Only in Your Dreams Page 8

  “Sometimes I just get tired of it—the way they talk to you like they know you. The way he called me Thad, you know?” Thaddeus went on, ignoring her invitation. Serena blinked at the sliver of moon hovering over a Seventy-second Street high-rise.

  “It must be hard for you. I mean, people probably think they know you. They see your movies, they see you in maga-zines.”

  But they don’t get to enjoy intimate dinners with him, poor babies.

  “I mean, my name’s not even Thaddeus, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, confused.

  “It’s Tim. My agent thought it should be something catchier.”

  “I guess it worked.” Serena nodded, wondering suddenly if she shouldn’t change her name. It might be good for her career.

  Yeah, Serena van der Woodsen isn’t catchy at all.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a soft pack of Parliament Lights. “At least it’s quiet here,” he said, lighting up.

  That’s right. You’re safe, right here, with me. “No photographers here,” Serena giggled. “Just the two of us.”

  “Working on our chemistry,” Thaddeus laughed. “Our homework. Chemistry homework, get it?”

  Better stick to the script, dude.

  It was easily the best homework assignment Serena had ever been given, and she was sure she was acing it. The question was how to nuzzle up to him but make it clear she wasn’t rehearsing. She wanted to make sure he saw her as Serena and not Holly, and that he could distinguish the fake kisses from the real thing.

  “Hello, again,” came a voice from above them. It was Jason, her downstairs neighbor, wearing a navy pinstripe suit. His blue-and-yellow-striped tie was loose around his neck and the collar of his white oxford shirt was unbuttoned. She hadn’t seen him since he’d come to her rescue her first day in the apartment, and she’d actually sort of forgotten about him.

  “Hi, Jason.” Serena wanted to be polite but she honestly hoped he’d just disappear. He was friendly and cute but she and Thaddeus had homework to do.

  “What’s up?” Thaddeus put on that same, friendly, flirty tone he used on the talk show circuit. He extended a hand to Jason but remained perched on the stoop. “I’m Thaddeus.”

  Jason came down the steps. “I was just getting my mail. Hey, I’m Jason.” He gave Thaddeus’s hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Pull up a step,” Thaddeus joked, scooting over a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “Or we could go upstairs to my place and get a drink,” Serena suggested hopefully.

  “Why don’t I just grab some beers?” Jason offered. “I’ve got some inside. Then we don’t have to bother with all those stairs.”

  “Excellent. I kind of like it right here. Nice breeze. Good company.”Thaddeus grinned at Serena.

  “Me too.” She smiled back, even though she’d much rather have been upstairs and alone with him. If he wanted a breeze, she could always open a window.

  Jason lived on the parlor floor, so it only took him a minute to dash inside and fetch three cold bottles of Heineken.

  “Thanks.” Thaddeus sighed as he cracked the top and tossed the cap onto the next step.

  “Long day?” asked Jason.

  “Seriously,”Thaddeus agreed.“What do you do?”

  “I’m a summer associate at Lowell, Bonderoff, Foster and Wallace,” Jason explained before taking a long swig. A car honked loudly in the street. Serena looked at her watch. This conversation was really quite riveting, but frankly, she’d rather be soaking in a Bliss salt-and-sage bubble bath.

  “They’re my lawyers!” Thaddeus exclaimed excitedly, like Jason was the most interesting guy he’d ever met. “You don’t know Sam, do you?”

  “I know of him,” Jason replied. “He’s a partner over in the LA office, right?”

  A gentle breeze lifted Thaddeus’s messy hair off his fore-head. “He’s a real pit bull. God, I remember one time I was having this contract dispute with a studio and—”

  “It’s a small world.” Serena yawned and pointed her ballet-slippered toes.

  “Here’s to a small world.” Thaddeus lifted his bottle and clinked it against Jason’s and then Serena’s.

  She chugged the entire contents of her beer and inched a little closer to Thaddeus. Even if their conversation was deathly boring, she knew she was in the presence of two sweet young gentlemen who would probably carry her up four flights of stairs to her apartment if she happened to drink too much and couldn’t walk.

