Only in Your Dreams Page 2

  All the better to see you naked with!

  As if on cue, Lord Marcus flung the bedroom door open and Blair turned her head slowly, as if she could barely stand to break away from the current poultry deficit in Asia. He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal summer suit with an olive James Perse T-shirt underneath that made his striking green eyes look serious and deep and oh-so-promising.

  “What’s this, then?” he asked, furrowing his golden-brown eyebrows. “Remember I said I had a surprise?”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you too,” Blair cooed sexily. “Come look under the sheets.”

  “Right,” he continued a little impatiently. “Well, put on your clothes, love.”

  “I don’t want to,” Blair complained, pouting.

  He hurried across the room and kissed her quickly on the nose. “Later,” he promised. “Now throw on some clothes and meet me downstairs in the lobby.” Then he turned and left the room, leaving her perfumed, well-moisturized, and depilated body naked and alone.

  This better be a good surprise.

  Blair emerged from the wood-paneled elevator in a hastily chosen ensemble: a chocolate brown Tory Burch tunic (thank you, Harrods), a favorite pair of old True Religion jeans, and clunky gold Marc by Marc Jacobs clogs. She looked like a jet-setter on holiday. Just right for a weekend jaunt to Tunis in Lord Marcus’s private jet. Could that be the surprise?

  The grand, chandelierlit marble hotel lobby was abuzz with activity, but Blair noticed a hush fall over the crowd as she crossed the tiled floor, her clogs clopping noisily, to the overstuffed black velvet chaise where Marcus sat waiting for her. He was so goddamn handsome Blair couldn’t help admiring him, like he was a painting or some rare piece of sculpture, and it was hard to resist plunging her fingers into the thick waves of his golden-brown hair. She was so busy mentally rhapsodizing over her gorgeous English lover that she barely noticed he was holding hands with someone who was definitely not her.

  Ding, ding. Hello?

  Forgetting the romantic jaunt to Africa, Blair’s eyes narrowed at the horsy blonde holding her boyfriend’s hand. What the fuck?

  “Blair, at last,” Lord Marcus greeted her smoothly, standing but not letting go of his companion’s hand. “This, my dear, is my darling cousin Camilla, the one I told you about. My soul mate. She’s in town for a couple of weeks. We were practically twins growing up! Isn’t that the most marvelous surprise?”

  “Marvelous,” echoed Blair, throwing herself onto a nearby armchair. She didn’t remember hearing anything about any cousin Camilla.

  But then, listening had never been her strong suit.

  “I’m so delighted to meet you,” said Camilla, staring down her long, prominent nose—the kind of schnozz even the best plastic surgeon couldn’t fix. Her pale English complexion was layered with comical amounts of beige powder and primary-red blush. Her legs were clownishly long and skinny, like she’d been stretched on one of those old-fashioned lengthening machines Blair had tried to find on eBay.

  “Mimi just turned up yesterday morning, unannounced,” Lord Marcus explained. “Imagine, like a lost waif, with bags in hand.” He chuckled.

  “Yes, well, thankfully I can count on my dear Marmar to open up his home to me,” Camilla gushed, casually running her free hand through her long, flaxen hair. Hair that could easily be cut off in the middle of the night.

  Wait—his home?

  “You’re staying at his place?” demanded Blair rudely, already hating the crooked-toothed Camilla and her ugly yellow Indian silk sundress, which probably cost thousands but looked like a tablecloth. “But I thought there wasn’t room.”

  “There’s always room for family,” Lord Marcus answered, squeezing Camilla’s talonlike hand before turning back to Blair. “Not to worry, sweetheart. We’ll all have a grand time together.”

  Sure they will.

  one is the loneliest number

  “Archibald!” Coach Michaels yelled up at the roof. “I want to hear your lazy ass banging those shingles. Now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Nate Archibald muttered as he watched Coach climb into his blue minivan and back out of the short driveway, honking a cheerful beep beep be-beep as he sped off down the suburban Hampton Bays street. Nate could picture him popping Viagra and jacking off to the pornos he probably kept in the glove compartment.

