“Pick up your suits now!” Owen bellowed in frustration.
“Carlyle is trying to say something to you queens.” Coach poked his head out from the tiny makeshift office in the corner of the locker room. Owen flushed with embarrassment. Crap. So now Coach knew he didn’t even have the guys’ attention.
“Got it, Coach!” Hugh yelled back. He leaned in conspiratorially to the huddled team members. “We’ll continue this conversation after practice. If you guys are good, I might even take you on a little extra-credit field trip,” Hugh said, leading them toward the cardboard box of suits.
“Did you get your suit to say St. Dicks?” Ian McDaniel, a hobbitlike sophomore, asked, glaring at Owen as he pulled a tiny maroon suit from the box. Owen stared at him, mystified. He couldn’t even remember talking to Ian, much less doing anything to offend him.
“Ha-ha, funny,” Owen mumbled, trying to hide his annoyance. “Anyway, guys, I wanted to talk about—”
“Dude, seriously. Skip the speech. I think it’s better if we go out and get a kick start on drills before Coach comes out on deck,” Hugh interrupted. Owen narrowed his eyes at the broad-shouldered, stubble-faced junior.
“Is there a problem here?” Owen brushed his blond hair from his eyes and looked out at the swim team members. Ken Williams had his arms crossed angrily over his expansive stomach, and even Chadwick Jenkins, normally a puppyish freshman who worshipped the ground Owen walked on, was staring at him disapprovingly.
“Yup.” Hugh took a swig of his blue Gatorade and stared up at Owen. The pirate hat partially obscured his eyes.
Owen wasn’t sure if it was the bench or him, but he suddenly felt very shaky. He jumped off the bench and stood, facing Hugh so they were eye to eye.
“I’m going to quote something to you. Are you ready?” Hugh cleared his throat, clearly enjoying the attention. “Bros before hos. Learn it and love it, team,” Hugh declared, glancing around the group of swimmers. One by one, the members of the team nodded in agreement.
Owen felt his stomach plummet. So that was it—the guys were taking Rhys’s side. That’s why they hadn’t shown up on Sunday. They didn’t want to follow Owen. Not to Paragon Sports. Not during practice. Not anywhere.
“And, Owen, let’s be clear: It’s just a quote, so I’m not making any judgments on your current lady friend,” Hugh clarified, grandly stroking his stubbly chin. “But rules are rules. And you broke them. And so, no matter what Coach says, I’m wearing the captain hat. Literally. Thanks for getting this for me, little buddy!” Hugh smiled fondly at Chadwick, tipping his lame pirate hat. Chadwick grinned so widely it looked like his face was going to crack.
“Now that this is settled, let’s go practice,” Hugh said, taking off his maroon St. Jude’s warm-up pants to reveal a St. Dudes Speedo. “Let’s go, boys.”
Methinks I smell a mutiny….
every good story starts with the truth
“This is stapled wrong,” McKenna barked on Tuesday afternoon, disdainfully dropping a pile of editorial calendars on Avery’s desk. Since all of the intern desks were currently occupied by college journalism majors, Avery’s desk was, in fact, a makeshift table set up next to the vending machines in Metropolitan’s alcove kitchen. Luckily, since no one at Metropolitan seemed to eat, the area was very quiet. “Fix it,” she commanded, glaring disdainfully at the pile as if it were a stack of JCPenney catalogs. Some of the papers fluttered to the floor and underneath the vending machine. McKenna rolled her eyes, as if this was yet another example of Avery’s supreme incompetence.
“I’m sorry?” Avery glanced up from a huge pile of business cards she was supposed to organize. She’d raced to Metropolitan as soon as school was over, even packing her Marni hobo bag five minutes before the end of AP English. She’d run out of the class as soon as the bell rang, hailed one of the first cabs idling outside the royal blue doors, and gotten to the office a full twenty minutes before she was officially supposed to be on duty. Her plan had been to sneak into Ticky’s office before Gemma or McKenna saw her.
It hadn’t worked. Gemma had cornered her as soon as she’d walked past the reception desk, and had given her a huge stack of business cards with the assignment to Google all of them and write up reports on her findings. It was so obvious that all the cards were from guys Gemma had either met, hooked up with, or wanted to hook up with, even though she mumbled some explanation about working on a story about guys’ grooming habits.
