She pulled out a compact and looked at herself critically. Last night, she had been forced to spend her first night in her new room in the garret. She’d slept in a tiny twin bed and had woken up in a pool of sweat because there was no air-conditioning, and the exhaustion showed. She’d liberally applied La Mer eye cream twice today, but she still had large bags gathering under her eyes.
Brittany, Trina, and Draya were supposed to meet her, but they had all gone home after school to change. Vanity knew there was no way in hell she was actually going home for anything other than sleeping, so she had packed a simple, wrinkle-resistant dress in her giant royal blue Balenciaga bag. The satchel also housed her dance clothes from her pointe class this morning, where she’d used her anger to absolutely nail her arabesques. She’d changed in the locker room at school, feeling like a total fucking nomad, and had just arrived at the bar determined to get very, very drunk.
She nodded at the twenty-something waiter. His curly black hair fell over his eyes. “Another Grey Goose and tonic,” she demanded, batting her eyelashes. He hadn’t carded her before, so it was unlikely he’d card her on her second round.
“Rough day?” he asked knowingly, handing her the drink.
Vanity nodded noncommittally. A Euro-trashy couple at the other end of the bar were conversing loudly in heavily accented English about whose fault it was that they had gotten themselves kicked out of Pink Elephant the night before. As Vanity idly listened to the couple argue and ignored the waiter watching her, Draya, Brittany, and Trina burst in, giggling and looking ridiculously dressed up for five o’clock in the afternoon.
“Did you get one of these?” Draya handed Vanity a white card as she sat down. “I’ll have a split of Veuve,” she said without looking at the curly-haired waiter. “In L.A., Breck and I would always stop at the Chateau Marmont for afternoon champagne,” she announced to no one in particular.
The waiter quickly stood up and took their drink orders. Vanity studied the thick cardstock that Draya had handed to her.
COME AND FIND OUT WHAT WILLARD MEANS TO ME.
A TEA PARTY TO DISCUSS OUR FUTURE. ADD HONEY AND STIR!
“Yeah,” Vanity lied. Didn’t India realize what a major mistake it had been to exclude her? “But are you seriously going? Come on. A tea party?”
“Didn’t you think the teacups were cute?” Brittany asked. “I’d like to go. See what the competition is like.”
Vanity frowned. “India Cartwright is not competition,” she reminded Brittany primly as she examined the homemade calligraphy. “Besides, it’s not even a real party.” Vanity took a large gulp of her drink and gestured for another round. She already felt a little tipsy.
“So why not go?” Trina said suddenly, as if she’d just had a brilliant idea. Her Prada glasses were poised primly on her nose, and she wore a low-cut black tunic that barely covered her behind, clearly going for the sexy-smart look. She took the card out of Vanity’s hands and studied it. “It’s at their grandmother’s townhouse. My mom says it’s supposed to be spectacular.”
“I have a better idea,” Vanity said quickly. There was no way in hell she wanted to see India’s grandmother’s spectacular townhouse, which would only remind her of her newfound poverty. “Why don’t we just go out? It’s the second night of school, it’s not like we have anything important to do tomorrow,” she reminded them.
“Sounds fine to me,” Draya shrugged. “Honestly, India’s tea party sounds pretty boring.”
“Exactly. Who the hell wants to drink tea?” Vanity took another swig of her drink, feeling her old confidence come back. She always got what she wanted.
Well, almost always.
“Should we pre-party at your place?” Draya asked.
“No!” Vanity cried instinctively. Last year, the best part of the evenings had usually been getting ready in her sprawling bedroom. They would put on her iPod and dance around to old-school Spice Girls and other cheesy music they would all die if anyone found out they actually listened to. They’d drink champagne, take ridiculous pictures of one another, and try on different outfits from Vanity’s walk-in closet. Vanity had always thought it was kind of immature, but now, she’d do anything to go back to the way it used to be. “I mean...” She hesitated for a second. “We’re renovating.”
“Really?” Brittany’s eyes widened.
