Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel

by Burgess, Gemma

  I stare after the yacht, my heart pounding, tears in my eyes, and a sadness deep in my stomach. But above all that, I know, I know this is the right thing. I need to stay here to find my future. He needs to leave to find his.

  Please turn, Sam. Please look at me. Just one last time.

  Then, just as I think that’s it, I won’t see his face again, Sam turns around and smiles at me, his face lit up by the flickering lights of the marina and the skyscrapers above us, and even from this distance, I can see he mouths “I love you.”

  I mouth it back. “I love you.”

  When the night has finally swallowed up the Peripety, I turn around, tears still wet on my face. I take a few deep breaths, looking up at the city above me.

  I feel strangely okay and calm inside. Sam will be back.

  And meanwhile, I have my own life to live.

  I walk slowly back to Pete and Roger, a tiny smile on my face. When I get to them, Rog finally looks at me properly. “Haven’t we met before?”

  “I met you the other night at the Minetta Tavern,” I say. “With Cornelia.”

  “Ah, Cornelia. The naughty yet ambitious socialite,” Rog says, nodding. “I don’t think I’ll be hearing from her for a while. She’s got bigger fish to fry.”

  “Dad, you wanna go grab a bite?” says Pete.

  “I’d love that,” says Roger. He turns to me. “Care to join us?”

  “No, uh, thank you, I have to get home,” I say. “I need my friends.”

  “Take my car service,” says Pete. “I’ll go with Dad.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t, really.”

  “Look, it’s the least I can do, Angie,” he says in a low voice, as Rog strides ahead. “You’re the reason I found Sam. Without you, they’d have killed each other.”

  And so I say good-bye to the Rutherfords and get into the town car.

  “Brooklyn, please. Union Street. Just up from Court.”

  The driver nods, and seconds later, we’re heading across Manhattan toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Toward home.

  Then I unwrap the little gift Sam gave me on the dock.

  It’s a tiny square box. Inside is a small pair of sapphire stud earrings.

  And a note.

  Happy Birthday, Angie. These earrings are the color of the Caribbean sea you dived into the first day we met. You probably hate them. Your taste in jewelry is just one in the long list of things that I want to know about you, and don’t … yet.

  I love you.

  Sam

  I put the earrings on and smile, feeling that happy warmth inside again. Sam will be back.

  There’s just one thing I need to do. I take out my phone and quickly text my dad. Despite the way he behaved, he’s my father. And he probably needs me as much as I need him.

  Let’s meet up this weekend. I think we should talk. A x

  Then my phone rings. A number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Angie James?”

  “Speaking…”

  “Hi! This is Edie Jansen. We met a month or so ago, when you were handing out your CV with a free latte outside Maven? That was you, right?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “I was the girl wearing Marni for H&M!”

  “Oh! Hi!” The pointy-faced chic girl, the one who actually talked to me!

  “Great! God, I have been looking everywhere for your CV, you would not believe the day I had, but in the end Cynthia had it, isn’t that amazing? She was impressed with your ingenuity and kept it this whole time! Okay, so I saw on Fashionista that Cornelia Archer’s clutch bag was designed by you, right? We want to know if you’d be interested in a hookup with one of our clients. It’s a tiny fast-fashion brand called Serafina; it’s only small-time now but it’s—”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m interested.”

  “Can you come in for a meeting tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m working with Sarah Drake right now.” I try to sound as official and efficient as I can. “Can you do six forty-five P.M.?”

  “Yes! Love Sarah Drake. We’ll work around you. That would be perfect! Okay, ciao!”

  I hang up and put my window down, looking out at the city nightscape as we drive over the Brooklyn Bridge. I feel more calm and sure than I ever have in my life.

  I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I have a job. I have a passion. I have best friends. I have true love. I have a life. I have things to look forward to and people to care about. I am never alone. I am happy.

  This is where everything begins.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The problem with writing these acknowledgments pages is that everything I write sounds clichéd. So let’s pretend it doesn’t, okay? Okay. Good.

  Thanks to Vicki Lame and Dan Weiss at St. Martin’s Press, and my agents, Jill Grinberg and Laura Longrigg for—oh, everything.

