The Carlyles (13 page)

Message in a Bottle

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
Tuesday, September 9, 9:05 p.m

Subject:
Hi

When can I see you again?

xo,

Kat

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
Tuesday, September 9, 9:15 p.m.

Subject:
RE: Hi

I want to see you too, but it would kill Rhys. I’m so sorry, but . . . we can’t.

J
Takes Care of Business

On Wednesday evening, Jack stepped demurely out of the Cashmans’ Lincoln Town Car. Jack, J.P., and the Cashmans were headed to a restaurant Dick had just purchased, Round Table. It was on Charles Street, a cozy street in the West Village that, despite having been filled with celebrity families and investment bankers, still retained the feeling of a bohemian and artsy neighborhood. J.P. looked stunning in his tailor-made suit, his brown eyes sparkling and complementing his ocean blue Hermès tie. Jack couldn’t resist leaning into him as they walked in, making sure they were several steps in front of Dick and J.P.’s tacky Russian mom, Tatyana.

Jack stopped by J.P.’s this afternoon, hoping to spend time with him after not seeing him all week. He’d been out walking the dogs, but Dick had invited her to dinner, and now she was supremely glad she’d gone on a Barneys spree the day before school started, because she still had enough Jill Stuart, Phillip Lim, and Miu Miu to last her through the month.

Striding confidently down the cobblestone street, with her handsome boyfriend at her side, Jack was feeling better than she had all week. Avery Carlyle had announced today that she was having a
second
party, but really, Jack couldn’t care less. It was actually getting sort of sad. Jack almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

Inside, the restaurant had heavy round oak tables and red leather–covered wing chairs. It looked like the setting for an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, except for the super-skinny, pouty, all black–wearing waitstaff. They looked like contestants in an episode of
America’s Next Top Skinny Bitch
.

The hostess escorted them to the center see-and-be-seen table and presented them with a bottle of Cristal. As Jack took a seat, her Treo vibrated in her emerald green Prada clutch. She slipped it out surreptitiously and glanced at the small screen under the table.

OMG HAVE YOU SEEN AVE C’S HOT BRO! CHECK IT OUT!
read the text from Jiffy. Attached was a picture of an attractive blond guy with strong swimmer shoulders wearing a St. Jude’s uniform. At the bottom was one line:
WE TOTES HAVE TO GO TO HER PARTY!!!

Jack angrily slid her phone back into her clutch. Why the fuck were people so interested in Avery Carlyle and her lame attempts to be popular? There was no way that clueless wannabe even
knew
what a good party was.

Jack took a liberal swig of her champagne to try to calm her nerves. The bubbles danced down her throat, and she felt a tingly warmth spread through her. Avery didn’t know what a good party was, but Jack would show her.

How generous!

“I’ve decided to have a party this weekend,” Jack said, an idea forming. And then she had another brilliant idea. She was glad she had always been so polite to Dick Cashman, because this was the moment where it would all pay off.
Perfect,
she chanted to herself.

“You are?” J.P. asked.

“Yes. But I don’t know where to have it that will be appropriate. You know, this isn’t just a regular party, it’s to announce my intention to run for student liaison to the board of overseers. It’s a new position at school to uphold private school traditions, so I want somewhere that reflects convention but also modernity.” Jack smiled confidently as she parroted Dick’s new tagline for the Cashman Lofts, a luxury property in Tribeca that was set to open next month. She couldn’t help congratulating herself on her quick thinking. “Cipriani is so overdone, and I don’t want to rent out a club, which seems so
sophomoric
,” Jack said as she drained her glass of champagne.

Tatyana nodded absently, blinking her vacant eyes and pretending to listen as she sneaked a whole roll into the small dog carrier. It was incredible that Tatyana and Dick had managed to have a kid who was as good-looking as J.P. Maybe that was why they’d only had one kid—they didn’t want to hedge their bets.

“Hold on . . . convention and modernity,” Dick said, grabbing half a roll and slathering it with butter, ruining the butter pad’s delicate, flower-shaped design. Dick stuffed the hunk of bread in his mouth and gestured with the knife. “What about the Cashman Lofts?” His eyes gleamed as he snatched up the rest of the baguette.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Jack said sweetly as the waitress refilled her champagne glass.

Yes, she could.

“It’ll be great publicity. I’d love to have you kids make a splash. What do you think, J.P.?”

“It’s not my party.” J.P. shrugged and took one of the rolls in the center of the table.

“It’s
our
party, J.P.,” Jack giggled, giving Tatyana an
aren’t guys silly but we love them anyway
look right before she shot J.P. a
what the fuck
glare. “The lofts sound perfect, Dick.” She smiled, still feeling sort of squeamish uttering his name, even after all these years
.

“Great, so it’s settled!” Dick boomed. “Guess we have lots of things to celebrate, huh? I personally can’t wait to try the steak—they’re supposed to be getting the cows from the Cashman Ranch, but I’ll be the judge to see if those Texas cattle are up to Cashman snuff,” he declared jovially. “So, how many people are coming to this little shindig, anyway?” He gestured to the waitress, who quickly walked over, followed by the chef and his two sous chefs.

