Upper East Side #9

by Ashley Valentine

  Chanel stayed where she was. Why was it so hard to get a minute alone with him?

  “Well, your text message didn’t sound like you were that busy.” She smiled nervously. His coy act was a little confusing.

  Only a little?

  “Shit,” Thaddeus exclaimed. “You got my text message?”

  “Uh-huh,” she murmured breathily.

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” he stammered. “I thought that we could, um, well, I thought that maybe we should get some work done.”

  Why was he so nervous? It was hard to believe that someone as gorgeous and successful as Thaddeus Smith could be so shy around girls! “Work.” She pouted. “I thought you might want to, you know, have a little fun?”

  “Fun,” repeated Thaddeus. “Work can be—” His chirping cell phone interrupted him. He glanced at the display. “Chanel, I’ve got to grab this. I’m sorry. I’ll be just be a second.” He scurried into the bedroom, so all Chanel could hear was “Hello.”

  She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. Thaddeus’s freaky behavior was starting to make her nervous. Was she coming on too strong? Not strong enough? He was the one who’d sent her a sexy text message. Why would he invite a friend over? Maybe Thaddeus was kinky? That wasn’t really her thing.

  Oh, really?

  “Sorry about that,” Thaddeus apologized, shuffling back into the room. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table, where it landed with a bang. “Anyway, as long as you’re here, let’s run some lines.”

  “Lines?” asked Chanel.

  “You can use my script,” Thaddeus said, sinking into the armchair with a sigh. “I’ve got my lines down.”

  “Let’s start with scene seventeen,” she offered hopefully. “You know, the love scene?”

  Rehearsing a love scene might be as close as she’s going to get.

  23

  “You okay?” Yasmine asked Mekhi. He was sprawled across his bed, wincing in pain. There were Newport butts all over the worn brown carpet, as if he couldn’t be bothered to get up and get one of the half-empty coffee mugs he usually used as an ashtray.

  “Fuuuuu-uuuck,” he muttered. “I think I pulled something.”

  Yasmine picked up the copy of the Bhagavad Gita from his unmade bed. She knew it was some sacred Indian text, but she’d never had any interest in finding out any more about it. Then she noticed Mekhi was working on a poem in his big black notebook. He rolled over onto his back.

  “Whatcha writing?” she asked, reaching for the notebook. She read the first couple of lines:

  Pure love. Pure lust. Trust trust.

  Buddha was no Jesus. Neither am I.

  I’m just a guy.

  News flash: Bikram yoga kills creative brain cells, causing poets who already write bad poetry to write really bad poetry.

  “You can’t read that!” Mekhi snatched the notebook out of her hands. “It’s, um, private. Do you want some tea?” he asked, sitting up. “I just bought some Mint Meltdown. It’s supposed to empty the body of toxins and help your body really breathe.”

  Yasmine snorted. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Come on.” Mekhi yawned. He rose to his feet unsteadily, and Yasmine followed him out of the bedroom and down the dark hall, moving at a grandfather’s pace through the swinging door into the kitchen, which was filled with stacks of dirty dishes. There were bread crumbs all over the counter and the toaster was lying on its side. Rufus had left a pot filled with cheese in the middle of the butcher-block island. Yasmine took a fork and poked at its thick skin while Mekhi microwaved two mugs full of water.

  Mekhi dropped two bags of Mint Meltdown into the mugs and handed her one. Yasmine tried to catch his eye, but weirdly, he wouldn’t look at her. This was partly due to the fact that Yasmine looked pretty in her new black dress and partly because he was wracked with guilt for getting sweaty with Nicole and not even mentioning anything about it to his supposed girlfriend.

  “So,” she began tentatively. “I feel like I’ve hardly seen you.”

  “I’ve been working a lot,” he replied, burying his nose in his mug. “They really need me at the Strand. And I’ve made some new friends.”

  Yasmine chuckled. “I guess the high-stakes world of used-book retail never quits.” Why was he acting so bizarre? She’d been able to tell he was disappointed a couple days ago about her working such long hours, but ever since she moved in they’d been like new roommates who didn’t even know each other.

