Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel

by Burgess, Gemma

  I walk down Smith Street and end up back on the corner of Smith and Atlantic Avenue, in the New Apollo Diner, the same diner I went to the morning after Pijiu, when I thought Julia and Sam had … well, you know.

  That day I stared at my menu, thinking about Sam. I thought about the time we spent together, about bursting into tears in front of him after watching Kramer vs. goddamn Kramer, about him helping me hand out CVs and lattes. About how I was sure, totally sure, that we were about to kiss that time on my bed.

  And I just kept telling myself, No, he’s just your friend.

  What would have happened if I had kissed him that night he slept over? Why did I decide that he had to be my friend and there was no alternative?

  But I don’t want to go.

  There. I said it. (In my head, anyway.)

  The events at Angie’s Secret last night made me realize the girls are my family now. We’re all in this together.

  But if I don’t go to L.A. and stay here, I’m right back where I started. No job, no career, no money, no options.

  No Sam.

  I have a huge urge to call Sam and ask him to forgive me for flipping out and charging into the storm like King Lear with tits. I want to ask him to explain his situation to me, why he didn’t want to be honest about who he was and where he was from. I’m sure he had good reasons for lying. But I just can’t. He hasn’t even tried to contact me. And even though he lied, I can’t judge him. I don’t know his backstory, I don’t know what it’s like to be him. Just like no one knows what it’s like to be me.

  When did life get so complicated?

  Though, when you think about it, has life ever been simple?

  Finally my pancakes arrive, and I can’t eat and think about life-changing decisions, so I pour maple syrup all over my plate, grab the New York Post that someone left on the table next to me, and stare at the cover as I stuff the first sweet bite into my mouth.

  Oh, my God.

  CHAPTER 43

  It’s Cornelia. A mug shot. On the cover of the New York Post.

  She was arrested. She’s wearing The Angel dress and staring into the camera, looking spoiled and sullen.

  Next to it, another shot of Cornelia in the dress, jumping on the back of an NYPD police officer, I guess just before she was arrested. She looks stunning. Crazy, obviously, but stunning. That dress rocks.

  “CORN ON THE COP!” says the headline.

  And then I see it. Down low, in the bottom corner of the front page, is a close-up photo of my clutch! My gold clutch! The one I made from the secondhand scarves I picked up months ago down at Brownstone Treasures. What the? I quickly read the story.

  Blond, beautiful … and busted. Manhattan socialite Cornelia Archer—great-great-granddaughter of Randolph Archer, founder of Standard Oil—was arrested for smuggling two grams of cocaine into the Costume Institute Gala at the Metropolitan Museum last night.

  Security guards noticed Archer’s erratic behavior and called the NYPD, leading to a struggle in front of hundreds of shocked style stars, including Anna Wintour, Beyoncé, and Jennifer Lopez.

  As Archer, wearing The Angel dress by Drake, was escorted from the gala, her Prada gold clutch was thrown to the floor in front of hundreds of waiting paparazzi, spilling its contents for all to see: lip gloss, cell phone … and two grams of cocaine.

  Archer awaits sentencing today.

  Oh. My. God.

  They thought my bag was Prada.

  Heart racing, I pick up my phone with trembling hands and call Pia.

  “Ladybitch?”

  “Cornelia, last night, my clutch, front page of the Post, oh, my God,” I stammer.

  “What? Slow down.”

  I can’t sit still, so I get up and start pacing the diner while I explain.

  “Wow,” she says. “Your clutch is a drug mule!”

  I pause for a second and crack up.

  “Let’s get practical,” says Pia. “What do you want to do? I bet you could spin this to your advantage, you know, career-wise.”

  “Yes, um—” I’m trying to think. What do I want to do? Then I notice I have a call waiting from a withheld number. “Pia, I have to go, there’s a call.…” I take the other call. “Hello?”

  “Angie! This is Philly Meyer! From Drake!”

  “Hey…”

  He sounds slightly hysterical. “Cornelia Archer was arrested last night! And—”

  “I know.”

