The Carlyles Page 11

  “I’m glad you found me,” Owen said, simply, not quite sure what to do next. Right now, hugging her was even better than all of the dirty dreams he’d been having.

  Oh, really?

  Owen’s iPhone started to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the display. Just as quickly as his heart had soared, it sank.

  “It’s a text from Rhys,” he said, looking into Kat’s blue eyes.

  “You’re friends with him?” she asked in confusion.

  Owen shrugged. He read the text and wordlessly handed the phone to Kat. WANT TO JUMP OFF A FUCKING BRIDGE. WILL SETTLE FOR COCKTAILS. YOU HOME? I’M NEARBY.

  A look of concern flashed across Kat’s face. “I guess I shouldn’t be here,” she murmured.

  Owen nodded in agreement, even though he wanted nothing more than for her to stay.

  “Kat—I mean, Kelsey . . .” Owen corrected.

  “I like being Kat with you,” she whispered. “We can be whoever we want with each other.”

  Owen nodded. What she was saying didn’t even make that much sense, but it did seem romantic.

  The downstairs buzzer rang. Kat and Owen froze and stared at each other.

  Owen’s mind raced. “Wait in here,” he said hurriedly, pulling Kat toward Avery’s immaculately decorated room, a tasteful blend of beige and white and peony pink that Avery had ordered from some designer as soon as they moved in. He pushed Kat inside.

  The buzzer rang again and he leaned in closer. Finally, they kissed. He’d meant it to be a peck, but by the time their lips met, it was urgent and passionate, and he wished he could just close the door and lay her down on the bed and . . .

  Right, because that would be the perfect way to christen his sister’s new six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheet set from Bergdorf’s.

  His phone vibrated with another text.

  AT YOUR DOOR. WHERE THE F ARE YOU?

  “I have to go. Wait here until you hear us leave.” Owen felt giddy with excitement and guilt.

  “What are we going to do?” Kat asked, sounding like the damsel in distress Owen would do anything to rescue.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said determinedly. He kissed her one more time, and closed the door to Avery’s room, his heart pounding.

  “Hey, man.” Owen opened the front door and grinned at Rhys way too eagerly. Rhys’s eyes were red-rimmed and his skin was gray. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, even though it had only been a day since Kelsey broke up with him.

  “Cocktail hour?” Owen cajoled.

  Rhys cocked his head at his blond, tan friend, who was smiling and trying so hard to make him feel better. As if a bad draft beer would make him feel any better. He felt like dying. “I was standing outside her apartment for an hour. I saw her go out and walk uptown, but then I lost her, so I decided to come over here. I know I sound like a stalker,” Rhys continued.

  Owen winced. Kat was probably listening in the very next room. And Rhys did sound pretty stalkerish.

  “I don’t know where she could have gone.”

  “You’re obsessing,” Owen said, not unkindly. He leaned against the tall mahogany doorframe. “She was probably just going to a friend’s house or something.”

  That’s one way of putting it.

  “I just want to know who’s she’s with.” Rhys shook his head. “She said she’d met someone else. Who could it be?”

  “Dude, I don’t know,” Owen said helplessly. He shrugged, and the sweat-sticky T-shirt suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable against his skin. “Let’s go out. Everything always makes more sense over a few beers.”

  Cocktail therapy, anyone?

  Tea for Two

  The setting sun cast patterns of light on the dark blue, late-nineteenth-century Japanese carpets covering the gleaming parquet floors of Grandmother Avery’s town house. Avery sat with Sydney Miller. Sydney Miller of nipple-piercing fame. Sydney Miller, the only guest at her tea party.

  Just last year, this very room had been featured in Vogue after a Drama League party the elder Avery had hosted, and now, with files from the lawyer’s office stacked in messy piles on the ground, it looked more like a museum installation that was in the process of being taken down.

  Except with fewer people.

  “Give me those.” Avery pointed to the collection of delicate mini tarts decorated with tiny raspberries that sat untouched on a tray. The pink tray perfectly matched the Chanel suit she had borrowed from Grandmother Avery’s closet.

