Elite 02 In Too Deep

by Jennifer Banash

  “Hey, Drew,” his father said uncertainly, reaching up to rub his salt-and-pepper beard the way he always did when he was nervous, or lost in thought. “Is this some party, or what?”

  “ ‘Or what’ is more like it.” Once he opened his mouth and began to speak, Drew couldn’t keep the anger and disappointment from his voice. It flooded out of him like poison. “So, have you seen Mom around?” Drew asked innocently, “or are you too busy flirting to go look for her?”

  “Look, Drew, you don’t—”

  “Understand?” Drew finished, interrupting his dad’s impending speech. “You’re right, Dad—I don’t. And I’m not sure I want to either.” Drew looked over his father’s shoulder as the mystery date moved into view, trying her best to hide her face from his view by looking off to the side and raising one pale hand to her heart-shaped face.

  “Robert, I’m going to leave you and Drew to—talk things over,” she said, looking Drew full in the face for the first time since he’d rolled up on them. Drew stepped back as if he’d been slapped. The anti-seventies woman playing kissy-face with his happily married father was none other than Madeline Reynaud—Phoebe’s mom. With that, Madeline turned on one black stiletto heel and walked quickly away, her black dress receding into the sea of pale-hued couture that crowded the dance floor, leaving Drew alone with more questions than he knew his father could probably answer. The fact was that there was no fucking way that any answer his dad could come up with would be good enough to explain why he was cheating on a woman as amazing and beautiful as his mother.

  “So, does Mom know about this?” Drew asked, trying to look anywhere but into his father’s blue eyes—eyes that pleaded with Drew to listen and understand.

  Robert Van Allen ran one hand through his dark hair, and in the mindless gesture, Drew couldn’t help but see himself reflected back as clearly as if he were standing in front of a mirror. “It’s complicated,” his father began, sighing heavily. “Your mother and I have always—”

  Drew felt the anger inside him bubbling to the surface, and at his sides his hands curled into tight fists, his knuckles draining of color. “Forget it!” Drew yelled out. Although they’d disagreed more than once over the years, Drew was acutely aware that this was the first time he’d ever dared to yell at his father, and it felt strange—like wearing someone else’s shoes that were a size too small. “I mean, how can you possibly justify this? To me?”

  “Drew, listen.” His father reached out, placing a hand on Drew’s shoulder. Without even thinking, Drew shrugged off his father’s touch, throwing his hands up between them like a shield. “Don’t fucking touch me—save it for your girlfriend,” Drew snarled, turning his back on his father’s sad, bewildered face, and walking off into the crowd, the room blurring and turning before his tear-filled eyes. This whole time he had thought he was so different than everyone else at Meadowlark—that he was somehow more special, luckier than all the other divorced-family Upper East Side brats. But now the truth came crashing down on him like a recently demolished building: He was no different than anyone else at Meadowlark or the entire Upper East Side. His idyllic family life was a lie—a complete and utter façade. As he pushed through the crowded room, Drew knew that there was only one person in his life who would understand exactly what he was feeling right now—the one person he knew that he should not, under any circumstances, seek out . . .

  But as his father had just made so glaringly clear, Van Allens were aces at doing exactly what they shouldn’t.

  mommie dearest

  “You look so beautiful tonight, cara.”

  Madison smiled as Antonio whispered in her ear, reaching over and picking up two glasses of pink champagne from the bar, handing one to her. Usually, Madison would’ve been sulking in a corner somewhere over Sophie’s grand entrance that had everyone staring, speechless, as the cameras captured her glittering, glowing figure atop that swinging silver moon. But as she stared into Antonio’s dark eyes, to her surprise Madison found that she couldn’t have cared less—if Sophie wanted all the attention focused on her, she could have it. After all, it was her birthday. The fact was, for the first time in what seemed like forever, Madison didn’t care if anyone was paying attention to her—all she wanted was right in front of her.