  Douche bag, Nate added silently. Sweat stinging his eyes, he ran a hand across his forehead and frowned down at the black-shingled roof. Idiot, he told himself for the hundredth time that morning. It was only nine o’clock, but the brutal sun was pounding down, the scratchy shingles were tearing up his knees, and his back throbbed. Nate straightened up to full height and pulled off his drenched lime-green Stussy T-shirt. Then he dropped his hammer and sat down, even though the roof was so hot he could feel it burning his ass through his shorts.

  He dug around in his pockets for the lovingly hand-rolled Thai stick joint he’d been smart enough to stash there the night before. Nate pulled out the yellow plastic lighter he kept tucked into his sock and lit the joint, inhaling deeply.

  Wake and bake. The breakfast of champions.

  His fuckup was costing him, that was for sure, but Nate was determined not to let one mistake ruin his whole summer. His days belonged to Coach Michaels, but his nights were still his, and he had his parents’ place on Georgica Pond all to himself, since his folks preferred the splendid isolation of their compound up in Mt. Desert Island, Maine.

  Nate flipped open his cell and scrolled through his contact list until he got to the first person he knew with a house in the Hamptons. There was no sense letting the perfect party house go to waste.

  Waste not, want not.

  “Hey, it’s Charlie,” said the voicemail recording. “I’m out of the country for a couple of weeks, but leave me a message and I’ll check you when I get back. Later.”

  Damn. Nate hung up without leaving a message.

  He scrolled some more until he came to the number for Jeremy Scott Tompkinson, another friend from school. Nate half remembered hearing something about how Jeremy was spending the summer out in LA, taking acting classes or something lame like that.

  The only guy Nate knew for sure was in the Hamptons was Anthony Avuldsen, so Nate tried him too, but he didn’t answer his phone either. He was probably still sleeping; no one with any sense would be awake this early in the morning.

  Frowning, Nate took another deep drag on his joint. He could just imagine the endless march of hot, sweaty days and lonely, quiet nights before he would finally pack up and head off to Yale in the fall.

  Poor baby.

  From his perch on the roof, Nate could see the coach’s wide backyard, the very yard he’d be in charge of mowing and landscaping for the next few weeks. He’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed the best part of the view: the coach’s wife, lying poolside, sunning herself in the bright morning rays, top-less. She was a mom and she wasn’t young, but she wasn’t that old, either. At least her boobs had aged well. He’d seen The Graduate, and he’d never been with an older woman. Shit could happen. Maybe working for the coach without pay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Or maybe the sun is getting to him.

  v’s date with destiny

  Teetering ever so slightly on her black peep-toe Celine plat-form sandals—okay, so they were technically Blair’s, but she knew her onetime roommate would never come back to Williamsburg to collect any of the stuff she’d left behind— Vanessa thwacked over the cobblestones of the too-trendy-for-a-place-that-smells-like-dead-meat Meatpacking District toward the unmarked rusty door of Ken Mogul’s massive live/work loft.

  Despite her classmate Serena van der Woodsen’s drunken promises to put a good word in with him at Blair’s wild graduation party a couple of weeks before, Vanessa Abrams had never seriously expected to hear from Ken Mogul again. Earlier that year, he’d taken an interest in her career when some nearly-X-rated film footage she’d shot of Jenny Humphrey and Nate Archibald hookin
g up in Central Park surfaced online and tried to take her under his wing as a protégé. But Vanessa didn’t like the idea of being under anyone’s wing, and working on a major Hollywood production out in LA wasn’t exactly her thing. She was more a dead-pigeons-and-used-condom film auteur than maker of big teen block-busters, but Breakfast at Fred’s was going to be shot right on her doorstep at Barneys uptown. It was tempting to write it off as a learning experience. Still, something about it made her uneasy. She rang the buzzer marked only with the director’s initials and waited, fiddling nervously with her clothes. Nearly her entire outfit had been garnered from the spoils Blair had left behind. She’d paired a black sleeveless Mayle cowl-neck top with her own tattered black jeans, Blair’s clunky Celine sandals, and the steel-gray leather DKNY messenger bag Blair used to carry her laptop in. The look was sophisticated and artsy: she looked like someone who didn’t care about things like looking sophisticated.

