In Too Deep (17 page)

“What do you mean?” Mad asked, dropping her voice and leaning slightly closer.

Sophie felt the words she had been dying to speak catch in her throat—a secret for too long, they were hard-pressed to come out. Breathing in deeply, she looked away from Madison and from the camera just in time to catch Casey and Phoebe, as they held up copies of fashion magazines to their faces like masks, and proceeded to walk around the clothes racks like zombies. The sight of her two friends acting like such complete crazies in one of the chicest stores in Manhattan made a torrent of giggles rise up from the pit of Sophie’s stomach, and in trying to keep them down, those other, secret words spilled out.

“A few weeks ago my parents told me . . . that I’m adopted.”

Madison’s face froze into a perfect, beautiful mask, her features as white and smooth as a vat of vanilla ice cream. “No shit,” she whispered, squeezing Sophie’s arm more tightly. “Are you okay about it?”

Madison asking if she was okay was about as weird as Yves Saint Laurent coming back from the dead to pin her pantsuit himself. Sophie tried to ignore the fact that her best friend had clearly become a pod person, and took a deep breath before continuing. Why was this still so uncomfortable to talk about? She’d told the Pulse bigwigs and Casey so far—shouldn’t saying “I’m adopted” out loud be getting easier at this point?

“I guess,” Sophie shrugged, avoiding Madison’s gaze, “but that’s not the weirdest part. My bio mom . . . is Melissa Von Norton.”

Madison’s green eyes widened. “Are you
kidding
me?” she said breathily. “She’s like my favorite actress in the whole
world
!”

“You and everyone else,” Sophie said, surprising even herself with how totally jaded she already sounded.
Have I become just another Hollywood brat already?
she wondered, crossing one leg over the other.

“Have you talked to her?” Mad asked, uncurling her feet from underneath her and crossing her legs, leaning in toward Sophie, the camera momentarily forgotten.

“Yeah, that’s the thing . . .” Sophie said weakly, realizing all at once that she was in over her head. Up until this moment she hadn’t let herself see how much she had riding on this one night—a night that had to end perfectly for so many reasons she’d recently lost count. As she looked into Mad’s expectant face—and at the camera lens placed inches from her own—the emotional dam she’d built so carefully since she found out that she wasn’t technically Sophie St. John broke open, her thoughts flooding with all the doubt she’d been pushing to the back of her mind. Would Melissa even recognize her? And even if, by some miracle, they did happen to get along, Sophie couldn’t help but be worried that her mother might not stick around to get to know her at all. Even if they wound up bonding over a few cosmopolitans, Sophie knew that it didn’t necessarily mean that her mother would want to have an actual
relationship
with her or anything. And in her darkest moments, Sophie couldn’t stop herself from wondering if the party was going to be just a one-shot deal . . .

“
What
?” Madison snapped, rolling her eyes, and the reassuringly sharp tone of her voice silenced the thoughts crowding Sophie’s brain, and brought her back to reality.

“She’s coming to the party,” Sophie said. “I’m meeting her for the first time on Saturday night.”

“Holy expectations, Batman,” Mad breathed. “Way to pile on the pressure.”

“
Exactly
,” Casey chimed in, a long white silk scarf draped artlessly around her neck, her face hidden by a pair of black shades that were so huge, it made her head look like a peanut.

“You are a walking fashion violation,” Madison snapped, then helplessly burst into laughter at the sight of her.

“Tell me something I
don’t
know,” Casey said, laughing as she pushed the sunglasses on top of her head and pulled on a pair of black leather elbow-length gloves. “Do you think these are too much?”

“On you?” Sophie giggled as Casey held her arms out in front of her. “Definitely.”

Phoebe walked over, holding a pair of beige, calfskin ankle boots, the supple leather gleaming in the light. “These
better
come in my size,” she muttered, doubling over with laughter as she caught sight of Casey’s outfit. “I can’t leave you alone for five seconds,” she exclaimed, snatching the sunglasses from Casey’s head and trying them on herself, blowing air kisses into the mirror like a French film star—which, of course, was basically what Phoebe thought she was anyway.

“Oh my God,” Madison deadpanned. “Those work on
no one
. They’re like a black hole of good taste.”