“Okay, that all makes sense now.” Draya nodded pointedly to Trina, who nodded in agreement.
“What?” Vanity asked defensively.
“Oh, we just thought we saw a truck outside your house yesterday. It must have been the renovators?” Trina asked as she swirled the lime in her drink.
“Yeah,” Vanity said, relieved. “It sucks. Basically, we’re gutting the whole bottom floor and we’re staying in the attic.”
“Why don’t you stay in a suite at the Regency or something?”
“You know my mom,” Vanity sighed, as if that explained everything, even though Vanity made it a priority to keep her mother as far away from her friends as possible. “She wants to be on the premises to make sure the decorators don’t fuck up.”
“I guess we can get ready at my place,” Draya sighed dramatically. She lived in a modest two-bedroom on 50th and Third with her mom. It was positively tiny compared to Vanity’s townhouse, and Draya constantly bitched about it, reminding them that her mother was an actress, even though she was just a former soap star now starring in a weird musical downtown.
“Okay.” Vanity motioned to their waiter. Everything had begun to feel deliciously fuzzy. She would go over to Marcelo’s after a night of dancing with the girls and maybe something—it—would finally happen. “Another Grey Goose and tonic,” she enunciated carefully as the waiter approached. It wasn’t like she was drunk or anything.
Of course not.
“And the check as well,” Vanity directed steadily. She pulled her black AmEx out of her Gucci wallet.
“Right away,” the waiter said, turning on his heel with the card in his hand. Almost instantaneously, he came back. “Your card was declined.” He handed it back to her. Vanity was speechless. She felt Draya’s questioning stare bore into her.
“I’ll get it.” Brittany mercifully pulled her own black AmEx from her green and white Kate Spade bag. Despite her Little-Bo-Peep-goes-on-a-picnic purse, Vanity felt like hugging her.
“I was using a different card in Paris. I guess there was a freeze on it or something,” Vanity lied, her heart pounding. First her dad took her home away and now this? Was she seriously cut off?
“So, where are we going to go? Can we start at Tenjune?” Brittany asked, naming an obvious club in the Meatpacking District.
“You know, I actually don’t want to go out anymore,” Vanity said suddenly. “I have an early ballet class tomorrow. But you guys should have fun.”
“But it’s so early now,” Draya whined.
Vanity didn’t bother to give any more explanation. She burst out of the hotel and walked quickly over to Houston to find a cab. The air was hot and sticky and an MTA bus drove by, blowing a cloud of exhaust on her tanned knees. Her Stella McCartney dress billowed upward. Oh God. Could she even afford a cab? She felt dizzy and emotional and very, very drunk. She pulled some crumpled singles from her blue leather bag, knowing they wouldn’t be enough.
She spotted a subway entrance and wobbled over, marveling at all the different letters and numbers. The green 6 looked familiar. Didn’t that go to the Upper East Side? She followed a horde of people onto the green line, pretending not to study the map of the stops above her as one guy kept stepping on her foot with his loafer.
Finally, after countless stops riding alongside some reggae band, Vanity got off at 51st Street. She hurriedly walked up to the imposing Citigroup building on 53rd and Park, where her father’s office was. The sun was beginning to set, and it reflected in blues and oranges off the skyscraper’s modern steel and chrome tower. The last time Vanity had been inside was when she was eleven.
Me
n and women in crisp business suits hustled through the enormous lobby, and Vanity immediately felt out of place in her cocktail dress and blue Balenciaga school bag. “I’m Vanity Laurent. My father works on the twenty-second floor. Emerging markets,” she rattled off quickly to the large, grey-haired man sitting behind a security desk. He quickly picked up an office phone.
“Go on up,” the man replied in a thick Bronx accent.
Vanity walked into the silver elevator, knowing that she had to control her temper. She focused on the weather report playing on the elevator’s small TV screen. Tonight would be pleasant, with a chance of a storm.
Just like someone we know.
