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q: Dear Gossip Girl,
I work at an exclusive Fifth Avenue salon, and this afternoon, we had a bunch of very attractive gentlemen come in for a waxing session—everything off, including facial hair. They look so good, we’re offering a special on waxing for men. I know everyone reads you, so I thought I would enlist you to pass on the message.
—Wax 4 Less
a: Dear Wax 4 Less,
Hallelujah, and can I speak for the ladies of the Upper East Side when I say, not a moment too soon? Boys who didn’t get the memo? Consider this your final warning to ditch the facial hair and any other unsightly hair in unmentionable places.
—GG
a final etiquette note
One of the huge attractions of a party is the potential to meet the mate of your dreams. And, when you do, you naturally want to get to know them. Really get to know them. But no matter what corner you find—whether it’s under a table, in an elevator, or in the bed of the host’s parents—it’s never as private as you think. So proceed with caution. Someone is always watching. And not just me.
See you all at the benefit!
You know you love me.
picture perfect
“Ladies first.” Tristan St. Clair held the black door of the sleek town car open for Avery. She grinned hugely, almost sad that they had reached their destination: the high-rise Delancey, a brand-new Lower East Side boutique hotel, which stood out among the walk-up brick buildings surrounding it. A royal blue mat with a pattern of gold scripted D’s covered the sidewalk, and three doormen stood in rapt attention. It was all too perfect.
Isn’t that someone else’s word?
Tristan was just as cute as his photographs, and was luckily home in Manhattan for the weekend from Buckhead, a private school in Pennsylvania. He had arrived at the Carlyle penthouse to pick her up in his parents’ town car, which was stocked with bottles of chilled champagne. They had toasted each other as the car raced downtown, talking about his captainship of the Buckhead squash team and her love of New York City. They’d even made tentative plans to spend Sunday at the Met, since Avery hadn’t had a chance to actually go in since she’d moved to the city.
“I heard she had to pay this guy, like, five hundred dollars an hour to come here. She got a discount because he’s, like, the great-great-grandson of one of those Constance overseer ladies or something. Hopefully it’s her own money and not Constance’s, you know?” Chelsy Chapin, a pug-nosed sophomore whispered to Elisabeth Cort, an unfortunately truck-shaped junior, as Avery breezed into the Delancey with Tristan on her arm.
“Hi there.” Avery greeted them and handed over her invitation. She could tell from the way they instantly blushed they had been talking about her. Well, who cared? They were the dateless ones taking invites, hunkered down on the strawberry jam–-colored love seat in the lobby. She felt Tristan’s strong arm guide the small of her back and she felt all jittery inside, a feeling she usually only got when she drank too many iced coffees from Dean & DeLuca.
It was so nice to have a boyfriend, Avery thought as he escorted her to the elevator.
Boyfriend? Easy there, tiger!
As the elevator whooshed up to the twenty-third floor, Avery could barely control the butterflies in her stomach. She examined her reflection in the elevator’s mirrored surface. She loved how she only came up to Tristan’s chin. She’d always been tall, and tonight she was wearing four-inch Viktor & Rolf maroon slingbacks that perfectly matched her Stella McCartney cashmere knit short-sleeved dress. Which meant Tristan was really tall. She felt even more nervous than she had on her first day at Constance. Finally, with Tristan at her side, she was going to prove to the rest of her classmates that she wasn’t some freaky, backward, small-town girl. She was Avery Carlyle, a girl boys would do anything for.
Tell ’em, sister!
“You look beautiful,” Tristan murmured into Avery’s freshly washed, gleaming blond hair—courtesy of her stylist Nico at Oscar Blandi salon. Then he sneezed.
“Excuse me.” He frowned as he pulled a brilliant white handkerchief out of his pocket and discreetly dabbed his nose. A handkerchief? Avery tried to conceal her enthusiasm. How grown up and sophisticated!
“You know, I have to admit I was a little nervous when Grandmother Muffy set this up. Sometimes she can be a little bit . . . eccentric,” Tristan commented as they navigated around the large round tables set up throughout the high-ceilinged event space. But? Avery’s heart pounded faster.
