover of the Post tomorrow!”
When they reached Seventy-first and Third,Thaddeus paid the driver and hopped out so he could open her door. Their footfalls echoed into the night, and the distant traffic on Second Avenue sounded vaguely like the ocean. Serena climbed the bottom step of her stoop and then turned. Standing there, she was at eye level with Thaddeus.
“Would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked, determined that the ugly incident with the paparazzi wouldn’t put a damper on the evening. After all, this was the first time she’d had Thaddeus all to herself. There was no angry director, no fussy cinematographer, no script to follow. She wasn’t going to let this moment pass.
He shrugged. “Maybe we should just sit here for a while.” He sank down onto the stoop. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she breathed, delicately pulling at her dress before sitting down next to him.
“That fucking photographer,” he growled sulkily.
Serena put a protective hand on his leg. “He was just an asshole.” She smiled cheerfully at him. “Don’t worry about it. Come up and I’ll make you a nice cold mojito.”
Only in Your Dreams Page 7