Take a Chance on Me Read online

  “Here’s fine!” Jack practically screamed as the cabbie almost sailed past the building. She stuffed a twenty in his fist and ran inside, her Chanel flats clacking against the wood floors of the lobby. It was decorated in different shades of wood, making it look like a ski château in the Alps or some luxe hideaway near the Grand Canyon. A waterfall made of rainwater was the focal point, and different types of Japanese cherry trees dotted the perimeter. Not like Jack was pausing to appreciate her surroundings. All she cared about was making it to her apartment to make sure anything hideously embarrassing, like her underwear or tampons or the half-eaten tube of raw cookie dough in the fridge, was hidden before J.P.’s parents got there.

  “Miss, I just sent your guests up!” the night doorman announced grandly.

  “Fuck!” Jack whispered under her breath, breaking into a run toward the elevator. Perfect, perfect, perfect, she chanted to the same rhythm as her heartbeat as the elevator door slid closed.

  The door to the elevator opened into her apartment and Jack could hear the loud, Russian-accented voice of J.P.’s mom.

  “Hi!” Jack exclaimed, hoping she didn’t sound out of breath or seem too sweaty. The back of her Marc Jacobs organic cotton jersey dress, received in yesterday’s mail as a housewarming present from a nearby boutique, felt moist against her back. Yuck.

  “Eez beautiful!” Tatyana Cashman tottered over to Jack and planted a kiss on her cheek. Jack smiled, not sure if Tatyana was referring to her or the loft.

  Or the billboard picture of her in the loft?

  “You like your palace, Jackie, baby?” Dick Cashman asked jovially, settling into one of the elegant white organic cotton–covered wingback chairs in the center of the apartment. The chair groaned slightly under his weight.

  “It’s amazing,” Jack mumbled. Candice and Jeannette, the robot-twin publicity assistants, were sitting on one of the teak and hemp couches in the corner, looking over dozens of printouts.

  “Hey, gorgeous!” J.P. said, walking out of her bathroom and wiping his hands on the sides of his Diesel jeans.

  Jack smiled tightly at J.P., trying to send him a psychic message that she—that this—was not okay. Now that they’d all made themselves comfortable, maybe they could explain what the fuck they were doing in her apartment?

  “Good!” Dick boomed. “So, we’re trying to figure out the snacks for our little shindig on Friday and I thought, might as well see how you’re settling in. Considering you’re part of the family and all.” He nodded. Just then, Jack realized that a swarm of caterers were huddled by the kitchen on the other end of the apartment.

  “Well, I’m surprised.” Jack smiled at Dick before glaring at J.P. He shrugged his shoulders slightly in a don’t blame me, this was his idea way. She noticed her peach-colored La Perla cami-sole lying in a rumpled pile next to the white, organic cotton overstuffed English sofa. Jack hastily edged it under the couch with the tip of her boot.

  “Glad you’re making yourself at home!” Dick Cashman exclaimed as he triumphantly held up a wrinkled Snickers wrapper that he’d found wedged in the cushion. “I like ladies who eat!” he boomed, winking one bulging eye at Tatyana, who was absentmindedly stroking her blond, volumized hair as if it were a pet. Jack looked down and saw two of J.P.’s gross, slobbery puggles running around the apartment, trailed by Magellan. They’d better be housebroken.

  “I’ll take that.” Jack snatched the wrapper from him.

  “So, we’re having dinner?” she asked desperately. She felt like she was supposed to play hostess, even though she had no idea who the caterers were, what they were making, or what Dick’s PR bitches were doing here.

  “Well, I think this experiment was a success. You’re the talk of the town!” Dick crowed, glancing around the apartment in approval. “What do you say we sample these snacks? My problem is, they always cut the food so small at these fancy parties they don’t give anyone a chance to really dig in!” Dick boomed as he led the group to the glass-topped dining room table. Instantaneously, the caterers converged around them, plunking down various plates of delicate-looking miniature quiches, beef skewers, sushi rolls, mini lamb burgers, and elegantly crafted bite-size prosciutto sandwiches. Jack’s stomach rumbled, and she wished she could dig in without all these people around.

