Only In Your Dreams (13 page)

She’d made three trips back and forth, but Blair still hadn’t managed to get all of her bags up the five flights of stairs. There wasn’t a doorman, there wasn’t any air conditioning, there wasn’t an elevator, but she didn’t mind because the whole thing was just so . . . cinematic.

Blair had a plan for her life, a script she wanted to follow exactly. But so much of what had happened so far—buying a wedding gown, leaving Lord Marcus, getting hired by Bailey Winter, and now moving in with Serena—wasn’t planned. If someone had told her just a week before that she’d have to get a job for the summer, she’d have screamed and protested— working for the summer was definitely not part of the story of her life—but Blair didn’t feel like screaming. She felt . . . happy. Maybe there was a lesson here; maybe instead of trying to always live according to a plan, she should just go with the flow? Maybe things really did always work out in the end.

Just like in the movies.

Bounding down the last flight of steps to retrieve her very last bag—a crocodile Paul Smith duffel she’d picked up in London only a couple of days before—Blair was startled by the lanky, dark-haired guy wearing a crisp blue Hugo Boss suit, stepping out of the parlor-floor apartment. She froze in her tracks.

Isn’t there a handsome downstairs neighbor in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?

“Hello there,” Blair called out in her best vaguely Eastern European, Audrey-Hepburn-as-Holly-Golightly accent.

“Hey,” the guy responded shyly. His tousled brown hair hung down in front of his blue eyes. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his suit pants and pulled himself up to full height.

“Good evening,” Blair replied, strolling down the stairs primly through the narrow, badly lit space that passed for a lobby. She squeezed past the smiling stranger and bent to pick up her bag. “Excuse me,” she continued, heaving the bag full of shoes onto her shoulder.

“Of course,” he said, leaning his back against the door to his apartment. “Can I help you with that?”

“I can manage it,” Blair told him stoically. She flashed her most charming smile. “Have we met?”

“I’m Jason.” He extended his hand. “You visiting for the weekend?”

“Oh,” she explained, “I’m moving in with my dear old friend Serena. On the fifth floor?”

“Oh, I know Serena.” Jason paused. “We hung out the other night, drank some beers on the stoop. She never mentioned anything about her beautiful roommate, though.”

And she’d never mentioned her handsome new neighbor either.

Typical.

“It was a bit spur of the moment,” Blair explained. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” His lips spread into a cute, flirtatious little grin. He tucked his long fingers into his back pockets. “And I’m a great listener.”

“Is that so?” Blair shifted the bag from one shoulder to the other. It was sort of heavy.

“Not only that,” Jason continued, “I was just on my way out to pick up a nice cold bottle of rosé. Have you been up to the roof yet? Maybe you’d like to join me for a welcome-to-the-building drink?”

“I didn’t know we could get up there!” A cool glass of pink wine with a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed stranger sounded like the perfect way to celebrate the end of a milestone of a day: new job, new house . . .

New romance?

Serena was busy memorizing her lines for tomorrow. A drink with Jason would keep Blair out of her hair.

“I know a way,” he said, winking. “I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes?”

Under normal circumstances that would hardly have been enough time for Blair Waldorf to prepare herself for an evening tête-à-tête, but this was the new and improved, girl-with-a-job, ever-fashion-ready, easygoing summertime Blair Waldorf.

“I’ll give you ten.” She skipped up the stairs slowly turning back to smile at him. “By the way, I’m Blair.”

After throwing on a casual pink floral Lilly Pulitzer tunic top and some white shell-embellished flip-flops, Blair headed upstairs. Jason was already waiting for her with a blanket slung over his shoulder and a bottle clutched in his hand. He scaled the rusty ladder and pushed open the black steel trapdoor. Then he reached down to help Blair up with more studly grace than Marcus had ever shown. Blair grabbed his hand eagerly and let him pull her up to the rooftop.

“I hope it doesn’t rain tonight,” she remarked as she twirled around, taking in three hundred and sixty degrees of Manhattan skyline view. “Because I’m never going down that ladder.” She was only half-kidding.

“I told you the view was great,” Jason teased, digging a wine key into the cork and pulling it out with a satisfying pop.