“Oh, you know,” Jack began, not sure if she should lie and say the party was going to be an intimate gathering.

While Dick and Tatyana proceeded to order everything on the menu, Jack turned to J.P. “You could show a little more interest, you know,” she hissed, annoyed that J.P. was acting so blasé about the party, as if he had better things to do.
Did
he have better things to do? “And where were you this afternoon, anyway? I’ve hardly seen you this week.”

J.P.’s eyes shifted guiltily around the restaurant. Finally, they landed on Jack’s manicured fingernails digging into the white linen tablecloth. “I had to walk the dogs. For my mom,” he explained, even though that didn’t really explain anything. Since when did J.P. give a fuck about the fleabags?

Just then, Darwin bounded out of his Louis Vuitton carrier and tore across the table to Jack, immediately planting a sloppy kiss on her face. The dog lunged at her again, scratching her cheek with an errant Swarovski crystal that was coming loose from his Gucci collar.

“Oww!” Jack cried. She put a hand to her cheek, shocked when she saw a splotch of blood on her fingers. “J.P.!” she screeched, pushing the dog across the table at J.P. For all Jack knew, she had rivulets of blood gushing down her face.

“You scared him,” J.P. muttered, picking up the dog from the top of the table. He cradled him protectively, petting his wrinkled face.

“I am
bleeding
,” Jack seethed. People turned to look, waitresses stopped in their tracks, and the head chef stood there looking positively horrified.

“Oh no,” Tatyana said, fanning herself with a napkin. Jack pulled her own red silk napkin up to her face and held it tightly, in case she was hemorrhaging. She was practically
dying
while J.P. soothed a stupid
dog
he’d always said he hated.

“Aww, hell,” Dick said as the waitress dashed to the back. “Tatyana doesn’t do well with blood. You okay, Jackie, baby?” he asked, coming over to her side of the table.

“I’m fine,” Jack said through clenched teeth. J.P. wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, he was looking at his mother, who was hyperventilating as if she might faint at any moment.

“No, you’re not,” Dick retorted, and Jack felt one of his pudgy fingers rest on her skin and his yeasty breath near her face. She felt like she was going to throw up. “Honestly, I can’t stand those fucking dogs myself, although she didn’t mean any harm. It was just one of their damn decorations that Tatyana insists they wear on their collars.” He continued to examine her face. “J.P., could you help Jack clean up? I’ll take care of your mother.”

“Of course.” J.P. rose from his chair and held his hand out to Jack. He was the perfect gentleman as always, but Jack thought she detected a note of exasperation in his voice.

Jack’s chair made a loud scraping sound as she pushed it back and held on to J.P.’s hand, gingerly walking to the ladies’ room and smiling at the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. She was injured, but she was going to make it.

Somebody get her a Purple Heart.

All the World’s a Stage

“I must admit, I don’t know what Rhys is planning with the ridiculous costume he’s wearing, but I would love to film it for the show,” Lady Sterling said confidentially to Owen on Wednesday evening. Rhys had sprinted out of the locker room and asked Owen to meet him as soon as possible. He hadn’t said anything about
costumes,
though, and Halloween was weeks away.

Lady Sterling ushered him into the expansive foyer. “Owen, dear, please do tell your mother I would love to see her. So glad she’s come back to the fold, as they say!” She clicked down the hall, humming to herself.

Rhys appeared at the top of the red-carpeted stairs. “Glad you could make it, man!” he greeted Owen enthusiastically. He was wearing a cheap, light green suit that looked like it had come from the sale rack at Kmart. A patchy mustache was taped to his already stubbly face.

“What are you up to?” Owen demanded nervously. Did Upper East Side boys enjoy playing dress-up?

Only when it involves Upper East Side girls!

“I told my mom this was a swim team initiation. It’s a little complicated,” Rhys explained cryptically. He gestured Owen to come upstairs. His bedroom was cluttered with heavy antiques, making it look more like a guest room in a British manor house than a sixteen-year-old boy’s room.

“First, clothing,” Rhys said, holding a powder blue suit up to Owen.

Owen shook his head in disbelief. “You have to explain what that suit is doing in your closet.” The suit was so stiff, it looked like it could stand up on its own. Owen held it up and looked at himself in the mirror in Rhys’s white-tiled bathroom, then noticed the shelves of neat products lined up in size order over the sink. He picked up a red tube called You Rebel by Benefit and sniffed it cautiously. What was it for?

Rebellion, obviously.

“The suit? It’s something my mom won from some charity auction. They auctioned off a complete
Saturday Night Fever
wardrobe.” Rhys shrugged.

“Okay, good.” Owen walked back into the bedroom, relieved Rhys hadn’t actually bought the suit. “So what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Well, you’re going to put it on, and we’re going to take a walk over to Kelsey’s apartment. Eees the perfect disguise,” Rhys said in a weird accent that sounded like he had drank six tequila shots after having his wisdom teeth removed. He pretended to scratch his balls and smiled broadly. “Dude, I just need to know what guy she’s with,” he explained in a normal voice.

