couple corner
It’s come to my attention that some people need to get their gaydar checked. The luscious but masculine O does have an eye for the ladies—specifically, one freckle-faced ballerina who’s been having a tough time lately. Is her luck changing? And was she the girl our favorite flipper boy was holding out for? If so, then good for them both. They’re almost too pretty to be true.
sightings
A at Goodman’s Café on the seventh floor of Bergdorf’s, showing off her purchases to a group of blue-haired, St. John–clad old ladies. And she wonders why she doesn’t have a BF? Or a BFF? J taking extra ballet classes at Steps… O doing extra laps at the Ninety-second Street Y. Why don’t they burn calories together?. B and J.P. in Central Park, frolicking with their iPods with that back-to-nature hippie group. Sounds like a great way to bond as a couple! Until, that is, J.P. made a secret phone call to his dad behind a tree. Didn’t anyone tell him it’s about being in the moment? The triplets’ mom, E, carrying a bagpipe down Fifth. Everyone loves a parade!
your e-mail
q: Dear Gossip Girl,
So, now that J and O are together, does that mean that A and J are back to being friends? Since J’s practically in the family and all?
—LoveandRainbows
a: Dear LandR,
Who needs friends when you’ve got frenemies?
—Gossip Girl
q: Yo, G Squared,
Hey. Heard about this site from my little sister. I go to this boarding school in Massachusetts and my soccer buddy has these totally gnarly teeth because he said this girl from Nantucket totally, like, knocked them out. I think it’s A. Apparently, she has, like, wicked anger management issues and she takes them out on the guys she crushes on, which is why she’s never had a boyfriend. Just a warning to the fellas out there.
—Buddd
a: Dear B,
Warning taken. I guess we won’t get on A’s bad side. Except for the few that are already there… Maybe they should invest in mouth guards.
—GG
q: Dear Gossip Girl,
I really like this girl but trouble is I am from Spain and she is from New York. Do you think she would come back to my homeland with me?
—Happy Wanderer
a: Dear HW,
While the idea of spending September by the Spanish seaside sounds intriguing, you should ask yourself a question: Is the girl you speak of a HW herself?
—GG
q: Dear GG,
U are so totes the Carlyles’ mom!
—Conspiracy Theory
a: Dear CT,
Um, no. Although I do admire her spirit!
—GG
Phew! With so much going on, I’m just going to focus on the R’s: reflexology at Mario Badescu, rosé at Beatrice, and Rodarte’s fall line. Sometimes it’s the simple pleasures that give life meaning.
You know you love me,
boy story
Avery sat in the elegant drawing room of Esther Klepfisz’s penthouse in the Sherry-Netherland hotel on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, trying not to fall asleep. The apartment was beautifully decorated by 1950s standards but looked like it hadn’t been renovated or even deep cleaned since the Eisenhower administration. Avery wrinkled her nose at the dust mites that were all too apparent in the afternoon sunlight. Today, the discussion was whether or not it was appropriate to rename the computer lab after a wealthy donor who’d passed away during the summer and willed everything to Constance. Unfortunately, the deceased was named Emmaline Butz, which would render the computer lab “the Butz Lab.”
Catchy.
Avery doodled her name on one of the blank pieces of pink paper at the back of her leather Filofax and sighed deeply, trying to tune out Esther’s screechy argument that they should use Emmaline’s maiden name. Whatever. At least Emmaline Butz had gotten married. Avery still couldn’t believe that Jack Laurent had found out she’d never had a boyfriend. It was all people had been talking about at Constance, and she’d even gotten e-mails from lame little freshmen at schools all over the Upper East Side who felt sorry for her and wanted to offer advice. Even Sydney, the pierced-nipples girl everyone made fun of, had a boyfriend.
Avery looked down at the paper, now filled with her scripted name. She noted the elegant curve of her script; the way the y of her first name bled into the C of her last name. Was she destined to be Avery Carlyle forever?
Unless perhaps Mr. Butz is looking for a new wife?
It didn’t help that Muffy had begun calling her La Petite AC. The other ladies had taken it up as well, and when they addressed her, Avery felt like they were talking about a miniature air conditioner. Who wanted to date a small air conditioner?