  After all, she’s always depended on the kindness of strangers.

  the runaway bride

  Blair Waldorf burst into the lobby of Claridge’s like a woman on a mission, which was exactly what she was. She had to get back to her suite and sift through the packages she’d had delivered. She was particularly interested in revisiting the show-stopping wedding gown that had been her week’s biggest quarry: at ten thousand pounds it was a splurge, even for her, but it was so perfect that it was worth every penny, and Blair knew her mother would agree. And if she didn’t, Blair knew her father, Harold J. Waldorf, would: he was a fabulous gay man living the high life in the south of France. If anyone understood the thrill of finding the perfect wedding dress, he would.

  She’d been meaning to schedule a weekend rendezvous with her dear old dad in Paris—surely it was time for Marcus to meet her parents? It was only a couple of hours away by the Chunnel, and it would be so fun to take a romantic train ride with her boyfriend and leave cousin Camilla behind. As she marched through the lobby, she spied the concierge standing behind her neat little desk. Perfect, Blair thought. She could have her make the arrangements! Blair stormed across the marble tiles to where the woman stood, scribbling notes in some sort of leather-bound ledger.

  “I need some assistance,” Blair ordered. “Tickets to Paris.”

  “Madam! Ms. er, Beaton-Rhodes?” asked the concierge, a short, prim Asian woman sporting circular John Lennon–type glasses and a nononsense bob.

  “It’s Miss Waldorf, actually,” Blair corrected her.

  Not Mrs. yet.

  “Yes, of course,” the concierge apologized. “Madam, I’m just confirming your reservation for another week. Is that accurate?”

  “Sure, sure.” Blair waved her hand. She had business to attend to. “Like I was saying, I want to go to Paris. Like, immediately.”

  “That’s fine, then. I’ll just need a credit card. For the room charge.”

  “Can you just bill Lord Marcus?” Blair asked, irritated. “He’s handling the whole thing.”

  “I see,” nodded the concierge, making a note in her little leather notebook. “And will his Lordship be visiting soon? We’ll need him to sign.”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Blair. She was on her way to set up the perfect romantic evening—lingerie, champagne, the whole thing—but technically she hadn’t spoken to him all day, so he didn’t even know that they had a date.

  “Well, I’m afraid we’re going to need to schedule a time for his Lordship to drop by and sign the papers,” the concierge replied firmly.

  “Fine,” snapped Blair. “I’ll figure out a time.”

  A group of Italian tourists meandered by, randomly snapping pictures of Blair while she fumed.

  “Well, Miss . . .”

  “Waldorf,” she repeated.

  “Miss Waldorf, we’ll need to have that signature on the bill by tomorrow, or I’m afraid we’re going to have to release the suite. We do have an interested party.”

  “Fine,” Blair replied icily. “I’ll call him right now.” Blair dug out her telephone and selected the only number in her speed dial. Lord Marcus’s phone rang and, as she could have predicted, there was no answer. She opted not to leave a message. She’d already left three that day. She didn’t want him to think she was insane.

  Like buying a wedding dress is sane?

  “He’s not answering,” Blair informed the concierge. “He’s very busy at work
right now, but I’m sure I’ll hear from him tonight. I’ll arrange for him to come by and settle the whole matter, okay?”

  It had only been a few days, but Blair had already lapsed into a Madonna-like English accent, clipping certain consonants and using phrases like “the whole matter.”

  “That’s fine.” The concierge nodded. “Just do remember that he’ll have to sign the bill by tomorrow or we’ll be obliged to release the room. I do hope he’ll find a moment to get away from his wife and come by.”

  “Excuse me?” Blair demanded.

  “I’m sorry?” the concierge replied snottily.

  “What. Did. You. Say?” Blair could feel the tips of her ears glowing red with fury. For a moment she forgot about the dress waiting for her upstairs in her luxurious suite. She forgot about the maid, who would happily mix Blair whatever drink she requested as soon as she walked in. She forgot about the inroom massage she’d been itching for. She forgot about Paris.

