Only in Your Dreams Page 12

  When they reached Bailey Winter’s grand Beaux Arts mansion on Park Avenue, Blair was first out of the car. Her mother and Jasmine followed behind like ladies-in-waiting. When it came time to edit her little film, the bit players could easily be removed.

  They were greeted at the door by an honest-to-God English butler, in a morning suit and everything, who announced them by name after he led them to the second floor parlor: “Miss Eleanor Rose, Miss Blair Waldorf, and Miss Jasmine James-Morgan,” he cried in his booming voice. It reminded Blair of Lord Marcus, but all thoughts of him were erased the second she stepped inside the grandest room she’d ever seen. The walls were paneled mahogany and hung with massive oil paintings of beautiful, aristocratic women in incredible confections of lace and silk, smiling peacefully. There were marble pedestals topped with pure white sculptures of male torsos and heads, and high above, set into the wall that kept out the noise of Park Avenue, was a massive stained-glass window.

  “Oh my God!” cried the familiar, shrill voice of Bailey Winter. The dignified Park Avenue designer skipped into the room like a schoolgirl, his yellow-white hair sticking straight up on end as if he’d been electrocuted while using his hair dryer. He was astonishingly short, like a man in miniature, and dressed in a blue blazer with brass buttons, an open shirt, white linen pants, and bare feet stuffed into supple cream-colored leather loafers that made a funny squeaking sound on the hardwood floors. Tied jauntily around his neck was a bold yellow ascot in the same print he’d used in his last collection. “Eleanor Rose, you bitch, you’re so skinny!”

  “Bailey!” cried Eleanor. They embraced, dropping loud, wet kisses on one another’s cheeks.

  Mwa, mwa, mwa, mwa!

  “And who are these two gorgeous creatures?” Bailey asked, dramatically ripping his signature aviator sunglasses off of his face and cupping his chin in his hand. He inspected Blair and Jasmine intensely. “Fabulous. They’re just fabulous, aren’t they?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “Bailey,” Eleanor told him, proudly, “this is my daughter, Blair, and my son Tyler’s girlfriend, Jasmine.”

  “Eek!” Bailey Winter squealed.

  Blair had never heard a grown man make a noise like that in her entire life.

  “They’re incredible,” he gushed. “Come on, sit down. Let’s get some tea in us and talk things over, shall we, ladies?” The designer beckoned to the butler, waving his palm in the air like it had come loose at the wrist. He led them over to an enormous sectional sofa and froze suddenly. “Psst,” he hissed, turning and grinning maniacally at Blair. “Tea is just a code word for martinis.” He winked.

  Blair winked back at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. This was not what she’d been expecting.

  It was way, way better.

  will v ever eat lunch in this town again?

  “Okay, let’s do a take,” Ken Mogul said to his first assistant director. He slouched glumly in a tall canvas chair embla-zoned with his initials, clenching a chewed-up ballpoint pen in his teeth.

  Vanessa focused her camera on the table where she’d be shooting. Fred’s, the Barneys restaurant that was central to the action of the movie, was a mob scene. Instead of the usual lunch crowd, the restaurant was flooded with harsh, industrial lighting and crammed full of the hundred-strong Breakfast at Fred’s crew. They’d moved out most of the chairs and tables to help accommodate everyone, but between the makeup people, prop people, hair people, lighting people, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to the assistant directors, and interns, it was kind of a tight fit.

  Just like the shoe department during the end-of-season sale.

  “Okay, let’s do a take!” the assistant yelled. Everyone scurried away and Ken Mogul waved at Vanessa, who was stationed to his right, peering through the viewfinder of her camera.“Go ahead and roll,Vanessa.”

  “We’re rolling!” Vanessa shouted proudly. She’d always dreamed of saying that, although she’d imagined saying it inside a morgue or some other grim place where her first inde-pendent feature would be set. Certainly not in Barneys with Thaddeus Smith playing the lead. Still, she’d come a long way since directing an adaptation of War and Peace for school.

  Today was the second day of shooting and they were scheduled to wrap a pivotal dinner scene between Thaddeus, playing Jeremy, and indie starlet Miranda Grace, who was playing Helena, the villain. Breakfast at Fred’s was the first film she’d made without her twin sister, Coco. Officially, Miranda was striking out on her own, but really, Coco was in rehab. She’d been replaced by a girl named Courtney Pinard Ken had discovered skateboarding in Washington Square Park, who could actually do the skating stunts Coco had been too wasted to learn.