  Like she ever cared?

  Suddenly the door flew open to reveal an incredibly tall girl sporting super-short cutoffs and a pink tank-top. Her skin was dark brown and flawless; her hair was long, jet black, and perfectly straight; and her eyes were huge, green, and sparkling. She smiled, showing off a mouthful of absolutely perfect white teeth.

  All the better to eat you with . . .

  “Yeah?” the Afro-Asian model-goddess demanded with a hostile grimace. She looked almost like an evil character in that Xbox game Jade Empire, and Vanessa could imagine being decapitated with a flick of her long, lean, fighting-machine wrist.

  “Um, yeah, I’m here to see Ken.”

  “Come on up,” Jade Empire muttered, turning around. The heavy steel door slammed shut as Vanessa followed her up a narrow cement staircase and into a huge, bright, open room. A forest of rusting steel columns supported the vaulted ceiling, and a bank of windows showcased an incredible view of the Hudson River. The vast space was divided by a long, open bookcase and was overflowing with heavy art books and vinyl records, framed photographs and dusty vases. The latest Arcade Fire album blasted from tiny Bose speakers mounted to the top of the bookcase, and the music echoed all around.

  “He’s in here somewhere,” Jade Empire explained, clearly disinterested. “You’ve got an appointment, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, just hang out. He’ll show up sooner or later. Good luck with whatever it is.” She shrugged and kicked off her beaded yellow Chinese slippers and shuffled away into the depths of the loft, disappearing behind the bookcase.

  Vanessa turned to the wall behind her, which was covered from floor to ceiling with framed photographs of all different sizes. She recognized some of them—they were Ken Mogul’s own work. Before meeting him, Vanessa had worshipped the filmmaker, and she knew everything he’d ever done. His favorite place in the world was Capri, in Italy, and before turning to filmmaking, Mogul had been a renowned photographer. Mixed in with his art photos of half-nude models lolling around on litter-strewn subway platforms were snapshots of Ken crammed into nightclub booths beside famous faces like Madonna, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and David Bowie.

  “Like what you see?” came a gravelly voice from behind her.

  Vanessa turned to see the taut, stubbly face of Ken Mogul himself. He had the unnerving habit of seeming not to blink, and he fixed his slightly bloodshot bulging blue eyes on her with a crazed smile. He wore a plaid flannel vest and old Levi’s chopped off at the knees.

  “Here’s the deal.” He went on without waiting for her response. He wheeled around and Vanessa had no choice but to follow him past the massive bookshelf and into an enormous office with a garage-door-size window. “Here. Sit.” He poured Vanessa a tall glass of what looked like chilled mint tea from a green glass pitcher and pointed to a red leather Eames chair across from a paper-strewn midcentury modern table. He poured a glass for himself and sank down into a desk chair, swiveling it aimlessly before tilting back and resting his feet on the desk. “It’s a money job, is all, but just between us, Breakfast at Fred’s is going to fucking rule. Don’t tell the producers, but this is not your average teen flick. I’m thinking Godard. Something human, humorous, and freaking dark.”

  “Uh-huh,” murmured Vanessa, sipping her tea. Not only was she distracted by the director’s office artwork—over his desk hung a bigger-than-life-size picture of the director him-self, completely naked, splashing in the waves with the bitchy Jade Empire skank—but she hated this kind of pretentious art talk.

  Better get used to it, Miss NYU Film School.

  “So, what do you say?” asked Ken, openly picking his nose and flicking the findings onto the floor. “I know it’s a major studio, I know it’s big budget, I know it’s romantic comedy. But those are all the reasons I need you. I need your vision to help me deliver something that’s going to make the movie-going public sit up and take notice. ”

  As if they hadn’t already.

  Vanessa stared out the window at some elevated train tracks that had been abandoned decades before and were now sprouting trees and grass, and a big building under construction on the next block. It was everything she was against: a major studio’s romantic comedy for teenagers. But Ken Mogul needed her; how many incoming NYU freshmen could say the same thing? Plus, it sounded like a shitload of fun, and she had fuck-all to do that summer. That was why she’d come there today in the first place: sheer boredom.

