You Just Can't Get Enough

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “Avery, darling.” Muffy stood up and kissed her on both cheeks. Avery fought the urge to rub off the lipstick stains she was sure Muffy left in her wake. Her gaze fell on the tiny woman sitting at the table. She wore six Chanel chain belts over an Yves Saint Laurent black dress, her henna-dyed red hair teased a full six inches above her widow’s peak. “This is Ticky Bensimmon-Heart,” Muffy made the introduction. “I was telling her about you, and she so wanted to see you in person.”

  “So far, not too disappointing.” Ticky nodded her head approvingly as she downed her mimosa. Avery felt her heart skip a beat. Ticky Bensimmon-Heart, editor in chief of Metropolitan, was impressed by her!

  “Good to meet you!” Avery stuck out her hand, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.

  “Sit,” Ticky commanded, gesturing to an empty chair. Impatiently, she waved a hovering waiter away. “I make it a point not to eat during the day,” Ticky explained.

  “Tickyrexia,” Muffy clarified for Avery’s benefit. “She’s been doing it since, when, the Kennedy inauguration? But, darling, we want to hear about you. And Tristan?” Muffy sat back expectantly as she drained her own mimosa.

  “Well…” Avery paused, looking at the two women. Should she lie?

  “You bitch.” Ticky laughed a loud, throaty laugh, shaking her head at Muffy. Muffy threw her head back and joined in.

  “Um, he was very…” Avery began desperately.

  “Let me guess? Tristan had one of his spells. Classic!” Ticky chuckled. “Muffy, why’d you do that to our girl?”

  Muffy laughed ruefully. Curious patrons turned to stare.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping a tear of laughter from her crinkly under-eye. “I thought he was growing out of it.”

  “You knew?” Avery asked sharply. That you set me up with Mr. Walking Allergen? she wanted to add. Instead, she took a long sip of water. Did everyone just want to see her get in the most ludicrous situations possible? She considered what would happen if she just walked out of the restaurant, away from Muffy and from the entire humiliating SLBO position. Let Constance get ugly midnight blue uniforms. She was so done.

  “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean any harm.” Muffy took note of Avery’s darkening expression. “Really, I did you a favor. I couldn’t very well let you go out with Esther’s grandson. He’s a terrible prick.” Muffy shrugged and then cackled again. She and Ticky laughed together, sounding sort of like the witches from Macbeth.

  Double, double, old ladies are trouble.

  “Well, I need to head off,” Avery said crisply, trying to sound polite. She had much better things to do than be made fun of by drunk senior citizens.

  “Don’t leave us!” Ticky exclaimed, obviously disappointed. “Consider it your initiation. And you’re quite a pistol—cheers to that!” She lifted her mimosa glass and smiled. “How’d you like to intern for me at Metropolitan?”

  Avery glanced at her. Really? Metropolitan was the coolest, most sophisticated magazine. Internships were absurdly hard to get. Was Ticky serious?

  “You’ll start Monday,” Ticky commanded. Avery looked from one woman to the other. She’d totally hug them right now, if she didn’t think she would break them. Instead, she motioned for the waiter. It was time to celebrate.

  what goes around comes around

  Jack walked down Fifth on Sunday morning. She didn’t have a clear destination; she just wanted to walk and think. She still felt stung over what had happened last night, even though it wasn’t as if Owen had ever been her real boyfriend. She hugged her arms around her chest. The weather was getting colder, and she suddenly felt very alone.

  She paused in front of the Cashman Complexes, looking at the gilt C’s. It was as if she’d been pulled there. She felt a knot in her stomach. She really missed the way things used to be.

  “Hey beautiful.” J.P.’s voice surprised her, and she whipped around. He always used to greet her that way. And she always used to dress up before she saw him. Today she wore an old pair of black Citizen skinny jeans, Miu Miu gray suede boots, and an ancient, oversize Theory sweater and had on no makeup. But she didn’t really care.

  “You don’t have to say that,” Jack said shortly. “I was just walking by,” she added lamely, so she didn’t seem like a total stalker.

  “It’s good to see you,” J.P. said. One of his puggles was curiously sniffing her ankle. She’d always thought his dogs were gross, but this one seemed kind of cute. At least it was friendly. She bent down and gingerly patted its furry dark head.