  Wordlessly, Sydney handed her the tray. Glasses of carefully prepared homemade iced tea sat untouched on the side table, condensation fogging their outsides. Avery had thought people could take them as they came in, and that serving iced tea would be a cute way to modernize the time-honored tradition of the tea party.

  If cute servers came with the iced tea, that is . . .

  “I don’t think anybody’s coming,” Sydney said finally as she gazed around the room. The antique Chippendale chairs Avery had dragged over from the dining room were all lined up, facing the small wrought-iron balcony that jutted into the solarium from the second-floor study. Grandmother Avery had had it constructed for its sight lines—when the sun set, whoever stood there appeared to be illuminated. Edie had always scoffed that her mother had gotten the idea after seeing the musical Evita. Still, it was dramatic, and Avery had been planning to go up there and give a short speech, and then use the rest of the time to mingle and get to know the other Constance girls.

  The doorbell rang. Avery shot an I told you so glance at Sydney and her matte-black lipstick, and sprang up from the oversize armchair. She winced in pain as her size nine feet strained Grandmother’s size seven Ferragamo pumps.

  If the shoe fits, wear it. But if it doesn’t fit . . . don’t.

  She opened the heavy oak door to greet Baby, flanked by three dogs lined up in size order. “Surprise!” Baby smiled mischievously as a large poodle-cross wiggled his butt against Avery’s bare leg, grinning and slobbering maniacally. Two tiny puggles were winding their leashes around the bigger dog’s legs.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Avery blurted, pushing the dog away with her knee. Was this Baby’s idea of a joke?

  “Nemo, you freak, didn’t you get enough of that in the park?” Baby wrestled the dog away. “I’m just heading back from the park. I was so close, I thought I should stop by. Do you want me to come back after I drop them off?” Baby held up the leashes. The large dog lunged toward Avery’s crotch once more.

  “No!” Avery cried, slamming the heavy oak door. She sighed wearily.

  “Who was that?” Sydney yelled.

  “No one,” Avery replied woodenly as she reappeared in the sitting room. She grabbed another tart and nibbled on its edges.

  “I told you, Bitch Central.” Sydney joined Avery next to the dessert tray and popped a whole mini tart in her mouth. Avery could see flashes of her silver tongue ring as she chewed. At least she came, Avery thought.

  “And there’s no booze,” Sydney remarked, picking up another tart. “These fuckers are good,” she commented, grabbing two more.

  “A kegger just didn’t seem like an appropriate venue to discuss my plans to run for a school-sponsored position,” Avery declared indignantly, pinning a stray lock of blond hair back into her bun. She collapsed onto a peach jacquard–upholstered wingback chair in exhaustion.

  “Are you kidding? People would have come for a kegger. A tea party to talk about a school-sponsored position? Do you know how lame that sounds?” Sydney laughed dryly, then saw Avery’s hurt expression and softened her tone. “Generally, around here, a party has boys, alcohol, a few girls passed out in the bathroom, and some majorly sketchy hookups going on,” she said matter-of-factly. “They didn’t do that where you were from?”

  “Yeah, but that was Nantucket.” Avery wrinkled her nose in distaste. She’d assumed she’d left those types of parties behind. Wasn’t New York City supposed to be more sophisticated? Was that all h
er classmates cared about? Hookups and drinking?

  In a nutshell, yes. Although we’re very discriminating about who we hook up with and what we drink.

  Sydney nodded and sat down on one of the chairs in front of Avery, as if she were a kindergartener listening to story time. “Why do you think I want to get out so badly? People here are so unimaginative.”

  “Then why did Jiffy and all those other girls say they’d come?” Avery stood to grab a cucumber sandwich. She couldn’t bear to see the food trays looking so full.

  “Because they assumed there would be boys and booze and the same type of thing they’re used to at every party. Probably one genius was tipped off by the teacups, actually read the invitation, and spread the word.” Avery sighed. “Can I ask you something?” Sydney continued without waiting for Avery’s answer. “Why do you even want this position so much?”