It was so fucking typical. Over the past week, she’d been McKenna and Gemma’s personal message girl, sent on missions to return fashion mistakes to Barneys and make coffee runs to Starbucks. Once she’d been forced to go to Duane Reade to pick up McKenna’s birth control prescription.
At least we know she’s not procreating.
“Gareth, our creative director, has a problem with asymmetry,” McKenna sniffed, eyeing Avery accusingly. “He wants staples to either be perpendicular or parallel. No exceptions. Could you fix this? It’s important to learn attention to detail.” McKenna was wearing a gorgeous brown Prada sweaterdress that had just been worn by Scarlett Johansson on the cover of the October Elle. If McKenna hadn’t been such a super-bitch, she’d have been pretty, with her flawless skin and so-blond-it-was-almost-white hair.
“I didn’t even staple those,” Avery stated matter-of-factly. Didn’t McKenna realize that copier duty would be a step up from what she was doing now?
“I don’t have time to hear about what you did or did not do,” McKenna said, primly. “Restaple them, then bring them to the editorial meeting in the conference room in ten minutes. Do you think you can handle that, Intern?” McKenna stomped off, glancing disparagingly at the vending machine, as if Avery had single-handedly dragged it in herself, just to be annoying. Well, fine. Avery took a staple remover and savagely stabbed at the offensively asymmetrical staples with it.
Once she was done, her fingers looking like they’d been chewed by baby piranhas, Avery hurriedly shoved the papers into a pile and rushed down the hall to the glass-enclosed conference room. As soon as she saw a few top-level editors huddled over multicolored layouts on the sleek glass conference table, her heart began to thump wildly in her chest. Maybe the stapling assignment wasn’t so crappy after all.
“Here you go.” Avery smiled a slow, let’s all be friends smile around the room and began passing out the calendars to the editors around the table. No one looked up.
“Cheers! Are you a new hire?” A guy with sparkling blue eyes and a Scottish accent smiled as Avery set the sheaf of papers down next to him. He wore a pair of perfectly faded Diesel jeans and a blue wool vest over a checked button-down shirt in an off-duty-rock-star-meets-professor look. On most people, it would look totally dorky, but on this guy it looked intellectual, especially with his light stubble and square jaw. He was actually kind of cute. More than kind of.
Avery smiled broadly. “I’m Avery Carlyle, an—”
“She’s the intern,” McKenna interrupted, snatching the papers from Avery’s hand. “So sorry, James,” McKenna hissed as she ushered Avery to the door. “I’ll deal with you later.” McKenna glanced at her white gold Rolex watch. “Shit, I’ve got to get Ticky!” she exclaimed, flying out of the room and leaving the editorial calendars in a pile on the edge of the conference room table.
“I can see they’re giving you the glamorous work,” James called over. Avery smiled back, unsure whether or not he was making fun of her. She edged toward the back of the conference room, where the associate-level editors were sitting on the floor, obviously not senior enough for the privilege of sitting in the Eames chairs surrounding the conference room table. Surely no one would notice her back here? She settled in a corner next to a giant half-dead potted palm, drawing her knees up to her chest to make herself fit.
Suddenly, all the editors’ heads snapped toward the door of the conference room. Ticky walked in, leaning heavily on McKenna for support, unbalanced on her five-inch, rainbow-colored, sequin-bedazzled pu
mps. She wore a black St. John power suit, and had five Cartier diamond necklaces wrapped around her skinny neck. Her henna-dyed hair was teased into a reddish bouffant above her widow’s peak.
Avery sucked in her breath as Ticky tottered past, unsure whether she should pipe up and say hi or remain incognito. She remembered what Baby said about laying low and chose the latter, leaning even closer into the potted palm.
“McKenna, can you be a doll and pick up my sparkles?” Avery overheard Ticky whisper loudly into McKenna’s ear. Dutifully, McKenna got on her hands and knees and started to pick up the tiny sequins that had fallen off Ticky’s shoes. For a brief moment, Avery was worried that McKenna would see her, but she was too busy scanning the tacky blue industrial carpet. Avery felt a tiny stab of sympathy when she saw McKenna’s couture-clad knees on the floor. It had to suck to spend your workday picking up after your boss.
Says the girl who color-codes lip stains.