“Tea is served,” a stringbeanlike maid announced in a scratchy voice as she burst through the French doors. She looked like she was about to tip over onto the Oriental carpet from the staggering weight of the silver tray.
“Put it on the side table,” Esther whined. Avery breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden flurry of activity as the board of overseers crowded around the tea tray. Even the ladies who’d fallen asleep during the meeting snapped to attention as soon as they heard the clink of silver against china.
Muffy, surprisingly agile for an eighty-year-old, tore to the front of the line. Once served, she slowly lowered herself down on the worn blue love seat next to Avery, her teacup rattling against its saucer, her knees creaking loudly.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she crooned, stuffing a biscuit into her mouth. It crunched loudly, unleashing a spray of crumbs that mingled in the air with the dust mites. Avery shook her head miserably. Why couldn’t she have just been born in 1932, when she would have had at least a chance at being cool?
“Is it boy trouble?” Muffy pressed her wrinkled hand against Avery’s smooth, pink Essie Escapades–manicured one.
“No!” Avery cried. She wished she had boy trouble. She’d rather deal with a pot-smoking, forgetting-to-call boyfriend than no boyfriend at all.
I believe there’s a newly single boy in Nantucket who fits that description perfectly.
“So what is it? You have the whole world at your disposal,” Muffy whispered enviously. “Personally, I don’t even know why you spend so much time with us.” She cocked her head toward Helen Lord, a Park Avenue doyenne who had recently divorced her oil tycoon husband. She was busily stuffing cookies in her snakeskin Bottega Veneta purse. “She’s been doing that for months,” Muffy huffed. “We’d kick her off, but she’s not doing any harm. We think she’s just feeding her loneliness.”
Avery held back a sniffle. If Helen Lord was lonely, she and Avery had something in common. Maybe they could steal cookies and then run off together, like a really lame version of Thelma and Louise. Clearly that was the direction Avery was headed in, so why delay the inevitable?
“Sugar, you look like you’re going to cry!” Muffy realized in concern as she ripped her gaze away from Helen. She held Avery’s hand tightly. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Avery confessed. She looked down at her impeccable Constance Billard seersucker skirt, spread over her thin, tanned legs. At least she didn’t look like a freaky old lady. Yet.
“So?” Muffy exclaimed, waving her teacup around and practically spilling Earl Grey on her light pink quilted Chanel purse. “You shouldn’t need a boyfriend. Pussycat, do you know how common boys are? You need to play the field!”
“But there’s this fund-raiser I need a date for,” Avery said miserably as she bit her lip. Muffy’s brown eyes were so wide and friendly and interested that she wanted to tell her everything. Next, she’d be spilling the story about how she’d knocked out the front tooth of the first boy she kissed.
Don’t worry, the story’s already been spilled.
“Oh, darling! You’ve just got to get out on the playing field. I mean, I married my first husband when I was eighteen. Poor thing couldn’t get it up—he was an inexperienced
mess!” Muffy laughed as Avery choked on her tea. Get it up? “Luckily, my next husband had no problems in that department. His problem was in the ladies’ lingerie department. He liked to wear it. Especially my pink brassieres.” Avery smiled politely. This was way too much information.
“Thanks for sharing,” she mumbled, turning bright red.
“Of course, dear. And don’t worry about not having a boyfriend. Your time will come,” Muffy pronounced, loud enough for the entire room to hear. She stood up from the love seat.
The second Muffy moved away, a group of elderly ladies crowded around Avery, rooting in their Prada and Givenchy clutches. Avery’s eyes widened. What was going on? Were they going to donate their spare change to some Help Boyfriendless Avery fund? Esther triumphantly fished something out of her pink Chanel wallet. It was… a photograph?