  Madison reached a hand behind her, adjusting the battery pack that stuck out of her dress like a spinal deformity. Now that Sophie had made her grand entrance, the party was in full swing as waitresses on roller skates expertly circled the room, platters of smoked salmon and caviar toasts balanced on their hands, the dance floor packed with sweaty, slithering bodies moving in time to the music.

  “Shall we dance?” Antonio asked, draining his glass of champagne and placing it on the bar, holding out his arm.

  “I have a better idea,” Madison purred, taking Antonio by the hand. “Why don’t we find someplace quiet where we can sit down and . . . talk.” Of course, talk, in Madison-speak, meant make out like crazed jackrabbits—but what Antonio didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him . . . yet. Besides, as much as she really didn’t want to, she knew she was going to have to break the news that she’d changed her mind about the whole modeling thing.

  “As you wish.” Antonio smiled as he clasped her hand more tightly, leading her through the crowded, pulsing dance floor and over to the V.I.P. area, which was furnished in lush red velvet banquettes, the room aglow with hundreds of white tapered candles that shimmered in the soft crimson space.

  Madison pulled Antonio toward an empty banquette in a darkened corner, sitting down on the smooth velvet and crossing her legs high up on her thigh—making sure Antonio got a peek at her truly awesome stems.

  “So,” Antonio said, pulling a pack of Gauloises from the inside pocket of his cream Versace blazer, “what would you like to discuss? I am entirely at your disposal.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Madison answered flirtatiously, her green eyes hooded and sleepy-looking. “Why don’t we talk about why you haven’t kissed me yet—that might make for an interesting topic.” Madison leaned closer, reaching out and resting her hand on Antonio’s thigh. God, what am I doing? Get a couple of glasses of champagne into me and I’m a total whore, she thought with no small degree of amusement.

  Antonio lit the tip of his cigarette, blowing a sweet-smelling cloud of smoke over her head, and removed her hand, placing it carefully back in her lap.

  “Listen to me, cara. I am your manager—we work together. That means any relationship I have with you must be strictly business.”

  “Blah blah blah,” Mad said with a wave of her hand. “Save the speech for some Ukrainian fishstick just off the boat, okay, Antonio? I know all about the modeling industry—I saw Gia on HBO.”

  Antonio laughed softly, flicking cigarette ash into the darkness. “I am serious,” he continued, turning back to face her.

  Madison looked at his chiseled face, how the candlelight illuminated his dark eyes. “Then I just won’t be your client—I told you—I’m not sure I really want to model anyway.” Madison moved her lips into the seductive, slow smile that usually got her whatever she wanted, and looked up expectantly at Antonio, whose face seemed to harden before her very eyes.

  “Then why are you wasting my time, cara?” Antonio snapped, a look of annoyance spreading over his sharp features.

  Madison drew back from his sharp tone, leaning her body farther away on the red velvet banquette. Her face flushed red with embarrassment and outrage. Who did this Euro-hottie think he was anyway? No one talked to Madison Macallister that way—she didn’t care how many Cindy Crawfords or Naomi Campbells he’d discovered!

  “I didn’t think I was wasting your time, Antonio,” Madison answered between gritted teeth. “I thought we were . . . getting to know each other.”

  Antonio looked silently off into the distance, his gaze following the screaming partygoers as Sophie appeared on the dance floor, a white spotlight illuminating her dress and hair as she threw her arms confidently overhead, posing
for the Pulse cameras and the pack of photographers that Phyllis had undoubtedly hired for the event.

  As she surveyed the commotion, Madison gave a quick sigh of relief. Although she was definitely miked, thank God a photographer hadn’t had the foresight to follow her and Antonio to the V.I.P. room. It was bad enough that she felt completely humiliated by Antonio’s brush-off, but at least it wasn’t on camera . . . Madison shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wondering if she should just walk away from this entire mess. Obviously she’d read the signals wrong, and, as unbelievable as it seemed, he just wasn’t interested. What’s wrong with me? Madison lamented silently. First Drew, and now this. But, maybe she was just being silly and letting the whole thing get to her too much—after all, even if Antonio was an older guy, he was still just a guy. Period. And if anyone at Meadowlark had ever dared speak to her the way Antonio had, she would’ve left them eating a cloud of her dust as she briskly walked away—after she’d had the last word, of course. Then why was she so confused about what to do now? Well, she thought, running a hand through her hair while trying to think of something to say to break the awful tension that had come down like an iron curtain between them, at least the night can’t get any worse . . .

