“Anyway, you need to teach Jiffy a thing or two. She needs a man to take care of her. That girl has no common sense,” Beatrice shook her head fondly. Jack narrowed her eyes. Was Jiffy’s skanky sister insinuating she was choosing men for their money?
“J.P.’s been my boyfriend for years,” she clarified firmly.
“Then so much the better, darling!” Beatrice said easily. “We’re going to go to the bar. Deptford gets cranky if we get home past ten.” A shadow of a frown crossed Beatrice’s face, only to be replaced by a fake-looking smile as she swanned off.
“So, when do you think we can go upstairs?” Jack asked, arching an eyebrow at J.P.
“There you kids are!” Candice interrupted, grabbing both of their elbows and ushering them over to a VIP section that was cordoned off by a velvet rope and surrounded by two poster-size photographs of Jack. They were shots that hadn’t been used in the campaign yet, of her wearing an emerald-green Prada raincoat and frolicking in one of the fountains flanking the Cashman Lofts courtyard. It didn’t look like Jack was wearing anything under the coat. It had seemed cool at the time, but looking at the photos in the dim light of the lobby, they almost looked trashy, like Jack was some pervy flasher. She turned away. Luckily, right behind her was a waiter bearing champagne and green-colored cocktails. She grabbed one of each.
Bottoms up!
“We have some interviews for you kids to do with press. We’re setting it up in the penthouse, out of the way of this circus. We’re sort of seeing you as the new Donald Trump and Ivana,” Candice cooed, playing with Jack’s auburn hair.
Jack stiffened. They were doing interviews in her apartment?
“In the glamour years, of course. Pre-1985,” Jeannette clarified, typing furiously on her BlackBerry as if to make a note of that. Jack resisted the urge to pour the rest of her champagne down Candice’s tight black silk Dior blouse. What if she didn’t want to be the next Ivana Trump? Wasn’t Ivana Trump tacky?
And aren’t J.P.’s parents already the new Donald and Ivana?
“Come,” Candice urged. Jack grabbed another glass of champagne. She was going to need it.
Better take the whole bottle.
beautiful enemies
“Thanks.” Avery attempted to gracefully exit the Lincoln Town Car onto the red carpet that lined the sidewalk outside the Cash-man Lofts on Friday night. Her heart skipped a beat as James steadied her elbow while she found her footing in her killer black satin peep-toe Prada pumps, which she’d paired with a black lace Diane von Furstenberg dress. She smiled as she noticed the rows of photographers, furiously taking pictures of all the party attendees. When she’d heard about the party, she’d imagined it would be filled mostly with no-name media and real estate types, but it seemed everyone in New York City—not to mention half of Hollywood—was here. Before tonight, the closest she’d come to an honest-to-God red carpet was the annual lobster cookout sponsored by the Nantucket Fire Department. This was a billion times better. She flashed a megawatt smile at James.
“James!” Gemma, who Avery knew was working the party, ran up to them from the other end of the red carpet. She wore boring black pants and a black blouse with a clunky headset behind her ears. Vines were braided into her hair, a lame attempt at matching the party’s jungle theme.
“Hi Gemma!” Avery air-kissed Gemma’s pale cheek, as if she were thrilled to see her. “How’s work?” she added bitchily.
“Here are your press credentials,” Gemma handed them two dorky name badges. “Ticky wants you to do some interviews with Jack Laurent. She just got in.” Gemma rolled her eyes, clearly hating her role as messenger. Avery grinned. Who was the intern now?
Technically, still her?
“Lovely, thank you.” James kissed Gemma on the cheek. “Maybe we’ll bring you some champagne. If you’re good!” he said, smiling flirtatiously at Gemma.
What? Avery frowned. Was James flirting with Gemma?
They walked through the lofts lobby, skirting the vines hanging from the ceiling and the leopard- and zebra-print sofas placed around the room. Performers dressed in giraffe and zebra costumes walked around, looking lost among the dozens of couture-clad guests milling about the lobby-turned-jungle-oasis.
“I want you to be my eyes and ears,” James said, leaning toward Avery’s ear, suddenly all business. “Things can always get spectacularly cocked up at parties, if you know what I mean.” Avery nodded, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. Cocked up? Did something get lost in translation?