It wasn’t as commanding as the view of Central Park from the high-up terrace of Blair’s Fifth Avenue penthouse, but there was something magical about the hot summer haze lin-gering over the neighborhood’s bland apartment towers. The trees weren’t as perfectly pruned as the oaks and elms that surrounded the park, but the spindly branches that peeked above the roofline were lush and green. The Upper East Side, Blair realized, was just like Bailey Winter’s line: from Fifth to Park Avenues was Bailey Winter Couture, everything from the Park to Lexington was like Bailey Winter Collection, and everything between there and the river was Bailey by Bailey Winter.

That’s one way to think of it.

“It’s really nice,” she agreed, taking a plastic cup of chilled wine and settling onto the worn navy blue cotton blanket Jason had spread on the warm tar roof. It wasn’t as soft as her favorite cashmere Asprey picnic throw, but she had on the per-fect summer outfit, a gorgeous man was sitting next to her, and her career in fashion was about to explode. Who needed minor British royalty? She was a New Yorker and this was a classic summer-in-New-York moment. London was a damp and smelly slum by comparison.

“So, how come Serena never mentioned you before?” Jason asked.

“Maybe she wanted you all to herself,” Blair replied mischievously and probably accurately. “To a crazy summer.” Blair clinked her plastic cup of wine with Jason’s. “So far,” she added giddily.

“To a crazy summer,” he echoed, taking a sip. “Anyway, I don’t think Serena’s interested in me. We hung out the other night and she seemed sort of spoken for, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean Thaddeus Smith?” Blair and Serena hadn’t had much time to catch up but she knew, just knew, that there had to be something going on between Serena and Thaddeus.

Since she and everyone else believe everything they read.

“The one and only,” Jason affirmed. “But you know, Blair,” Jason continued, fixing his blue eyes on hers. “I’m not really into hanging out with movie stars. I like regular girls.”

Was he calling her—Blair Waldorf—regular? How wrong he was.

“Wait, you’re not in the movies, are you?” He eyed her suspiciously. “Because you look like you could be.”

“I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of girl,” she murmured, batting her Chanel-mascara-blackened eyelashes mysteriously.

“I don’t have anything against it,” Jason backtracked. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I’m interested in different things. Like the law. That’s my main focus, you know?”

“I was thinking of studying law when I start at Yale in the fall.” She could always be a lawyer and a fashion muse at the same time. She could wear couture under her Supreme Court gown.

“Beautiful and smart,” Jason said. “You’re almost too good to be true.”

Blair sipped her wine hungrily. Serena could have the movie star. Jason was exactly the kind of guy a Yale woman should be involved with.

At least, the kind of woman a Yale woman should be involved with this week.

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 not ashamed to admit that “Summer Lovin’” (from our secretfavorite I’m-staying-in-Friday-night movie, Grease) is one of thebest songs I’ve ever heard. Not only is it catchy, it’s true:summer is all about love and gettin’ some lovin’, right? Butthere seems to be a shortage this summer.

It’s been almost three weeks and our friend S is still a solo performer! What gives? Sure, she’s been spotted around townwith T, but there’s no law that friends can’t have dinner together,now is there? Besides, we think T might have his eye on someone else. You heard it here first.

Meanwhile, B is throwing herself into her work—word is she’salready the second–most feared person on that movie set. Wehaven’t gotten close enough to verify the rumors that she’ssporting an engagement ring on her right hand—to throw offthe paparazzi, just like the stars. Word also has it that B’slooking a little rosy in the cheeks: mother-to-be flush, secretlove, or great new facialist? Break out your camera phones,people: we need evidence!

More summer-lovin’ updates: it seems D and V are definitely on the outs, and again, you heard it here first. He’s looking surprisingly tan and toned. Swearsies! And what about N andhis summer lover? How long till he shows his true city-boy colors? He might say he’s not like the rest of the city crowd,but N can only forsake creature comforts like nightclub bottleservice, black-tie fundraisers on Lilypond Lane, and private helicopter rides back to the city for so long....

trouble brewing

My spies at Michael’s have tipped me off about a very tense meeting between a certain highly respected photographer-turned-filmmaker and the Hollywood heavyweights (literally a pair of rotund brothers) who are bankrolling his latest venture. It seems that the deep-pocketed producers are less than thrilled with the dailies and want to rethink the casting. Could this mean that V won’t be the only one to get canned? Stay tuned.