  “Anyway, I’m just walking the dogs,” J.P. stated, as if it weren’t obvious.

  “Okay.” Jack backed away. A week ago, she would have wanted to kick J.P., hard. Now, with his hands balled into the pockets of his dorky khakis, he didn’t look like the evil life-wrecker she’d imagined.

  “Want to come with me?” J.P. blurted. He blushed.

  Jack regarded him suspiciously. “Why? Where’s your girlfriend?” Jack cringed as the words left her lips. But she couldn’t help it. Her life sucked, his didn’t. She’d been cheated on and dumped by an imaginary boyfriend. It really didn’t get any worse than that, not even on that stupid French drama her mom was going to star in.

  “She dumped me. What about your boyfriend?” J.P. countered.

  “Didn’t work out.” She shrugged, trying not to smile. Baby Carlyle had dumped J.P.? There was a twist she hadn’t seen coming. “Here, give me a leash,” she commanded, grabbing the Louis Vuitton leash attached to the smallest, least gross puggle. She quickly strode into the park. The air smelled like fall: honey-roasted peanuts and leaves. Things were changing.

  “By the way, I heard about what happened with your dad.… Why didn’t you tell me?” J.P. touched Jack’s arm. She felt a jolt of electricity run up and down her body, and looked into his friendly brown eyes.

  “I just… It was just so fucked up.” Jack sighed angrily. “I just can’t deal with other people’s shit, you know?” She didn’t mean to sound so hysterical, but she did. A little bit. She took a deep breath and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Yes, it does,” J.P. chided. “You should have told me.”

  Together, they walked through the winding path of the park, which was crowded with dog walkers, runners, and families enjoying the crisp early-fall air. “I missed you, Jack,” J.P. said simply. Jack nodded. She hated sappy conversations. Without another word, she turned to J.P. and kissed him. He tasted the same, like cough drops. Nemo barked appreciatively.

  Everything in Jack’s body melted. After all the pain and grief, all the conniving and blackmailing, she’d gotten what she wanted. She kissed J.P. eagerly, waiting for that familiar click—perfection—the moment when she’d know everything was exactly as it used to be.

  But as they pulled apart, Jack felt her eyes instinctively drawn east, toward a certain Fifth Avenue penthouse. She couldn’t help but wonder what Owen was doing, or who he was with.

  The more things stay the same, the more they change.

  hey people!

  good morning, party people!

  First, a poll: How many of you actually slept in your bed last night? And if you did, how many of you slept alone? Let’s see a show of hands! For those of you who took part in the St. Jude’s swim team bidding—charity aside—was it worth it?

  And now, for those who are too hungover to do anything other than consume the cinnamon raisin toast and black currant tea your housekeeper oh so thoughtfully brought you, here’s the news you’ve missed:

  is the bromance over?

  Running on the river, long, lingering conversations over fries at 3 Guys, sharing drinks in Sheep Meadow… Angelina and Brad? Not quite. It used to be our favorite pair of swim team buddies. Now, however, it seems like there’s more than bad blood between R and O—there’s a bloody nose. Luckily, K seems to be an excellent nurse. And not for the friend you’d think! She and O were spotted just this morning at a diner on Second, having a cozy brunch. As for R, he’s h
ad to console himself with an ultra-exclusive suite at the Delancey and a bottle of Veuve. I guess all good things do have to come to an end, but I’ll admit it: I’m sad about this one!

  power breakfast

  Move over, Michael’s. Seems like L’Absinthe is the new place for media power confabs, at least judging from this morning, where A was having a very serious discussion with none other than Ticky Bensimmon-Heart. Luckily, no one was sneezing. Next up for A: a foray into the cutthroat world of magazines? She’s certainly got the pluck for it… and we all know ambition is the most important accessory.

  sundays in the park

  Seems like there was more than puppy love in Central Park this morning. J and J.P. appear to be back together, and, according to passersby, better than ever. Does the reunion of the king and queen of the Upper East Side mean that J’s spell of bad luck has been broken? Well, I’ll throw another iron in the fire: After a long deliberation process, the School of American Ballet is apparently set to announce its scholarship recipients today, which could either signal the beginning of the end for J, or the makings of a serious comeback. Long live the queen?

  last seen leaving

  The whimsically romantic B, spotted in a standby line at JFK. Holding a toothbrush and passport, wearing her sister’s castoffs… and a big smile. Where to? Also, a certain Spanish party boy last seen clubbing in Barcelona. Probably a coincidence.