Or is someone thinking below the belt?
“Follow Jack and see what she does, who she says things to, and where she goes post-party. Follow her to the loo. Be as friendly and natural as possible. You want it so when she’s talking, it’s like she’s talking to herself. Get inside her brain. Consider this your crash course in journalism, kid,” James instructed. “Here you go.” He handed Avery a glass of champagne taken from a passing waiter. “Now, be a good girl and do me proud. I have to do the usual cocktail party loop. Tragic, really.” James shook his head.
“Sure,” Avery said numbly. Why didn’t he want to hang out with her? And was she really expected to follow Jack Laurent around? The room was so crowded she doubted she’d even find her.
“Okay, babe. You’ll be okay?” James asked. But he was already swaggering through the crowd, pushing past people to try to get to the VIP room on the side of the lobby.
“Organic lamb burger?” A tuxedoed waiter held up a silver platter to Avery’s nose. She grabbed one of the tiny burgers and unhappily took a bite. Suddenly James seemed less like an attentive date and more like a self-centered reporter using her for his story.
“Avery!” Ticky strode up on her infamous five-inch sparkly Miu Miu heels, leaving a trail of sequins in her wake. Only Ticky could get away with wearing the same pair of shoes so often, because she wore them with an I don’t give a fuck attitude, like she was so fabulous of course only sparkly shoes would do.
Of course.
She was clinging to the hand of a man who was six inches shorter and probably twenty years younger. He had neatly groomed yellow-white hair and wore a crisp white suit that was cut to fit his diminutive frame. “Avery, darling, this is Bailey Winter, the designer. He agreed to follow this old battleship around all night!” Ticky exclaimed.
“Darling, there’s no one else I’d rather follow!” Bailey Winter protested, waving a hand in the air.
Avery smiled uncertainly. She knew that Bailey Winter was an important fashion designer and normally, she’d have been thrilled to meet him. But now that she’d been abandoned by James, she felt shy, like Ticky might decide on the spot that she’d been wrong about assigning her the story: that she was simply not Metropolitan material.
“Hi,” she finally mustered. She noticed McKenna trailing behind the two of them, carrying Ticky’s silver Prada clutch in one hand and Bailey Winter’s huge black Prada satchel over her shoulder. She had the same dorky-looking walkie-talkie as Gemma.
“You’re all alone!” Ticky noticed, leaning in to air-kiss Avery. Ticky smelled like cigarettes, scotch, and those hard butterscotch candies Avery’s grandmother always used to eat.
“Yes, that’s so sad, Avery. At least you found the food!” McKenna smiled fakely. Avery glowered. Of course McKenna had to see her standing around like a friendless loser, feeding her sorrows with organic calories.
“I’m actually here with James. He and I are just… covering different people,” Avery lied.
“Pshaw!” Ticky waved her red-manicured hand wildly in the air. Her hair didn’t move from its lacquered bouffant, the same style Avery’s grandmother used to wear to special events.
Noting something was wrong, Ticky rested a bony hand on Avery’s bare shoulder. “You’ve learned the hard way, darling. James is a fantastic reporter, but he’s a fucking celebrosexual. You can’t take him anywhere.” Ticky rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “So forget whatever orders James gave you and just have fu
n tonight. Circulate! Mingle! Your job is to be the fabulous face of Metropolitan. Someone has to be. No matter how many refreshers I’ve gotten from Dr. Antell, my face won’t cut it anymore,” Ticky added ruefully.
“Thanks,” Avery said numbly.
“Now, I have to make sure everyone knows I’m here and not dead yet.”
“My dear, your life has only just begun!” Bailey Winter exclaimed, leading Ticky over to the bar.
“Have fun!” Ticky commanded again, looking over her shoulder before she disappeared into the crowd.
Avery nodded, then moved safely out of Ticky’s view. She navigated her way past the spindly, weird-looking trees set up for the occasion and toward an exit sign. She just needed some air.
“Did you want to see the penthouse?” A blond girl standing near the elevators asked, clearly noting the dorky press badge she and James had been given at the door.