sightings

B, Frappuccino and clipboard in hand, desperately trying to hail a cab on Park Avenue. Whatever happened to that graduation present? Is it true that she doesn’t actually have her license? Oops! N at the Amagansett farmer’s market, deliberating over the wildflowers. We knew he was a closet romantic! T showing an unidentified special guest around the set—we hear the private tour included a lengthy visit to the star’s trailer. V at Forbidden Planet, stocking up on comic books—but definitely not visiting D at the Strand, which is, after all, just right across the street. Interesting . . .

and they call it puppy love . . .

Speaking of love, I’ve finally met someone. Actually, two some-ones: they’re both irresistibly adorable and neither can stop showering me with kisses. I know it’s wrong to come between brothers, but I could never choose between my dear Luke and Owen.

You might have seen that big story about them in last week’s Sunday Styles: they’re puggles, the only hybrid for me: half beagle, half pug, but 100 percent love. And mine just happen to have come from the shelter. I’m a sucker for strays with impeccable breeding. It’s the new couture for a cause, so don’t waste your time with some haughty Chihuahua or a slobbery French bulldog.

your e-mail

Q:

Dear GG,

I’m a paralegal at a law firm in Midtown and I’ve been dying over one of my coworkers for weeks. He used to come out with us for happy hour, but suddenly he’s turned totally homebody—he practically runs back to his apartment after work. Do you think it’s something embarrassing, like a porn addiction?

—Crushed

A:

Dear Crushed,

Sounds like he’s definitely addicted to something—or someone—at home. But there’s only one good reason a happy-hour hottie turns stay-at-home stud: a girl. Here’s my advice: offer to tie him up with his new mallard-print tie and see what he says. Yes = porn addiction. No, thanks = girlfriend. Good luck!

—GG

What else is happening out there, people? Send me the scoop: hot gossip, the latest sample sales, the location of that new secret As Four boutique, the dirt on the set. And can someone please tell me the date and location of the totally top-secret Breakfast at Fred’s wrap party? I’ll need to reserve a preparty coiffing with Mr. Fekkai himself, of course. So spill!

You know you love me.

gossip girl

“Fuck you all very much!” The British-born lead singer of the jokingly named Sunshine Experience wiped a hand across his brow and flung his sweat into the crowd. Bare-chested and clad only in tight black leather pants, the scrawny singer, who was better known for squiring models and actresses than actually singing, spat angrily onto the stage and stormed off, disappearing into the thick crowd of revelers.

“God, I love them!” Tawny cried, squeezing Nate’s upper thigh and inadvertently spilling half of her Smirnoff sea breeze on the Ultrasuede banquette and her faux-Pucci print XOXO capri pants.

What a pity.

Nate nodded and took a swig of his third pint of Newcastle brown ale of the night. He glanced around the packed main room of Resort, the East Hampton nightclub: the dance floor was teeming with blond girls in Diane von Furstenberg dresses and perfectly groomed stockbroker types in khakis and Thomas Pink shirts—not exactly the type of crowd you’d nor-mally see at a Sunshine Experience show.

The Hamptons had been abuzz with word of this “surprise” show by the English punk band for a week now, and when Tawny suggested they go, Nate’s enthusiasm surprised even him. He hadn’t made it out to Resort yet that summer— in fact, he hadn’t really done much of anything besides clean out gutters, cut grass, fix shingles, and smoke weed with Tawny. It felt good to get out, to be where the action was, with a cold beer and a hot blonde and nothing to worry about.

“Archibald!”

Tawny nudged Nate gently with her elbow. “Is that a friend of yours?”

Anthony Avuldsen wove through the crowd, lifting his whiskey and soda high into the air to avoid a spill. He’d shaved his blond hair close to his head and had a deep summertime tan that made his smile seem even brighter than usual. The bouncer—a burly guy with no discernible neck— gave him a quick nod, allowing him to step up onto the platform that doubled as the club’s VIP room.

“Archibald, you son of a bitch,” Anthony said, knocking his glass against Nate’s bottle in greeting. “Where the hell have you been keeping yourself?”