  Avery paused to think about it. She wanted to be SLBO because it seemed like something her grandmother would have done. Then again, maybe people were different in Grandma Avery’s time—maybe they had a different idea of what constituted a good party, a good life, a good time. She remembered when Grandmother Avery brought her as a date to a holiday charity ball at the Met. She was six, and had worn a dark blue velvet dress from Bergdorf’s. Impossibly tall Christmas trees surrounded the dance floor as Count von Arnim, a dapper Bulgarian royal and a friend of Grandmother Avery, whirled her round and round. She remembered peeking outside and seeing puffy snowflakes fall in the dark expanse of Central Park and thinking that Manhattan was the most magical place in the world. Did that world still exist?

  “It’s just important,” she said softly, twirling the solitaire diamond pendant at her neck. Maybe New York had changed, or maybe she was going about things all wrong.

  “Also, the outfit’s cute, in this ‘I’m on the board at the Met’ way . . .” Sydney commented, gesturing to Avery’s skirt. “But unless you have plans to host a charity luncheon, you should probably lose the suit.”

  Avery sighed and took off the beautiful pink suit jacket, laying it against the pink embroidered chair. She pulled the pins out of her hair and shook it out so the blond locks cascaded down her shoul-ders. She no longer knew what her grandmother would recommend.

  “Want to grab a beer?” Sydney offered, making one more trip to the food table. “I sort of want to check out some strip clubs downtown. I’m thinking of doing some sort of independent study on female objectification this semester.”

  “No thanks,” Avery declined, barely listening.

  “Okay,” Sydney said, unfazed. “Call if you change your mind—I’m starting at Scores!”

  She made her way out the door, leaving Avery alone in the already-darkened solarium with the trays full of delicate tarts. Avery grabbed one more and glared, mutinously, at the still-full iced tea glasses, thinking of all the Constance girls who were supposed to be here, drinking out of them. She idly wondered where Jack Laurent and her bitchtastic friends were at this very second. Probably having cocktails somewhere and laughing at her sad attempt at popularity.

  Then, just as quickly as her self-pity had come, it went. She stood and tossed the entire tray of tarts into the trash. She wasn’t the Queen of Tarts, she was Avery fucking Carlyle, and she’d let those bitches know it.

  Off with their heads!

  Partay Part Deux

  On Wednesday morning, Avery changed into the gross blue and white Constance Billard gym uniform for her first gym class of the year. It was the day after her tea party disaster, and she was determined not to let that little blip color her entire Constance career.

  She walked out onto Ninety-third Street, where the rest of the girls had gathered to jog over to the Central Park Reservoir. The gym teacher, Coach Crawford, was swinging a whistle around one finger. She had stringy brownish hair with gray streaks in it and was wearing a way too small tank top that showed off her cleavage. It looked like she had stuffed two grapefruits down her shirt.

  “Hey.” Avery was surprised to see Baby wearing a Constance Billard T-shirt and athletic skirt, especially since she had skipped French class that morning. On Baby, the gym outfit was so big it looked ridiculous but cool. Avery glanced down at her own uniform. Her T-shirt hugged her chest uncomfortably, making her look like a Midwestern cheerleader. They must have gotten their uniforms mixed up. “How’s it going?” Avery asked.

  “Another fun class with the Harpies,” Baby said lightly. “What could be better?” She nodded at Genevieve and Jiffy. Surprisingly, Jack was nowhere in sight. Coach led the group down Ninety-third Street toward Fifth Avenue.

  “So, I was thinking we should have a party this weekend,” Avery decided, glancing at Genevieve and Jiffy out of the corner of her eye. She liked the idea of having a second, real party. She would get Owen and Baby on board, so it would be just like old times, and Avery could use that night to lock in the student liaison votes. “No dogs allowed. But you have to come or else I’ll disown you as my sister,” she added.

  “Sure, okay.” Baby nodded, wondering how they were going to have a party when they didn’t know anybody yet. The only person she’d really talked to here was J.P. But actually, maybe she could bring him to the party.

  “Tall Girl and Shorty! Come on!” Coach growled as she herded the group to the crosswalk, her whistle twirling. Tall Girl? Avery sniffed. This was what they called personal attention in private school? There were certainly going to be some changes made when she got into power. Ahead of them, Jiffy and Genevieve bounced across the cross-walk.

