by Lauren Layne
Who wouldn’t want to be best friends with that? I claimed that feisty goodness as my BFF.
(And don’t go feeling too bad for Sena. When she was sixteen, she disappeared for a week and came back with a slimmer, much-improved nose. Told everyone it was because she had a deviated septum courtesy of Marley’s punch. Everyone together now—let’s lift a skeptical eyebrow.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Texting Marley.
You back in town? Plans tonight?
I flip through the magazine while I wait for Marley to confirm whether or not she’s returned from her cousin’s extended bachelorette weekend in Vegas.
I’m baaaaaack, Marley texts. Definitely want to get out, but count me in for dinner only, nothing late night. Vegas nearly killed me. When did we get OLD?
It’s been downhill since 22. In the mood for a filet. STK? Wolfgang? Del Frisco?
Marley sends the thinky-face emoji back, followed by, Del Frisco. If we go early enough we can catch some of the hot after-work guys in suits.
What about Jon? I ask, referring to her on-again, off-again train wreck of a relationship with a tattoo artist who I’m pretty sure she’s dating only to piss off her dad. When it comes to her love life, Marley is twenty-seven going on thirteen.
Cheated. Again, she texts. Moving on. Need a clean-cut grown-up who doesn’t think biting his fingernails counts as personal grooming.
Gross. We will martini-solve the problem tonight. 7?
Perfect, she confirms, followed by the kiss-face emoji that I’ve learned is her “conversation over” send-off.
I put my phone away as Stefan’s assistant comes to rinse the dye out of my hair, and then for the next half hour Stefan and I analyze whether his boyfriend’s refusal to turn the home office into a nursery means he’s baby-never or baby-not-right-now as he trims my ends.
I’m firmly in camp just ask him, but Stefan’s holding strong in the I’m gonna hack his email account approach. So. That’s healthy.
I usually style my own hair in loose waves with a big-barrel curling iron, but Stefan likes it blown out super-straight and sleek, so I let him do his thing. By the time I’m done, it’s past six. Just enough time to run a quick errand before heading over to the restaurant to meet Marley.
The salon I go to, John Barrett (duh), is conveniently right atop Bergdorf Goodman. Primping and shopping all in one place—heaven.
I head to the baby section, which I’m becoming increasingly familiar with as more and more of my friends start popping out kids.
I make a beeline for the Burberry onesie I mentioned to Ramon this morning.
Despite Andrew Mulroney’s snide remarks about babies and designer clothing, we all know that it’s not really about the babies. It’s about the moms. And Marta will love this for her daughter, I know she will.
“Gift-wrapped?” the girl behind the counter asks.
“Yes, please. And do you have a little card to go with the gift box?”
“Of course.”
As the girl wraps the onesie box in pale lavender, I dig a pen out of my purse, grinning as inspiration strikes for the card’s message.
Ramon & Marta,
For your darling princess, who will undoubtedly be as lovely inside as she is outside, just like her parents. Congratulations and our best to your whole family,
Georgie Watkins & Andrew Mulroney
I grin wider as I put the card into the tiny envelope and write Ramon’s name on the front. Oh, to see Andrew’s face when Ramon thanks him for the overpriced baby outfit…
I give the girl my address to have the package delivered so I don’t have to carry it around all night, then kill another few minutes looking at Dior’s new lipstick line in the cosmetics department before hailing a cab.
“Forty-ninth and Sixth, please,” I say, shutting the door and mouth-breathing out of habit, since NYC cabs tend to take on the odors of whatever their drivers had for lunch.
It’s slow going, given that I’m trying to get around midtown at rush hour, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life, save for the four years getting an economics degree at Brown, and I know it’s going to sound nuts, but I’ve never ever gotten sick of it.
Oh, sure, the summers are gross, and I retreat to the Hamptons when the hot-garbage smell threatens my sanity. And, naturally, I wouldn’t be caught dead around Rockefeller Center at Christmas or in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But mostly not a day goes by that I don’t step out into the city that is my playground and feel darn lucky to be here.
It’s only…it’s just…
Hmm. Lately I’ve had the strangest sense that I’m missing something. Like the world is my oyster and all that, and I’ve got bunches of friends, and more money than I know what to do with, and I can get into just about any hot-spot restaurant or club I want, any night of the week.
I know, right? Sometimes I annoy even myself.
And the truth is, lately it’s all just feeling a little bit blah.
It’s not the city or the people. It’s me.
Even getting increasingly involved with my favorite charities isn’t taking the edge off lately.
I tap my red nails on the seat and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, let myself contemplate the prospect of getting a real job. A nine-to-five where I exchange time for a paycheck and have a boss…
Okay, for real? I’m not even gonna lie to you—it sounds sort of lame.
I like making my own schedule.
I like doing my own thing. I like helping my mom with a trunk show at a moment’s notice. I like that I have a ton of free hours to help organize fundraisers. And yes, okay, I like the fact that I can go shopping whenever I darn well feel like it.