  “You don’t have to be rude,” Mekhi countered, tapping his spoon against the top of his BEAT POETS DO IT ON THE ROAD travel mug. “Judgment leads but to the path of negative energy.”

  “Excuse me?” Yasmine whispered shrilly. “Could you run that by me again?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.” He sipped his tea even though it was still scalding hot. “It’s one of the elemental sign-posts of the yogi’s philosophy.”

  “The only yogi I know is the bear who steals the picnic baskets. I don’t know where you picked up this New Age talk, but the Mekhi Hargrove I used to know and love and kind of had the hots for would think you are full of shit.”

  “Well, the Yasmine Richards I used to know and love wouldn’t be caught dead slaving for a Hollywood sellout,” Mekhi retorted angrily. He left out the “kind of had the hots for” part since he kind of had the hots for someone else at the moment.

  “Excuse me?” Yasmine set her cup down. Now that was just plain unfair. He knew Ruby had kicked her out and she needed the money. And wasn’t he proud of her working on a feature film at the age of only eighteen? “At least my job requires more skill than alphabetizing dusty old books by author name.”

  He closed his eyes and breathed in noisily through his flared nostrils, something he’d learned yesterday in yoga. In with the good, out with the bad. “I thought living together would be so great, but I think you’ve changed.”

  Yasmine sighed over her steaming cup of tea. It tasted like toothpaste and Pine-Sol. “You’re the one who’s changed,” she shot back. “Maybe I should just get out of your hair.” She blew into her mug.

  “Please,” Mekhi retorted angrily. “You wanted me out of your hair, not the other way around. I was the one who cared about this summer together. You just wanted to work.”

  “Well, I guess we’re both getting what we want.” Yasmine took another sip of Mint Meltdown tea before setting it down on the counter among the old newspapers and food-encrusted saucepans. Then she stomped out of the kitchen and out of the apartment to get a decent cup of coffee at the greasy deli up on Broadway.

  Mekhi ran his hands through his messy twists. He was having a meltdown all right, but not the right kind of meltdown. He pulled a pack of Newports out of the pocket of his faded black cords and lit one using the front burner on the gas stove.

  Surely Yogi would not approve.

  24

  Porsha slipped her feet into the ivory calfskin Winter by Bailey Winter stilettos she’d chosen as the finishing touch to her interview outfit. They were a tad over the top, maybe, but she had to wear something by the man himself. It would have been so cheesy to show up in his clothes, but shoes were a sly subtle way to acknowledge his greatness without looking like some dorky desperate fashion groupie.

  Porsha was in baby Yale’s nursery—aka her former bedroom—admiring herself in the full-length mirrors. The light was so much better there than in Tahj's dingy room, where the stink of his herbal cigarettes was embedded in the walls. She nodded at herself in the mirror. She looked confident, but she felt nervous. Porsha had a history of bad luck with interviews—she had actually kissed her interviewer when she was applying to Yale. Then, when she’d requested a second interview with a Yale alumnus, she’d almost slept with him. Chances were slim she’d end up making a pass at Bailey Winter—he was handsome enough in a supertan blinding-white-teeth kind of way, but Porsha was definitely not his type.

  Ahem. Not unless she changed her name to Sir Porsha.

  She tur
ned and glanced over her shoulder to catch her reflection from a different angle. Getting this interview had been even easier than she’d hoped—all it had taken was a call from Eleanor Campbell—but this was her big chance and she didn’t want to blow it.

  Chanel could have her Hollywood stardom; Porsha would have a career in fashion. She knew all the right designers, stores, and magazines. She really understood clothes and how to wear them. One day very soon she’d be a world-famous fashion muse. She’d sit in the front row at every Bailey Winter show, have a fragrance named after her, and appear in his ad campaigns. Their relationship would be just like Audrey Hepburn’s relationship with the house of Givenchy—the stuff of legend. Let Chanel play at being Audrey Hepburn onscreen: Porsha would be Audrey Hepburn in real life.

  But didn’t Chanel already have a perfume named after her? Oops.