  On set, Miranda picked up her ice-filled cocktail tumbler, gave it a swirl, then drained it in one sip. She cleared her throat noisily and reached across the table to grab Thaddeus’s hand. “Darling, do you believe in fate?” she asked.

  Her words echoed around the set, which was quiet enough that Vanessa could make out the tinkling of ice in Miranda’s glass.

  “I’m not sure what I believe in anymore,” Thaddeus responded quietly. “I do know one thing, though.” He paused.

  This was the moment that Vanessa—that everyone on set— had been dreading. Serena was supposed to burst into the restaurant, trailing a tattered mink stole, and join the couple at their table.

  A moment passed. Then another.

  No Serena. No Holly. No one.

  “Fucking cut!” barked Ken Mogul.

  “Cut, everyone,” echoed the first assistant director calmly, and suddenly the set came alive: a swarm of makeup people and hair stylists emerged from the shadows, teasing Thaddeus’s hair, reapplying gloss to Miranda’s lips. A prop assistant refilled the glass Miranda had been swirling, wiping her lipstick from the rim.

  “Will someone,” Ken whispered, “please tell Miss Fucking van der Fucking Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is to get on her damn mark and make this fucking picture, please?”

  “Sorry, sorry!” called Serena, stumbling onto the set, bran-dishing a menacing Bailey Winter stiletto. “I was still in wardrobe. I’m sorry, these shoes, they’re just—”

  “Serena on the set!” cried the second assistant director.

  Thanks for the update.

  “Holly, Holly, Holly.” Ken Mogul shook his head. “To your mark, okay? Let’s do this again.”

  The army of assistants retreated to the shadows and they ran the scene once more. This time, as Thaddeus was on the verge of responding to Miranda’s question, Serena burst into the restaurant, right on cue, adjusting the stole that had slipped from her bare shoulder.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” she chirped, striding past the other tables, swishing her tiered chiffon Bailey Winter dress. She dragged over a chair from an unoccupied table and sat.

  “Can I help you?” snapped Miranda.

  “Cut, please, cut, right now,” Ken Mogul muttered.

  “Cut!” cried his loyal loudmouthed assistant.

  “Miranda and Serena, please, you’re Helena and Holly now. Make us believe it,” he said. “Miranda, make me believe that you’re a woman who could run the world.”

  Miranda nodded blankly, batting her fake eyelashes. She was from the Lower East Side. She’d gone to a slutty Catholic school. Her favorite food was Kraft mac & cheese. She clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

  Did anyone?

  During the third take, everything seemed to come together. Thaddeus and Miranda sparkled, nailing their lines perfectly, even throwing in some adlibbed business about that day’s specials. The lighting looked beautiful and natural, with no accidental glares or twinkles, the sound quality was perfect. And Serena arrived on time, didn’t fumble a line or any of her blocking, and when Ken yelled, “Cut!” it was because the scene was in the bag.

  “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” the director stage whispered to Vanessa. “That’s it for now, people,” he yelled. “Let’s take fifteen.”


  He turned back to Vanessa and said, in a normal tone of voice: “You’re up, kid. Let’s see what you got.”

  No problem,Vanessa thought. Things might be all fucked up with everything else—like whatever the hell was going on with Dan—but she knew what to do with a camera.

  Ken Mogul dragged his canvas director’s chair over to the playback monitor, where he’d be able to screen the footage Vanessa had just shot. Vanessa’s assistant camera guy rolled the footage and Vanessa joined the director, watching over his shoulder.

  The first time they’d run the scene, Vanessa had used a straightforward angle, moving the camera in and then out to capture the nuances in the performances, but all in all keeping a fairly traditional distance from the actors. It looked wooden and stiff to her; it was clean and tidy but unimaginative. The second time they’d rolled, she’d tried something radically different, zooming in to focus first on Thaddeus’s lips and then panning up to examine his eyelashes. She’d used this strategy with his costar, too, to get a rapid-fire, music video effect that was really impressionistic. It was more challenging than what you usually saw in a movie, but it was also better. On the third take she’d gone even further, letting the camera’s gaze linger on the ice dancing in the glass of water on the table. She thought it was a fitting way to symbolize the characters’ complex relationships with each other. It was some of her best work.

