by Cassie Mae
I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s direction. “Doughnut?”
His lip curls. In case you haven’t already gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.
He lifts a boring black travel mug. “Already have my breakfast.”
“Blended-up quinoa sprinkled with a few bits of spinach and pretension?” I ask.
“Whey powder protein shake.”
“Sounds immensely satisfying.”
He takes a sip of the nastiness and watches me with cold brown eyes. “The body is a temple, Georgiana.”
There it is.
Full circle to my above commentary about what sort of people are up and about at 5:00 a.m.
Me? I’m the one just coming in from a night out, although I’m pleased to say that at twenty-six, I’m a lot better at it than I was at twenty-two, and no longer feel the need to drink myself into oblivion. A few glasses of champagne is my usual limit, and never past 2:00 a.m., so I’m perfectly sober at the moment. Fortunately, unfortunately…not sure yet.
Him, though?
Well, you already know which type of 5:00 a.m. person he is. Scenario four.
And who is he, you ask?
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
I know this because we moved into the building on the exact same day, and right before we got into a horrendous fight over whose movers should have access to the building loading dock first, he handed me his business card.
The thick white card stock declared that he had a fancy law degree to go along with the fancy suit he was wearing on a Saturday.
Andrew handed it over with such superiority, I actually wished for a half second that I had a business card of my own that would somehow be better than his. Like, lined with gold or something. No, platinum. With a diamond in the corner. It would be too heavy for him to hold, and he’d drop it, thus having to kneel at my feet to pick it up.
But then I realized it was just as well that I didn’t have a business card.
Because it would say…what? Georgie Watkins, professional party girl?
Anyway, I digress. Despite the high temps of that swampy July morning, the encounter had been the start of an epic cold war.
Me, the socialite in apartment 86A against the uptight esquire in apartment 79B.
I’m not entirely sure I’m winning the war, but I’ll never tell him that.
I let my gaze drift over Andrew, even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The man’s a lesson in sameness, like some sort of anal-retentive version of Groundhog Day.
There’s always the black mug with some healthy gunk inside held in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani garment bag in his left, containing what I know to be a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
Andrew’s coppery hair is perfectly styled, although I’d swear that there’s some natural curl in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. I imagine that annoys him, so it therefore makes me happy.
Let’s see, what else about my nemesis?
He’s got a hard, unfriendly jawline that’s perfectly shaven.
Dark brown eyes, cold and flat. Black gym bag over one shoulder.
I suppose you could say he changes up his attire, because he does alternate between black and gray gym shirts. But considering that they seem to be the exact same fit, both colors molding perfectly to his impressively sculpted upper body, we’re not giving him any points for variety there.
Same goes for the lower half. The black shorts worn in summer have given way to sleek black sweatpants now that October’s upon us, but they’re both black and Nike, so we’ll give him no credit for changing it up there either.
The shoes, though…
I do a double take.
Well, well, well…
Instead of the usual black gym shoes, the man’s shoes are red. I don’t know how I missed it before.
I drag my eyes back up his body with a grin, and he gives just the slightest roll of his eyes to indicate that he’s noticed my slow perusal and isn’t fazed in the least.
“You went shopping, Dorothy!” I say happily.
He stares at me. “I don’t shop.”
Of course not. Far too frivolous.
“No, that makes sense,” I say, pointing at his feet. “Glinda would have given these to you.”
Andrew looks down at his Rolex watch. “I’ve got to go. Have a good day, Mr. Ramirez.”
“You too, Mr. Mulroney,” Ramon says with a deferential nod. “Enjoy your workout.”
“Yes, do,” I say, turning and watching as Andrew moves toward the front door of our building. “What’s on the schedule today? Treadmill, or just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road?”
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the still-dark autumn morning.
Now, come on. Tell me that wasn’t at least a little bit fun, despite the ungodly hour.
I turn back to Ramon, who’s once again picked up his doughnut. “You don’t have to kiss his ass, you know.”
Ramon gives the slightest smile. “I do if I want a Christmas bonus.”
I lay a hand over my chest in mock affront. “You don’t kiss my ass, and I’ll still give you a Christmas bonus.”
“Respectfully, you’re a bit different from most of our residents, Ms. Watkins.”
“Does that mean you’ll call me Georgie?” I ask hopefully.
He merely smiles wider. “Enjoy your morning, Ms. Watkins.”
I sigh. “Thought so.” I push the box of doughnuts toward him. “Give these to the other guys when they come in. And don’t forget to take one home to Marta.”
“Will do, and thank you.”
I pluck my cranberry-colored clutch off the desk and walk backward toward the elevator, not even the slightest bit unsteady in my sky-high Jimmy Choos. “Enjoy your ‘weekend,’ ” I tell Ramon, knowing that although today’s Tuesday, Ramon has Wednesday and Thursday off.
