“She didn’t know any better!” J.P. exclaimed, scooping up the puppy. He held out its paw, making it wave at Jack. “She says she’s sorry. Anyway, you know how my dad likes naming our dogs after explorers.” He shrugged. It was true. For some reason, Dick Cashman’s dogs—Nemo, Shackleton and Darwin—were all named after real or imaginary explorers, a fact he’d readily tell anyone who asked. “Are you and Magellan friends again?”
“Where are we going to dinner?” Jack asked, changing the subject. Her ballet class had been intense, and she was starving. “Maybe Gramercy Tavern?” she suggested. She couldn’t wait to share a bottle of wine, eat a huge steak, and cuddle in a cozy leather booth while other couples eyed them jealously.
“Oh.” J.P. frowned and placed Magellan near Jack’s feet. The dog let out a low-pitched whine and ran away from Jack. “I thought we could make dinner tonight. You know, to christen our kitchen.”
“Fine,” Jack sighed, trying to rein in her frustration. That was not the type of christening Jack had had in mind, but in a way, it was kind of sweet that J.P. loved being so domestic. Her mom was a histrionic French dancer who had subsisted on eight hundred calories a day for the past two decades, so Jack had learned how to order in by the time she was eight. Why make food if so many people were willing to do it for you?
“I printed out some recipes,” J.P. continued, pulling a sheaf of papers from the counter and handing them to her: lamb tagine, goat cheese bread pudding… Jack continued to riffle through the Epicurious.com printouts, a smile slowly curling her lips. They could actually make all this stuff? The recipes sounded like food she’d actually order.
“We can really do this?” Jack asked, glancing from the recipes up to J.P.’s face. She suddenly revised her evening fantasy. Instead, they’d be huddled together by the counter, their hips touching. J.P. would reach over her shoulder to add a dash of whatever spice you cooked with and then suddenly, he’d press her against the counter and…
“Sure,” J.P. replied confidently.
A little too confidently?
He began rummaging through the Sub-Zero refrigerator, pulling various ingredients out. Jack spotted several unopened bottles of organic wine on the counter, clearly another house-warming present. She eagerly picked one up, pulled a corkscrew from a drawer, and plunged it into the bottle.
“Wine?” she asked sweetly.
J.P. nodded absently, his brow furrowed in consternation as he squinted at the recipe. He dislodged ingredients from the cupboards, throwing them into the bright orange Le Creuset pot sitting on the six-burner range. He alternately mixed and added, every so often consulting the recipe like it held the secrets to life.
Jack tried to conceal her boredom. “Come over here,” she needled, setting the two glasses of wine at the opposite end of the counter. What was the point of preparing a romantic dinner if there was no romance involved?
“One second,” J.P. said, a little brusquely. “I mean, let me just finish,” he amended. Jack sulkily drained her glass of wine, then refilled it.
Finally, J.P. stopped whatever he was doing and sat down next to her. Jack realized she’d already downed her second glass of wine.
“So, we’re all alone…” Jack began, rubbing his ankle with her foot.
“Aren’t you glad we stayed in?” J.P. asked huskily. He leaned toward Jack, and she could smell his familiar, delicious scent of eucalyptus.
“Yes,” Jack said, kissing him. Suddenly, she forgot all her annoyances.
Just then Jack heard a splashing sound. She pulled away and glanced toward the stove. The pot was bubbling over, sending cascades of water onto the floor.
Magellan emitted a low-pitched whine, then crouched and began peeing on the floor, as if to add to the flood.
“Shit!” J.P. said as he hurried toward the stove and quickly turned off the burner. A faint burning smell hung in the air. He grabbed a roll of recycled paper towels and threw them on the floor. The scratchy brown paper slowly absorbed all the water. Next, J.P. moved over to the small puddle Magellan had left, adjacent to the counter. Jack looked away, not wanting to watch as her handsome boyfriend knelt to mop up dog pee.
When he was finished cleaning, J.P. offered a small smile. “You want to choose the recipe this time?”
“Let’s just order,” Jack sighed, completely forgetting about their kiss just a moment ago.