“Truffle oil–infused free-range chicken dumplings?” An overzealous, totally bald waiter thrust a steaming silver platter in front of them. Avery wrinkled her nose and practically pushed the platter away. Her stomach was growling, but she’d deal with that later. She needed to know what Tristan thought of her.
“You were saying?’ Avery asked sweetly, hoping she didn’t sound too obvious. She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and gazed into Tristan’s blue eyes and nervously bit her MAC-glossed bottom lip.
“Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?” Tristan asked, holding both of her hands and gazing into her blue eyes. Avery felt herself melt. Tristan sneezed again and Avery raised a just-plucked eyebrow in concern. Could he be sick? She imagined him coming down with consumption, or whatever that disease was lovers always seemed to contract in nineteenth-century operas. She’d valiantly attempt to nurse him back to health on top of some mountain, staying strong for her one true love. Then, after he died, she could start a foundation for him and throw fabulous parties, wearing elegant all-black gowns with a lace veil.
“Sorry.” Tristan shook his head ruefully. “It’s just my allergies. I guess we should find our table.”
“Hey!” Baby came up to them, poking Avery hard under the ribs. Avery took in her seven-minutes-younger sister. Even though she’d seen her getting dressed in the apartment, seeing Baby in public, next to an impeccably dressed J. P. Cashman, was stunning. Avery hadn’t seen her so dressed up since they were ten and Grandmother Avery had taken them to Easter services at Park Avenue Episcopal Church. Baby wore a white Rodarte dress with black chiffon flowers sewn onto it, and looked like an elegant woodland sprite. Avery peered down and noticed that despite her couture dress Baby was still wearing her favorite pair of dirty white Havaiana flip-flops.
Some things never change.
J.P. looked incredible in a crisp custom-made steel gray Brooks Brothers suit. Normally Avery would have felt a little jealous at the sight of her hippie sister on the arm of the Upper East Side’s most eligible bachelor, but now, with Tristan’s strong, squash-callused hand resting protectively on her hip, she simply smiled.
“I found our table—number nineteen. Owen and She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named are holding seats for us.” Baby rolled her large brown eyes. “I thought we’d give them the private couple time they like so much.” Avery smiled. Baby was being completely sarcastic, but since she sounded so sweet, no one would even bat an eye.
They wandered over to the table, where Owen was staring intently at the tablecloth. In a sky blue Hermès tie that perfectly matched his intense blue eyes, he looked dapper and handsome. No wonder all the girls were looking at him. Still, Owen seemed in his own world, while Jack was happily chatting away with Owen’s friend, Rhys Sterling, and his girlfriend.
“You look nice, Ave,” Owen mumbled. He nodded at Tristan, who was standing close beside her. “Hey,” he said by way of boy-greeting.
“Thanks,” Avery replied in what she hoped was an ice queen–type voice. She glared at Jack, but she didn’t look up. Around them, people were shuffling to their tables, including Edie, who had come to the hotel straight from an art opening. She wore a pink and blue sari, her hair pulled up in chopsticks, and was gesticulating wildly, in deep conversation with a bored-looking businessman. Owen and Avery caught each other’s eye and smiled at the same time. Avery felt her heart soften toward her brother a little bit. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that he was dating the Antichrist. At least
now Jack could see up close how not single Avery was. Avery leaned in toward Tristan.
Just then, a photographer stepped up.
“I’m Bill, from the New York Times. Would you ladies mind?” Avery smiled fakely as she, Kelsey, Jack, and Baby huddled in close. “Beautiful! You’re the flowers of the Upper East Side,” the photographer commented as he snapped away.
Just watch out for the thorns.
Avery couldn’t resist digging her manicured nails just slightly into Jack’s alabaster skin as they squeezed together shoulder to shoulder.
Smile!
They pulled away and sat back down at the table. An awkward silence ensued.