When I step into the elevator, the button for the eighty-sixth floor is already lit up, courtesy of Ramon and the building’s fancy tech. I give a happy sigh and start to anticipate the prospect of crawling into bed and getting a few hours’ sleep before I have to be at my hair appointment at four.
And if for a second my mind registers the depressing thought that the most exciting part of my day has already come and gone?
I push it away.
Georgie
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
“What are we doing today, love? More of the same?”
I smile in thanks at the girl who just brought me a glass of champagne, then turn my attention to Stefan, the guy who’s been doing my hair for the past three years.
“Same old,” I confirm, taking a sip of Moët et Chandon. “The tiniest bit off the bottom to keep the ends fresh, touch up the honey highlights.”
Now, I don’t want to be vain. But if I were going to be vain…
My hair’s totally my best feature.
See, truthfully, I’m barely passably pretty. Attractive, sure, but not stop-traffic gorgeous like my mom. My features are in the right spot and all. But my boobs, butt, eyes, mouth…more or less average.
So, while I may not wake up looking like a Park Avenue princess, when you have a mother who started a beauty empire, you learn your way around a contour palette and a Tom Ford eyeshadow pan at an early age.
My hair, though? Well, I fake that a little bit too with the highlights, but mostly it’s all me. It’s long and thick and shiny, and Page Six actually deemed my distinct “cinnamon-sugar waves” as the hairstyle to watch last year. Based on that write-up, Stefan got a handful of new clients demanding “the Georgie.”
You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but come on. At least admit it’s a little cool to have a hairstyle named after you. I mean, it did wonders for Jennifer Aniston, right?
I chat with Stefan about who’s likely to be the next Bachelorette while he applies my color, then his as
sistant brings me a big old stack of Us Weeklys to peruse while my highlights take hold. After scanning the “Who Wore It Better” section (Beyoncé, always), I turn my attention to my phone and begin to put together my evening plans.
There’s a black-tie fundraiser at the Met, but my parents will probably be there, and I’m not in the mood to listen to my mom critique my dress while my dad tries desperately to drag me into business talk with his colleagues. Pass.
A friend of a friend is having a birthday dinner at Babbo, but she’s one of those girls who likes to talk about who she knows rather than actually getting to know anybody. Not in the mood for that either.
I bite my lip and mull over a text message from Evan. He’s hot. We hooked up a few times a couple months back, and I’m pretty sure that his “get together at my place” is a polite booty call. And though it’s been a long, long time since I’ve gotten any of that…
Hmm, no. Not in the mood for that either.
I text my best friend. Marley Hamlen’s the daughter of a brainiac angel investor who pretty much dominated Silicon Valley before moving to New York. Marley’s been my right-hand girl ever since she transferred to Trinity in the third grade and promptly punched Sena Corlin in the nose after Sena called Marley “new money.”
Who wouldn’t want to be best friends with that? I claimed that feisty goodness as my BFF.
(And don’t go feeling too bad for Sena. When she was sixteen, she disappeared for a week and came back with a slimmer, much-improved nose. Told everyone it was because she had a deviated septum courtesy of Marley’s punch. Everyone together now—let’s lift a skeptical eyebrow.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Texting Marley.
You back in town? Plans tonight?
I flip through the magazine while I wait for Marley to confirm whether or not she’s returned from her cousin’s extended bachelorette weekend in Vegas.
I’m baaaaaack, Marley texts back. Definitely want to get out, but count me in for dinner only, nothing late night. Vegas nearly killed me. When did we get OLD?
It’s been downhill since 22. In the mood for a filet. STK? Wolfgang? Del Frisco?
Marley sends the thinky-face emoji back, followed by, Del Frisco. If we go early enough we can catch some of the hot after-work guys in suits.
What about Jon? I ask, referring to her on-again, off-again train wreck of a relationship with a tattoo artist who I’m pretty sure she’s dating only to piss off her dad. When it comes to her love life, Marley is twenty-seven going on thirteen.
Cheated. Again, she texts. Moving on. Need a clean-cut grown-up who doesn’t think biting his fingernails counts as personal grooming.
Gross. We will martini-solve the problem tonight. 7?
Perfect, she confirms, followed by the kiss-face emoji that I’ve learned is her “conversation over” send-off.
I put my phone away as Stefan’s assistant comes to rinse the dye out of my hair, and then for the next half hour, as he trims my ends, Stefan and I analyze whether his boyfriend’s refusal to turn the home office into a nursery means he’s baby-never or baby-not-right-now.
I’m firmly in the just ask him camp, but Stefan’s holding strong in the I’m gonna hack his email account approach. So. That’s healthy.
I usually style my own hair in loose waves with a big-barrel curling iron, but Stefan likes it blown out super-straight and sleek, so I let him do his thing. By the time I’m done, it’s past six. Just enough time to run a quick errand before heading over to the restaurant to meet Marley.