“Okay. You pick somewhere and I’ll take the dog for a walk.” J.P. was already clipping the Louis Vuitton leash around Magellan’s Swarovski crystal–bedecked collar, another gift courtesy of Tatyana.
“Sure,” Jack said, not even saying goodbye as she took another swig of her wine. She picked up a menu for a gross diner nearby. Right now, all she wanted was a greasy grilled cheese and fries, and she wanted them fast. She was happy to have the apartment to herself for a little bit.
And who said there was never such a thing as being too close?
hey people!
We’ve been doing it since our very first day in preschool at All Souls on Lexington, and now that we’re older, it’s the one game we still play. I’m talking about playing house, and once the houses are real, it gets really interesting. Whether it’s a sprawling cottage on Sea Island, a pied-à-terre on Madison, or a villa in Tuscany, one rule remains the same: With great real estate comes great responsibility. Especially when it comes to throwing a housewarming party, like the one planned for this Friday night at the Cashman Lofts—the building’s big unveiling. Here are some helpful housekeeping hints to keep in mind, for the next time you want to plan a party:
Designate rooms. Creating a solid floor plan is key. No party is complete without a VIP room, so make sure to put the good booze in a special place, for your special guests—leave the Cosmos for the girls who were lucky just to score an invite. Most importantly, lock the master bedroom. Left unguarded, someone is guaranteed to have sex on your parents’ thousand-thread-count silk sheets, or throw up on the antique Turkish rug.
Institute a tough door policy. If your home is your castle, it’s up to you to choose your court. Let your doorman know who can come in and who can’t—he’ll be happy to play bouncer for the night.
Make it look easy. The goal of any party is to make your guests think this is how you live all the time. First, scan the house with a critical eye.
Hide all evidence of your childhood and your parents’ weird hobbies (that means the nutcracker collection has to go). Hire a cleaning service for both before and after the party, but make sure the place still feels lived-in, otherwise you’ll look totally OCD.
And most important of all: While the people you’ve so wisely hired are prepping the place, make yourself look great. After all, you’re the centerpiece!
your e-mail
q: Hey girl!
When and where exactly is the party?
—buzzbuzz
a: Dear Buzz,
If you don’t know, then you probably weren’t invited. Sorry!
—GG
a: Dear Gossip Girl,
I work for this really cool fashion mag, and now we have an intern who’s getting all the credit for, like, major feature stories. Our editor so obvi loves her, which is super unfortch for the rest of us. It’s not like I’m jealy or anything, but she’s, like, eight years old. WTF?
—madddd
a: Dear M,
Sounds like there might indeed be a case of, um, jealy-ness going on. Regardless of the intern’s age, have you ever thought she just may have a better grasp of the English language than you?
—GG
sightings
B and some crazy-haired lady at a natural foods store in the village, stocking up on essential oils and bottles of green stuff that resembles mulch. Taking the green movement a little too literally?… O sucking K’s lips off near the Romeo and Juliet statue in Central Park. Symbolic, or convenient?… J and her sometimes besties, S.J., the other J, and G, in the VIP rooms of parties at Bungalow, the Eldridge, and Beatrice—all in the same
night. It pays to have friends—or boyfriends—in high places!… A and her new mentor, Ticky Bensimmon-Heart, heading toward Ticky’s chauffeured Mercedes S-Class waiting outside the Dennen building. Looks like A’s acing her crash course in office politics…. R sitting with a Hacky Sack on a bench by the East Lawn, looking dejected, then heading home. Sad!
one more note
Now it’s time for a housekeeping rule of my own: No matter how fabulous my surroundings, it’s always my goal to make me more fabulous. So with that in mind, I’m heading to Cornelia Day Resort for an oxygen clarifying masque and a honey citrus body polish. Remember: A little cleanup goes a long way!
You know you love me,
gossip girl
healing is where the heart is
The sun was high over the park at noon on Tuesday, but Baby couldn’t stop shivering. She pulled her baggy red Nantucket High sweatshirt closer around her skinny frame and leaned against the stone wall of Engineers Gate, the official entrance to the Central Park Reservoir. She’d been following Ophelia’s regimen of essential oil application and juice fasting, which meant she could only drink premade green smoothies of juiced lettuce, cucumbers, and apples. But instead of feeling energized and in control, she felt greasy, hungry, and tired.