But this endless loop of shopping and hair appointments and drinks and dinners and more drinks and dancing and repeat…
It’s getting old.
Or maybe I’m getting old.
The most annoying thing about all this is I can pinpoint the moment this seed of discontent was planted, almost down to the second. The very day I moved into my building and met Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, and his ever-present sidekick of intense disdain.
I liked my life just fine until I saw it through his eyes, and now…well, I don’t know.
You can see why I don’t like the guy. I had a great thing going, and he ruins it with every scowl.
I pay the driver using the app on my phone, and a couple of minutes later I enter Del Frisco’s bustling after-work scene, scanning the bar for Marley.
I spot her almost immediately, chatting up a good-looking blond guy in a charcoal suit. I contemplate giving her a few more minutes to work her magic, but on closer look, she seems more interested in the olives in her martini than in whatever the guy’s droning on about.
“Ah!” she says, brightening when she sees me. “There you are!”
She motions me forward, and after exchanging an air kiss with my best girl, I smile prettily at the guy who’s blocking the bar stool next to Marley.
His return smile isn’t nearly as bright, but I’ll give him credit for not being dense, because he backs away with a murmured, “Enjoy your dinner.”
“Fab dress,” I say, turning back to Marley, suit guy already forgotten.
“Thanks! New,” she says, glancing down at the navy sweater dress with a high neck and cutout shoulders. As I suspect she knows, it’s the perfect color to bring out the bright blue of her eyes. The cut’s interesting enough to be modern, yet classic enough to be consistent with Marley’s trademark look, which is very Betty Draper in season one of Mad Men. Marley even has the blond bob, although she wears it smooth and straight just below the chin rather than Betty’s hair-spray-dependent sixties style.
“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.
“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.
He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”
Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.
“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without me saying a word.
“Liv Dotson.”
“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”
Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.
She’s a gorgeous redhead who dabbled in modeling and started her own clothing line, then kicked up her fame another notch by marrying the New York Yankees’ center fielder a couple of years ago. They now have their own reality show called Live, Love, Liv, which I watch with far more enthusiasm than I’m proud of.
Liv and I used to be kind of close a couple of years ago, but she and Marley were after the same guy for a while and it got tense. Since I ended up on Team Marley, obviously, Liv sort of keeps me at arm’s length. She’s friendly, but I’m not exactly holding out hope for making a cameo on her show.
“No cameras,” Marley says, craning her neck to get a better look.
Just as I’m about to turn and check out the situation for myself, the hostess finds us to tell us our table’s ready.
“Perfect,” Marley says, dropping a few bills for the bartender. “I asked for a seat by the window, so we’ll walk right by Liv’s table and can say hi. Got to bury the hatchet sometime, right?”
Marley and I follow the hostess, and I’m still scanning for Liv’s red hair, trying to spot her for myself.
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Marley hisses, grabbing my arm with her free hand. “You’ll never guess who she’s having dinner with!”
“I take it by the scandalized tone that it’s not her husband,” I say, still scanning the crowd while also trying not to look too celebrity-stalkerish.
“Um, try the most famous divorce attorney in the city,” Marley says.
My mouth drops open. “No. They can’t be getting divorced. They’re so happy!”
“Obviously not,” Marley murmurs.
I’m still hoping Marley’s wrong when another thought hits.
“Wait. Wait,” I whisper urgently. “How do you know who the most famous divorce lawyer in New York is? Who is it?” I start scrutinizing the tables more closely.
“Um, because I read TMZ like a proper citizen of this city. And because he’s practically as famous as the celebrities themselves.”
No. No. I know the name before Marley has a chance to respond.
Sitting across from the gorgeous Liv Dotson is one Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
Georgie
TUESDAY EVENING
Now, it’s not the first time I’ve seen Andrew outside of our early morning meet-ups.
In addition to that first disastrous move-in day, our paths have crossed a handful of times coming and going in the evenings, him getting home after a long day, me just heading for a night out.
You know, me blowing him a kiss, him pretending I don’t exist. That sort of thing.
But it is the first time I’ve seen him outside of our apartment building, and seeing him out in the wild like this is…strange.
Gone are this morning’s workout clothes; in their place is a dark blue suit and striped tie.
Marley doesn’t seem to notice that I’m a lot more interested in the divorce lawyer than I am in the maybe-divorcée herself.
Probably because…well, I kind of sort of haven’t told my best friend about the thing Andrew and I have. I’ve been telling myself it’s because it’s not a big enough deal to warrant mentioning, but the truth is, I don’t know how to explain it.
I don’t know how to say out loud that there’s this guy who doesn’t like me and that it bothers me. A lot.
And now a blissfully unaware Marley is shifting her megawatt smile toward Liv, obviously hoping the other woman will forget they were both once engaged in a semi-epic game of the boy is mine and spill some gossip.
