Only In Your Dreams (8 page)

“Nate Archibald. I can’t believe my eyes.”

“Hey, Chuck,” muttered Nate. On his way home that afternoon, he’d noticed his front tire was a little low on air, so he’d pulled into the BP station on Springs Road. It had been an incredibly hot day, the kind of day with no ocean breeze to break up the haze, so Nate’s hours of backbreaking labor had left him sweaty, sunburned, and exhausted. Judging from the horrified look on Chuck Bass’s smooth, naturally tanned face, Nate figured he must look pretty terrible.

That’s a first.

“What happened to you?” gasped Chuck. He pulled his vintage Ray-Ban aviators down the length of his nose and handed the gas station attendant a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“Nothing happened, man,” Nate responded, annoyed. He removed the hose from his tire and bounced the bike up and down to check the pressure.

Despite the thick heat, Chuck Bass was wearing madras board shorts and a gray cashmere hoodie. He looked as perfectly primped as usual, his thick eyebrows arched tidily above his piercing brown eyes, his aftershave-commercial-handsome square chin shaved smooth. He extended a hand to help Nate to his feet.

“Given up on cars?” Chuck asked, nodding at Nate’s bike. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone green on us.”

“Yeah.” Nate looked hopefully toward the tastefully gray-shingled BP gas station for someone to save him from Chuck.

“Let me give you a ride.” Chuck rattled the ice in the plastic cup of chilled mocha latte that he’d drained. “It’s a hundred degrees out and you look like you’ve been through hell. I don’t want to imagine how you’ll look after riding all the way back to Georgica Pond on that bike.”

Nate weighed his options: half an hour sweating versus ten minutes alone with Chuck Bass?

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

“Let’s go.” Nate sighed. The thought of Chuck’s air-conditioned dove gray Jag was too hard to resist.

Chuck unlocked the car’s trunk and Nate stuffed the bike into it—he wasn’t sure it would fit, but the trunk was surprisingly big and they were able to rig it so only the tip of the tire poked through. Nate slid onto the white leather seat and slammed the heavy door, fastening his seat belt and gearing up for the ride.

Chuck turned on the ignition and the car immediately flooded with cold air and blared Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy.”

“I’ve been lying on the beach in Sag Harbor all day, feeling retro,” Chuck explained, turning the volume down. “So . . . let’s catch up.”

“Catch up,” echoed Nate blankly. He could tell from Chuck’s tone of voice that he was going to launch into a barrage of questions. Talking with Chuck was like having a job interview.

“I assume you heard about Blair.” Chuck fiddled with the air conditioner, even though it was already freezing. He pulled out onto the road connecting Hampton Bays to East Hampton, which Nate had practically memorized by now. Wine-grape fields alternated with tasteful Colonial-style, gray-shingled houses, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the dark blue ocean behind someone’s backyard.

“Blair?” Nate asked as they passed the Oyster Shack on the left. He’d been so preoccupied with Tawny, even saying Blair’s name aloud felt weird. She was off in England for the summer with her new British boyfriend as far as he knew. She seemed far away when he thought about her, even though their paths would soon cross again. She might be madly in love with that new English dude, but there was no way Blair Waldorf was going to abandon her lifelong dream of going to Yale in the fall. A September reunion on campus was inevitable.

“She’s ba-a-a-a-a-ck.” Chuck drew it out like that creepy little girl in the movie Poltergeist. He rattled the ice in his cup and slurped up the coffee-flavored water that had gathered at the bottom. “Just got off the plane this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” Nate fiddled with the shoulder strap on his seat belt. Blair was back from London? That was news.

“Yeah.” Chuck nodded casually, turning the stereo down further. “I wonder if she and Serena have kissed and made up. Again. If you know what I mean.”

“Blair and Serena never could stay mad at each other for long,” Nate muttered, drumming his thumb against the door handle in time to the music. He would know—he usually caused the rifts between them.

“It’s good news for Serena, though,” Chuck added coyly. “She could really use a friend right about now.”

Nate didn’t respond. Everything Chuck said made him feel a little uneasy, like the world was moving on without him. He’d only been in the Hamptons for a week, and already he didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

“Word is she’s having a little trouble with the whole acting thing,” Chuck observed. “But I’m sure she’ll come out on top. She always does.”

“Acting, right,” Nate repeated. He’d forgotten about Serena’s movie. It seemed totally alien from his life as a day laborer. Nate was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for a smoke. He shoved in the car’s electric lighter. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Chuck shrugged. “No matter how much trouble Serena might be having, it’s nothing compared to the mess Blair’s got herself into.” He drove fast, veered right at a fork, and caused the tires to squeal. The houses were getting grander and the lawns bigger the farther they drove.