  “Hey, girls. Sorry you couldn’t make it to my meeting the other day, but I’m having a party on Saturday night if you’re interested,” Avery announced, cornering Jiffy as they crossed into the park and the group started to jog up the concrete path to the reservoir. Jiffy’s eyes widened.

  She glanced at Genevieve, who smirked. “Who’s going?”

  Baby rolled her eyes and took off down the reservoir path, her hair streaming behind her. How could Avery go from hating these bitches to turning into their total best friends? She had never seen that side of Avery, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She didn’t like anything about Constance Billard—or New York, for that matter. Although the reservoir was actually really pretty—there was something dramatic about the skyscrapers towering above an expanse of lush green trees. It sort of expressed all the contradictions of New York: it was modern yet classic, enormous and yet so, so small. Not that she was actually starting to appreciate the city or anything.

  Of course not.

  “Well, I’m inviting a bunch of Constance girls and then some St. Jude’s guys. My brother and I thought it would be fun if we could all hang out,” Avery invented as she watched Baby tear down the path as if she really cared about running. The girls climbed the stone steps leading up to the reservoir and paused by the water fountain, pretending to get ready to run.

  “You have a brother?” Jiffy demanded excitedly. Avery nodded. It was the same story back in Nantucket. Mention the promise of a boy, and suddenly all the girls came running.

  “Yeah, Owen—he’s on the swim team at St. Jude’s, so a bunch of them will be there too,” Avery mentioned casually. She shook her wheat blond hair out of its ponytail and tied it tighter at the crown of her head.

  Sarah Jane and Genevieve sidled up. “So, where is the party?” Sarah Jane asked Avery, stretching her leg on wrought-iron fence surrounding the reservoir.

  “My grandmother’s town house on Sixty-first and Park. I hope you can come.” Avery flashed a smile. “My brother is really looking forward to meeting all my new friends.”

  Avery took off after Baby. She could feel Jiffy, Genevieve, and Sarah Jane watching her curiously as she sprinted around the reservoir, and easily caught up to her sister. Popularity was sort of like fishing: all you had to do was bait the line.

  Hook, line, and sinker!

  gossipgirl.net

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  hey people!

  Is it me, or is it suddenly stressful on the Upper East Side? Overnight, people seemed to have gone from happily traipsing up Madison Avenue in their best summer frocks to scurrying back and forth from school, their foreheads knit in Botox-before-thirty consternation. And, as we all know, with stress comes difficulty sleeping. Let’s take a look at some common high school nightmares to put our own lives in perspective.

  4. No date for the Gold & Silver Ball. Your parents should be well connected enough to find someone you can go with, even if it is your second cousin Ned from New Jersey with a halitosis problem (that’s bad breath for all you juniors who haven’t started your SAT prep courses yet).

  3. Didn’t get into a single college. Well, we all know how that works out for some people. As long as Daddy has enough cash to sponsor a study-abroad winemaking program in France, you should be fine.

  2. Accidentally appearing naked in some horrific location, like the Metropolitan Museum of Art or on some public transit ad that appears everywhere. Huh. That’s actually a goal for certain girls . . . so, moving on to the number one fear . . .

  1. Having a party that no one shows up to. If something this socially debilitating happens, most people would say you should immediately move to an island off the coast of nowhere . . . unless that’s where you already came from. However, if you’re like me, you could say screw ’em. Screw ’em all! Which brings me to . . .

  The Energizer Bunny

  You know those people who just won’t quit? They’re the survivors—the Chers of the world, the tireless reality show contestants, the heavyweights who won’t go down without a fight. Well, it seems like here on the Upper East Side, we have our very own heavyweight: feisty newcomer A. After a disastrous two-woman tea party last night, she’s quickly rebounded, and was seen on the steps of a certain three-story brick school building this afternoon, excitedly spreading the word that she’ll be having another party—this one bigger than the last. I should hope so! Hats off to her tireless efforts. We’ll see how well they go over. . . .