  “Are you treating my beautiful boy all right? He is so much happier and healthier with you than with that messy little hippie girl,” Tatyana said, squeezing Jack’s knee and sticking three mini-quiches in her mouth. Jack smiled, despite herself. Maybe having J.P.’s parents here wasn’t too bad.

  Just then, her cell erupted into the first strains of The Nut-cracker.

  “That’s my ballerina!” Dick announced randomly, grabbing several more lamb burgers.

  “Sorry!” Jack mouthed, turning away from the table as she fished her phone from her black Marc Jacobs satchel. She frowned at the unfamiliar number on the display, wondering if it was a request for an interview or something.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “Jacqueline Laurent?” An elderly sounding wavery voice asked, pronouncing her name as if it were two first names.

  “Yes,” she replied brusquely.

  “This is the School of American Ballet. We wanted to let you know that the board was extremely impressed with your audition a few weeks ago. We’re thrilled to offer you a scholarship in our apprentice company. Do you have any questions?”

  “No. Thank you!” Jack breathed, shutting her phone as if she were in a dream. In the middle of everything, she’d almost forgotten about ballet and the scholarship audition she’d had to do after her father cut her off. She was back! She couldn’t wait for her feet to hit the sleek black stage of Lincoln Center, to hear applause after a particularly difficult jump combination, to know that people were applauding her not only for her looks and poise, but for her talent. Her real talent. She grinned widely to herself, grabbing the glass of Veuve that had appeared in front of her as if by magic.

  “Celebration?” Dick asked hopefully, his own glass of Veuve cocked in the air.

  “I got a scholarship for ballet,” she burbled happily, grinning at J.P., knowing he’d understand. He’d always known how important ballet was to her, that it separated her from other girls and made her special, made her unique, made her Jack.

  “Scholarship? Well, hell!” Dick suddenly looked enraged, his beefy red neck straining against his pink hand-tailored shirt. He looked like a wealthy rancher who’d just found out all his cows had run off the range. “We can’t have J.P.’s girl on scholarship! I’ll buy the ballet! What’s it called? The American Ballet Company? How much?” Dick reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold Montblanc pen and a leather-bound checkbook.

  “Um, dad?” J.P. gave Jack’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “This is Jack’s thing. She earned it.” Jack smiled, grateful that he understood.

  “You can’t buy the ballet, Dick,” Jack said hurriedly. “It doesn’t really work that way. It’s sort of an honor to get a scholarship from them,” she added, looking around the skeptical faces of Tatyana, Jeannette, and Candice.

  “Nonsense. I’ll buy you the whole city! It’s your oyster and I’m happy to pay for it, Jackie baby! You’re the love of J.P.’s life. What’s ours is yours,” Dick said grandly. As if to underscore the point, one of the chefs marched in and plunked down a large tray of pigs in a blanket.

  Jeannette and Candice simultaneously wrinkled their noses. “We said festive. This isn’t festive—the entire menu looks like we’re catering for the circus,” Jeanette exclaimed, following the caterer into the kitchen.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” Tatyana asked suspiciously, placing her hand on Jack’s arm. Jack nodded uneasily. She wished she could just escape, but she had nowhere else to go—this was her home now. J.P. smiled at her reassuringly, and she relaxed. Everything was fine.

  “Jackie’s just a little overwhelmed,” Dick narrated, his red face gleaming in the candlelight. “And I don’t know about you ladies
, but I like these little franks!” To prove his point, he shoved two in his mouth.

  Jack smiled. So what if J.P.’s parents saw her apartment as an extension of their own? At least she and J.P. understood each other. Everything was perfect.

  Until she finds the surprise one of the puggles left in her Sigerson Morisson pumps.

  hey people!