  So, you ask, what does this all mean? It means that I’ll be keeping very close tabs on everyone and everything. Why? Because someone has to. Life changes in an instant. Just like you depend on your MAC lip gloss, your venti half-caf skim cap, and your BlackBerry Pearl to get you through even the toughest days, you can depend on me to tell you what you need to hear. Promise.

  You know you love me,

  Anna Percy, Cammie Sheppard, and Sam Sharpe ruled the A-LIST. But there are three new princesses in Tinseltown.

  THE A-LIST

  HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY

  Meet the new Hollywood Royalty: Amelie, the not-so-innocent starlet; Myla and Ash, the golden couple; Jacob, the geek turned hottie; and Jojo, the outsider who’ll do anything to get on the A-List.

  SOME PEOPLE ARE BORN WITH IT.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of this scandalous new novel by New York Times bestselling author Zoey Dean.

  THE FAIRY PRINCESS OF HOLLYWOOD

  Amelie Adams’s white stretch limo pulled to a stop outside Nokia Theater, where a ruby-red carpet wound its way past the Staples Center and up to the theater’s doors. Standing on risers on either side were models wearing hot pink Prada sunglasses and bright white tent dresses with graphic prints of LA landmarks on them: the Hollywood sign, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, the Beverly Hills Hotel, a postcard shot of Malibu. At ground level were throngs of fans, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite Hollywood starlets arriving for the premiere of The A-List.

  “Fairy Princess!”

  “Fairy Princess!”

  Even though Amelie wasn’t in the movie, her fans knew she was coming tonight. Through the limo’s tinted glass, she saw clusters of little girls waving homemade, glittery signs proclaiming their love for her character. Amelie leaned back in her seat, pushing a red ringlet from her Tiffany–box–blue eyes.

  Her mother’s face broke into the wide, full-lipped smile that Amelie had inherited. Helen Adams’s own red hair was shorter and her eyes were a dark hazel, but otherwise she and Amelie could have been mistaken for sisters.

  “Have fun. And remember, you’ll get it next time.” She winked one heavily-made-up eye.

  Amelie’s shell-pink lips formed a grimace. She’d been up for the part of Emma Hardy, The A-List’s lead, but lost the role to a just-discovered blonde the producers deemed “more mature.” The Emma character had a sex scene, and while Amelie knew that a jump from petting winged ponies to heavy petting would’ve been a risky career move, sometimes she longed to do something that wasn’t G-rated.

  “Fairy Princess! Fairy Princess!”

  Amelie stepped out of the limousine, plastering on the same grin that had sold four million T-shirts with her face on it. Her new Miu Miu wedges sunk into the crimson carpet and she gracefully adjusted the hem of her silver Jovani flapper-inspired dress. Her character wore pink exclusively, so it was nice to not feel like human cotton candy for once.

  She made her way down the row of screaming fans, signing pictures, posters, and BOP magazines in her trademark swirly script. After each autograph, she flourished her pink Sharpie with Fairy Princess’s signature wand-wave.

  At the far end of the red carpet, cast members from The A-List mingled with other actors about her age. Raven-haired Kady Parker and Moira and Deven Lacey, twins who just got parts on School of Scandal, a new CW show, shot her curious glances and then returned to their conversation.

  Amelie sighed, signing a talking Fairy Princess doll with bubblegum pink hair and glittery accessories. She knew she was lucky to be seated at the helm of a multi-million dollar empire at only sixteen, but sometimes she just wanted to move up from the kids’ table. She was growing up, but no one besides Mary Ellen, the on-set stylist who had to let her Fairy Princess wardrobe out in the chest, had really seemed to notice.

  Amelie smiled at a white-blond seven-year-old in a replica of Fairy Princess’s Winter Festival ballgown. She handed Amelie a shirt to sign. “Is it true you’re playing a new kind of fairy in Class Angel?” the little girl asked.

  “You got it,” Amelie answered. Filming started tomorrow on the new Kidz Network movie Class Angel. It was PG, and more mature than her Fairy Princess role, but she still played a teenager’s guardian angel rather than an actual teenager. It was like calling Pinkberry ice cream.