“Sure,” Avery agreed curiously. Wasn’t the penthouse where Jack was living?
“Great,” the girl enthused, holding the elevator door open for Avery. “You can just go up. I believe Jack Laurent is there giving interviews.”
“Perfect,” Avery murmured, watching the girl press P. So she was going to find Jack after all.
The elevator door opened into a cavernous, all-white and gray loft space. Cameras were set up in one corner. Jack and J.P. were obviously being interviewed. J.P. was gesticulating wildly, looking like he was having the time of his life. Jack was smiling, but something seemed off.
“You’re press?” A woman placed a manicured hand on Avery’s shoulder.
“Yeah. I mean, yes. From Metropolitan,” Avery said, appraising the skinny, black-clad woman in front of her. The woman’s face broke into a smile.
“Oh, Metropolitan. Lovely. I’m Jeannette. With the lofts. I suppose you want to speak to Jack and J.P.?”
“Um, no. I mean, it looks like they’re busy,” Avery said. Suddenly, coming up here seemed like a stupid idea. She really didn’t want to talk to Jack one-on-one.
Jeannette regarded her curiously. “Nonsense. I want them to speak to Metropolitan. They’re just finishing up a Harper’s interview now, but I’ll come fetch you when they’re done. Perhaps you’d like to take a peek around? The views from the terrace are quite lovely,” Jeannette said, grabbing the crook of her arm and pulling her toward the terrace.
Outside, Avery gazed up at the larger-than-life billboard of Jack. In the photograph, she looked beautiful and sweet, a girl who’d never make someone’s life a living hell just because she could.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” Jeannette said, following Avery’s gaze. “I’ll see if they’re through. In the meantime, is there anything I can get you?”
Avery shook her head, transfixed by the billboard. Even though it was sort of her job and the reason she was here, she still couldn’t quite believe she’d be forced to interview Jack.
“Avery.”
Avery whirled around and saw Jack, standing alone by the terrace door, her auburn hair hanging loose around her shoulders. “Hi, Jack,” Avery said stiffly.
“Well, let’s get this over with. I can’t believe they’re making me do an interview with an intern,” Jack sniffed. She thought she’d seen Avery and some older guy at the bar, but had immediately dismissed it. Because why the fuck would Avery Carlyle be at the Cashman Lofts launch party, an event so exclusive even she couldn’t get any of her friends in? And now, it turned out that Avery was interviewing her.
“I’m glad we have the chance to talk,” Avery began, hating how fake she sounded. She remembered what James had said, about cornering Jack. Even though he was rude and self-obsessed, now was the time to really get some good quotes and impress the hell out of him and Ticky. “I don’t know how you do these things all the time without just freaking out,” she added, hoping the sympathy route would get Jack to open up. “I would.”
“It’s not that hard.” Jack rolled her eyes. Was Avery for real? And what could Avery possibly have to freak out about? “Why aren’t you with your boyfriend?” she asked, remembering the older dude she’d seen with Avery.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Avery replied smoothly. She cringed as she said it. “Why aren’t you out here with your boyfriend?” Avery countered.
“I need a minute without him,” Jack said tightly. She took a drag of her cigarette. “Want a smoke?” She pulled a pack of Merits from her gold quilted Louis Vuitton purse, knowing she’d say no. That was the thing. Avery wouldn’t be so god-damn annoying if she weren’t so good. Hopefully the threat of carcinogens would make the pure-lunged Avery leave her alone.
“Sure.” Avery held out her hand and smiled. Jack raised an eyebrow. Avery certainly was full of surprises. Jack carefully lit the cigarette with her own and passed it over to Avery.
Just then, Jeannette opened the door of the terrace. “We’ve got some other press who wants to speak with you. Do you think you’ll be a while?” Jeannette asked, wrinkling her nose at Jack and Avery’s cigarettes.
“No,” Avery said.
“Yes,” Jack overrode her. “We haven’t even started yet.”
Avery narrowed her eyes. Was Jack asking for more time with her?
“Okay.” Jeannette’s lips were pursed in disapproval.
“These interviews are kind of lame. No offense,” Jack sighed after Jeanette had left. “I really don’t feel like doing any more.”