  “We need The Angel back! The ivory column dress! It’s the sample, it’s the only one we have, and we’ve already had two requests for it, from W magazine and French Vogue. This is huge, you know? Huge. Everyone at the Met Ball saw the dress. It’s the only thing anyone is talking about.” Philly lowers his voice. “Sarah Drake is freaking out.”

  “Okay…” My brain is spinning. “I can get it back. I’ll call you back.”

  “Hurry!”

  I quickly stuff half my pancakes in my mouth at once, throw down some money, and leave. How do I do this? I can’t just show up at Manhattan Central Booking and demand the dress.

  Think, Angie, think.…

  When you’re arrested, you call a lawyer. And Cornelia being the Upper East Side WASP that she is, she would have called a family lawyer. Someone she could trust. So that’s probably the best way to contact her. If I can get in touch with her lawyer, I can get to the dress. And my clutch. Unless it’s being held as evidence. (Poor innocent clutch.)

  So I call my mother to get the cell number of Cornelia’s mother, legendary socialite CC Archer. The cell she only gives out to friends.

  “Are you sure CC will want to hear from you, darling?” asks my mother. “She can be a little … difficult. And if her daughter’s in a scandal, well…”

  “I can handle it, Mom, I promise, I’m just going to ask her one question,” I say. “I’ll call you later this week to explain everything.”

  Then I call Mrs. Archer, introduce myself, and ask if she can tell me the name of her daughter’s attorney.

  “Why?” CC says suspiciously.

  “Because I need my clutch back,” I say.

  “This hardly seems important right now,” she snaps. “This whole silly affair will just blow over soon enough, you can have it then. And Chester won’t be taking any calls.”

  “Chester?”

  That’s a pretty obscure name for an attorney. Not to mention fucking ridiculous.

  “Tell your mother not to hand out my private cell number. Using this number is a privilege, not a right. I am displeased.”

  I fight the urge to say, “Blow me,” and instead put on my cheeriest voice and say, “I’ll tell her you asked after her. Thanks so much!” and hang up.

  I immediately Google “Chester attorney Manhattan” on my phone. I scroll down and click on a New York Post entry from a couple of years ago, when a certain Chester Newland defended one of the Kennedy clan against a drunk-driving charge. And got him off.

  That’s just the kind of pedigree that would impress the Archers.

  I find his number and dial.

  CHAPTER 44

  Chester Newland’s unusually chatty receptionist tells me he is currently at New York City Criminal Court. Getting Cornelia out as quickly as possible, I guess.

  Next, I call Philly Meyer and tell him I’ll be able to get the dress back this morning.

  “I need it, like, now. Sarah is freaking. You better get it back,” he says. “I’m not kidding.”

  Man, he’s tense.

  It’s a quick twenty minutes to the criminal court in Chinatown. My guess is that they’re posting bail right now, arguing that Cornelia has no prior record and all that jazz, and she’ll be out in minutes.

  And for once in my life, I’m right.

  Just as I arrive at Centre Street, I see a gaggle of paparazzi going nuts. It looks like a feeding frenzy you see on a nature show: they’re running and jostling violently, shouting the same things over and over again.

  “Cornelia! Here! Over here!”<
br />
  “Cornie! Are you a drug addict, Cornie?”

  “Cornelia! Are you out on bail?”

  In the middle of the mass I catch glimpses of Cornelia, still wearing The Angel, with sunglasses she picked up from somewhere. She looks pale and tired but surprisingly dignified, carrying her gold heels and walking with the perfect posture of the terminally self-assured. She’s flanked by two large bodyguard types in suits and a short bald guy in a suit. Chester Newland, I’ll bet.

  I can’t see my clutch.… God, what if they had to keep it for evidence or something?

  A black limo is waiting on the street, so I hurry to the car, ahead of the paparazzi.

  “Cornie, it’s me! Angie!” I say, over and over again, hoping she’ll look up. But she’s concentrating too hard on ignoring the jibes of the paparazzi while looking serenely beautiful.

  Then the bodyguards shove me out of the way, the driver opens the limo door, and Cornelia gets in. The door slams after her, and thanks to black-tinted windows, I can’t even see in! Shit!