  Thanks to all my friends. And all those times you [insert meaningful friendship-related event HERE]. And Hawk, for giving me exact instructions on what would give Coco an overdose. He’s one hell of a fun doctor.

  Thanks to everyone who read Brooklyn Girls and e-mailed me to tell me you loved it. You guys are my spirit animals. (I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds funny.)

  And most of all, thanks to my lovely little family for being perfect. I love you.

  CHAPTER 1

  Never screw your roommate’s brother.

  A simple rule, but a good one. And I broke it last night. Twice.

  Oopsh.

  At least the party was awesome. I’ll try that excuse if Julia is pissy. And if her house is trashed. Which I’m pretty sure it is.

  I’m not exactly surprised. I like parties, I’m good at them, and it was August 26 yesterday. And on that date, I always drink to forget. This year, I did it with whips, chains, and bells on.

  My bare ass keeps brushing against the wall as I squish away from Mike. Don’t you hate that? Doesn’t random hookup etiquette demand he face the other way? I wish he would just leave without me having to, like, talk to him.

  I wonder what Madeleine, his sister, would say if she found out. She’d probably ignore me, which is what she always does these days. I wish Julia hadn’t asked her to move in.

  Julia, my best friend from college, inherited this house when her aunt passed away. So Julia invited me, her little sister Coco, and Madeleine to move in. And then we needed a fifth, so I asked my friend Angie. We’re a motley crew: Coco’s the Betty Homemaker type, Angie’s all fashi-tude, Julia’s super-smart and ambitious, and Madeleine’s uptight as hell. And me? I’m … well, it’s impossible to describe yourself, isn’t it? Let’s call me a work-in-progress.

  We moved in two weeks ago. It’s a brownstone named Rookhaven, on Union Street in Carroll Gardens, a neighborhood in the borough of Brooklyn in New York City. None of us has properly lived in New York before.

  Carroll Gardens is a weird mix of old people who’ve probably lived here forever, young professionals like us who—let’s face it—can’t afford to live in Manhattan, and a bunch of yupster couples with young kids. There’s a real neighborhood village vibe with all these old, traditional Italian bakeries and restaurants next to stylish little bars.

  I like stylish little bars.

  I like my bedroom, too. I’ve had a lot of bedrooms in my life—twenty-seven, if you count every room change at boarding school and college—but never one quite like this. High ceilings, windows looking out over the front stoop, wall-to-wall mirrored closets. Okay, the mirrors are yellowed and the wallpaper is a faded rosebud print that looks like something out of an old movie. It just feels right. Like this is how it’s supposed to look.

  That’s kind of Rookhaven all over. If I were feeling nice, I’d call the décor vintage and preloved. (Old and shabby.) I’m just happy to be in New York, far away from my parents, in the most exciting city in the world, with a job at a SoHo PR agency. My life is finally happening.

  Can I be honest with you? I shouldn’t have slept with Mike. No
t when things are already, shall we say, complicated with Madeleine. Casual sex only works when it’s with someone you can never see again. But, as I said, it was August 26 (also known as Eddie Memorial Day, or Never Again Day). And on August 26, shit happens.

  What is that damn ringing sound?

  “I think that’s the doorbell.”

  Gah! Mike! Awake! Right here next to me. I peek through my eyelashes. Like Madeleine, he’s ridiculously good-looking. I guess it’s their Chinese-Irish DNA. Good combination.

  “Erm … someone else will get it,” I murmur. My breath smells like an open grave. Not that it matters. Because I don’t like him like that. Even though last night I—ew. God. Bad thought. But hey! So what? So the whole sex thing was a bad idea. There is no reason to feel stupid Puritan guilt about one-night stands. I am a feminist. And all that shit.

  The doorbell goes again.

  “Pia … Come here, you crazy kitten,” Mike says, pushing his arm under me.

  “I better get the door. It could be someone important!” I say brightly, slithering down around him and falling onto the dark green carpet with a thump.

  I wriggle into my panties, trying to look cool and unbothered as I put on the first T-shirt I see. It belonged to Smith, a guy I dated (well, slept with a few times) in college. The back says, “I brake for cheerleaders … HARD.”

