Take a Chance on Me Page 7

  “Miss Jack, your guests are here,” the doorman said.

  “Send them up!” Jack announced regally, pulling her auburn hair back into a messy ponytail and rolling down the waistband of her black Stella McCartney for Adidas yoga pants. Finally, her life seemed to be falling into place. She’d dropped her mom off at the airport this morning, where Vivienne had acted ridiculous and dramatic as usual. But an embarrassing airport au revoir was a small price to pay for absolute freedom. Whenever Jack looked around the loft and realized it was hers, she just wanted to jump up and down on the bed in glee. She actually had, briefly, until she realized the sustainable bamboo might not be all that sturdy.

  Besides, isn’t there something else she should be doing on the bed?

  After a brief photo shoot downtown for the lofts’ new ad campaign, Jack had arrived at the building to find the penthouse apartment completely furnished. Of course, the first thing she did was invite Sarah Jane, Genevieve, and Jiffy over to see her new apartment. After all, they’d stuck by her when she’d been poor. She wanted them to see that she was back on top. She flung open the door in anticipation of their arrival, hurriedly pushing her Louis Vuitton suitcase under the bed. She hadn’t even begun to unpack yet, but wasn’t that what maids were for?

  “Ohmigod!” Jiffy squealed, barreling into the apartment. She was trailed by Genevieve and Sarah Jane, each carrying an armful of packages and bags. “This is so cool! It’s like you’re all grown up! It’s even better than Beatrice’s place,” she added as she walked toward the enormous picture windows in awe.

  “Thanks,” Jack said demurely, glancing around the loft like it was nothing special. But it really was sensational. “What’s all that?” Jack frowned at the bags Sarah Jane and Genevieve piled onto the teak dining room table.

  “I don’t know.” Genevieve shrugged and flipped her wavy blondish hair over her shoulder. “Your doorman told us to bring them up.”

  Jack greedily snatched a large red and yellow package and tore it open. A brand-new black Marc Jacobs purse was inside, along with a cream-colored envelope. She slid her finger under the flap.

  Dear Jack,

  Just a little housewarming present. Think of us if you’re in the area—would be happy to help you in any way possible.

  Love,

  Jane and the rest of the girls at Tender Heart

  Jack smiled. Tender Heart was a cool boutique in Nolita where she’d loved to shop before she got cut off. They’d obviously heard about her new move. Her eyes flicked over to the pile of boxes. Were all of these presents?

  And it’s not even her birthday!

  “Oh my God.” Genevieve yanked the thick cardstock from Jack’s hand. “I can’t believe J.P. did this for you. When I was dating Breckin, he couldn’t even get us into Area. On a Tuesday.” She sighed, still not over the less-then-five-minute fling she’d had in L.A. over the summer with an actor in one of her dad’s films.

  “J.P. didn’t do this for me. His dad did,” Jack corrected, yanking the card out of Genevieve’s hands and throwing it on the granite counter. Oops. That didn’t sound quite right. “I mean, I met his dad’s PR team and they decided that they wanted me to be the face of the lofts,” Jack clarified.

  “Still, they wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t J.P.’s girlfriend, right?” Jiffy asked, poking her head into the Sub-Zero refrigerator, thoughtfully stocked with Whole Foods groceries by one of the Cashman employees.

  “Can you make me a cranberry vodka, Jif?” Jack asked, ignoring Jiffy’s asinine question. Obviously it had helped that J.P.’s mom had suggested the idea, but it wasn’t as if that was the only reason she’d become the face of the lofts.

  Jiffy nodded absently, pulling out a handle of vodka from the freezer and a few of the brand-new Riedel glasses from one of the cupboards. She busily got to work on one of the slate countertops.

  “You can open some of the mail and stuff if you want,” Jack offered generously to Sarah Jane and Genevieve, who were both examining every corner of the apartment as if it were an estate sale. Sarah Jane picked up a soy candle and sniffed it, wrinkling her nose.

  “Thanks.” Genevieve’s voice dripped sarcasm. Whatever.