  One of the hazards of my job is that everyone assumes that just because I dish the dirt, I can help them sift through their own dirt. But, my pets, as much as you may wish it, let me remind you that even though it seems like I have all the answers, I’m neither a therapist nor a psychic. I can’t tell you that you’re dating a stoner because you have latent daddy issues, that you wear all black as a retaliation against your control freak mom, or that the reason you insist on keeping your bangs so long is your warped desire to not see the world for what it really is.

  Here’s what I can tell you: All the absurd, self-defeating, and ultimately embarrassing things we end up doing are a result of human nature. We’re all hardwired to dip a toe in the dark side of our psyches. Just make sure you don’t venture too far away from shore, because then it becomes hard to swim back.

  sightings

  O and his coach, heading into a closed-door meeting in the St. Jude’s athletic director’s office. Swim meet strategy planning?… R on St. Mark’s in the East Village, buying a Legalize Pot T-shirt. He has so much to learn about stoner style!… J and J.P.’s dad, having glasses of Côtes du Rhône in the lobby of the Cashman Lofts. To discuss the Cash-man Lofts launch party… or to discuss something else? They do say French girls like older men…. A furiously scribbling whatever S.J. and G were whispering about in French class. Watch out, ladies. We’ve got a reporter in our midst.

  your e-mail

  q: GG,

  Working on a hot story and need your input. Call me, dollface.

  —metrowriter

  a: Dear Metro Writer,

  Sorry, I don’t do in-person interviews and certainly not on such short notice!

  —GG

  q: Dear Gossip Girl,

  How much is the maximum age difference between a guy and a girl for it not to be super sketchy? Our health teacher, who’s like 25 and has an 18-year-old boyfriend, tells us the formula is the older person’s age, divided by two, plus seven is the minimum age the younger person can be. So, like, 25 divided by two is 12.5, and plus 7 is almost 20, which makes it totally okay. Is this right?

  —math gurl

  a: Dear MG,

  Well, math isn’t my strong suit, but let’s put it this way. If one person has a curfew and the other doesn’t, then it’s probably not going to work.

  —GG

  Okay, as they say in therapy lingo: Time’s up! Until next time, feel free to indulge in any of my favorite stress-reducers: champagne, a hot bath, or an afternoon nap. Note that all of the above should be done with a member of the opposite sex for maximum effectiveness.

  You know you love me.

  gossip girl

  no press is bad press

  Avery pushed open the glass doors to the Metropolitan offices on Thursday afternoon, eager to see James in the light of day. She’d spent the whole morning obsessing over their evening at Thom. Was he flirting with her? Had she gotten too tipsy?

  Generally, when you have to ask yourself that question, the answer is yes.

  She plopped her purple Lanvin hobo bag on top of her intern desk, not even caring about the bags of crap McKenna and Gemma had left for her to messenger to Barneys or wherever. She had better things to do than play slave to the assistants. Instead, she immediately picked up the large layout sheets of a new Metropolitan article.

  All in the Family? read the headline, printed in Old English gothic font, as if it were some sort of formal announcement. In smaller letters, a sentence underneath read, Is Jack Laurent sleeping her way to the top of Cashman Lofts? A photo alongside the text was of Jack and J.P. kissing in front of Barneys. Jack seemed to be looking warily at the camera, while J.P.’s eyes were closed, his expression totally blissful.

  She turned to the next page. There, in bold letters next to a photo of Jack’s billboard, was a quote Avery recognized as her own, vodka-infused words. SOME PEOPLE HAVE SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES THEY’D LIKE TO HIDE. Next to that was a photo of the Cashman Lofts with an inset picture of a ruddy, lobster-colored Dick Cashman merrily toasting Jack Laurent. Jack was smiling and looked beautiful. MAY-DECEMBER ROMANCE? read the caption underneath the photo.

  “Looking good, right?”

  Avery whirled around to see James smiling down at her. “Not just the article,” James murmured, his gaze flicking appreciatively to Avery’s low-cut silk Tocca blouse.