When she got off on the twenty-second floor, a skinny woman with eyebrows tattooed several inches above her eyes was waiting for her. “Good evening,” the woman said curtly, motioning Vanity to follow her into the large office in the corner.
“Vanity!” her father announced. He stood up from behind his heavy oak desk and clasped both of her hands with his, but didn’t embrace her. Vanity looked down at his shock of white hair. She wasn’t sure when she had grown taller than her father. He sort of looked like a pudgy Nigerian Santa Claus rather than a high-powered business executive and former government official.
She smiled, trying not to appear drunk. All this was probably a silly mistake. Maybe her father was trying, in some warped, clueless guy way, to woo Vivienne back—and Vanity, her nice canopy bed, and black AmEx card were just caught in the crossfire.
Sure, that seems likely.
“You haven’t answered my calls.” Her father gestured for her to sit down, and Vanity eased into one of the black leather chairs that faced the enormous plate glass windows overlooking Park Avenue.
“You didn’t answer my calls, either, Daddy,” she said calmly. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and gave him a helpless, lost-puppy look with her big green eyes.
“Your mother didn’t tell you what we decided,” Charles stated in a West African accent. He walked to a silver coffee service on the opposite side of the room. “Coffee?”
Vanity shook her head, seething. This wasn’t a casual coffee date. This was her future. “Why doesn’t my credit card work?” she blurted.
“Why did you leave Paris early?” Charles countered calmly. He poured himself tea in a white porcelain cup, and Vanity was suddenly reminded of India’s stupid party. He took the chair next to her's. His intelligent dark eyes searched her face for answers.
“I...” Vanity paused. “I wanted to make sure I had time to get back in shape before the internship program. I wanted to get everything in order.” Her voice wavered as she lied.
“To get everything in order in the Hamptons?” Charles stated flatly.
Vanity blushed. Well, so what? Did she deserve such a brutal punishment? She’d had to take the subway for God’s sake!
Charles stood up and placed his teacup on the desk with a clatter. “Vanity, I’m doing this for your own good. I loved your mother very much. I don’t want you to become like her. I want you to know the value of hard work. Until you prove to me that you can handle responsibility and follow through on commitments, I am not financing your lifestyle. I will pay for school and that’s it. But not ballet. If you loved ballet as much as your mother thinks you do, then you would have stayed in Paris and finished your course.” He smiled and sat down behind the desk again, as if his tough-love speech made up for his absentee parenting.
Vanity felt like she’d been slapped. Small tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she noticed the chip in her maroon nail polish. Her dad couldn’t just cut her off, could he?
Actually, he just did.
“What about the house?” Vanity bleated, not caring how desperate she sounded. Let his two assistants and gaggle of suited minions hear her bawl. Maybe they’d take pity on her.
Charles regarded Vanity and his dark face softened momentarily. “I had to get rid of it. It was a huge money drain, and honestly, you and your mother don’t need all that space. Of course, you could come live with me and Rebecca and the girls,” he offered. “I would love to have you in our family.”
Vanity shook her head wordlessly. Rebecca was only eight years older than she was. Besides, she couldn’t just desert her mother. Vivienne would be a mess. She already was a mess.
“I will chalk up the Paris experiment as a foolish mistake if you show me you’re responsible,” Charles continued, as if he were hammering out a diplomatic negotiation with a particularly belligerent and not especially powerful country. “If you can do that, I’ll be happy to support you and your endeavors. Can you do that, Vanity?”
Vanity had to continue ballet. On the slick black stage of Lincoln Center, or on the shiny wood floors of the rehearsal studio, she felt free in a way she wasn’t in any other aspect of her life. Ballet made her special, it made her beautiful, and it gave her an edge. She locked eyes with her father.
“I have a leadership position at school,” Vanity countered. What was it called again? “I’m the...student liaison to the board of overseers.” Or she would be in a few days. She gave Charles a so there stare.
“Good!” He clapped his hands together as if this were a cause for celebration.
All that’s missing is the champagne. Oops, she already drank that.
“And when did you begin this?” Charles studied the calendar on the side of his desk.