“Well, my pets, impress me,” Ticky rasped as she settled into the black leather chair at the head of the conference room table. She folded her hands in front of her and looked around the table expectantly, her eyebrows raised high on her heavily Botoxed forehead. McKenna rushed toward Ticky to deposit a small pile of sequins by her side, then took the seat of honor to the left of Ticky’s chair.
“Well, we had the idea about drunkorexia. It’s like, the new edgy disorder that combines anorexia and alcoholism. Everyone’s talking about it,” Gemma began knowledgeably. “But, what I was thinking is going undercover at Rose Bar and just recording how many drinks girls get and whether or not they order food. We could compare that to men. I think that’d be sort of a scientific way to approach the story,” Gemma began hopefully. From her pale skin, shaky hands, and super-skinny frame, Avery had no doubt Gemma was a drunkorexic herself.
“Or the idea about ex-mates. You know, the people who live together even though they’re so totally over, for real estate?” another assistant suggested hopefully as she pushed a sheaf of papers toward Ticky. She wore American Apparel leggings and a purple Betsey Johnson wool tunic dress that barely covered her ass. Although her look was obviously a tribute to Edie Sedgwick, it pretty much looked like she’d forgotten her pants.
“Drunkorexia and ex-mates.” Ticky laughed bitterly to herself. “Is this your college paper? Is this the ‘I don’t give a fuck’ news? Everyone’s a goddamn drunkorexic in this town. I invented drunkorexia. It’s not news. It’s not Metropolitan.” Ticky angrily pushed herself out of the chair. McKenna practically toppled her chair over to stand and support her, while the other editors pretended to be preoccupied by the editorial calendars on the table.
“No. We need glamour,” Ticky intoned, stopping two feet in front of Avery to address the table. “Intrigue. To remind people that Manhattan still matters. Manhattan. Not Brooklyn or Queens or goddamn Philadelphia. Metropolitan readers live on islands. Remember that,” Ticky lectured. She sounded angry, but Avery thought she could detect a vague sense of wistfulness. Avery could understand. She’d grown up on her grandmother’s photo albums and stories. Ever since she moved here, she’d found herself looking for a New York that didn’t seem to exist: one filled with gracious socialites, a never-ending stream of invitations, and a bevy of male suitors just waiting to whisk her off her feet.
Was she also looking for a time machine to take her back to 1897?
“Well, what about that Cashman Lofts campaign? The girl who’s on the posters—Jacqueline Laurent? She’s something like sixteen, but she’s out every night and of course, she’s gorgeous. The next Tinsley Mortimer,” Alex Abramson, the tall, model-esque, Prada-clad executive editor finally suggested. Avery recognized her from her Ask Alex column. Although it was a totally lame column name, the actual feature was snarky and smart, filled with random advice on everything from how to eat oysters without looking obscene to how to get rid of a social climber who’s obviously using you for your NetJet connection. Alex coolly raised a perfectly groomed blond eyebrow at Ticky, as if daring her to say no.
“She hasn’t gotten much exposure yet, and I think we could break a story on her. She’s from New York, has a wealthy father and a former-dancer mother, her boyfriend is Dick Cashman’s son—think of all the angles,” Alex continued smoothly.
Avery snuck a glance over at Ticky, hoping she’d be shaking her head or rolling her eyes. But no. Ticky was on the edge of her seat, her brown eyes shining in excitement. Avery wanted to scream in frustration. She was tempted to stand up and stomp back to the beauty closet, just so she wouldn’t have to listen to more Jack Laurent worship.
“Isn’t she a bit young?” Ticky finally asked.
Yes, yes, yes! Avery wanted to scream as several of the editors laughed politely.
“Oh, but she’s lovely. Classic beauty. She doesn’t look like a celebutard at all,” Cheryl Katz, the red-haired beauty director, piped up from another end of the table, dashing Avery’s hopes.
A flamboyant man wearing a checkered bow tie, ass-tight black jodhpurs that reached his knee, and a crisp short-sleeve white shirt practically jumped off his chair in excitement.
“Yes, Yves?” Ticky asked, pursing her lips as she nodded to him.
“Think about it, darling! We’d have so many options for shooting. We could do some sort of Old New York glamour thing of her in her town house, then juxtapose it with her against an ultramodern, eco-chic backdrop at the lofts. The possibilities are endless.”