  Jack pretended not to notice and walked over to the sweeping windows, looking for the millionth time at the just-unveiled billboard. It was of her, wearing a flowy green Oscar de la Renta dress and admiring a daisy, as if she was just about to do that dumb he loves me, he loves me not thing with the petals. She looked dreamy and happy and in love. The caption on the bottom of the ad said, LIVE AND LOVE IN GREEN. It didn’t totally make sense, but she didn’t care. With the billboard flat against the lower Manhattan skyline, Jack peered down onto the city, its larger-than-life queen, benevolently watching the people below her.

  She was back.

  Sarah Jane sidled up next to her. “This really is awesome,” she offered, still holding one of the dumb candles she’d picked up from a side table. “And it’s all organic?” She glanced skeptically at a leather club chair nestled below a dormer window. Sarah Jane’s mom was the editor in chief of Bella, a fashion and décor magazine, so she always pretended to know about all the latest design trends.

  “I guess.” Jack shrugged. Who the fuck cared? “What else did I get?” She plopped down on a stool next to Genevieve and eagerly thumbed through the pile of brightly colored invites scattered against the black counter.

  We are pleased to invite you and your guest to the premiere of…

  Please come to drinks and dinner at Daniel in honor of…

  The Whitney Museum and Vogue magazine hope you will attend…

  “Get out your calendars, ladies!” Jack grinned, grabbing one of the vodka crans Jiffy had prepared and taking a long swig. She deserved it. “We have some parties to attend.”

  Glad to see the queen treating her subjects so nicely!

  Just then, Jack heard footsteps outside the door. She narrowed her eyes at Jiffy, sure that she’d invited one of her lame sophomore friends over. Then a key scraped in the lock. What the fuck?

  The door swung open, framing J.P. He was wearing neatly pressed khakis, a blue Thomas Pink button-down shirt, and a grin.

  “What are you doing here?” Jack demanded. She cringed. She hadn’t meant to sound that bitchy and accusatory, it was just that she had planned to spend the afternoon showing off a little bit in front of her friends, and she couldn’t really do that with J.P. here.

  “This looks great. My dad was telling me how excited everyone is about the campaign.” J.P. gave her a kiss.

  “Your dad gave you a key?” she asked, surprised.

  Before J.P. could answer, Henry, the doorman, appeared with two Tumi duffel bags slung over each shoulder.

  “Here you go, sir,” he announced grandly to J.P., depositing them at his feet.

  “Are you moving in?” Jack asked sharply.

  Jiffy pushed her long brown bangs out of her eyes and stared at him curiously.

  “What, you don’t want me?” J.P. teased, hauling the bags over toward the bed. “I just thought I’d leave some stuff here. Better than taking cabs all the time. Bad for the environment.” J.P. winked.

  Jack nodded, unsure of what to think. Living by herself in a cool, unsupervised, furnished apartment was one thing, but living with her boyfriend whom she just got back together with was something totally different. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for J.P. to see her eating cookie dough straight out of the tube and watching crappy television. Plus, they’d have to share a bathroom. That didn’t seem very romantic at all.

  “What are you girls doing?” J.P. eased onto one of the stainless steel bar stools lined up against the slate counter.

  “Toasting the new apartment,” Genevieve explained, taking a liberal swig of her cranberry vodka. “It’s all thanks to you!” Genevieve cocked her glass at J.P., but smiled at Jack, her lips already stained by her drink.

  Jack shot her a death stare back. Hadn’t she just told Genevieve that
J.P. was not the reason she had the lofts campaign? Had Genevieve developed vodka-induced amnesia?

  “Thanks!” J.P. said companionably, grabbing the glass proffered by Jiffy. Jack sulkily grabbed it out of J.P.’s hand and downed it. At least when she was drinking, she didn’t have to talk. Because she had quite a few things to say to J.P. Wasn’t he supposed to say how gorgeous and talented she was, and point out that that was the reason his dad’s PR people wanted her to do the campaign?

  “You okay, Jack?” J.P. asked, opening the freezer to get some fresh ice. He seemed totally fucking at home in the apartment, hanging out with all her friends.

  “Perfect,” Jack said crisply. Right now, all she wanted was for everyone to go home so she could just stand at the picture window and gaze at her billboard.

  We all have our hobbies.