“Next week.” She stood in front of the desk like the picture-perfect ballerina she was, her spine ramrod straight.
“So, you haven’t officially begun yet?” Charles ventured. He settled one butt cheek on the side of his desk and furrowed his thick eyebrows.
“They officially announce it Sunday. At some mother-daughter brunch at Tavern on the Green.”
“I’ll come,” Charles announced gallantly.
“But you’re not my mother,” Vanity pointed out. Not only was he going to ruin her life, he wanted to embarrass her at a school function?
“Who’s paying your tuition?” Charles asked evenly. “Besides, it doesn’t sound like something Vivienne would attend. It’s time someone took a real interest in your future, Vanity.”
“My future is ballet,” Vanity reminded her dad through gritted teeth.
“Well, if you’re serious about ballet, then you’ll prove you are responsible and I’ll write the check. Are we clear?”
Vanity nodded, too angry to speak. She couldn’t believe the key to her entire future was in her father’s brown leather wallet—and in the hands of her Emma Willard classmates. If he didn’t pay for dance tuition, she’d have to apply for a scholarship, and there was no way in hell the internship program director, Mikhail Turney or Turnmeoff or whatever the fuck his name was, would ever give her one.
She huffed out of her dad’s office, past his skinny bitch of a secretary, who was hovering outside the door listening. She whipped out her cell phone and speed-dialed Marcelo’s number, but the phone went straight to voicemail. She was about to blabber on about everything that happened, about how she was officially poor and would probably have to eat totally fattening ramen noodles to survive, and to call her back right away, but then she paused. He’d hate her for being so pathetic. He’d hate her for being poor.
“Hey, it’s me...Just give me a call,” Vanity said simply after the beep. She snapped her phone closed, set her shoulders back, and elongated her neck. Perfect, she repeated silently to herself. Perfect.
Here’s to the power of positive thinking.
17
Home from a ten-mile run after practice, Trey peeled off his sweat-sticky shirt and flung it over the new leather chair that had appeared in the entranceway. He noticed a new low-slung white couch and chairs where the flea-ridden orange couch used to be. It was empty, save for a weird, metallic-looking pillow. Back in Nantucket, even though they’d lived on an acre of land, every night they’d always gathered in the comfortable sunken living room to eat chocolate kisses and share gossip-worthy tidbits of one another’s d
ays.
There are plenty of other girls who’d be happy to share kisses with him!
As Trey made his way to his bedroom, the doorbell rang. “I’ve got it!” he yelled, in case anyone was home. Back in Nantucket, people who came to the door often ended up living with them. One couple, Leon and Gary, had stopped by to ask for directions and had ended up moving in for six months, until they’d decided to move to Amsterdam to cultivate a tulip farm. They still sent four pairs of wooden clogs every Christmas.
“Okay, honey,” Edie yelled back, and Trey could hear the faint sounds of Buddhist chanting from behind the closed doors of her studio.
He made his way to the foyer, not bothering to put on a shirt. It was probably just Reese, there to drop off another Speedo or whatever. He flung open the door and sucked in his breath. The ethereal, honey-glazed goddess of his semi-pornographic dreams was standing directly in front of him. Kat.
Doesn’t he mean Kiara?
They stared at each other for a long, silent moment.
“Hey,” she finally said, breaking the silence. “I heard you were living here. My mother was friends with Eleanor Sinclaire. You know—the family who used to live here? We’re neighbors! I’m just up on 77th!” Her voice sounded overly cheerful, and Trey could tell she was nervous. Her eyes scanned his almond torso and she smiled, a little shyly. He picked up his shirt and put it on. It was still wet and clung to his body.
All the better to see your six-pack, my dear.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted out. It was so bizarre to see her framed in the doorway of his new home, after so many weeks of fantasizing about it. But she wasn’t just Kat anymore, she was Kiara, and he didn’t even know who that was. “Funny running into you yesterday, Kiara.” He had meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out sounding genuinely happy and polite.
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