Drew glanced over at Casey, who was seated on the edge of his bed, the yellow and green plaid skirt she wore clashing spectacularly with his blue and orange Ralph Lauren plaid comforter. She was watching Madison attentively, a rapt expression on her freckled face.
“Does being wealthy influence what you plan to do with your life?” Drew asked, leaning into the camera and checking to make sure the shot was still perfect. “How does modeling fit in?”
“Well, obviously I don’t have to work or anything.” Madison gave the camera a tight smile. “But knowing I have money means it’s not such a big deal if I end up sucking at it.”
“Why not?” Drew asked, genuinely curious. “I’d think there’d be even more pressure on you to succeed at modeling since everyone knows you’re wealthy—don’t you worry about people saying that the only reason anyone even pays attention to you is because of your parents’ money?”
“If I worried about what people said all the time I’d be in a locked psych ward,” Madison snapped, “not on the verge of signing a major modeling contract.”
“You haven’t signed it yet?” Casey asked with amazement, pulling her legs beneath her on the bed until she was sitting cross-legged. “I thought you were going to talk to Edie yesterday?”
“I was,” Madison said with annoyance, brushing a pale piece of hair from her face. “I am. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Speaking of your mom,” Drew interrupted, “did finances have anything to do with your parents’ decision to split up last year?”
Madison opened her mouth, then closed it again, speechless. She stared into the lens, her confident and slightly irritated expression crumpling like a white, unlined sheet of paper in Drew’s fist. “It wasn’t . . .” she sputtered. “It didn’t . . .” Her mouth began to turn down at the corners, and she suddenly turned her face away from the camera for the first time, her face glowing in profile, one tear sliding down her cheek as she cried without sound, her shoulders shaking. “They couldn’t,” she continued, her voice breaking, “they just didn’t . . . love each other . . . anymore.”
“Shit,” Drew muttered under his breath, getting up and grabbing a box of Kleenex off his night table and handing it to Madison, who grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes carefully so as not to smear the navy liner on her top lids. Drew knelt down at her feet, placing one hand on her knee. Even if she wasn’t his girlfriend anymore, he still hated to see her cry, and most of all he hated the idea that it was his stupid, thoughtless question that had made her cry in the first place.
“Hey, Mad,” he said quietly, forgetting the camera still humming quietly, the red light blinking, and the fact that his new girlfriend was in the room, her eyes following his every move. “I’m sorry.” She looked over at him, the tears still making their way slowly down her face, muting the color of her electric green eyes, and placed her hand on top of his, the warmth of her skin like an electric shock shooting through his body. What was going on with him lately? Just when he thought he was ready to make Madison a part of his past forever, moments like this made it clear that shoving Mad to the back of the line of his life wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d originally thought.
“It’s all right,” she said, pulling her hand away and blowing her red nose. “We can finish.”
“You sure?” Drew asked, standing up and running a hand through his hair. “It’s just a stupid documentary.”
“It’s not stupid,” Casey said from her post on the bed, maybe a little too sharply. Casey stared down at her knees, biting her bottom lip and kicking one black ballet slipper against the other before getting up and walking quickly to the door, her hair swinging like a flag from the rush of air as she closed it firmly behind her.
“What’s up with her?” Mad asked, throwing her used tissue to the floor and crossing one slim leg over the other.
Drew shrugged, taking a seat behind the camera again and rechecking the shot. He knew that he should probably go after Casey—that’s what a good boyfriend would do. Drew knew that when girls left a room like that—obviously upset—they generally wanted you to follow them. But as strong as the feeling in his gut was that told him to get moving pronto, his feet were somehow cemented to the thick, navy carpeting of his room.
“So,” Mad said, her teeth shining like a string of polished pearls under the lights, her composure regained. “Fire away.”