  There was another knock at the door. Jack sighed loudly as she skulked over to open it. It was probably J.P.’s parents, ready to move in too.

  Instead, it was Henry. He was holding a tiny, dingy white dog. It was desperately wiggling out of Henry’s arms, obviously terrified to have its four legs so far off the ground.

  “Here you go,” Henry announced, setting the dog on the floor. He hastily retreated as the dog ran over to Jack, its toenails clicking against the floor. Immediately, it began humping her leg.

  “Cuuuuute!” Jiffy and Sarah Jane exclaimed at the same time. Jack not-so-subtly kicked the tiny animal away from her leg.

  “Oooh, look!” Jiffy exclaimed, untying a pink ribbon from the dog’s collar.

  “It’s from my mom,” J.P. explained, taking the note from Jiffy and holding it out toward Jack.

  Jack smiled tightly as she grabbed the note. Tatyana had actually placed a maroon-lipsticked kiss on the front. Jack gingerly opened the envelope without touching the kiss mark, as if Tatyana’s tackiness could be transferred through her ’80s matte lipstick.

  A dog as beautiful as my son’s woman! A million kisses in your new home, read the note. English was Tatyana’s second language, but it sort of sounded like she was likening Jack to the gross, obviously oversexed little monster.

  “It’s a maltipoo,” J.P. explained helpfully.

  Jiffy cooed idiotically, sliding down on the floor to pet the dog. Maybe Jiffy could just take it once J.P. left.

  “Let’s think of a name,” J.P. said, grabbing Jack’s hand. Jack softened slightly. Yes, everything was supremely fucking weird right now, but the main thing was that J.P. loved her. Maybe living together wouldn’t be so bad. It’d just make it that much easier to have s-e-x whenever they wanted. It might be fun, actually. It could be perfect.

  “We can do that later.” Jack smiled, trying to ignore her feeling of restlessness. After all, it had been a long day.

  “Right, I guess we should probably take her outside. Let her get to know the neighborhood. I’d like to look around too,” J.P. said eagerly.

  Jack nodded, her good mood flicking off like a light switch. Maybe he could take Genevieve, Sarah Jane, and Jiffy with him.

  And the little dog, too.

  street of dreams

  “There she is!” A giggly sophomore’s voice wafted through the door and into Mr. Beckham’s darkened classroom on Monday at noon. Avery glared over at the tiny window in the wooden doorway. This was the fourth time class had been interrupted by a gaggle of ridiculous underclassmen desperately trying to catch a glimpse of Jack Laurent, as if she were a real celebrity rather than a classmate who just so happened to have her photo in a dumb real estate advertising campaign.

  Avery glanced over at Mr. Beckham, hoping he’d chase them away, but his eyes were affixed to the screen. They were all supposed to be watching The Dreamers, a totally dirty Bertolucci film about a brother, sister, and best friend doing it everywhere in 1960s Paris. Of course, Jack and her bitchtastic friends weren’t even pretending to watch the movie, instead giggling over Jack’s picture in the New York Post. It was totally unfair.

  This morning, Jack’s freckled face had been on all the gossip blogs and all the newspapers, and all anyone wanted to do was talk to her about her stupid billboard—which, thank God, was only downtown. Still, even the tiny postage stamp–size black and white picture of the billboard that was inset on Page Six was too much. Jack looked like a fucking supermodel. And she knew it.

  Finally, the bell rang. Jack swished past Avery’s desk, accidentally-on-purpose bumping into it so that Avery’s empty Evian water bottle fell on the floor.

  “Sorry,” Jack murmured, not sounding sorry at all. “See you at lunch,” she added, making the statement sound like a threat. Avery stared miserably at the empty water bottle on the floor. Even though all the Constance students were treating Jack like she could do no wrong, it was clear she hadn’t forgotten her mission to make Avery’s life hell in any and every way possible. The rest of the class filed out, hustling in Jack’s wake.

  Avery gathered her things and glanced around the empty classroom. The last thing she felt like doing was heading to the cafeteria and facing Jack and her entourage. “Can I help you with anything, sir?” Avery asked Mr. Beckham.

  “Umph,” he grunted. He was futilely trying to wrestle the disc from the DVD player, and, like any teacher over thirty-five, had no idea what he was doing.