And crazier than ever?
Mustering up her energy, Baby shuffled up the steps leading to the reservoir and stepped onto the pebble-covered surface of the running trail. Ugh. She felt dizzy.
“Babs! Hold on a sec!” Coach Mann, the unfortunately named female gym teacher, sprinted up the steps after her. She grabbed Baby’s long, tangled brown hair in an attempt to stop her from taking off.
“Ow!” Baby rubbed her head.
“I didn’t hurt you, Babs,” Coach countered calmly. “You aren’t running today. Come with me,” she said, marching Baby back down the steps while twirling her pink, smiley face sticker–covered whistle in a figure-eight pattern.
“Yes, sir!” Baby whispered under her breath. Ever since school had started, Coach Mann had insisted on calling her Babs, which made her feel like some fifty-nine-year-old gum-smacking waitress from Oklahoma. She obediently followed Coach to a shady spot under an elm tree.
“I heard that Baby has, like, this really weird commun icable disease. That’s why she’s only been drinking green juice. It’s because she’s not allowed to touch anything in the cafeteria,” Baby overheard Jiffy Bennett whisper to Chelsy Chapin, a small, pug-nosed sophomore.
Baby glowered. It was so unfair! There was so much psychological warfare going on amongst all these bitchy girls, and she was the one Mrs. McLean recommended for therapy.
“Babs, I’m worried about you,” Coach barked, as if expressly for the listening pleasure of the gaggle of tenth graders huddled by the water fountain, not even pretending to stretch. “You haven’t looked so good recently. Are you in some sort of trouble? You can talk to me,” Coach added generously, as if Baby would really spill her deepest darkest secrets to Coach Mann. She had a salt-and-pepper mullet, and sort of looked like Mel Gibson, except for her humongous boobs.
“Is it drugs?” Coach Mann asked, narrowing her eyes into even smaller slits, obviously enjoying the interrogation process. “I want to help you, Babs.”
“Thanks,” Baby hedged. Everything suddenly seemed far too complicated to explain, and Baby was too tired. “I think I need to go to the nurse,” she lied, running out of the park. She glanced behind her, half expecting to see Coach Mann chasing after her. Instead, there were just a few nannies pushing strollers, a guy running his golden Lab, and squirrels jumping in and out of the bushes. Baby sighed. Maybe she really should go to the nurse, she realized as she stood on the corner, waiting for the WALK sign on the other side of Eighty-sixth Street. She felt weird, like her brain wasn’t completely connected to her body.
“Baby!”
She squinted to see Sydney on the other side of the crosswalk. She wore knee-high boots and a red peace sign T-shirt under her Constance blazer, and she carried oversize stereo headphones attached to her silver iPod nano. She looked like she was on her way to DJ at an underground Williamsburg club.
“Double photog?” Baby called, glancing at the digital camera swinging from Sydney’s wrist.
Sydney crossed her eyes. “That’s what Mr. Beckham would like to think. I actually went to hang out with Webber uptown,” Sydney answered. Her boyfriend was a sophomore at Columbia. Baby had hung out with him and his friends when she and Sydney were working on Rancor last month.
“I love how we only see each other when we’re ditching school. Great minds think alike!” Sydney yelled. She didn’t seem to care that pedestrians could hear every word she was calling across the crosswalk. Baby smiled, feeling more energized than she had all day. She loved hanging out with Sydney, who simply didn’t give a fuck.
The sign changed to WALK, and Baby followed the hordes of tourists across the street.
“Picture!” Sydney called as they met in the middle, holding out the camera and snapping a picture of Baby. Sydney pulled it back and frowned at the small screen. “God, you look like hell,” she remarked.
“Get out of the way!” A cab beeped and Baby realized they were still standing in the middle of the crosswalk.
“Fuck you!” Sydney yelled as she took the crook of Baby’s elbow and ran her across the street.