The salon I go to, John Barrett (duh), is conveniently right atop Bergdorf Goodman. Primping and shopping all in one place—heaven.
I head to the baby section, which I’m becoming increasingly familiar with as more and more of my friends start popping out kids.
I make a beeline for the Burberry onesie I’d mentioned to Ramon this morning.
Despite Andrew Mulroney’s snide remarks about babies and designer clothing, we all know that it’s not really about the babies. It’s about the moms. And Marta will love this for her daughter, I know she will.
“Gift-wrapped?” the girl behind the counter asks.
“Yes, please. And do you have a little card to go with the gift box?”
“Of course.”
As the girl wraps the onesie box in pale lavender, I dig a pen out of my purse, grinning as inspiration strikes for the card’s message.
Ramon & Marta,
For your darling princess, who will undoubtedly be as lovely inside as she is outside, just like her parents. Congratulations and our best to your whole family,
Georgie Watkins & Andrew Mulroney
I grin wider as I put the card into the tiny envelope and write Ramon’s name on the front. Oh, to see Andrew’s face when Ramon thanks him for the overpriced baby outfit…
I give the girl my address to have the package delivered so I don’t have to carry it around all night, then kill another few minutes looking at Dior’s new lipstick line in the cosmetics department before hailing a cab.
“Forty-Ninth and Sixth, please,” I say, shutting the door and mouth-breathing out of habit, since NYC cabs tend to take on the odors of whatever their drivers had for lunch.
It’s slow going, given that I’m trying to get around midtown at rush hour, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life, save for the four years getting an economics degree at Brown, and I know it’s going to sound nuts, but I’ve never ever gotten sick of it.
Oh, sure, the summers are gross, and I retreat to the Hamptons when the hot-garbage smell threatens my sanity. And, naturally, I wouldn’t be caught dead around Rockefeller Center at Christmas or in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But mostly not a day goes by that I don’t step out into the city that is my playground and feel darn lucky to be here.
It’s only…it’s just…
Hmm. Lately I’ve had the strangest sense that I’m missing something. Like the world is my oyster and all that, and I’ve got bunches of friends, and more money than I know what to do with, and I can get into just about any hot-spot restaurant or club I want, any night of the week.
I know, right? Sometimes I annoy even myself.
And the truth is, lately it’s all just feeling a little bit blah.
It’s not the city or the people. It’s me.
Even getting increasingly involved with my favorite charities isn’t taking the edge off lately.
I tap my red nails on the seat and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, let myself contemplate the prospect of getting a real job. A nine-to-five where I exchange time for a paycheck and have a boss…
Okay, for real? I’m even not gonna lie to you—it sounds sort of lame.
I like making my own schedule.
I like doing my own thing. I like helping my mom with a trunk show at a moment’s notice. I like that I have a ton of free hours to help organize fundraisers. And yes, okay, I like the fact that I can go shopping whenever I darn well feel like it.
But this endless loop of shopping and hair appointments and drinks and dinners and more drinks and dancing and repeat…
It’s getting old.
Or maybe I’m getting old.
The most annoying thing about all this is that I can pinpoint the moment this seed of discontent was planted, almost down to the second. The very day I moved into my building and met Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, and his ever-present sidekick of intense disdain.
I liked my life just fine until I saw it through his eyes, and now…well, I don’t know.
You can see why I don’t like the guy. I had a great thing going, and he ruins it with every scowl.
I pay the driver using the app on my phone, and a couple of minutes later I enter Del Frisco’s bustling after-work scene, scanning the bar for Marley.
I spot her almost immediately, chatting up a good-looking blond guy in a charcoal suit. I contemplate giving her a few more minutes to work her magic, but on closer look, she seems more interested in the olives in h
er martini than in whatever the guy’s droning on about.
“Ah!” she says, brightening when she sees me. “There you are!”
She motions me forward, and after exchanging an air kiss with my best girl, I smile prettily at the guy who’s blocking the bar stool next to Marley.
His return smile isn’t nearly as bright, but I’ll give him credit for not being dense, because he backs away with a murmured, “Enjoy your dinner.”
“Fab dress,” I say, turning back to Marley, suit guy already forgotten.
“Thanks! New,” she says, glancing down at the navy sweater dress with a high neck and cutout shoulders. As I suspect she knows, it’s the perfect color to bring out the bright blue of her eyes. The cut’s interesting enough to be modern, yet classic enough to be consistent with Marley’s trademark look, which is very Betty Draper in season one of Mad Men. Marley even has the blond bob, although she wears it smooth and straight just below the chin rather than Betty’s hair-spray-dependent sixties style.
“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.
“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.
He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”
Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.
“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without my saying a word.
“Liv Dotson.”
“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”
Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.