  “Madison, darling! There you are!” Madison looked up in disbelief as Edie made her way across the V.I.P. room, heading straight for them.

  “Oh my God,” Madison murmured, her mouth falling open as Edie approached. You have got to be kidding me . . . Edie stood in front of them, smiling brightly, her long, lean body clad in a vintage white silk Halston jumpsuit that tied around the neck with a series of gold chains, and plunged low in front, exposing far more of her mother’s tanned skin than Madison wanted to see at any given time. A pile of hammered gold bangles adorned one of Edie’s arms, and her Chopard diamond teardrop earrings sparkled against her golden bob.

  “Who is this divine man you’re sitting with?” Edie said flirtatiously, batting her long eyelashes in an ultra-feminine performance that made Madison want to vomit all over her mother’s gold Christian Louboutin stilettos.

  “His name is Antonio—from Verve Model Management,” Madison snapped as Edie sat down on the banquette beside her, forcing Madison to move over to make room.

  “So lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Macallister,” Antonio purred, reaching over Madison’s body to grasp Edie’s hand, shaking it softly as Edie blushed and giggled like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl. What the fuck? Madison fumed silently. Am I even still here?

  “It’s Ms.,” Edie replied, still holding on to Antonio’s hand. “And, please—call me Edie.”

  Madison rolled her eyes, convinced that if she had to witness one more moment of this disgusting spectacle Edie was making of herself, she’d lose what was left of her mind—not to mention her dinner. Madison stood up, smoothing down her dress with one hand as she pushed past Edie, giving her mother an extra shove as she squeezed past her knees.

  “Are you leaving already, dear?” Edie inquired, her eyes still locked on Antonio.

  “Are you kidding?” Madison said, the last bits of Sex Kitten Madison quickly falling away, her voice rough and raw. “I should never have been here in the first place,” bitchy Madison spat. “Have a lovely fucking evening,” she added as she turned away, one hand violently wiping at a single renegade tear that somehow had managed to escape her well-controlled ducts.

  Smoothing her dress and adjusting that damn mike-box-thing so it didn’t shatter any vertebrae, Madison walked in slow, measured paces through the V.I.P. area, willing her emotions to disappear before she crossed the velvet ropes and stepped onto the dance floor. She forced herself to imagine gigantic cups of Pinkberry, champagne at Dior in Paris, her shoe collection, anything to eradicate the sticky nastiness that being shot down by Antonio had brought to the surface. Not to mention the fact that he was clearly more interested in her overmedicated old witch of a mother than her. Italians, Mad thought to herself, I should’ve known better. They’d crawl right back into the womb if it was allowed.

  Just as she was feeling a false sense of well being that she was depending on to make it through the night, just steps away from the crowded anonymity of the dance floor, Mad caught the writhing movements of some makeout session out of the corner of her eye. This could be a good bit of gossip, she thought to herself, peering into the velvet shadows to see Phoebe locked in the arms of . . . Oh my God! Madison clasped one hand over her mouth as if she had actually spoken aloud—and even if she had it wasn’t like anyone was going to hear her over the truly awful seventies music that was ringing in her ears.

  Phoebe was standing in a darkened corner holding hands with Sophie’s ridiculously hot, but totally annoying brother, Jared, her face tear-streaked and pained. Madison still hadn’t forgiven Jared for putting ice in her bed during a sleepover at Sophie’s when they were eleven. What the hell was going on with everyone tonight? Had all of her friends lost their minds en masse? First Sophie had miraculously become some sort of disco-goddess/TV star, and now Phoebe was canoodling with Sophie’s brother? How long had this been going on? Not very long, Madison suspected as she watched Jared reach up and wipe a tear from Phoebe’s gleaming cheek. Madison had known Sophie long enough to know instinctively that there wasn’t a chance in hell that Sophie would be even remotely happy about these damp and sticky developments—Sophie practically hated her brother! Since Jared had been kicked out of his ultra-posh boarding school he’d become the bane of his sister’s existence—and with good reason. Mad had always thought Jared’s surfer bullshit was completely annoying in every way possible. And he really wasn’t that cute either—he just thought he was, which, in boy-language, often got confused with being one and the same.