  The insistent chime of her cell phone echoed from Tahj's old room, interrupting her daydream. She’d been back in New York for forty-eight hours, but no one had called her, on either her U.K. line, which only Lord Marcus had the number to, or her regular phone, which was how the whole world reached her. She was living in exile, she told herself, and refused to rejoin society until she could make some dramatic statement—for example, that she’d flown back from the U.K. at Bailey Winter’s special request. She couldn’t have it leaking out that she was back because Lord Marcus was more interested in making googly eyes at his horse-faced cousin than in ravishing Porsha in her huge hotel bed.

  As if we don’t have ways of finding out the truth.

  She dashed back to Tahj's room and whisked the phone off the bureau. The display read MARCUS. His Lordship himself.

  She pressed the receive button. “What?” she demanded rudely.

  “Porsha, darling, what happened? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I don’t really see what we have to talk about,” Porsha replied icily. “If you wanted to talk, you had plenty of time when we were still on the same continent.”

  “You mean you’ve left?” Lord Marcus remarked, clearly surprised. “I thought maybe you’d just moved hotels or gone off to Paris to see your father or something. I was so worried.”

  “I’m sure you were,” Porsha snapped sarcastically, heading back toward Yale’s room.

  “This isn’t about Camilla, is it, dearest? Because, you see, we’re second cousins, so of course—”

  “Of course what?” Porsha demanded, watching her face flush in the full-length mirror. “To be honest, I’d rather not know, honestly. If you want to get all Flowers in the Attic, it’s your business. Anyway, I don’t have time for this—I’m a woman in demand. I’m a muse!”

  “You’re amused, love? It was all a misunderstanding then?” Lord Marcus responded happily. “Camilla is asking about you as well. She’ll be so relieved.”

  “Send her my regards,” Porsha quipped. She pressed end, then turned the cell phone off so that it went dead. After inspecting it closely to make sure there were no tiny parts that might come off, she left it in baby Yale’s crib.

  Because you’re never too young for your first cell.

  Porsha glanced at her Rolex. She was due at Bailey Winter’s soon, and it wouldn’t do to be late. She walked down the long hall toward the kitchen, where she found her mother stationed at the marble-topped island, nibbling on a cold sandwich despite the fact that they were supposed to be leaving any minute. Porsha’s younger brother, Brice, and his girlfriend, Destiny, were clustered around her on low-backed stools, sipping Pepsis.

  “Nice to see you again, Porsha.” Destiny beamed an adoring smile across the cool white kitchen.

  Destiny was Porsha’s stalker. This had become infinitely clear when she showed up at Porsha’s graduation party wearing the exact same white Oscar de la Renta suit Porsha was wearing. Her nearly-black hair was remarkably shiny and healthy looking, but she was probably the most annoying person alive.

  “Mom,” Porsha ordered, ignoring Destiny. “Put that down. We’ve got to get going.”

  “Hush,” her mother reprimanded, dusting some invisible crumbs off the marble-topped island. “We’ve got time. Besides, I’ve been going to Bailey Winter’s house for years. That man is always ten minutes late. It’s a known fact.” She took another bite of her sandwich.

  “Bailey Winter?” Destiny looked excited. She spied Porsha’s shoes. “Those are Bailey Winter! I have the same ones in black. I should’ve gotten the ivory.”

  Porsha glared at her.

  “Hey Porsha?” asked Brice as he simultaneously downloaded songs onto his iPod and sent a text message. His eyes kept darting from one screen to the next.

  “Yes?” She tapped her stilettoed foot impatiently. Could they please just get the fuck out of here?

  “Did you really go all the way to London and not bring me, like, even one present?”

  “Sorry,” she sighed. “I came back in kind of a hurry.”

  “Although you certainly found time to buy yourself a few things,” Eleanor observed, popping a picholine olive between her lips.

  “I’m Destiny.” Brice's girlfriend hopped to her feet and extended her hand to Porsha. “You’re Porsha, of course. We actually met before, but you were hosting your graduation party, so you may not remember.”

  As if Porsha could possibly forget her little imitator.

  There was something suspicious about a thirteen-year-old with such good manners. In fact, there was something suspicious about Brice having a girlfriend—he’d never seemed even remotely interested in girls before, preferring instead the company of his computer, his hookah, and his vinyl record collection.