Avery laughed quietly to herself. Now she wanted them to do the story. She couldn’t wait for Yves and the rest of the Metropolitan staff to see the crumbling plaster ceiling and rickety staircase that were all part of the tacky walk-up garret Jack lived in with her mom.
Suddenly, Avery noticed all eyes were curiously looking down at her.
“Yes?” Yves asked, sounding pissed. Uh-oh. Avery hadn’t realized she’d laughed out loud.
“Sorry!” she exclaimed, scooting away from the potted plant only to find her hair tangled in one of the half-dead leaves. “I mean, I just know Jack Laurent, and her life’s not really like that,” she explained, finally yanking her blond strands free.
“How do you know her?” Alex asked curiously, gazing down at Avery with her cool blue eyes. “And, forgive me, but who are you?”
“Sorry. Um. Yes. I’m an intern,” Avery explained. “My name’s Avery Carlyle. I’ve been mostly in the closet. I mean, the beauty closet! I mean, I’m just learning a lot,” Avery babbled.
So much for old-fashioned poise.
“Avery Carlyle!” Ticky exclaimed delightedly, tottering over to Avery’s corner and reaching her spindly arm down to help Avery stand up. Avery quickly pulled herself to her feet, not wanting to be responsible for breaking Ticky’s frail arm.
With her luck…
“Hi Ticky,” Avery greeted her awkwardly, aware that all eyes were on them.
“I’ve been passing-out busy these past few days, but you’d think someone would tell me you were here!” Ticky glared at the editors around the table. “You have to forgive me—and these morons. We’ve all been killing ourselves getting the past beast of an issue out the door—I haven’t even had time to smoke.
“McKenna, move,” Ticky announced flatly. “Avery, darling, sit next to me.” McKenna flashed her McBitchiest smile at Avery as she scooted out of the chair. Avery cautiously hovered near the table, unsure what to do.
“Avery, sit,” Ticky commanded.
Good girl!
“Now then, the glamour girls of Manhattan,” Ticky mused thoughtfully. “See, that’s a Metropolitan story. That’s why I have Alex and Yves on the payroll. The question is, why do I bother with the rest of you?” Ticky shook her head sadly. “Avery, since you’re in Jack Laurent’s world, you’re on the story with James. He’s my best reporter. We’ll crash it into next week’s issue.” She clapped her hands together. “I’m so glad some people around here have ideas. Meeting dismissed.”
Avery locked eyes with James, the cute repor
ter who’d made fun of her intern status earlier.
“You don’t say no to Ticky.” James winked one of his blue eyes at Avery. “Let’s meet on Wednesday to discuss?” he asked across the table so everyone could hear. Avery nodded giddily.
It’s a date!
meanwhile, back at the lofts
“Hello?” Jack yelled as she opened the door to her penthouse apartment Monday night. She’d just come from an afternoon ballet class across town, and she was sweaty, exhausted, and hungry. She was hoping J.P. was still at squash practice so she could take a long, hot shower, change into something sexy, and meet him at the door with a drink.
“Hey, gorgeous, I missed you!”
Jack smiled tightly. Sitting in the middle of the newspaper-strewn floor was J.P., clad in a pair of black Riverside Prep track pants and his dorky yellow Riverside Prep Squash polo shirt. The dog was yapping and jumping around him excitedly.
“Look, she can fetch!” J.P. exclaimed, taking a red rubber bone and throwing it toward Jack. It hit her hard in the knee.
“Great,” Jack said faintly. Couldn’t he forget about the dog for a second? It had been like that last night, too. Every time they left it in its organic cotton doggie bed in the kitchen, the puppy would start whining until finally they had to wedge it between them in bed to get it to fall asleep.
“I named her, too,” J.P. announced, picking up the dog and walking over to Jack. “I thought Magellan might be cute, even if she is a girl. Just because she’s so good at discovering things.” J.P. held up a pair of chewed-up black velvet Tory Burch flats like a trophy. “She found your shoes. She had to dig way into the closet to get them, too,” he added proudly.
“What the fuck?” Jack asked, snatching the shoes away. Thank goodness they were ancient. Still, the dog had fucking eaten her shoes and J.P. was rewarding it with a lame name?