“What’s wrong?” Sydney’s heavily lined eyes narrowed sharply, as if she’d just noticed something was seriously amiss with Baby. “Are you using some of your sister’s beauty products? Because they totally don’t work on you. Your face is really oily,” Sydney remarked matter-of-factly. She stuck her index finger on Baby’s cheek, then held it in front of Baby’s face triumphantly. Even Baby was a little grossed out at the shininess of Sydney’s finger.
“Thanks,” Baby replied sarcastically. She was so not in the mood for this.
“Dude, what’s up with the bitch vibe?” Sydney remarked calmly. “Are you okay? And why aren’t you in class? You’re a bad influence.” She smirked.
“No, I just ran out,” Baby explained. She giggled. It was sort of funny, when she thought about it.
“You made a run for it during gym? I love it! You’re such a rebel. Remind me why you haven’t been kicked out yet?” Sydney smiled, clearly teasing.
Baby looked into Sydney’s large, expressive eyes and suddenly wanted to explain everything to her. “I’m going to get kicked out if I don’t finish my therapy sessions,” she said, close to tears. “I just don’t know what to do!” she added in a rush of words.
“Oh my God. You need to come with me. You need to take a shower, you need to eat, and you need to just chill the fuck out,” Sydney said kindly. She stuck out her hand and expertly hailed a cab sailing down Fifth Avenue.
“Ninety-third and West End,” Sydney announced without taking an eye off Baby. Then, Sydney stuck her nose up in the air and inhaled deeply. “Do you have air freshener?” She stuck her head through the Plexiglas partition of the cab. The cabbie nodded wordlessly and passed an aerosol spray can back to her.
“No offense,” Sydney remarked. Baby shook her head. Honestly, now that they were in a closed space, she could sort of smell the essential oils on herself.
“Give me that!” Baby wrestled the aerosol container away from Sydney and sprayed it liberally on herself.
“Here’s where I live. Welcome to the Upper West Side,” Sydney said as the cab stopped in front of a crumbling but distinguished-looking redbrick building. “My mom’s a therapist and my dad writes a column on manners for the Style section of the New York Times, but he lives in DC. It’s the only way their marriage works.” Sydney smirked and escorted Baby into the old-fashioned cage elevator and pressed five.
“This is nice,” Baby exclaimed as Sydney flung open the door to a bright and airy apartment. Unlike the apartments she’d seen on the Upper East Side, which reminded her of museum exhibits with their Louis XIV–style furniture, Sydney’s apartment looked lived-in and comfortabl
e. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked the hallways, holding first editions and galleys of books, and the walls were covered with art.
“You. Shower.” Sydney pointed inside the large old-fashioned bathroom. A claw-footed tub stood in the center of the room. Sydney marched onto the black and white tiled floor and turned on the water. Quickly, steam filled up the room. “Promise you won’t faint?” Sydney commanded. Baby shook her head and closed the door.
Finally, Baby emerged from the bathroom. Sydney had thoughtfully left clothes folded on a wicker hamper, so Baby wore a ripped Lollapalooza ’93 T-shirt and a loose black American Apparel skirt. She felt more like herself than she had the past few days.
“So much better,” Sydney cried in relief once Baby wandered into the cheerful blue-and-white kitchen. “I definitely earned my gold star with you for today. You were a mess.”
“That’s what happens when I don’t eat. Food?” Baby asked hopefully, glancing at the pine cabinets. The kitchen reminded Baby of their Nantucket home. Instead of feeling a pang of homesickness, though, she felt relaxed.
“Here you go.” Sydney nodded matter-of-factly at a goat cheese and arugula salad sitting on the counter
“You made that?” Baby asked in disbelief. Sydney was full of surprises.
Besides her inappropriate piercings?
“Yeah, I just put on my wifey apron and whipped up lunch. No, you dumbass, I ordered!” Sydney rolled her large brown eyes as she plucked a cherry tomato from the top of Baby’s salad, popped it in her mouth, and sat down. She chewed thoughtfully. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got a whole lot of crap.” Sydney shrugged and motioned toward two more takeout containers. “Do you feel better? And why the fuck were you on a starvation diet? Was it because Mrs. McLean’s on vacation this week and you were pining for her?”