“I kind of like them,” Sophie said meekly, glad that attention had been diverted away from the party—and her mother.

As if on cue, Mad turned to Phoebe, smiling brilliantly. “Sophie was just telling me that she’s adopted.” Madison turned back to Sophie, an innocent look plastered all over her face—a look Sophie had seen a million times before—and one that she could see right through.
Guess the honeymoon’s over
, Sophie thought, watching as Madison went in for the kill. “It’s not a secret anymore, is it?” Mad gestured at the camera, her emerald ring flashing in the light. “I mean, it’s going to be on TV and everything anyway . . .”

Sophie shrugged, heat breaking over her skin like a creeping forest fire as Phoebe stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“And the best part is,” Mad continued, her voice picking up speed as she raced to get to the good part of the story. “Her biological mother is
Melissa Von Norton
!”

“And she’s coming to the party on Saturday!” Casey said excitedly, grabbing onto Phoebe’s arm.

“Wow,” Phoebe said slowly, taking in the news slowly, the way she processed everything. “That’s totally
Outer Limits
.” Phoebe looked as bemused as if someone had suddenly smacked her in the face with a banana cream pie. Sophie watched as the boots Phoebe’d been lusting after so hard only moments before slipped to the floor with a clatter.

“How did
you
know that?” Madison asked, turning her attention to Casey, her voice the very definition of a cold front.

“Uh, I kind of told her already,” Sophie said apologetically, trying to brush it off like it was no big deal, and watching as Madison’s expression froze like water on an icy cold window-pane.

“You told her before
me
? Or even
Phoebe
?” Madison asked in disbelief, looking away from the camera, shaking her hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head. As Sophie scrambled for an answer, she gradually became aware that the Pulse crew was motionless, hanging on their every word.

“Umm . . . well . . .” Sophie stuttered, staring at the floor, the ceiling—anything to avoid having to look into her best friend’s eyes. “
Kind
of.”

“Oh my God, this means you’ll totally get to go to Hollywood on breaks—maybe even on location with her!” Phoebe chimed in, breaking the tension in the air. “You’re going to have so much fun!”

Sophie smiled, trying to look excited, but any joy she felt about finally being able to tell her friends about her mom was spoiled by the fact that Madison was undoubtedly pissed off at her.

“Well, I should go,” Madison said brusquely, sliding her shades over her eyes and standing up. “I have to meet Antonio at The London—he’s bringing my test shots.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed.

“Wow,” she said, “he’s taking you to Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant just to go over test shots? Oh my God, he’s totally in love with you!” Phoebe let out a squeal that sounded more like rubber tires on asphalt to Sophie than an expression of joy.

Madison—in her typical bitchy fashion—ignored Phoebe’s outburst, throwing her black quilted Chanel tote over her shoulder with a flip of the wrist that let Sophie know she was definitely pissed off, a secret smile playing at the corners of her reglossed lips. “We’re meeting in the bar, for your information,” she snapped. “Models don’t eat anyway.”

“True dat.” Sophie sighed, looking down at her flat stomach lying beneath her silk trousers. “I want to lose two more pounds by Saturday.”

“Why?” Phoebe laughed. “So you can blow away in a sudden wind?”

“No . . .” Sophie drawled, “so that I look the total package when I meet my new mom.”

“Oh my God.” Madison groaned, rolling her eyes toward the discreet gray spotlights adorning the ceiling. “I’m out of here.”

Sophie watched as Mad walked out the front door of YSL without looking back, throwing a jaunty wave over one shoulder, her black cashmere wrap fluttering in the breeze. Mad would get over it—she always did. And besides, Sophie didn’t have time to worry about whether or not Mad would forgive her—she had more important things to obsess about right now—like whether or not her mother would show up on Saturday night at all. And even if she did, what on
earth
would she actually say to her? “Hi, Mom. Nice to meet you. I loved that scene you did with Brad Pitt in that film?” It wasn’t as if finding out you’ve been adopted and meeting your biological mother was exactly easy in the first place, but when she was so damn famous that she was in every movie, on the cover of every magazine—not to mention the fact that everyone on the planet was strangely, distantly familiar with her life—how was a girl supposed to deal with that? A pantsuit was a start, to be sure. It would, she hoped, be the best costume for the day. But the hand-stitched silk was unfortunately mute and devoid of advice.