  Amelie laid the shirt on one of the models’ platforms, crouching in front of the little girl.

  “Mommy!” The little girl pointed at Amelie, then yelled, “Mom, Fairy Princess has boobies!”

  Amelie felt the blood rush to her face faster than West-siders hit The Grove during a Barney’s Co-op sale. Well then. Maybe people were noticing her growing up, after all.…

  THE REAL PRINCESS OF HOLLYWOOD

  Myla Everhart stood in the LAX baggage claim, wishing she hadn’t worn her Pucci Sundial dress—every time she sat down, the back of her legs touched some invariably sticky surface. The first daughter of America’s hottest on- and off-screen couple craned her neck, looking toward the doors to the street. Ash had said he’d park and come inside to help her with her bags. Granted, she’d internationally overnighted her bags via Luggage Concierge, but he could certainly carry her plum Marc Jacobs tote full of French Vogues and her cashmere travel blanket.

  Myla fished her emerald-adorned iPhone from the bottom of her bag. 1:14. Ash knew she landed at 12:30. What was the freaking holdup?

  But then… that was Ash. Her Ash. Laid-back, easygoing, Ash.

  She softened just thinking of him. Long before they got together, Ash Gilmore was her best friend and the only guy who got Myla. It wasn’t easy going through puberty as the child of Barkley Everhart and Lailah Barton—People’s Most Beautiful Couple, 2001, 2002, 2006–present. Most inattentive, too, by Myla’s standards. They’d adopted Myla as a baby, after spending time on-set in Thailand, filming an Adam and Eve–inspired love story that grossed some ungodly amount. It had been just Myla, until they brought home Mahalo from Bangladesh on her twelfth birthday. They’d just returned from a Babel-meets-Independence Day shoot and decided to bring back a souvenir. At least that’s how it seemed to Myla.

  Then one day in the eighth grade, she was stranded after school because her driver was late to pick her up. Ash was waiting for his dad, Gordon Gilmour, a record producer who spent more time coddling whiny rock stars than taking care of his son. She and Ash were like two lost souls, who both happened to be extremely photogenic. Myla was in the middle of a rant about how Mahalo had gotten to choose his own bedroom furniture when Ash leaned over and kissed her, right there on the stairs of their middle school parking lot. They�
�d been Hollywood’s youngest Golden Couple ever since, and were always together.

  But Myla’s parents—Barbar, as they were called by the press—had insisted on a family vacation this summer. “Vacation” meant a whirlwind tour of the Third World, doing United Nations aid work at their adopted countries: Thailand for Myla, Bangladesh for Mahalo and Madagascar for Bobby. Myla had to share a room with her two brothers, often in villages so small and remote she couldn’t get a cell phone signal or Internet. She couldn’t indulge in online retail therapy, update her Facebook status, or, more importantly, communicate with Ash. It was torture.

  Granted, she could have called Ash every second while she was in Paris last week, visiting her old friend Isabelle, whom she hadn’t seen since fourth grade. But she’d been in the City of Love without the love of her life—thinking about him too much would have depressed her.

  Myla punched a string of numbers into her phone, twirling a lock of her long ebony hair around her index finger. She smiled, catching a glimpse of the shiny, emerald-green streak that fell along the left side of her neck. It had been Ash’s idea, and Myla had initially been revolted, but now she loved the secret burst of color.

  Isabelle picked up on the third ring. “Ma chère amie, I missed you, too.”

  Myla could hear the clinking of silverware and wineglasses in the background. Even though it was after eleven there, Isabelle was probably just eating dinner now, before hitting Paris’s nightclubs.

  “Stop that, Guillaume!” Isabelle squealed delightedly to her boyfriend. “Sorry, he’s being a total perv. Shouldn’t you be with Ash?”

  “He’s late.” Myla fiddled nervously with the Green Lantern bubblegum machine ring she wore on a Tiffany gold chain. She and Ash had traded rings from a Cracker Jack box in eighth grade, and she had worn the plastic jewelry on her neck ever since. Myla fully planned to hire Mindy Weiss, the best wedding planner in L.A., to work the cheap rings into the ceremony when they got married.