  “I believe I said, I hope he’ll find a moment to get away from his life and come by,” the concierge answered sweetly.

  “You did not,” Blair whispered tightly, leaning across the counter, her voice very quiet. “You said wife.”

  “I’m sure you misunderstood,” the concierge replied.

  “Well, I’m sure you misunderstood!” Blair shouted. She had never been shy. “I heard what you said.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course. I’ll just need to have his Lordship pop by to sign the papers and the matter will be settled.”

  “He’s not married. She’s his cousin,” Blair went on. “And I’m his girlfriend.” She was practically shouting. On the other side of the lobby the Italians turned to look.

  The concierge blushed deeply. “If we can just keep our voices down.”

  “Fuck that.” Blair had had it with England, with everyone’s polite prattle, with the British insistence on quiet dignity. Blair wasn’t interested in quiet or in dignity. Fuck this bitch, fuck Britain, fuck Lord Marcus and fuck his horsey cousin Camilla. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be home. “You know what? I don’t want the room. I want you to call British fucking Airways and book me a ticket immediately. One way, first class. To New York.” Blair dug into her bag and found her black American Express card, which she tossed onto the desk angrily.

  “One way to New York, first class,” repeated the concierge. “Virgin has flights at eleven daily. I’ll see if we can get you a seat.”

  Virgin. How appropriate. Not.

  Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

  hey people!

  I’m sure some of you have seen it, and I bet you couldn’tbelieve it any more than I could. There I was, happily traipsingdown Madison Avenue, in search of some new washed-cottonbeach cover-ups when what do I see? The worst sign ever:Closed. Closed? It’s not what you think though: it seems thatBarneys’ creative director and dandy-about-town, GrahamOliver, is besties with a certain fashion-inept indie auteur andagreed to close up shop for a few days so the cameras can roll.

  I just hope they reopen on schedule: the word is a certain star-let’s debut performance might need a bit of tweaking. Things areso grim, in fact, they’re shooting every scene she doesn’t appearin first, in hopes that all her practice finally makes perfect.

  Now that Barneys is closed for a while, I’m thinking of leavingtown for good—no more of this popping back and forth oncharter jets and helicopters. I know I said that things don’t getcooking in the Hamptons for a while, yet—I usually wait until theFourth of July to hunker down for the season—but I’ve beengetting reports about some intriguing activity out on the island. Imight have to check it out myself. It’s so hard to be me: howcan I be in two places—or three or four or five—at once? Notthat I’ve ever had a problem with it before.

  summer survival guide

  I’m not going to name names—unusual for me, I know—butthere are plenty of repeat offenders out there. So as a refresher course, here’s everything you need to know about:

  1) Tanning

  Obviously, the real thing is best. If Mother Nature isn’t complying, airbrushing is acceptable, but remember, whether poolside or in that little spray chamber, you must go naked: tan lines are a turn-off. And remember to wax two days before and exfoliate! Your streaks and splotches aren’t fooling anyone.

  2) Brows

  For starters, you know you’re supposed to have two, right? Now put down the tweezers. No, throw them away. Go see my friend Reese at Bergdorf’s ASAP. And I don’t want to hear any complaining about how it’s $45 per brow.

  3) Waxing

  It’s bathing suit season, so landscaping isn’t optional. If you’re going to be wearing that Eres bikini, we’re all going to get a show. Personally, I endorse the traditional Brazilian (no pain, no gain). And while I’ve been known to opt for a precious little Swarovski crystal appliqué tattoo, there really is no need to gild the lily, is there?

  your e-mail

  Q:

  Dear GG,

  I heard there’s a pretty racy film making the rounds on theInternet, and it proves that a certain someone has been ina movie before. It was shot on location in Central Park,with that stud N. Her hair looks kind of brown and curly,but it’s got to be S, right?

  —Cineaste

  A:

  Dear Cineaste,

  You’re going to have to get your facts straight: there was a movie, from, like, a year ago, and no one involved in that production has anything to do with what’s filming here right now. That well-endowed star is off making art—and who knows what else—in Prague. Au revoir!