  “I didn’t realize this would come out so soon,” Avery squeaked. She felt a tiny pang of regret as she stared at the photo of Dick and Jack. It implied that they were having some sort of illicit affair, and that her relationship with J.P. was just a cover-up. But the article never explicitly said that. And besides, none of the quotes—about Jack’s special circumstances and secretive behavior—were false.

  Is she sure she doesn’t want to go into politics?

  “It’s a great story.” James smiled proudly. “Read it through and let me know if there’s anything that needs adding. We make a good team. I already told Ticky, and she agrees.” James squeezed her shoulder and Avery’s knees felt weak.

  “And look what I did for you.” James flicked the layout with his thumb and forefinger, making a thwacking sound. Additional reporting by Avery Carlyle. Avery grinned. In print, her name looked pretty cool. She bit her Lancôme-glossed lip to try to suppress a smile. She wanted James to see her as blasé, like she got bylines in major cultural magazines all the time.

  “You know how many interns get bylines here?” James asked rhetorically, making a zero with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m looking out for you. And I’ll pick you up and bring you to the Cashman Lofts party tomorrow. See if there’s anything we want to slam into the story.”

  “Cool!” Avery said, cringing at how teenager-y she sounded. “I mean, I can’t wait,” she added. This time, she’d just limit herself to one—maybe two—glasses of champagne.

  “Great.” James smiled, displaying his mega-white teeth. “Now, can you be an angel and head down to the cafeteria? I’d love a large tea with lemon. I’d hate for all your recent success to go to your pretty head.” He ruffled Avery’s hair and carelessly tossed a rumpled bill on her overflowing desk. “There’s a fiver. Keep the change.”

  Avery stuffed the crumpled bill in her purse. Even the way he ordered her around was cute.

  If you’re into that sort of thing.

  Her heart raced, imagining what would happen when the article hit newsstands. Jack already hated her. So what if the article made it look like she was trading sex for real estate? Maybe that’s what Jack got for being a self-centered, histrionic bitch. As she strutted to the elevator, Avery allowed a victory smile to seep onto her face.

  Game on?

  physical therapy

  “Carlyle, hold up a sec,” Coach Siegel yelled, crouching down next to Owen’s lane and tapping his hand against the wall so he’d stop swimming. Owen yanked his goggles off his face and glanced up at Coach’s mouthwash-blue eyes.

  “Hey there. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve got to get yourself together. You’ve got to get the team together.”

  Owen nodded. As if he needed another reminder that the team hated him.

  “Here, get out. Let’s take a walk,” Coach said. He blew the whistle so the rest of the guys stopped swimming. “Guys, do a five hundred timed free. Honor system.” He blew the whistle again and one by one the guys sprinted off the walls and down the lane lines. Owen pulled himself out of the pool and followed Coach over to a secluded corner by the lifeguard stands.

  “What’s going on?” Coach asked. “I don’t really know why Sterling quit, but his leaving affected everyone. We need to pull the team together.”r />
  “It’s not that easy,” Owen mumbled. Over in the water, what had begun as a serious swim set had devolved into some weird water polo game, using Chadwick’s goggles as a ball.

  “Look, I know there’s some drama between you and Sterling over his lady. Right?” Coach looked Owen in the eye. “You stole his girl?”

  “Not exactly,” Owen muttered, gazing at the intersecting black and white tiles of the pool deck to avoid looking at Coach. He didn’t remember ever having a conversation like this with his high school coach back in Nantucket. Owen felt a pang of homesickness for his tiny, sandy hometown.

  “Okay, well, I don’t really care what happened between you two in your personal life. I do care that whatever happened is affecting my team. You’re not firing on all cylinders, Carlyle,” Coach said sternly, not even noticing when a bikini-clad lifeguard passed two feet away from them and climbed up on the lifeguard stand. Coach always noticed the guards who wore bikinis.