“What trouble?” Nate demanded, igniting the half-smoked joint he’d wisely saved for just such a moment. “Blair just came back from London in a hurry. With some ... parcels.”

“What parcels?” Nate already felt extremely stoned. Was it him, or was Chuck such a huge asshole he was almost not human, like an android or something.

“Well, when she was in London, Blair bought a bunch of things she just couldn’t live without. Like a wedding dress. And one of those old-fashioned English baby carriages. Then she booked a ticket back to New York.”

“What are you trying to say?” Nate demanded. A big white event tent set up on a lawn caught his eye. A frou-frou bride and mangy-haired groom holding a guitar were posing for pictures by an old oak tree not far from it. Wannabe rock star types were always getting married in the Hamptons.

“Blair’s back in a big hurry, packing a wedding dress and a baby carriage.... I don’t know.” Chuck sighed impatiently. “You do the math.”

That math wasn’t hard—even for a stoner.

It would definitely take a major event to convince Blair Waldorf to cut her trip short. Had she come home to plan her wedding? Nate wouldn’t put it past her, but he just couldn’t imagine Blair putting on a wedding dress and marching down the aisle unless he was there, too, in a tuxedo, right by her side. Of course they weren’t even together anymore, but some-how it was impossible for Nate to imagine Blair—his Blair— marrying anyone but him.

Nate was beyond relieved when they pulled into the winding gravel driveway of the Archibald estate. He needed to be alone with this news and another, much larger joint.

“Thanks for the ride, man,” Nate muttered distractedly, fumbling with his roach as he climbed out of the car.

“If you want to talk some more, Nate,” Chuck called through the passenger window, “I can come in. We could order sushi.”

Ignoring Chuck’s pathetic, lonely offer, Nate retrieved his bike from the trunk and trudged up the driveway. He needed to clear his head.

He also needs to learn not to believe everything he hears. (Not that we don’t all make that mistake from time to time.)

Serena stepped out of a flaming yellow taxi onto a crowded stretch of Fifth Avenue, wearing a simple black shift and a pair of enormous sunglasses, courtesy of the designer Bailey Winter. She was in costume—even Serena wouldn’t prance around the city in the middle of the day in a cocktail dress— rehearsing the opening scene of the movie. Holly had to peer into the display windows of the famous jewelry store Tiffany and Company while eating breakfast after a long night out, just like Audrey Hepburn did in the original movie.

Gripping a takeout cup of coffee and brown paper bag full of pastries provided by the prop department, Serena strolled primly toward the elegant building, counting the steps to her-self, slowly and deliberately. One,two,three,four.

“Watch it,” barked a suited businessman, brushing by her as he snarled into a cell phone.

“Sorry,” Serena mumbled, feeling flustered. She walked back to the curb, turned around, and retraced her steps. She tried to keep her back perfectly straight, the way Ken had instructed her to, but she had to focus on making a direct path to the store, too, which was nearly impossible because there were so many people around. She finally made it, but the windows were completely blocked out by tourists, frantically snapping pictures of the window displays. That was definitely not in the script.

A chubby older woman in a tennis skirt held her camera out to Serena, gesturing that she wanted Serena to take her photograph. Serena shrugged, dropped the paper bag onto the street, and took the camera. She focused and took a picture of the woman, smiling and pointing to the Tiffany logo.

“Thanks! And now may I take a picture of you? You work for the store, right?” Serena was flabbergasted. Of course she must look like some moronic walking window display, hired by Tiffany in hopes that the nod to the old film would sell more jewelry. She kept a smile plastered to her face while the woman snapped away, then picked up her paper bag and walked back to the curb. A bus roared past, sending a blast of hot exhaust up her dress.

Aaah, summer in the city.

Serena looked up at the store, her whole body trembling with frustration. It was nearly a hundred degrees, she was sweating and overdressed, people were staring, and she just wanted to go home—to her parents’ penthouse, not her cat-piss-scented dump—and change into linen boxers, a wifebeater, and some comfy flip-flops, and spend the afternoon drinking Coronas and watching a Laguna Beach marathon. She’d always managed to excel at everything, from school to horseback riding to boys, all without even trying. She’d been sure acting would come as easily to her as everything else she’d tried in her life, but so far Ken Mogul was clearly unhappy with her performance.

She wondered if even Blair Waldorf, the world’s most die-hard Breakfast at Tiffany’s fan, would have been able to put up with Ken Mogul’s maniacal tirades.

She started her approach toward Tiffany’s once more.

“Look, sweetheart,” a stocky, loud-voiced Southern woman cried, pointing out Serena to her balding, paunchy husband, who was sporting a winning ensemble of pleated khaki shorts and a knockoff Lacoste polo, topped off with black socks under his cheap leather mandals.