  I pull on my favorite cutoff jean shorts and Elmo slippers and stuff my cell phone in my pocket.

  “I’m glad you brake for cheerleaders,” says Mike. “They’re an endangered species.”

  “Um, yup, totally!” I say, and slam the door behind me, cutting him off.

  Mike! God! Nightmare!

  I close my eyes, trying to remember last night. It’s worryingly hard. I was feeling meh after Thompson (this cockmonkey I’ve been dating, well, sleeping with) ignored my text (Hola. Bodacious party. Bring smokes if you can … Good text, right? Ironic use of passé slang, trailing ellipses rather than a lame smiley face, etc.). And rejection is not a good look for me. Not on August 26.

  So I drank more. And more. And then more.

  I remember dancing. On a table, maybe? Yeah, that rings a bell.… And I think I was doing some ’80s-aerobics-style dance moves. The grapevine. Definitely the grapevine. I was having fun, anyway. I don’t usually worry about much when I’m having fun.

  And Mike was doing one-handed push-ups, really badly, and making me laugh, and then I stumbled, and next thing I knew Mike’s lips were on mine. Now I love kissing, I really do, and he is pretty good at it, and I was trashed, so I suggested we go to my room. And then … oh, God.

  Nothing burns like hangover shame.

  The person at the door is really dying to get in. Dingdongdingdongdingdong.

  “Coming!” I shout, picking my way over the bottles and cigarette butts on the stairs.

  I hope it’s not the cops. I don’t think there were drugs at the party, but you never know. Once time at my second boarding school I thought that my boyfriend Jack had OCD, which was why he arranged talcum powder in little lines, and as it turned out— Wait. Back to the nightmare.

  I open the front door and sigh in relief.

  It’s just a very old man. His face is like a long raisin with pointy elf ears, on the top of a tall and skinny body.

  “Young lady, where is your father?” he says in a strong Brooklyn accent. Fadah.

  “Zurich,” I say, then add, “Sir.” (And they say I don’t respect my elders.)

  “Are you a relation of Julia’s?”

  “Fu— I mean, gosh, no.”

  “Well, that figures. I didn’t think Pete remarried, and you’re definitely a half-a-something.”

  Seriously? “I’m a whole person, not a half. My mother is Indian, my father is Swiss. Please come back later.” I try to close the door, but he’s blocking it.

  “I need to speak with Miss Russotti.”

  “Which one? There are two. Russotti the elder, also known as Julia, and Russotti the younger, also known as Coco.”

  “Whichever is responsible for the very loud party that went on till 5:00 A.M. and caused the total cave-in of my kitchen ceiling.”

  I gasp. He must live in the garden-level apartment under our house. My mind starts racing. How can I fix this?

  “Oh, I am so sorry, I can pay for the ceiling, sir, I—”

  “I take it that there were no parents present?”

  “I think my roommate Madeleine has babysitting experience, does that count?”

  “Don’t be smart with me.”

  “I’ve never been called smart before,” I say, twisting my hair around my finger, trying to get him to laugh a little bit. No one can stay angry after they laugh, it’s a fact.

  His expression warms slightly, then falls as though pushing the crags and crevices into a new shape was too much effort. “Just get Julia.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to wait inside?”

  “If you think I want to see what this house looks like this morning, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “Is it think or thing?”

  “It’s think.”

  “I’ll go get Julia.”

  I run up the stairs, jumping over the leftover party mayhem, and knock on Julia’s bedroom door.

  “Juju?” I peer in.

  No Julia, just Angie and some tall English lord guy she met in London at the Cartier Polo (yes, seriously). I saw them making out in the laundry room last night after a game of “truth or dare,” which Angie renamed “dare or fuck off.” Man, I hope they didn’t screw on the washing machine. My laundry is in there. I keep forgetting to take it out, and it goes all funky with the heat, so then I have to wash it again and— Oh, sorry. Focus.

  “Angie! Wake the hell up!”

  I shake her, but she just gives a little snore and buries herself deeper into the bed. She looks like a fallen angel with a serious eyeliner habit. And she’s impossible to wake after a night out.