Owen looked helplessly from Avery and Tristan to Rhys and Kelsey to Baby and J.P. to Jack. He could practically taste the tension at the table. Rhys was delicately feeding Kelsey a fried olive from a platter. “Anyone want a drink?” Owen asked lamely. Elaborate mocktails with fun names like the Fizzy Mermaid and the Slippery Seal were being passed around by overeager waiters. The mocktails were only tolerable because everyone invited knew the drill and had brought their own alcohol of choice. Owen wished he’d brought a whole bottle instead of a flask. Anything to make him stop caring about Rhys and Kelsey touching each other.
“I’ll have one, thank you.” Jack smiled and touched Owen’s arm, bringing him back to reality. She was wearing a delicate-looking chestnut brown dress, her hair swept up in a complicated style, a few strands of her silky auburn hair falling to her shoulders.
“Here.” Owen surreptitiously poured a generous swig of Maker’s Mark from his flask into her Diet Coke.
“Thanks.” Jack noticed that Avery and Mr. Perfect Prep School Boy’s hands were intertwined under the table. Avery looked like her brother, so well scrubbed, as if nothing bad had ever happened to her. Meanwhile, J.P. and Baby had inched away from the table and were standing by one of the large picture windows, looking down in awe, as if they were seeing a fireworks display instead of dirty former tenement houses. Jack fought the urge to stand up and scream. She wanted to do something to pull them out of their oh-so-fucking-happy reverie. She hoped J.P. had gotten lice or some other tragically embarrassing communicable pest from Baby, who, Jack realized, didn’t look dirty or hippieish at all tonight.
She felt small tears prick her eyes and angrily brushed them away. Hello, at least she wasn’t at the single-girl table. She was fine. Perfect, even. She drained her glass and slammed it down on the white tablecloth.
“You look beautiful,” Owen whispered into her ear. Jack could hear a sense of urgency in his voice, and knew he was trying to block out the disgusting Rhys and Kelsey PDA occurring across the table. She turned toward Owen, and, almost in a trance, pressed her lips against his. His mouth tasted minty and clean, and his teeth were smooth like porcelain. Owen’s lips were still for a second, as if locked in surprise, but then moved against hers eagerly.
Jack pulled back when she heard J.P.’s familiar throat clearing half-cough. He pulled the chair out next to her, making a loud scraping sound, and he and Baby eased back into their seats. Take that, fuckfaces, Jack thought victoriously. She gave a slight shrug and turned back to Owen. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed kissing him. Owen took another swig of his drink, smiling slightly, the tips of his ears faintly pink.
“Excuse me everyone.” The guys’ swim coach stood up from a center table and tapped a microphone. It let out a loud screech of feedback, and the two hundred guests covered their ears. His tuxedo shirt was unbuttoned to show six inches of perfectly hairless, gleaming chest, and his reddish brown hair was spiked at uneven angles. He sort of looked like a greased baby duck.
Jack turned back to J.P., who was whispering into Baby’s ear. Baby’s head was thrown back, and her tiny teeth were gleaming. She wondered what J.P. was saying that was so funny. Telling fucking knock-knock jokes? Jack stared at a point above J.P.’s eyes. It was a trick she’d learned in ballet, to make sure her partner was looking at her right before a leap or a tour jeté. She waited for J.P.’s eyes to flick away from Baby’s delicate mouth. As soon as she knew she had his attention, she turned to Owen, took his chin in her hand, and kissed him again, harder and more passionately this time. If all the world was a stage, she was putting on the performance of a lifetime.
Who’s acting?
love is in the air… among other things
“So, are we actually going to bid? And do they take AmEx?” Jiffy asked, brushing her long brown bangs out of her eyes. The dinner plates had been cleared away, the lights were dimmed, the music was turned up, and most parents had already written generous checks to support the cause and left to continue their evenings at the Met.
“No, we’re going to donate. It’s for charity. It’s not like we’re buying dates, you know? We’re donating to charity,” Genevieve said defensively, taking a long swig from her pee-colored drink that was obviously a heavily vodka-infused Fizzy Mermaid.
Avery paused en route from the bar for tonic waters when she heard her former friends. She almost felt sorry for them, bidding on dates.
Key word: almost.
Whatever. Ignoring them, she marched back to her table, where Tristan already stood with her chair pulled out.