“Well, now I’ve seen everything,” the man exclaimed.

“It’s just like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, isn’t it?” the woman continued, approaching Serena. “Yoohoo, dear, is this some kind of publicity stunt?”

Serena pretended not to hear. Who knew Manhattan’s sidewalks were so treacherous? She retreated back to the curb and steeled herself, then made the walk again.

Now that’s dedication.

She might have looked like a funny tourist attraction to the people walking by, but inside she was a seething, frustrated actress on the verge of a major temper tantrum. The truth was, Serena didn’t even want to act anymore; she wanted to give up and walk over to Barneys and see if anything new was on the racks. But of course she couldn’t do that: first, because it was closed due to filming, so she was partly responsible for her own worst nightmare, and second, because she had never really failed at anything before and was secretly every bit as competitive as her sometimes best friend, Blair.

“Nice ass, blondie,” called a deep voice from behind her.

Serena turned to see a guy leering at her from the backseat of a passing taxi. Gross. Audrey Hepburn never had to deal with this sort of crap.

No, but then again, Audrey Hepburn’s ass was kind of flat. But at least she could act.

Blair couldn’t tell if the pounding was in her head—she’d put away quite a few whiskeys on the plane—or if it was real. She lifted her head: no, it was real, and it was coming from the door to the bedroom where she’d crashed last night, the room formerly occupied by her hippie stepbrother, Aaron Rose.

“Blair Cornelia Waldorf!”

There was more pounding. It was her mother and her voice sounded . . . different. Was she sick? Did she have something in her mouth?

Eleanor Rose pushed the door open and stomped into the dark bedroom, perching on the edge of the mattress. She was carrying a mug of coffee and was dressed in her summertime sleep outfit, a flouncy, way-too-short peachy Eberjey slip and matching robe.

“Wake up!” she shrieked hoarsely.

Blair pulled the covers over her head and moaned. Why was her mother carrying on like this so early in the morning?

“Blair Waldorf,” her mom hissed. “I’m serious, young lady. Come out from under there. We need to have a little chat.”

“I hope you know I barely slept,” Blair snapped, sitting up and snatching the coffee from her mother’s hands. She took a long sip and tugged at the flimsy white Hanro camisole she’d chosen to sleep in.

“First,” Eleanor ranted, “what are you doing home?” Gripping her robe with one hand, she leaned in and studied her daughter’s face. “You’re supposed to be in London!”

For a fiftysomething-year-old who’d just had a baby, Eleanor looked pretty good in the morning. Blair wondered if her mom had had something done to her face while she was away, or maybe it was some new eye cream Blair would eventually steal.

“Something came up.” Blair reached for the green-tea-soaked eyepads she kept in a drawer in her bedside table, placing one over each eye.

“Well, next time you might think to give me a call and let me know what you’re up to.” Eleanor snatched the eye pads away. “I had a call this morning from American Express. I don’t like it when my credit card company knows my daugh-ter’s whereabouts before I do.”

“What?” Blair demanded, sitting up a little straighter.

“American Express called because someone charged a $4,000 plane ticket to my account,” Eleanor scolded. “I was about to call the police. Then I noticed the new blue leather Hermès luggage set in the foyer.”

“I came in late,” Blair explained. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That’s only part of the problem.” Eleanor stood and paced around the room. “Blair, it’s about time you learned some responsibility. You’re not a child anymore. You’re going to have to learn how to manage your money.”

This from the woman who bought each of her children a private island in the South Pacific!

“Mom,” Blair whined.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” Eleanor ordered sharply. “You know I never say no to my children, you know that, don’t you? I’ve always given you whatever you wanted, haven’t I?”

Well, wasn’t that her job?

“Yes, I have.” Eleanor had never given a parental lecture before, and Blair could see she was getting into it. “But this is too much. I talked it over with Cyrus and we agreed that something has to be done.”

Excuse me, why was her mother discussing her private business with Cyrus Rose, her stupid, red-faced, tacky-assed stepfather? “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Blair yawned, draining the coffee cup. She wondered how long this particular chat was going to last. The whole thing was just so ... boring. She needed more sleep, and a long bath, and a facial to get rid of all the London grime, and maybe a haircut and a few face-framing highlights to go with her cleansed and exfoliated face.

“What I’m talking about, Blair, is this American Express bill.” Eleanor shook a wrinkled fax. “I had them send it over as soon as the woman on the phone told me about your . . . shopping exploits.”

Oops.