As Drew looked down at his sheet of questions, and then the empty space on the bed where Casey had sat moments before, the empty space grew larger and larger until it filled both the room—and his brain. He knew, from the sinking feeling in his stomach, that, by continuing to sit here with Madison, he might’ve just blown things with Casey for good.
secrets and lies
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat with that ? ” Jared pointed at the mug of chamomile tea resting on the table, the steam rising from the chipped blue cup and obscuring Phoebe’s face. Phoebe shook her head, wrapping her cold fingers around the hot cup, grateful for the cloud of steam that hung between them like a curtain. Maybe if she just kept ordering tea, the white, gauzy steam would completely hide the fact that she couldn’t look Jared in the face without imagining his lips on hers, the sweet, forbidden pressure of his mouth, and the way his eyes misted over when they finally pulled away from one another.
Phoebe forced herself to look away from his sharply chiseled face, and at the horrendous “art” adorning the walls that looked as though it was fashioned from yards of red string and copious white puka shells. The Potted Fern was a macramé disaster on Ninety-sixth Street and Park, decorated with gross hippie art and overflowing with plants, green tendrils hanging down from the watermarked ceiling, tickling the shoulders and faces of unsuspecting diners. Since the place was the total polar opposite of anything even remotely approaching cool, Phoebe knew there was zero chance that she’d run into anyone she knew there. Still, she couldn’t help looking around nervously every few minutes as the door swung open . . .
“So, what’s going on?” Jared said, dumping half the sugar container into his black coffee and stirring the dark liquid slowly, his eyes locked on hers. “You sounded pretty upset on the phone.” Just watching his long hands stirring his coffee, she wanted more than anything to be the spoon, to be slid sensuously between those full red lips . . . Get it together, she told herself, dropping her gaze to the chipped Formica tabletop. You are such a sex beast lately . . . And the brown leather jacket he wore with a dark blue Billabong T-shirt—slightly ripped at the neck—sent the smell of tanned leather across the table in waves, mixing with his signature scent of ripe citrus and salt that made her want to pass out—just so he could press his lips to hers and resuscitate her.
“I was walking home yesterday, and I saw my mom go into a hotel.”
Jared halted his cup in midair on the path to his lips. “Uhoh,” he said, his blue eyes narrowing cynically. “Let me guess—she wasn’t exactly meeting your dad, right?”
“You got it.” Phoebe exhaled loudly, pushing the cup away and leaning her elbows on the table. “But that’s not the worst part.”
“It gets worse?” Jared smirked, raising an eyebrow.
“Definitely.” Phoebe said, poking one finger through a hole in the sleeves of her pale blue sweater. She’d purposefully worn her grossest clothes today and not washed her hair this morning—just to prove to herself that she definitely wasn’t interested in him. Why spend hours picking out the perfect outfit when she was so not dating him anyway? “Jared, you can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,” Phoebe began, her voice solemn and slow.
“Why tell me?” Jared asked, draining the last of his coffee and pushing the cup to the side. “Why not tell my sister—or one of your other little friends?”
Now it was Phoebe’s turn to smirk across the table. “As much as I love your sister, you and I both know that she wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut about this—and I know you will.”
“H
ow do you know?” Jared whispered, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his, folding her fingers into his own.
“Because I’m asking you to,” Phoebe answered, aware that she was barely breathing as his grip tightened. With considerable effort, Phoebe forced herself to pull away, putting both of her hands under the table—and out of his reach.
“All right,” Jared said, nodding slowly while simultaneously shrugging his arms out of his leather jacket. At the sight of his caramel-colored, slightly muscled biceps, Phoebe felt like she was about to fall into a swoon. Wait—didn’t that only happen to maidens in nineteenth-century novels whose corsets were pulled too tight? What excuse did she have for feeling so dizzy and strange at the sight of Jared’s bare flesh?
“Well, I waited for my mom to come down from the room and leave the hotel—it took forever. And when she finally showed up she wasn’t exactly alone, if you know what I mean.” Phoebe paused, cracking her knuckles nervously under the table the way she always did when she was worried or nervous—or both. “She was with Drew’s dad,” Phoebe finished, the words coming out in a rush.