  “Let’s go, Mom,” Porsha demanded. “I don’t want to be late. This is my chance to make a really great impression.”

  “Oh, honey.” Eleanor finished her sandwich and tossed the remains on the counter for Myrtle to clean up. “I’m so glad to see you taking this so seriously.”

  “Wait, are you going to see Bailey Winter?” Destiny demanded.

  Wouldn’t she like to know.

  “He’s interested in hiring me,” Porsha informed her icily.

  “I just love his clothes,” Destiny gushed. “Of course, I’m not supposed to buy anything that’s not B by Bailey Winter—my mom says I have to wait until I start high school before I’m allowed to get my hands on the good stuff, but that’s okay by me. I mean, I have to wear a uniform anyway, so—”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Porsha cut her off. Did she ask for this kid’s life story? “I’m going down to ask the doorman to hail a cab. Mom, you better be ready in five minutes or I’m going without you.”

  Porsha rode down to the lobby alone and stood in front of the building smoking and keeping time on her watch. After precisely five minutes had passed, Eleanor breezed out of the building in a Bailey Winter dress and beige flats. But she wasn’t alone: Destiny was scurrying excitedly next to her like a three-year-old before her first Nutcracker performance. Porsha was unfazed. There was a movie playing in her head: the beautiful muse was on her way to visit her genius couturier. Even Destiny couldn’t fuck it up.

  It had been summer for about five minutes and already the city sidewalks were a hundred degrees. Thank God she could finally ditch her tired, hideous blue-and-white school uniforms—for good. Unless she decided to resurrect them for her first college Halloween party.

  Pleated kilts drive boys wild!

  It was hard work surviving four years of high school, balancing partying, shopping, studying, partying, and shopping with just the right amount of grace and poise to land her in the Ivy League. She did it, though, and she had the diploma—and the graduation present (vroom, vroom, vroom!)—to prove it.

  When they reached Bailey Winter’s grand Beaux Arts mansion on Park Avenue, Porsha was first out of the car. Her mother and Destiny followed behind like ladies-in-waiting. When it came time to edit her little film, the bit players could easily be removed.

  They were greeted at the door by an English butler, in a morning
suit and everything, who announced them by name after he led them to the second floor parlor: “Miss Eleanor Campbell, Miss Porsha Sinclaire, and Miss Destiny James-Morgan,” he cried in his booming voice. It reminded Porsha of Lord Marcus, but all thoughts of him were erased the second she stepped inside the grandest room she’d ever seen. The walls were paneled mahogany and hung with massive oil paintings of beautiful, aristocratic women in incredible confections of lace and silk, smiling peacefully. There were marble pedestals topped with pure white sculptures of male torsos and heads, and high above, set into the wall that kept out the noise of Park Avenue, was a massive stained-glass window.

  “Oh my God!” cried the familiar shrill voice of Bailey Winter. The dignified Park Avenue designer skipped into the room like a schoolgirl, his yellow-white hair sticking straight up on end as if he’d been electrocuted while using his hair dryer. He was astonishingly short, like a man in miniature, and dressed in a blue blazer with brass buttons, an open shirt, white linen pants, and bare feet stuffed into cream-colored loafers that made a funny squeaking sound on the hardwood floors. Tied jauntily around his neck was a bold yellow neckband tie in the same print he’d used in his last collection. “Eleanor Campbell, you bitch, you’re so skinny!”

  “Bailey!” cried Eleanor. They embraced, dropping loud wet kisses on one another’s cheeks.

  Mwa, mwa, mwa, mwa!

  “And who are these two gorgeous creatures?” Bailey asked, dramatically ripping his signature aviator sunglasses off of his face and cupping his chin in his hand. He inspected Porsha and Destiny intensely. “Fabulous. They’re just fabulous, aren’t they?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “Bailey,” Eleanor told him, proudly, “this is my daughter, Porsha, and my son Brice's girlfriend, Destiny.”

  “Eek!” Bailey Winter squealed.

  Porsha had never heard a grown man make a noise like that in her entire life.