  “What the fuck is this?” asked Ken Mogul calmly.

  Vanessa looked at him. She couldn’t quite read the tone of his voice.

  “I asked you a question,” Ken repeated, spinning around to face her. “What the fuck was that, Vanessa? What the fuck was that?”

  “That was my camera work,” Vanessa replied, proudly, but her voice was shaking a bit.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Ken Mogul screamed. Nearby crew members backed into the shadows, and Vanessa could feel all eyes on her.

  “Vanessa, what is this experimental bullshit? This is not what I hired you for.”

  That was exactly what he’d hired her for! Those had been his exact words, as a matter of fact. Vanessa just stared at him, stunned.

  “That’s it. This is the last thing I need. I’ve got an actress who can’t act, I’m chewing on fucking ballpoint pens because I’m not allowed to smoke on my own fucking set, and now this: little Miss Indie Film is giving me her bullshit camera work. I don’t need this. You’re fired!” Ken turned away from Vanessa and settled back into his chair. “And you,” he added, pointing to a gofer, “tell Thad, Serena, and Miranda to stay ready. Thanks to this bullshit, we’re going to have to reshoot.”

  Vanessa opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She was angry, freaking fucking angry, but more than that, she was hurt. Tears welled in her eyes and her throat felt tight like she had to cough. She couldn’t believe what had happened. They’d only just started filming, and she was already fired? First Ruby kicked her out, then Dan went and started acting like some sort of Buddhist asshole, and now this?

  “Vanessa, what’s the matter?” Ken demanded roughly. “You deaf? I said you’re fired. Get the hell off my set.”

  Vanessa stuffed her equipment into her bag and stormed toward the escalator. The first movie she made at NYU was going to be about a freak-show movie director who got maimed by a pack of rabid coyotes. And then got hit by a subway.

  See how he likes that camera work.

  reunited . . . and it feels so good

  It was eerie, stepping out of the elevator at Barneys and onto the quiet, dark ninth floor. It was like one of those super-lifelike moments in a really vivid bad dream, when you end up somewhere familiar, but it’s all horribly wrong. But this was no nightmare: it was the opposite, really—a dream come true.

  Just twenty minutes before, Blair had been innocently taking “tea” with Bailey Winter and her mother, but she’d been dispatched to Barneys before she could drain her first martini.

  “Fashion doesn’t wait!” Bailey screamed in his girlish tenor. “Go. Go!”

  Guess she got the job.

  He wanted Blair to dash to Barneys and consult with the Breakfast at Fred’s on-set costumer, to get the final measurements for the principal cast. The seamstresses in his atelier needed them in order to get the costumes for the climactic party scene ready in time. So far this job had all the makings of a Blair Waldorf fantasy: fashion, glamour, a bit of drama. The only downside was Jasmine.

  Oh, right. Her.

  Bailey Winter had mistaken Tyler’s girlfriend for Blair’s friend and insisted on hiring them both to be his eyes and ears on the set. But Blair was not going to let the presence of her young imitator ruin her victory. In fact, she was going to use it to her advantage. Clearly, she could get Jasmine to do her bidding.

  She started in the taxi, instructing Jasmine on how to behave when they got to the set. “Let me do the talking. The talent won’t like it if you pipe in,” Blair directed like an old pro. She’d traded her easily acquired English accent for Hollywood lingo without missing a beat.

  Jasmine followed behind Blair like an adoring puppy, out of the elevator and down the black marble ninth-floor hallway toward Fred’s. They were marching with such purpose they couldn’t help but collide with the black-clad, tear-smeared bald figure who appeared out of nowhere, running at full clip. Vanessa knocked into Blair, who knocked into Jasmine, who was so close on Blair’s heels she fell to the ground with a little yelp, her BCBG sandals skittering across the marble floor without her.

  “Damn it!” Blair swore before recognizing her old roommate.

  “Jesus. Fuck. I’m sorry,” Vanessa managed. Her cheeks, even her scalp, were blotchy and there were tears dripping off her chin.