  “Sir?’ Avery pressed, her frustration growing. She couldn’t believe Mr. Beckham was ignoring her. It wasn’t like she really wanted to hang out with her gross film teacher during lunch.

  “No, that’s okay, Ms. Carlyle,” Mr. Beckham said, not bothering to look up.

  “Please?” Avery pleaded. “I mean, I’d love to help you in any way possible,” she amended, not wanting to sound too desperate. Jack always made a point of publicly accosting her in the cafeteria, and she didn’t even want to know what she’d do now that everyone was treating her like a fucking rock star. Avery had spent all last week discussing books with Mrs. McLean and some of the Constance overseer ladies during lunch. This week they were supposed to start Anna Karenina, but she’d begged off. Although maybe she’d made the wrong choice. Reading Russian novels with the headmistress sounded like a vacation compared to facing Jack and her minions in all their bitchy, cafeteria-dominating glory.

  “Well…” Mr. Beckham turned around and appraised Avery, his mouth cracking into a creepy grin. He winked lecherously at her, as if the film had given him ideas. “Maybe you could help me in the darkroom? I have some developing to do for my afternoon photography class.”

  “Actually, I’m not really good at photography,” Avery lied, quickly exiting the classroom and hustling through the hall. She glanced thoughtfully out one of the second-floor windows onto the tree-lined street below. It wasn’t too cold today. Maybe she could grab a yogurt and just sit outside somewhere.

  Steeling her courage, Avery marched into the blond wood–beamed cafeteria. She subtly glanced around, looking for a friendly face. Everyone seemed to have their heads down, engaged in conversation with their friends. At this point, she’d kill to have lunch with Baby, even though sitting together made it obvious they didn’t have any other friends. But she didn’t spot her sister’s tangled hair anywhere.

  “I heard she was trying to pay Mr. Beckham to date her. Of course he said no,” Sarah Jane Jenson whispered lazily to Jiffy as she daintily swirled a spoon through her cup of zero percent–fat Greek yogurt.

  “I know. She’s already called all these male-escort services, but they turned her down because she’s underage. Maybe she should just become a lesbian,” Jiffy replied as she pushed her shaggy brown bangs out of her eyes.

  “Unless she is a total lesbo with that weirdo, Sydney,” Sarah Jane remarked loudly enough so Avery could hear. Avery stood there stupidly, feeling like she’d been knifed in the heart. These girls used to be her friends, and on the surface, they still looked so sweet. Something about Jiffy’s freckly, heart-shaped face had always seemed so friendly.

  Looks can be deceiving.

  “Hi Avery,” Genevieve yel
led from farther down the table, glancing up from her Treo. Sarah Jane and Jiffy giggled as if the greeting were the most amusing thing they’d ever heard. Avery willed herself not to look over at them as she made her way to the cafeteria line.

  “Blackmail anyone lately?”

  Avery turned to find Jack Laurent towering above her. Even though she was wearing her Constance seersucker skirt and a boatneck Loro Piana black sweater, Jack looked even more flawless than on her stupid billboard. Avery felt hives begin to form on her chest. It always happened when she was upset.

  “Hi Jack,” Avery mumbled, trying to sidestep her, but Jack effortlessly stepped in the same direction. Avery narrowed her blue eyes. What did Jack want?

  A rumble?

  “Ignore the Billboard Bitch.”

  Avery felt an arm clasp her elbow from behind. She whirled around to see Sydney Miller, Baby’s all black–wearing, pierced-nipple friend. Today she wore a super-faded Third Rail T-shirt under her wrinkly Constance blazer and high-top Converse that looked like they’d belonged to some really unhygienic guy in the 1980s.

  “Hi.” Avery wasn’t sure if she should be happy about being rescued from a Jack showdown, or feel bad about being rescued by Sydney.

  “Avery and I have somewhere to go. You know, some advertisements to deface?” Sydney grinned wickedly at Jack. “Corporate slut,” she hissed, tugging on Avery’s elbow.

  Avery allowed Sydney to steer her firmly out of the cafeteria, through the royal blue doors of Constance, and onto the street.

  “Thanks,” Avery mumbled once they were safely outside.