  The bodyguards are holding the paps back, and just as I’m sure that all is lost, that the limo is about to drive away with Cornelia and the dress and my clutch, the back window winds down one inch.

  “Angie?”

  “Yes! Cornie, it’s me! I have to talk to you!”

  “Oh, thank God!” Cornelia sounds like she’s about to cry. “Chester! Get her in, get her in!”

  And boom, like magic, the paparazzi are moved and the car door opens for me and I climb into the back.

  Cornelia immediately leans forward and hugs me. I’m so surprised, and touched, that I simply hug her back. Imagine the trauma of being arrested for drugs. Imagine the embarrassment. I’d be so mortified; I’d be so—

  “Isn’t this amazing?!” Cornelia squeals, her eyes shining. “Keith and Bibi are waiting at my mother’s house to sort this whole mess out.” She gestures to her face. “And then I’m going to La Grenouille for lunch with my mother, so I can show the world I’m not guilty.” She pauses and looks over at Chester. “You told the paps La Grenouille, right?”

  She’s not mortified at all. She’s just thrilled to be the center of attention. How weird.

  “Cornelia, I’m not here to—” says Chester.

  “Did Roger call?” she interrupts. “No? Fuck him. He didn’t even show last night. Asshole, putting his kids first. I can do better now, anyway. Angie, call Patrick, remember him? Tell him it’s me and I need a date to Le Bernardin tonight.”

  “No,” I say.

  “What?” Cornelia looks at me in shock. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I can’t be your PA today, Cornelia. I have to get that dress back to Sarah Drake, and I need my gold clutch back. Do you have it, or is it being used as evidence?”

  “The case was dismissed due to police tampering with the evidence,” says Chester, clearly relieved to have the conversation back on familiar ground. “Here.” He pulls the gold clutch out of his bag. I grab it quickly. Thank God. My poor little drug mule. And “tampering”? Who’d they have to bribe to get that?

  “No, Angie! I need you today!” says Cornelia. “You can courier the dress back later. I’ll change at my mother’s house. I can borrow one of her Chanel suits.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She lives at Seventy-ninth and Park.” Cornelia sighs. “God, I miss our place on Fifth. Divorce is so selfish.”

  We’re only just passing through the East Village now. It’ll take me forever to get all the way up there, get the dress, do whatever else Cornelia orders me to do, and get back to the Fashion District to give The Angel to Sarah Drake.

  “I can’t do it, Cornelia.” I try to sound as forceful-yet-polite as I can. “I have to get the dress back to Sarah Drake, now. Please, come with me to her atelier now. We can get you something else to wear, it’ll be—”

  “Be seen out in public again, in the middle of Manhattan, strolling around in this like some kind of trashed fucking starlet? I don’t think so.” With every block we get farther away from the courthouse, Cornelia’s officious attitude grows. “I need to wear it when I’m getting out at my mother’s building, so the paps can see how close I am to my family, and then I need to change and go to lunch and let everyone see me.”

  Chester clears his throat. “Actually, Cornelia, I think you shouldn’t be seen in public in that dress again. Period. Not at your mother’s apartment, not anywhere. From now on, you need to look like the most innocent girl in the world.”

  Cornelia pouts. “So what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  And that’s how I end up in my bra and panties in the back of a limo pulled over on East Thirty-fifth and Madison, while Chester and the bodyguards and driver stand outside the car and Cornelia and I swap clothes.

  “This is a cute outfit.” Cornie looks over the white top and jeans I hand her. “Where are these from?”

  “Erm, I customized the top myself, and the jeans are just H&M,” I say, shimmying into the dress.

  Cornelia wrinkles her nose. “How adorably fiscally sensitive of you.”

  “Um … thanks.”

  Cornelia straps her sky-high gold shoes back on and opens the car door. “Okay, you can go now.”

  “Wait!” I say, struggling to cover my boobs before anyone outside the limo can see. “Can you zip me up?”

  I step out of the limo, still wearing my white studded Converse and carrying my clutch and leather jacket, and start walking. The dress is a tight fit for me, and way too long, so I have to hitch it up with one hand.