“A blond like you would go perfectly with my grandson Elliot!” Esther crowed, as if she were talking about a rare Louis XIV dining room set. She shoved a photograph in Avery’s face, conveniently blocking Helen and the orange Hermès photo album she’d whipped out of her voluminous fuschia crocodile Birkin bag. Avery plucked the photo from Esther’s hands and examined it, expecting some dorky, zit-infested mathlete. Instead, she saw a picture of a guy standing on a pristine field, wearing a soccer uniform. He was tall, with shaggy blond hair, rugged features, and tanned arms and legs. Elliot was cute! Avery nodded eagerly as she felt Muffy’s rigid fingernails digging into her arm.
“Don’t listen to Esther,” Muffy whispered loudly, shooting a mutinous glance in her direction. “We all know he’s a divorce case waiting to happen. Just like his father,” she stage-whispered.
“Well, Muffy, we certainly all know about your impeccable taste in men,” Esther shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Muffy ignored her, a merry twinkle in her eye. “Well, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about La Petite AC. And for her, I’m only going to offer the best. My grandson Tristan!” Muffy crowed. Avery smiled, loving the attention. Muffy riffled through her purse and pulled out a photo of a guy standing on the front steps of a town house, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed slightly self-conscious, like he was being forced to pose, but with his brown hair, sparkling deep-set blue eyes, and tanned skin, he looked like a Ralph Lauren model, just off a yacht docked in Newport. He was even more perfect than Elliot! This one was just right.
Calm down, Goldilocks.
“Tristan looks… nice,” Avery squeaked. She’d come dangerously close to saying hot. She beamed at the collection of geriatrics, still hopefully thrusting photographs at her. Just wait until she showed up at the swim team gala with a veritable posse of handsome escorts.
Hopefully minus their grandmas.
two’s company, three’s a crowd, and four is just trouble
Owen jogged easily across Madison on Tuesday afternoon, butterflies already forming in his stomach. Tonight was the night he and Jack were going out to dinner with Rhys and Kelsey. This would be the first time he’d see Kelsey since he’d so heartlessly told her she was just a one-night stand. When Rhys had called to give him the restaurant info, he’d almost faked sick, but he really couldn’t delay the inevitable. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad seeing Kelsey with Rhys. Maybe somehow, the spell would be broken, and she’d just be another girl.
Or maybe not.
Owen quickened his pace. Even though they were meeting Rhys and Kelsey for dinner at 2Na—this new sushi fusion restaurant in Soho Rhys had been raving about—Jack had asked him to meet her at 3 Guys coffee shop. It was all the way up on Madison, totally out of the way.
And totally close to where a certain guy likes to walk his labradoodles?
The smell of fries and coffee assaulted Owen as he walked into the old-fashioned diner. He suddenly felt ridiculously hungry. Maybe they’d have time for him to order a pre-dinner? Tiny pieces of raw fish were definitely not part of a balanced diet. He spotted Jack, her back toward him, her shiny auburn hair pulled up into a high, glossy ponytail. He walked over, kind of nervous about interacting with her friends, especially the one with the crazy eyes and long bangs. She always tried to bump into him outside his apartment, or when he was in the middle of a swim team run around the reservoir.
Can’t blame a girl for trying, right?
“Hey ladies,” Owen said as he sidled up to the table. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t said that. It made him sound old and creepy. All he was missing was a Hugh Hefner–style smoking jacket and a cigar. Or, come to think of it, a Hugh Moore smoking jacket.
“Owen!” Jiffy or Jilly or whoever the bangs girl was exclaimed. She turned a deep red shade that matched her lip gloss. Owen smiled. Way to still have it, Carlyle.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Jack said in a sultry voice. She eased over, realizing her thigh was partially stuck to the cracked red vinyl booth. Gross. They’d definitely have to step up their hangout locations this year. It was absurd to go to a fancy dinner still smelling like someone else’s onion rings.
“No problem.” Owen tugged at his blue button-down uncomfortably and shifted from side to side. Normally, he’d have asked Avery if he looked okay, but things had been awkward between them since Friday. Besides, his wardrobe was the least of his concerns tonight.
“So, you guys are going on a double date?” Genevieve raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her black coffee. “That sounds so quaint. Where are you going?”