  Madison forced herself to tear her eyes away before Phoebe looked up and noticed her standing there, and walked determinedly to the bar and downed a glass of champagne. It was definitely time for a drink. It was much better to simply pretend that she’d seen nothing than to confront Phoebe. One thing Madison knew from experience was that there was nothing finer than information—and information was power. As she stood there, still in shock, Drew raced by in his vintage suit, looking as adorable as ever.

  “Drew,” she yelled out as he passed, reaching out to grab the cream-colored sleeve of his jacket. At the sound of her voice, Drew stopped his frantic movement, smiling weakly before looking over his shoulder as if someone was chasing him.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice sounding strange and strained, “I’m on my way out—but I really need to talk to you later.”

  Oh . . . really? Madison smiled slowly, her eyes narrowing. It was amazing—and so very predictable. Madison just knew that the minute Drew saw her with another guy he’d come running right back to her where he belonged. Well, at least she’d gotten something out of the whole Antonio fiasco. . . .

  “Why?” Madison asked coolly. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

  “More than you think,” Drew shot back, his face a mass of worried wrinkles. His blue eyes looked bloodshot and damp, as if he’d been crying. The longer he stood there looking so confused and upset, the more Madison was almost starting to feel bad for him . . . almost. But not quite. Whatever—he probably had some stupid fight with Little Miss Perfect, Madison thought as she stood there weighing her options. Boo-hoo for them.

  “I’ll call you later,” Drew said in a rush, the sweat gleaming on his brow as he look over his shoulder one last time, and headed off into the crowd, the crush of bodies swallowing his white suit until he disappeared completely from her sharp, green-eyed gaze.

  “Of course you will,” Madison whispered with a triumphant smile, always happy to have the last word—even if no one else was around to hear it.

  change partners

  Casey stood a few feet away from the dance floor, resting her back against a white pillar, trying to look as though she was having a good time. Every few minutes she’d crane her neck, looking around the crowded room for Drew. When that failed, sh
e tried searching for anyone that she knew at all—but Phoebe had disappeared as soon as they were all miked up, Madison was “occupied” with Antonio, and Sophie was flitting around the room saying hello to three hundred of her closest friends and playing hostess. That left . . . nobody.

  Drew had been gone for close to a half-hour, and as the minutes ticked by and time dragged on, Casey found herself wondering if he was ever coming back at all. Casey sighed, raising her glass of champagne to her lips and taking the tiniest of sips to make it last longer. Just when she thought things were going to be okay with her and Drew, something like this happened, and she found herself questioning everything all over again. Dating was totally exhausting. She’d almost rather be at home right now, curled up in bed watching funny videos on YouTube or practicing the new Vivaldi piece she was trying to learn on her own . . .

  Just as she was about to give up, she saw Drew pushing through the crowd, his face tight and angry, his cheeks reddened. Whatever had kept him away for so long clearly wasn’t good. He looked like he was ready to pick a fight and punch someone out, just for existing. Casey smiled as he approached, her heart pleading with her brain to convince her that everything would be all right, while her brain, realist that it was, knew better.

  “I was getting worried,” Casey said jokingly, trying to keep her tone light, as if she didn’t mind being left alone for the past million years. “I was afraid you’d been kidnapped by Andy Warhol and the rest of The Factory and forced to do vile things with aluminum foil and Brillo boxes.”

  Drew let out a laugh that came out like a cross between a bark and a cough, and looked down at the floor, agitated and clearly not amused by her attempt at seventies, avant-garde humor.