The cameras and lights were circling in around her after capturing Madison’s departure—the producers were beyond delighted that one of her best friends had a burgeoning modeling career. She highly doubted that they would’ve followed Casey or Phoebe down the street. Behind the lights, she could see Melanie holding up a dry-erase board with the words STOP LOOKING SO SAD scrawled across the surface in black, frenetic strokes. It felt so strange having the Pulse cameras, the lights, Melanie’s signs, all there to witness these days leading up to the party. She imagined it would almost be easier not being herself in front of the camera—acting, playing a part, like her mother, with all the words written out for you ahead of time by people who knew all the right things to say at all the right times. She’d only have to memorize her lines.

my london, london bridge wanna go down . . .

Madison stepped into the bar at The London, her
kitten-heeled, green suede pumps clicking musically across the hardwood floor. Madison walked briskly, still smarting from Sophie’s obvious friendship faux pas. She was going to have to do
something
about Casey—that had become totally clear. In the course of less than two months, this clueless loser had not only stolen her boyfriend, but now had basically hijacked her witless, unsuspecting friends too. Was their no end to the humiliation she had to suffer at the hands of this terminally unfashionable Midwestern parasite?

Apparently not.

But as mad as she was at Sophie at the moment, Madison knew that Sophs was just too nice and too dumb to be able to see through Casey’s goody-goody act the way she could. Madison stopped in front of a large, oval silver mirror, checking her lip gloss, and pulling her tube of Mac’s Oh Baby Lipglass from her chocolate brown Gucci Hobo, swiping the wand across her already sticky lips to calm her nerves. The thought of having to look at the photographic train wreck that would surely be her test shots didn’t exactly make her want to start jumping up and down or anything—and the knowledge that she would soon be looking at herself in those photographs, so stiff and nervous, made her shiver as she stopped at the entrance to the heavily air-conditioned bar and looked around.

As much as she hated the idea, she was going to have to tell Antonio that, even though she appreciated his offer, she just didn’t think she wanted to be a model after all. The thought of using her body to sell things, whether it was a tube of toothpaste or a Bulgari necklace, made her feel like she was nothing more than a pretty exterior—expensive, but definitely disposable. If there was one thing Madison Macallister knew better than anyone else, it was that if you weren’t the one in control, you were probably the one being manipulated. And Madison made it her personal mission to never, ever be the one who was being played—for any reason. Besides, she just didn’t like feeling out of control—it made her feel all oogey and sweaty . . .

The London was full of leggy, glamorous Upper East Siders lounging on high-backed bar stools in fashionable frocks, their legs dropping coolly to the floor like long-stemmed white lilies, cocktail glasses full of clear liquid held between their manicured fingers. Gordon Ramsey’s newest venture had practically redefined the concept of Upper East Side luxury, with its mirror-paneled dining room, and five-hundred-and-fifty-dollar sidecar—a cocktail so totally elite that it wasn’t even written on the menu—and featured Hennessy Ellipse super premium cognac and Grand Marnier 150 poured from a decanter specially designed by Thomas Bastide of Baccarat.

Waiters clad head-to-toe in black walked languorously though the expansive space, silver trays balanced in their hands. The room was patterned in subdued shades of cream and black, and Madison’s green eyes scanned the dimly lit bar area for Antonio, who was seated at the bar wearing a sleek, charcoal gray suit with a cobalt blue silk tie, speaking rapidly on his cell phone. A cut-crystal tumbler of amber liquid sat in front of him on the bar, the deep cherry wood polished to a rich, satiny brilliance. His lips curved into a smile as his dark eyes fixed on hers, raising one hand in greeting as he snapped his cell phone shut.

“
Cara
, how are you?” he asked, his voice a low, seductive purr as he leaned in to kiss her warmly on both cheeks, the lemony scent of his cologne sticking to her hair, her skin. “I was beginning to worry,” he said, pushing up one dark sleeve so that a D&G watch with an alligator band shone in the soft light drifting overhead.

Madison sat down on a bar stool, crossing her legs beneath the forest green and caramel patterned wrap dress she wore. “Sorry I’m late—I had to stop home and change.”