  Julia will lose her shit if she finds out about this. She and Angie haven’t exactly bonded. My bad: I talked Julia into letting Angie move in before they’d even met, because Angie’s folks got her a job as a PA to some food photographer woman in Chelsea and she needed a place to live, and Angie’s been, like, my best friend since I was born. (Literally. Our moms met in the maternity ward.)

  Then Angie walked in, said, “It’s a dump, but it’s retro, I can make it work,” and lit a cigarette. Julia was not impressed.

  “Angie! Get. The hell. Up.”

  “Pia?” She peers up at me through her long white-blond hair. “I had to sleep here, there was a threesome in my bed.”

  “Ew,” I say, grimacing, as I pull Angie onto her feet. “Help me. Major crisis.”

  “You’re such a fucking drama queen. Hugh. Dude. Get up.”

  Hugh climbs out behind her unsteadily. He has a very posh English accent. “Tremendous party.” Pah-teh. He’s very handsome, like a young Prince William, with more hair.

  As soon as he leaves, Angie licks and smells her hand to check her morning breath. “Yep, pretty rank. What’s wrong, ladybitch?”

  “Everything. We have to find Julia.”

  “Roger that.” Angie’s still wearing her tiny party dress from last night and slips on a pair of snow boots from Julia’s closet. “You have a hickey on your neck.”

  “How old school of me.” I grab Julia’s foundation to dab over it. “Ugh, why is she wearing this shade? It’s completely wrong for her. Sorry, off topic.”

  We head upstairs. Angie stares at her closed bedroom door. “God, I hate threesomes.”

  “Totally. It’s just showing off.”

  Angie smirks, then karate kicks her door in. “Show’s over, bitches! Get the hell outta my house.”

  Two girls I’ve never seen before and a tall dark-haired guy I vaguely recognize from college saunter out of Angie’s room.

  “Pia, babe!” says the guy, putting on his shirt. “I tried to find you all night! Remember that party back in junior
year? A little Vicodin, a little tequila…”

  I shudder. Now I remember him.

  “Leave,” snaps Angie. “Now.”

  “Bitch,” he calls, walking down the stairs.

  “Blow me!” she calls back, then heads into her room. “Fuck! I’m gonna have to burn the sheets.”

  I hear a hinge squeak. It’s Madeleine, coming out of the bathroom in a pristine white robe, her hair wrapped perfectly in a towel-turban.

  “Morning!” I say, smiling as innocently as I can.

  She pads to her bedroom and slams the door. Typical. Good thing I didn’t add, “By the way, your brother is naked in my bed.”

  I trudge up the last flight of stairs, finally reach Coco’s attic room, and knock. Julia must be in here. There’s nowhere else to go.

  “It’s me…” I open the door slowly.

  Julia is sitting on the bed, still wearing her clothes from last night yet sportily immaculate as ever, next to Coco, whose blond bob is bent over a plastic bucket and—oh, God. She’s puking.

  “Coco!” I say. “Are you sick?”

  “Clap, clap, Sherlock,” says Julia.

  “I’m fine!” Coco’s voice echoes nasally in the bucket. “So fine. Oh, God, not fine.” Noisy, chokey barf sounds follow. “Wowsers! This is green! Oh, Julia, it’s green, is that bad?”

  “It’s bile,” says Julia, rubbing Coco’s back and glaring at me. Furious and sisterly, all at once. “I need to talk to Pia. Try to stop vomiting, okay?” She has a deep, self-assured voice, particularly lately. It’s like the moment she graduated, she decided it was time to act adult at all costs.

  “Maybe I’ll lose weight,” Coco’s voice echoes from the bucket.

  I follow Julia to the tiny landing at the top of the stairs, closing Coco’s bedroom door behind us. I feel sick. Confrontation and I really don’t get along.

  “I am sorry,” I say immediately. “I guess you’re angry about the party, and—”

  “You sold it to me as a ‘small housewarming,’” interrupts Julia. “This place was like Cancun on spring break, but less classy.”

  I hate being told off, too. It’s not like I don’t know when I’ve screwed up. Or like I do it on purpose. And I never know what to say, so I just gaze into space and wait for it to be over.