  Then I put my sunglasses on, hold my head high, and walk—or, let’s face it, swagger—west along Thirty-fifth Street, in the dress that made the cover of the New York Post this morning.

  No one even looks at me twice, of course. This is New York City. I could French kiss a rat while shooting up and no one would flinch.

  Fifth Avenue, Sixth Avenue, Broadway … and then I’m in the Fashion District. They even call the stretch of Seventh between Thirty-fourth and Forty-second “Fashion Avenue,” did you know that? I walk up it toward Thirty-seventh Street. Bizarrely, it’s here that people start staring at me. Maybe recognizing the dress from the Post, maybe wondering why a girl would wear an evening dress that’s so obviously worth thousands of dollars at 10:00 A.M., maybe just wondering who designed it. It is a stunning dress and an amazing piece of craftsmanship, after all.

  I take out my phone and call Philly.

  “What’s the exact address?” I ask.

  “220 West Thirty-seventh, seventh floor,” he says. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “Um, no, I’m going to have to come up,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I hang up and head to 220 West Thirty-seventh. A nondescript building, one that I’d usually walk past without even wondering what was upstairs. I walk past the security guard, dozing with a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee by his side, and take the elevator to the seventh floor. I suddenly feel unaccountably nervous. I never got this far when I was actually applying for jobs. I’d send my résumé, e-mail, call … but I never got into the actual design studios.

  The elevator opens on a shabby hallway, and I look around nervously. One door is labeled with the name of a Pilates studio, the other is blank. That must be her.

  I knock.

  About ten seconds later—such a long time to stare at a door!—it opens, revealing Philly Meyer, the intern slash DJ slash milliner I met at Starbucks that time, the guy who gave me Drakey. It’s kind of strange to see him in person again; thanks to Facebook I know he’s just gone through a breakup, sells his hats at the Brooklyn Flea, DJ’d last weekend at a bar in Washington Heights, and is totally obsessed with the crème brûlée donut at Doughnut Plant, but thinks it’s making him fat. But I haven’t seen him in person once since we met.

  “Wow,” Philly says, looking at me, and opens the door wider, so everyone in the studio can see me.

  I glance around
quickly. Two guys and a girl standing together over a cutting table, another guy on the phone, and in the corner, working at a huge architect-style desk, is Sarah Drake.

  Thirtysomething, dark blond hair, glasses, no makeup. She looks impressive and intimidating, but somehow normal, like she needs coffee and maybe forgot to brush her hair this morning. It’s kind of blowing my mind. I guess I’ve built up the idea of what someone who works in fashion would look like, you know. Not someone on the periphery, not trying to break in, not blogging about it, but someone really doing it. But she looks kind of normal. Smart and sharp and cool, yet normal.

  Sarah looks up at me and for a second, it feels like everyone in the room stops breathing.

  “The Angel,” says Sarah finally.

  I look down at the dress. The Angel dress. There’s total silence.

  “Well, that’s one way to wear it.”

  I suddenly feel embarrassed. Who the hell am I to wear this dress with my dirty Converse and my Zara leather jacket? “I’m sorry, I didn’t have any choice, Cornelia had nothing to change into; we swapped clothes in the limo—”

  “And you walked it here from where?”

  “Oh, just a couple of blocks, I didn’t sweat in the dress or anything, but um, but otherwise it would have taken me another two hours; she wanted to wear it back to her mother’s house on the Upper East Side.…” I trail off.

  “I get it,” Sarah says. “I appreciate the effort to get it to me on time. Punctuality is my thing.”

  “Punctuality!” chorus the boys at the cutting board. Everyone in the room grins, clearly this is an inside joke.

  “Where’s the clutch from?”

  “From me,” I say. “I mean, I made it. I was just playing with some old scarves.”

  Sarah walks over to me and takes the clutch. “Nice work. Where did you train?”

  “I taught myself,” I say. “I don’t know much, I just, you know, I do what I like, I need to learn, really, I know I have so much to learn—”

  “Okay.” Bored of me, Sarah puts the clutch down and turns to Philly. “The Angel. Clean it, steam it, get it to W.”