“Thank you!” Avery paused and rummaged through the small black vintage Prada clutch she’d inherited from Grandmother Avery. At home she had a photograph of Grandmother Avery holding it at a White House Christmas party, laughing with Jackie Kennedy. You could just make out Marilyn Monroe pouting jealously at them from the corner. Avery had brought the purse as a good luck charm, but even she couldn’t believe how smoothly the night was going. She pulled out a small travel-size Creed Love in White purse spray and gently sprayed it behind her ears, inhaling the scent of oranges and sandalwood. She was reminded of an Estée Lauder quote her grandmother had once relayed to her: “Perfume is like love—you can never get enough.” She spritzed a tiny bit more on her collarbone.
“Stop!” She heard Tristan’s panicked voice. Oh. Did he want to spray it on her? She paused and passed him the tiny vial. She wanted tonight to be all about love. After all, she could see her and Tristan together forever: They’d have a huge wedding in St. Patrick’s, followed by a honeymoon in Capri, and then they’d settle into a town house just like Grandmother Avery’s. . . .
Her reverie was interrupted by an enormous, spit-spraying sneeze.
“Oh my God,” Tristan exclaimed. His eyes were red and there was a look of shock on his face. He quickly thrust his hand in his pocket, pulled out a large pink tablet, and threw it in his mouth, gulping down an entire glass of water. Avery paused in concern.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Was he doing drugs? Why did something have to be defective with every guy she tried to date?
And why isn’t there such a thing as a boyfriend warranty?
Tristan sneezed again, even more forcefully than before. Small droplets of yellow snot landed on the tablecloth. Across the table, Baby looked like she was going to explode with giggles. Avery gave her a death stare.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Avery repeated in concern. She realized that everyone, including the coach, was looking at them.
“Is table nineteen all right, or do they need a moment?” Coach Siegel practically yelled into the microphone. “I have to say, folks, that’s the effect my star swimmers, Rhys and Owen, have on a table.” A well of polite laughter rippled through the audience.
“Owen’s my boy!” Avery heard her mother’s distinctive voice, followed by her signature wolf whistle.
“We’re fine,” Tristan choked, sneezing again. Avery tried to move her chair several inches away without being obvious.
“Just fine,” she repeated, and turned her full attention back to the program.
“Okay, people, now that everything has settled down, we’re going to begin our date auction. Once these swimmers are in season, I won’t let them see any ladies, so enjoy them while they’re hot. And, remember, it’s all for charity.” Coach
leered at the audience. “Don’t forget, ladies, I’m single too. I’ll be taking bids after this portion of the evening is over.” He licked his lips suggestively and turned away from the microphone to grab the scrawny arm of Chadwick Jenkins. Dressed in a black suit and purple tie, he looked like he’d been outfitted by Calvin Klein Kids. He stood nervously, shifting from one foot to the other, squinting around the room.
Tristan sneezed again, making a noise that sounded like a seal coming up for air.
“Is that a bid?” Coach looked over at their table and Avery felt herself turn bright red. Tristan shook his head and put his napkin over his mouth and face. Great. Now he looked like he was about to rob a bank.
“Twenty dollars?” a scrawny girl who was probably Chadwick’s little sister squeaked as she raised her paddle. One of the swim team guys hooted.
“Fifty.” Hugh Moore held up his paddle with a bored gesture, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“Okay, we have fifty.” Coach’s eyes gleamed as his beady eyes scanned the room to see if any women were watching. Avery took the pause to tap Tristan hard on the bicep. He turned to her, his face bright red, as if he’d just run a 10K. That was it. If he was dying, he might as well do it in the lobby. She pulled him out of his seat and dragged him around the perimeter of the room, all too aware that every eye was on her.
“Anyone else? We’ve got fifty dollars for Chadwick,” Coach announced as all eyes turned back to the terrified-looking ninth grader.
“Aw, yeah, slave! Just wait until you clean out my locker,” Avery heard Hugh cheering. Ugh. She’d pay fifty dollars to get rid of Sneezy right about now.
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