“Liv. Darling! How are you?” Marley gushes.
Liv looks up, her dark blue eyes widening slightly in surprise, and maybe panic, but she recovers and stands to greet us.
The three of us girls do that air-kissing thing we learned to do about the same time we learned to walk, and I purposely don’t look at Andrew, savoring the anticipation of the moment our eyes meet.
Marley is laying it on thick, gushing over Liv’s outfit, and my bestie has a point, because Liv looks stunning in cream suede pants and a chocolate-colored sweater that hugs her impressive curves.
There’s an awkward moment of silence where Liv should make introductions but instead stays silent. I’m about to take pity on her and throw myself under the proverbial bus that is Andrew Mulroney’s glare, but he’s a step ahead of me.
He’s already standing, having gotten to his feet when we approached the table, and smooths his tie with his left hand as he extends his right toward Marley. “Good evening. I’m Mr. Mulroney.”
For a split second his gaze flicks sideways and collides with mine. I feel my stomach do an annoying little flutter of awareness that it hasn’t done since, like…the eighth grade.
The moment’s broken when Marley steps forward, holding out a hand in greeting as she introduces herself.
“Marley Hamlen,” she says with a wide grin. “And this is my friend Georgie Watkins.”
This time when he turns his attention toward me, I’m prepared for it, and I hold my breath for a brief second in anticipation of the second our eyes meet.
I’m…let down.
Whatever was there a moment ago, he’s shut it down, and now there’s nothing in his gaze as his palm meets mine. Not annoyance, not surprise, not even recognition.
“Ms. Watkins,” he says in a bland tone. “Nice to meet you. How do you ladies know Ms. Dotson?”
My teeth click shut sharply.
Is it just me, or does he seem to linger when he looks at Liv?
Meanwhile, he’s acting like he doesn’t even know me.
Liv has recovered from her social faux pas and is explaining to Andrew about how she, Marley, and I have mutual friends. Marley and I wait a little expectantly for her to explain how she knows Andrew, but she skips that part.
Two minutes ago I was devastated to think that Liv was hiring a divorce attorney, but now I’m distracted by an even worse suspicion—that she might be dating a divorce attorney.
My best-friend radar is telling me that Marley is practically bursting at the silent confirmation that Liv is very likely hiring a high-powered divorce attorney.
In any other situation, I’d be right there with her, deliciously scandalized by the scoop unfolding in front of our eyes.
Instead, the fact that I’m getting the inside track on breaking-news gossip (I have a firm policy against spreading gossip, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it) barely registers.
I’m too busy fuming that my early morning nemesis won’t even acknowledge that we’ve met.
As though he’s embarrassed.
Of what, knowing me? Ha. I’m Georgie Watkins of the cinnamon-sugar hair, and he’s…well, okay, fine.
He’s kind of a big deal.
I may have learned during my Google-stalking that the guy’s represented some of the biggest names in Hollywood.
I smile and nod my way through whatever Marley and Liv are chatting about, even as my gaze stays locked on Andrew’s angular profile. Not that he’s looking at me. Nope, his attention’s a hundred percent on Liv.
He laughs at something she says, and my
world tilts sideways, just for a moment. I don’t know what to do with laughing, smiling, charming Andrew Mulroney.
Why can’t I coax that from him?
Why do I want to?
I’ll figure it out later. When I’m plotting my revenge.
“Well, we’ll let you guys enjoy your dinner,” Marley says, with another air-kiss exchange with Liv. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Mulroney.”
“Yes, lovely,” I say sweetly, starting to follow Marley and the hostess.
I slow down just the slightest bit as I pass Andrew, giving him the opportunity to throw down a gauntlet under his breath. A see you tomorrow, or perhaps a you’re ridiculous. That’s one of his favorites.
He says nothing, already sitting back down, attention fixed on Liv Dotson as though I literally don’t exist.
Whatever.
I lift my chin and stride after Marley, taking a sip from my half-empty martini glass as I walk.
So our cold war just turned straight-up icy. No problem. I can work with that.
Georgie
FRIDAY, 5:03 A.M.
“Ramon, you owe me,” I say as I push through the revolving door of my building. “The donut shop guy forgot his key, so he opened up a few minutes late, but I love you, so I waited, and—”
I break off when I see that Ramon’s not alone, as he usually is when I come bearing donuts.
This is what I get for being three minutes late.
The back of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
True to form, the guy doesn’t even turn his head to watch me approach, which is really his loss, because the light pink dress is a super-cute color on me, and the matching Manolo Blahnik stilettos are completely on point.
“Ms. Watkins, good morning,” the concierge says.
I heave a sigh. “Oh, Ramon, no. You have your deferential face on. I hate that.”
“Do you even know what deferential means?” Andrew asks, not looking up from where he’s writing something on an envelope in anal, pretentious little letters.
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” I say with a fake start of surprise.