“Well, Mom,” Blair admitted, “I might have gone a little overboard on the wedding dress, but once you see it, I know you’ll agree—”

“Wedding dress?” her mother gasped. “I guess that explains the eighteen-thousand-dollar charge. What is this about a wedding?” She sat down on the bed and fanned herself with her diamond-encrusted fingers. “I feel like I’m going to faint! You’re getting married? Oh, Blair! I don’t know what to say!” She threw her arms around Blair and burst into noisy tears. Then she abruptly sat up. “No, wait, I do: over my dead damn body you’re getting married! Have you lost your mind?!”

Blair rolled her eyes. “No, Mom, I’m not getting married. At least, not right away. Anyway, that dress was only ten thousand, not eighteen.”

Oh, yes, that’s much better.

“No, my dear, innocent child.” Eleanor shook her head. “Didn’t you realize that the exchange rate is almost two to one?”

“Look,” Blair declared hurriedly, “I’m sorry, okay? I only bought a few things, and they’re all for school.”

Yeah. We all wear wedding gowns to freshman orientation.

It didn’t look like she was going to escape any time soon. Blair picked up the new issue of W she’d left on the night table. She’d bought the oversize magazine to keep her occupied on the long flight, but the complimentary Maker’s Mark bourbon had ended up being a much more interesting diversion.

“Blair.” Eleanor sighed and squeezed Blair’s knee through the purplish-brown hemp-blend bedspread. “I don’t mind you buying a few things—but a wedding dress?” She paused. “Still, I bet it’s quite a dress.”

“It is!” Blair exclaimed. This was the mother she knew and sort of loved.

“Even so, I’ve talked it over with Cyrus, and I’m going to call your father this afternoon, but I think he’ll agree that, since you’re home now, presumably to stay—”

“I’m definitely not going back to London,” Blair inter-jected, trying not to feel emotional about her dramatic departure from Marcus’s hometown. Had he even noticed she was gone?

“—this is the perfect opportunity for you to find some work for the summer. A job.”

A what? No comprende, señora.

The room was spinning. “What did you just say, Mom? A job?”

“Yes, dear. A job.”

Blair fell back onto the pillows and threw her arm over her eyes. “But I’ll die if I have to work.”

“Don’t overreact,” Eleanor insisted. “It’ll be a terrific experience before starting school.”

“Have you ever worked?” Blair demanded. She began to flip through the magazine angrily, almost tearing the pages as she turned them. She’d just fled a country, having been spurned by the love of her life. A lecture from her never-worked-a-day-in-her-life mother on the merits of employment and pulling herself up by her bootstraps was the absolute last thing she needed.

“That’s beside the point,” Eleanor replied evenly. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you helping to pay some of these exorbitant bills. If you’re going to spend this much, you’re going to have to earn something.”

Work for the summer? Blair closed her eyes—no one she knew was working during this, their last summer vacation ever. No one! Well, except for Nate, but that was a punishment. There was Serena, too, but that wasn’t really a job—it was a dream come true.

Blair’s eyes suddenly came to rest on the page in front of her. Speak of the fucking devil. There, smack-dab in the middle of Suzy’s latest reports on all the society gossip, was a photograph of Serena van der Woodsen arm in arm with the designer Bailey Winter. Blair remembered when that photograph had been taken, at Winter’s runway presentation the previous season. She and Serena had been seated in the front row—naturally—and when the designer had come out to take his final bow, he’d noticed Serena in the audience and pulled her up onto the runway with him.

Tuning out her mother’s relentless drone, Blair scanned the page to see whether there was some news about Serena. And indeed there was: Suzy’s column was all about how Bailey Winter had signed on with Ken Mogul to provide the costumes for Mogul’s new film project, Breakfast at Fred’s. It wasn’t enough that Serena got to star in a movie with Thaddeus Smith; she also got to wear custom designs by one of the best living American designers?

“I just think it’s a matter of responsibility, Blair,” her mother declared. “You know, when you turn twenty-one you’ll get access to your trust fund, and your father and Cyrus and I need to know that you’ll handle the money responsibly. We feel very strongly that a job is the perfect way for you to learn to manage money and carry out other people’s wishes, not just your own.”

Blair glared at the ugly eggplant-colored bedspread. Fine, she’d get a summer job. But she was not going to settle for anything less than the most glamorous summer job imaginable.

“You know,” she mused, “maybe you’re right. Maybe a job is just what I need to keep myself busy this summer.”

“Yes!” her mother cried happily. “I knew you’d come around!”

“And maybe you can help me get one?” Blair asked sweetly.

“Of course!” Eleanor agreed. “I’m sure we can make some phone calls and find you something wonderful in no time at all!”

There was, of course, only one telephone call she needed her mother to make. Being the daughter of Eleanor Rose, Bailey Winter’s most loyal couture client, would surely come in handy when it came to landing an assistantship on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!