“It’s fine. I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Avery confessed.
“I wish I did.” Jack shrugged, taking another drag. “Also, you’re kind of lucky you don’t have a boyfriend.” She remembered back when she could flirt with whomever she wanted.
For the one week she was single?
“What do you mean?” Avery inhaled, then began to cough, finally dropping the cigarette on the slate floor and stomping it with the toe of her Prada pump. She was all for being friendly with Jack to make her spill, but she didn’t want to sacrifice her lungs for it.
“I don’t smoke.” She smiled and shrugged.
“I shouldn’t.” Jack frowned. “I’ve just been stressed out this week,” she added, lighting up another cigarette.
“Why?” The question came out sounding like a complaint. It was hard to feel sorry for Jack. After all, she was an almost professional ballerina, had a super-hot, perfect boyfriend, and a fledgling modeling career. What could she possibly have to stress about? Which designer sample dress to wear every night?
“This whole Cashman Lofts thing is just weird. I mean, I love the apartment, but it sort of feels like I’m married to J.P.” A frown crossed Jack’s face and Avery nodded sympathetically, even though she didn’t understand the problem with that.
“Please don’t use that in an interview. I mean, it’s just that everything’s happening really fast,” Jack clarified, almost as if she were talking to herself. It was sort of nice to let someone know what she was thinking. If she’d told this to Genevieve or Jiffy, they’d think she was crazy. And maybe she was. Who wouldn’t love a rent-free apartment, a loving boyfriend, and millions of invites to the hottest parties in town?
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing,” Jack added. “I mean, my mom is this super-crazy dramatic French ex-ballerina who moved to Paris this past week to be on a soap opera. And I can’t even deal with that because I’m so busy dealing with a dog that eats my shoes and a boyfriend who never wants to leave the house and his crazy, no-boundaries parents and just… all of this!” she wailed, then began laughing. Her life sounded so ridiculous, it was kind of hard not to.
“That’s not bad. All parents are embarrassing. I mean, my mom’s a crazy artist who collects glass octopus sculptures,” Avery offered.
“I know.” Jack nodded, remembering the absurd dinner party she’d gone to at the Carlyles’, where Avery’s mom had been raving about her octopuses. Suddenly, they both started laughing. It was almost like they were having fun. Next thing she knew, she’d be telling Avery she was
a virgin.
Maybe they could start a club!
“But you’re still living by yourself in an awesome apartment,” Avery reminded her, trying to get back into interview mode. She had to stay on track. Still, she couldn’t help thinking of some of the sentences from James’s article. Jack might be self-centered and competitive, but she definitely wasn’t sleeping with her boyfriend’s dad. Avery felt the champagne swirl in her empty stomach. But what could she do about it?
“An awesome apartment that’s like The Situation Room right now. I mean, honestly, it’s just a billboard.” Jack glanced up at her larger-than-life image. “What you’re doing seems cool, though. As long as you don’t write anything bad about me,” Jack laughed uncertainly.
“Don’t worry,” Avery said faintly, even though she felt like she could throw up right now. Jack had no idea just how bad the article would be.
“I’d understand if you did. Look, I know I was kind of a bitch. That’s the way I am.” Jack shrugged, then stamped out her cigarette. “But I’m sorry.” She looked straight ahead into the night air.
“Thanks,” Avery said, suddenly shivering. It wasn’t as if Jack had really chosen to be on the billboard… and now, everyone in New York was going to think she’d slept her way to a free apartment. With her boyfriend’s dad, no less. Suddenly James, for all his talk of journalistic excellence, was seeming like the true villain, while Jack was… well, no angel. But also not as evil as Avery had made her out to be.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Jack asked shyly. “We can pretend we’re doing an in-depth interview. If we’re together, no one can bitch at us for not doing whatever the fuck we’re supposed to be doing. And I really need another drink.” Jack offered a tentative smile.
Avery nodded. It actually sounded like the best plan she’d heard all night.
“Let’s do it!” Jack turned on her heel and Avery followed behind her. After a few glasses of champagne, she could just forget all about James and Gemma and Ticky and the whole Metropolitan article.