  “Are you okay? You’re all . . . red,” Blair observed lamely. Vanessa was clearly upset, but Blair was supposed to be inside measuring Thaddeus Smith’s inseam!

  And we all know where the inseam leads....

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” muttered Jasmine as she pulled her-self back up to her feet, even though no one had been talking to her.

  “Jasmine, Vanessa.” Blair introduced the two. Then she wrapped her arms around Vanessa and air-kissed her on each cheek. “But really, what’s wrong?”

  Vanessa just sniffled in response. She was so upset she didn’t trust her voice. What was she supposed to do now? Where was she supposed to go?

  “Okay, Jasmine,” Blair barked, relishing her role as boss. “Stay here and make sure Vanessa’s okay. I’ve got to get moving. Bailey’s orders!” She squeezed Vanessa’s shoulder in a show of support and smiled weakly. “You know I love you!” she cried, then dashed down the hall and through the swinging doors of Fred’s.

  “Excuse me,” Blair said loudly to no one in particular as soon as she stepped inside. “My name is Blair Waldorf. I work with Bailey Winter. I need to speak to someone in charge here.”

  No one moved, and no one responded. Then Blair felt a tap on her shoulder and heard a familiar voice.

  “I think I can help you,” offered Serena.

  “Hey.” Blair turned to see the grinning face of her best friend. Or were they not friends now? They’d had so many ups and downs it was honestly sometimes hard for Blair to remember if she liked Serena again or if they weren’t speaking to each other.

  “You’re back!” Serena squealed. She grabbed Blair and hugged her tightly.

  Looks like friends forever.

  “I’m back,” Blair echoed, enviously assessing Serena’s ebony chiffon Bailey Winter dress.

  “Tell me everything,” Serena insisted, pulling away from Blair and inspecting her closely. “Since when are you working for Bailey Winter? I thought you were in London!”

  “I got a job,” Blair explained matter-of-factly. “It just seemed like the responsible thing to do, you know. I thought it would be good to have some career experience under my belt.”

  “That’s great!” Serena practically screamed.

  “I’ve been thinking about a career in fashion,”
she added casually. The hundred-odd-person crew of Breakfast at Fred’s gaped at her, just waiting for Ken Mogul to verbally chop off her head. Blair went on in an oblivious loud voice, eating up the attention. “Everyone has a calling, and I think fashion is mine.”

  “What about London? What about Lord Whatsisname?” Serena demanded. Were the rumors about his English fiancée actually true? She didn’t usually listen to gossip, but there had to be a reason for Blair to give up a royal romance in London to come home and take a summer job.

  “It’s a long story.” Blair sighed dramatically. She was a working woman with a past. Now if Serena would just loan her that dress . . .

  “Tell it to me tonight,” Serena whispered excitedly. “Ken’s putting me up in my own apartment. You should totally come over. Shit, screw that—move in with me!”

  “Well . . .” Blair hesitated. She’d moved around a lot lately: the Plaza Hotel, Williamsburg, the Yale Club, London. And wasn’t she supposed to be home, close to her baby sister?

  “Did I mention that I’m now living on East Seventy-first Street?” Serena knew full well that Blair Waldorf of all people would recognize that address.

  Move into the apartment from Breakfast at Tiffany’s!

  “I just need to pack my bags,” Blair responded stoically, as if she could hide the fact that she was practically peeing in her pants with excitement. “I’ll be there tonight.”

  She threw her arms around Serena in a fit of impetuous enthusiasm. Everything always had a way of turning out just right, especially when Serena was involved. This time they really would stay friends forever.

  If you can call the next few days forever!

  karma chameleon

  Dan Humphrey slipped into the disgusting employees-only restroom in a dank corner of the basement of the Strand clutching a tiny black tote bag emblazoned with the logo of the literary magazine Red Herring. Double-checking that the door was locked tight, he pulled his threadbare Bauhaus T-shirt over his head and unbuttoned his fine-wale Levi’s cords, dropping them to the floor. He paid no attention to the literary graffiti a generation of disaffected Strand employees had scrawled all over the walls—legend had it that some bitter former clerk had jotted down the actual New Hampshire home telephone number of the famously reclusive J. D. Salinger. He had only ten minutes to meet Bree in Union Square and he had to get out of his everyday clothes—which reeked of smoke—and into something cleaner and more exercise-friendly.