  She turned back to Ken. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Ken took his feet off the desk and fiddled with his papers, finally unearthing a beaten pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth but didn’t light it. “The female lead was supposed to be my wife,” Ken continued, “but, as you already know, I’ve decided to go in another direction.”

  “Wife?” Vanessa could hardly believe that anyone would dream of marrying a googly-eyed, neurotic, conceited freak like Ken Mogul.

  “Heather. I think she showed you in.”

  Miss Congeniality was Mrs. Mogul?

  “Oh, right.” Vanessa couldn’t resist taking another peek at the nudie photo behind the desk. It looked like a scene from a pirated porn movie.

  Freaks of the Caribbean?

  “Well, now she’s not speaking to me because I’ve decided to go with Serena. Serena’s going to be huge. And so are you.”

  “I’m honored,” Vanessa replied. “I really am. But you’ll have to let me think about it, okay?”

  Better think fast, honey. Hollywood waits for no one!

  s moves out

  “I’m going to 169 East Seventy-first Street,” Serena van der Woodsen said to the cabbie as she slid into the taxi’s black vinyl backseat. She rolled down the window and let the warm late morning air blow across her face. Aah, summer. All her life summer had meant parties at her family’s estate in Ridgefield, Connecticut, or long, sunny afternoons in the park, reading old W magazines and slurping Stoli-and-cranberry popsicles with Blair. Now, for the first time ever, Serena had a job. She turned a thick manila envelope over in her hands and removed the letter she’d already read several times:

  Holly:You must suffer for your art. You must BE your part. Pack your bags. The keys in this envelope are the keys to your new life— the original life of Holly. See you soon. Kenneth.

  It was an odd letter, sure, but what else did she expect from a world-famous eccentric like Kenneth Mogul? He was her director, so she figured she better do as directed.

  She patted the two old monogrammed red-and-white-striped Kate Spade tote bags beside her. They still smelled deliciously like the ocean and suntan lotion and contained a stash of Cosabella underwear, one of her brother Erik’s old Brown T-shirts that she’d swiped the last time he’d been home, a flimsy Milly sundress, her most comfortable Michael Kors flip-flops, a Cynthia Vincent pink-and-black paisley print jersey dress, her trusty Seven jeans, a second pair of flip-flops, just in case, and a white embroidered Viktor & Rolf top. Only the essentials.

  She stared out the window at the grand steps of the M
etropolitan Museum of Art, the lush trees of Central Park, the grand apartment buildings on Seventy-second Street, the panoramic vista of Park Avenue, and then at the unfamiliar, ugly modern towers on Third Avenue. Ew.

  “We’re here, miss,” the cabdriver announced, grinning at her in the rearview mirror with a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. One tooth even had the initial Z stenciled into it. Maybe for Zorro or Zeus? Serena wondered.

  “Oh.” She pulled out her burgundy Bottega Veneta wallet and thumbed through the cash. Then she climbed out of the taxi, balancing her packed-to-the-gills tote bags, and scanned the putty-colored town houses for the right number.

  There was number 171, and there was number 167, but there were some unmarked buildings in between the two, and she couldn’t figure out which was hers. She lugged her bags to the nearest stoop and sat down. Judging from some of the boxy, low buildings on the street, the place she was moving into wouldn’t be quite on par with what she was accustomed to. She dug out a cigarette and lit it, stepping aside as a stream of foul-smelling gray smoke billowed out of a grate in the gutter.

  Wake up, Dorothy: you’re not on the Golden Mile anymore.

  It was funny how everything could change so quickly— she’d gone from being Serena van der Woodsen, senior at Constance Billard and sometimes-model, to being Serena the working actress. It didn’t seem so long ago that her biggest worries had been remembering where the Catherine Malandrino sample sale would be this month, or bickering with Blair in the VIP room at Marquee, or hooking up with Nate wherever he wanted—which, for a short while, had been everywhere and all the time.