“You’re kidding me.” Jared raised a hand and motioned to the waitress for a refill. “Weird. The Van Allens always seemed so happy to me,” Jared mused aloud as the waitress refilled his cup, the rich, dark aroma of roasted coffee beans perfuming the air.
“I know,” Phoebe agreed, pulling her own cup of lukewarm tea toward her and sipping the tepid, floral-scented liquid. “That’s why it’s so strange. I mean, was it an act all this time? I always thought they were the happiest couple on the Upper East Side.”
“Yeah, me too.” Jared raised the cup to his lips, then put it back down, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin before continuing. “Maybe it wasn’t an act, Phoebe—maybe things just change.”
“I guess,” Phoebe said morosely, more depressed than ever. “I mean, I look at my own parents and I know that they must’ve been happy once, right?” Phoebe took a deep breath and went on before Jared could begin to speak. She felt like if she didn’t keep talking, she’d probably just explode all over the macramé wall hangings, making the hideous décor even uglier. “They must’ve been in love at some point—and if they were then where did that love go?” Phoebe dropped her head to the table, resting it on her forearms. “Ugh. I sound like a bad pop song,” she said with a moan.
Jared laughed, reaching across the table and placing his hand on her arm. At the touch of his warm skin on hers Phoebe sat up as if she’d been scalded by a cup of hot water, pulling her arm away from him for the second time. Phoebe looked out the window at the passersby: a woman in a ranch mink jacket strolled by, a dachshund puppy wearing a Burberry sweater tucked beneath one arm. Steam swirled out of the sewer grates at the curb and into the rapidly darkening gray October sky. For reasons she couldn’t explain to Jared, and certainly not to herself, she felt her eyes beginning to well up with tears. Why couldn’t she just have a normal family—one that ate dinner together every night and actually asked each other questions about their day? Why couldn’t she have a family that really loved each other in a way that was both true and permanent? Phoebe knew down deep in her heart that she’d trade it all—the luxury apartment, the money, her endless collection of bags and shoes—for a family life that didn’t make her want to cry every day, for parents who still loved each other. Every time she walked through the front door of her apartment, it was like walking into prison. The tension in the air was so incredibly thick that she tiptoed around on eggshells, never sure when her parents would begin fighting again. The death knell of their soured relationship hung solidly in the air like thunder before a heavy rainstorm—and it filled the apartment and her life with the most horrible sense of expectation. It wasn’t that Phoebe necessarily wanted her parents to get divorced, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she and Bijoux could keep living this way. As much as she hated the idea of her family splitting up, sometimes the thought of being able to live without the constant fighting didn’t sound like such a bad idea . . .
“It just makes me wonder,” Phoebe went on, blinking back the tears, her eyelashes slapping against the skin of her cheeks, her arm still tingling from where he’d touched her, “can anyone live happily ever after anymore without cheating?” She looked up, her eyes meeting Jared’s level gaze, and held her breath, goose bumps popping up all over her body.
“I think I could,” Jared said softly, his blue eyes never leaving hers. “With someone like you.”
Phoebe’s mouth fell slightly open, and she closed it in a hurry, trying to hide the shocked expression that must’ve been all over her face. Jared reached across the table determinedly, taking her hand in his own again, and holding on firmly, his fingers sliding down to wrap around her bare wrist.
“Meet me tomorrow night at midnight in the entertainment lounge,” he whispered, his eyes locking on hers with an intensity that scared and thrilled her all at once. She felt hypnotized as she nodded wordlessly, watching in slow motion as he pulled her to him across the table. Before Phoebe knew what she was doing, she was on her feet and leaning forward, her lips touching his with a shock of surprising softness—right in the middle of a hideous coffee shop on Ninety-sixth and Park. As she closed her eyes and finally surrendered, she didn’t care who saw them together, stretched across the red vinyl booth—she was lost in the warmth of his kiss and the strength of the hand that held her captive. And, captive or not, all Phoebe knew was that she never wanted to get away—even if it made her feel uncomfortably close to becoming her own cheating, philandering mother, even if it meant sneaking around for the whole rest of her life.