  —GG

  Q:

  Dear GG,

  There’s this really annoying girl in my yoga class—I’m just trying to get in shape and keep busy while my best friend is at, like, art camp in Prague for the summer—but she’s always going on about how yoga is a “way of life.” Anyway, after class the other day she was gushing to the teacher about some new “spiritual book lover,” crush and he sounded suspiciously like someone I know—only not. Like his evil twin. Or his good twin. Anyway, I’m confused. Are there pod people in town replacing everyone with clones or what?

  —Scared

  A:

  Dear Scared,

  This is an intriguing development. I doubt it’s aliens, though—sometimes it’s nice to just enjoy a little summer fantasy. Haven’t you ever pretended to be someone you weren’t on vacation? Try it sometime: check into your hotel as the Principessa de Medici or something like that, and don’t be surprised if management sends up an enormous fruit basket or some Dom Perignon. Stretching the truth sometimes has its merits.

  —GG

  sightings

  B paying an excess-baggage fee at the Virgin counter at Heathrow. Souvenirs for friends and loved ones, or was it that oversize wedding dress garment bag? N picking up a few staples, like Visine and condoms, at White’s Pharmacy in East Hampton. D enjoying a very healthy fourveggie smoothie at Soho Natural. Maybe he’s shaping up for swimsuit season? S might want to take a page from his book—after sneaking out of rehearsal early, she headed straight to the Tuleh sample sale near F.I.T. and then made a not-so-brief pit stop at Cold Stone Creamery. Now, now: looking like a star is half the work! Not that she ever has to worry.

  You know you love me.

  gossip girl

  a little bird told me. . . .

  “Nate Archibald. I can’t believe my eyes.”

  “Hey, Chuck,” muttered Nate. On his way home that afternoon, he’d noticed his front tire was a little low on air, so he’d pulled into the BP station on Springs Road. It had been an incredibly hot day, the kind of day with no ocean breeze to break up the haze, so Nate’s hours of backbreaking labor had left him sweaty, sunburned, and exhausted. Judging from the horrified look on Chuck Bass’s smooth, naturally tanned face, Nate figured he must look pretty terrible.

  That’s a first.

&nbs
p; “What happened to you?” gasped Chuck. He pulled his vintage Ray-Ban aviators down the length of his nose and handed the gas station attendant a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Nothing happened, man,” Nate responded, annoyed. He removed the hose from his tire and bounced the bike up and down to check the pressure.

  Despite the thick heat, Chuck Bass was wearing madras board shorts and a gray cashmere hoodie. He looked as perfectly primped as usual, his thick eyebrows arched tidily above his piercing brown eyes, his aftershave-commercial-handsome square chin shaved smooth. He extended a hand to help Nate to his feet.

  “Given up on cars?” Chuck asked, nodding at Nate’s bike. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone green on us.”

  “Yeah.” Nate looked hopefully toward the tastefully gray-shingled BP gas station for someone to save him from Chuck.

  “Let me give you a ride.” Chuck rattled the ice in the plastic cup of chilled mocha latte that he’d drained. “It’s a hundred degrees out and you look like you’ve been through hell. I don’t want to imagine how you’ll look after riding all the way back to Georgica Pond on that bike.”

  Nate weighed his options: half an hour sweating versus ten minutes alone with Chuck Bass?

  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  “Let’s go.” Nate sighed. The thought of Chuck’s air-conditioned dove gray Jag was too hard to resist.

  Chuck unlocked the car’s trunk and Nate stuffed the bike into it—he wasn’t sure it would fit, but the trunk was surprisingly big and they were able to rig it so only the tip of the tire poked through. Nate slid onto the white leather seat and slammed the heavy door, fastening his seat belt and gearing up for the ride.

  Chuck turned on the ignition and the car immediately flooded with cold air and blared Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy.”

  “I’ve been lying on the beach in Sag Harbor all day, feeling retro,” Chuck explained, turning the volume down. “So . . . let’s catch up.”

  “Catch up,” echoed Nate blankly. He could tell from Chuck’s tone of voice that he was going to launch into a barrage of questions. Talking with Chuck was like having a job interview.