“2Na. You know, that new Morimoto-style place downtown? It just opened a few weeks ago.” Jack shrugged, trying to look blasé even though she was kind of excited about their night out on the town. And of course, having her handsome “boyfriend” go out of his way to pick her up would give her bragging rights with her friends for weeks. She fished inside her bright orange Hermès wallet to throw down a few dollars for whatever the fuck they’d eaten. She felt totally piggish, but she’d never been the type of girl who could subsist on sushi alone.
“I’ve got it,” Owen offered gallantly, pulling out a crisp twenty from his pocket and throwing it on the cracked dishwater-colored linoleum table. He sort of liked showing off in front of Jack’s friends. Maybe there was something to this whole dating thing, even though, strictly speaking, this evening with Jack would be the first official “date” he’d ever been on.
Let’s raise our crappy diner mugs to new experiences.
“Thanks, Owen!” Jiffy giggled ridiculously. Jack sighed. Even though she loved her friends, when they were all together they invariably turned into a group of giggly girls.
Jack and Owen walked out onto the pavement, crowded with commuters hurrying home. Jack took his hand. “I thought we could walk. It’s such a nice night.” She swung her large blue bag over her other arm.
Owen felt her thin fingers laced in his as they headed down Madison. The sun was setting and he had to squint. He couldn’t believe that soon it’d be dark at this time of night.
“What are you thinking about?” Jack questioned. She looked at him with her pointed chin upturned, as if she really did want to know.
“Nothing.” Owen sighed in contentment. But then, as he remembered where they were headed, he felt a slice of fear run up his stomach. He really didn’t want to see Kelsey. Or Rhys. Or, more specifically, Kelsey and Rhys together.
“Hold on, can we stop here for a second?” Jack asked. They were standing by a large tower complex with interlocking gold C’s out front. She knelt down and adjusted the strap of her peep-toe heels.
Jack pretended to fiddle with her Louboutins and then straightened, resisting the urge to grab Owen and kiss him for J.P.’s viewing pleasure. Instead, she grabbed his arm and held it tightly. But as she stole a glance at J.P.’s window dozens of stories above, she realized the absurdity of orchestrating a make-out session on the off chance her ex-boyfriend would even be at home right now. “Never mind,” she muttered, taking his hand back in hers.
“So, where is this place?” Owen asked as they continued walking south. He was
still sort of fuzzy with his Manhattan geography, but was pretty sure Soho wasn’t walkable from the Upper East Side.
Says Mr. I Do Triathlons for Fun!
“It’s far,” Jack admitted. “We should probably take a cab. I just thought it’d be nice to get some fresh air,” she fibbed.
She squinted her freckle-surrounded eyes uptown and expertly lifted her arm to hail a cab. Immediately one screeched to the curb. Owen and Jack climbed in, and Owen was surprised by how close Jack sat to him. They awkwardly watched the news broadcast on the tiny backseat television. Today was the last day of summer, the announcer noted.
“It’ll be cold soon.” Owen gestured at the screen. Jack nodded, her face in profile reminding him of those Greek statues in the Met.
Finally, the cab screeched to a halt in front of a garish orange, red, and blue restaurant on a cobblestoned side street. A long line of well-dressed people snaked into the overcrowded lobby.
“Uh, we have a reservation? I think it’s under Sterling?” Owen asked the clipboard-wielding hostess tentatively as they entered.
“Who is that? He’s hot!” a girl behind them whispered in admiration. Owen smiled awkwardly.
“The rest of the party isn’t here.” The hostess smiled. “Would you mind waiting at the bar?” She winked at Owen.
Owen escorted Jack over to the bar and instantaneously, two saketinis appeared in front of them.
“Here’s to first dates,” she said, raising her glass. Owen smiled. Jack was really pretty, but she also seemed to have a good sense of humor about the whole situation. He clinked his glass with hers and took a swig. And then he looked up from the lime bobbing in his drink to see Kelsey, in a lime green patterned dress with pink flowers. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous, but Kelsey looked like she was coming from a vacation hut on some fabulously remote tropical island. Owen’s stomach flip-flopped and he slammed his empty purple glass on the shiny black wood bar harder than he’d intended.
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