Even if it meant betraying her best friend.
grandmotherly advice
“Casey Anne, I know it’s been a bad day when I see you digging into the ice cream right after dinner,” Nanna cackled, as she loaded their dinner dishes into the dishwasher, and switched it on with a loud rumble that filled the room with ambient noise.
Casey sighed, looking around Nanna’s comfortable gray and white kitchen, at the white rag rug on the floor, the gray linoleum, and the chipped white kitchen cabinets with their tarnished brass knobs. Nanna’s kitchen definitely wasn’t as luxurious as the lavish restaurant-style spaces that most of the residents of The Bramford installed, but, then again, Nanna wasn’t exactly rich either. The first time Casey had remarked on the difference between Nanna’s kitchen and Sophie’s, Nanna had emitted a loud snort. “Those are kitchens wasted on people who don’t even know how to cook! Fancy marble countertops and hulking stainless steel refrigerators—for what? So they can order take-out every night, that’s what!” Nanna yelled triumphantly, smacking her hand down on her own granite countertop for added emphasis.
Nanna and Casey’s grandfather had gotten into The Bram back when it was relatively reasonable—and the fact that their apartment was quickly rent stabilized didn’t hurt either . . . When Casey’s grandfather passed away a few years ago, Nanna had decided to stay on. “New York is my life,” she was fond of stating defiantly. “And The Bram is my home—you’ll have to drag me out of here in a box.” So far, anyway, Casey’s family knew better than to even try.
“It wasn’t a bad day exactly,” Casey said, digging a spoon into a rock-hard pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. She hated cherries, but right now she’d probably eat her own arm if it were smothered in chocolate. “More like an unqualified disaster.”
Nanna halted wiping the kitchen counter with a sponge to shoot Casey an annoyed look. “You sound like the spitting image of your mother with all that fancy-pants talk!”
Casey’s mother, Barbara McCloy, was a professor of Women’s Studies back at Illinois State, who was currently on sabbatical for a year, probably at this moment flitting around London and pretending to be an academic. From what Casey could tell, Barbara spent all her time at fancy teahouses and pubs—and a limited amount of time in the library, where she was supposed to be researching a book on the history of women and gossip to be
published sometime next year by Seal Press. As her mother was a militant feminist who rarely bought new clothes and instead gave Casey endless amounts of grief about hers, the last thing she wanted was to remind anyone of Barbara . . .
“Since I haven’t talked to my mother in weeks, it’s probably the fancy-pants school I’m attending,” Casey said dejectedly, scraping a thin layer of ice cream off the top of the container and sliding the spoon into her mouth. “Soon I won’t even sound like a normal person.”
“Casey, honey,” Nanna said, turning around, the choker-length strand of pearls she always wore matching the luster of her silver hair perfectly. “I hate to break it to you, but you never really did.”
“I know.” Casey moaned, her mouth full of rapidly melting ice cream. “Thanks for pointing that out, Nanna.”
Nanna sat down at the kitchen table, running her hand over the bleached pine surface that was nicked and scarred from years of use, and took her gold bifocals from a pearl chain around her neck and slid them over her nose. Nanna didn’t ever believe in “comfortable” clothes or in dressing down, which explained her perfectly pressed wool trousers and white cashmere turtleneck. As always, a beloved pair of black Chanel ballet flats adorned her tiny feet. Those flats are probably older than I am, Casey thought with a smile. Although Nanna could often be a royal pain in the ass—especially when she refused to wear her hearing aid—she was, far and away, Casey’s favorite family member. Not that it was a difficult honor to obtain or anything, considering that her mom called once every two weeks—if that—from London, and her dad, having recently been fired from a dotcom in Seattle, called even less frequently. And even when he did manage to pick up the phone, their conversations had lately been reduced to such scintillating topics as the weather, and the state of New York post-Giuliani.
In Too Deep Page 11