“Hey,” Nate greeted him.

“Coach working you?” Anthony plopped next to Nate on the banquette, nodding his head in time to the thumping bass line.

“Something like that,” Nate admitted.

“Dude,” Anthony continued, shouting to be heard over the deafening din of the music. “I hear Blair’s back in town. What’s the story?”

Nate frowned, then draped an arm around Tawny, pulling her even closer. “I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“I’m Tawny,” the girl said, leaning across Nate’s lap and smiling in Anthony’s direction.

“What’s up?” Anthony nodded in greeting. “Anthony.”

“You two know each other from school?” she wanted to know.

“Yeah,” Anthony responded. “How do you two know each other?”

Nate signaled to the waitress. He needed another drink, immediately.

“Nate just fell at my feet one day,” Tawny replied, draining the last of her cocktail. “I guess I’m just lucky.”

Anthony studied her, then yelled at Nate, “You’re the lucky one, bastard.”

The waitress approached, looking exactly like Jessica Simpson playing Daisy in The Dukes of Hazzard. “Another round?” she asked.

“Please,” Nate told her. If Anthony was going to ask him any more questions, he’d need to get a stronger buzz on.

“I haven’t seen you around the city,” Anthony continued. “Where do you go to school?”

“Oh, I’m not from the city,” Tawny explained. “I live in Hampton Bays.”

“Cool,” Anthony exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a townie before.”

Nate jabbed Anthony roughly with his elbow.

“What?” Anthony demanded. “It’s cool. No offense, man.”

“What?” asked Tawny, cupping her palm over her ear. “It’s so loud!”

“Dude,” Anthony continued, oblivious. “Isabel is having a party tomorrow. I heard Serena’s going to be there. You seen her lately?”

The last time Nate had seen Serena, he’d been kissing Jenny at Blair’s graduation party. It was just a “for old times’ sake” kiss, but he was pretty sure she and Blair had bonded over how mad at him they were.

What else is new?

Nate shook his head. He felt completely out of touch with all the people he’d grown up with.

“Wait, Serena?” asked Tawny excitedly, leaning across Nate’s lap. From this vantage he had an unobstructed view down her blouse to her pierced navel and could see everything in between. “As in, Serena with the foreign-sounding last name?”

She leaned further forward, giving Nate another glimpse of the Promised Land.

Is she doing that on purpose? Nate wondered.

Nate glanced at Anthony to make sure he wasn’t sneaking a peek as well, but he’d turned to talk to some dark-haired beauty Nate vaguely remembered went to Grafton and was a year younger than them.

“I guess so,” Nate allowed, enjoying Tawny’s surprised expression. Did Serena’s name sound foreign? He’d never noticed. But forget Serena—Tawny was clearly impressed. He didn’t feel that way often; girls thought he was cute or cool or popular or whatever, but she was looking at him with something he’d never really seen in Blair or Serena’s eyes. She looked ... awed.

“We kind of used to see each other,” Nate bragged. That was the truth, but it didn’t quite cover it.

“Nate Archibald!” Tawny cried, leaning across the table once more, pushing her breasts together invitingly. “You are such a mystery man.”

“You know Serena, too?” Anthony leaned back into the conversation, clearly trying to get a sneak peek down Tawny’s shirt. “There’s going to be some kind of blowout when that movie wraps in a couple days. You should totally come!” he yelled over the booming music.

“You mean Breakfast at Fred’s?” Tawny looked like her eyes were going to pop out of her head. “I am, like, Thaddeus Smith’s number one fan. Ever!”

The waitress returned with their drinks and Nate grabbed his greedily.

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. All of a sudden he felt like he was treading water in a really dark, deep pool. His thinking was a little cloudy from a pre-going-out joint and the three beers, but even in that state he knew it wasn’t such a great idea to show up at Serena’s wrap party with Tawny on his arm. Blair would definitely be there, and he didn’t want her to think that he’d already moved on.

But hadn’t he? And hadn’t she?

“Please,” Tawny begged. “I’d die to meet Thaddeus Smith.

Die!” “Dude,” Anthony teased. “Can’t say no to a pretty girl.” Nate Archibald never could never say no. Period.