“And then you’re going to take him on in pants that are twenty-three sizes too small?” Owen asked, looking at the hem of Rhys’s ridiculous pants. They were about six inches too short.

“No, it’s just that I don’t want her to recognize me,” Rhys said, as if it were the most logical plan in the world. “You said you’d come. Dude, I’ll buy donuts,” he offered.

Owen looked into Rhys’s imploring eyes, thinking about the e-mail Kat had sent him yesterday. God, he wanted to see her, but Rhys had actually cried into his beer the other night. What else could he do? “Okay,” he nodded, even though he knew it was a very bad idea.

“Thank you,” Rhys said, now all business. “So, I have this,” Rhys began, pulling out another fake mustache from a heavy chest of drawers. The hairs had matted together in several places and looked like a collection of mating spiders.

“This is supposed to go near my mouth?” Owen demanded. The hairs on the mustache looked suspiciously pubelike.

“Yeah.” Rhys grabbed it back and squirted a thin trail of a gluelike substance on it, then passed it back to Owen.

Owen shook his head and attempted to paste the nasty moustache to his upper lip. Next he changed into the awful suit.
I’m doing this for my buddy,
he reminded himself as he pulled the tight powder blue bell-bottoms over his striped cotton boxers.

“’Bye Mom!” Rhys yelled to Lady Sterling when they were at the front door. She was sitting in the living room, listening to loud bagpipe music while watching the dailies from
Tea with Lady Sterling.

“If we’re doing this, I need some liquid courage,” Owen said, leading the way to the bodega they’d bought beer from before. They made their way past the wilted daisies sitting in buckets of muddy water and went straight to the back refrigerators. Owen picked out cans of Colt 45 and Olde English. The cans made wet spots on the sky blue fabric of his nasty suit.

The deli guy rolled his eyes at his costume, and Owen flashed him an embarrassed grin. Even though Rhys’s plan was weird and stalkerish, it was also kind of hilarious.

“For the road.” He handed Rhys a sweating can in a brown bag as they exited the bodega and walked past the town houses over to Fifth. The sidewalks were filled with moms and strollers, but no one gave them a second glance.

He cracked a can open for himself and chugged it, appraising his friend. “You do know how gay we look, right?”

“Yeah, you can be the boyfriend I met in Miami, okay?” Rhys laughed, but Owen could tell he was distracted.

They reached the corner of Seventy-sixth Street and crossed Fifth Avenue. They sat down on one of the concrete benches lining the high stone wall that separated Central Park from the street. From here they had a perfect view of the large apartment building Kelsey lived in, just across the avenue.

“I promised donuts.” Rhys walked to the metal coffee cart on the corner. Owen surveyed his surroundings. The air had the promise of fall in it, and Owen noticed one lone maple leaf slowly make its way to the ground, where an overzealous five-year-old wearing a dinosaur-imprinted hoodie stepped on it.

“So, I’m guessing your buddies in Nantucket didn’t make you dress up like Borat and stalk their exes.” Rhys plopped a paper bag into Owen’s lap. He slid companionably next to him on the wood bench.

Owen grabbed a cruller from the bag. “I actually didn’t really have any guy friends in Nantucket,” he admitted. He blushed a little, wondering if he’d revealed too much. “I mean, I guess I was just busy with girls and stuff.”

“I always wished I could be more like that,” Rhys said thoughtfully, taking another swig of Olde English. “I’ve always just liked one girl at a time.” He gestured to the apartment building, where a formidably tall doorman was standing at rapt attention. Ten stories above, a sheer lilac curtain fluttered in an open window. Owen wondered if it was Kat’s room, and how much time she and Rhys had spent there together. If Kat had cheated on him that summer, probably not that much, he thought. But then he felt bad for even thinking it.

“It’s the small things I miss,” Rhys said after a moment, self-consciously pulling down the legs of his pants, so they covered at least part of his ankles. “Like, she would always bring me Gatorade after practice. I know that’s stupid. It was . . . just nice.” Rhys scratched at his pant leg, embarrassed. He liked Kelsey because she brought him
Gatorade
? Rhys hoped Owen didn’t think he was a total loser. He’d already dragged him all the way out here and made him wear a ridiculous costume.

Owen nodded politely, not taking his eyes off the window. As much as the topic made him uncomfortable, a part of him was curious to know more about Rhys and Kat. How long had they gone out? How far had they gone?

A group of middle-schoolers carrying skateboards walked by. They stared at Rhys and Owen and burst into laughter. Owen cringed, ready to take the suit off and forget this whole stupid thing. But then he realized,
This is what guy friends do. They’re there for each other.

Pube mustaches and all.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this, man,” Rhys said. “But I guess since you’re my boyfriend and all . . .” Rhys cracked a half smile. “Kelsey and I never did it. I wanted it to be special,” he finished quietly, staring straight ahead.

“Oh.” Owen paused in surprise, mid-bite, then took another bite so he’d have time to think. So Kat hadn’t lied on the beach when she’d said it was her first time. Owen wasn’t sure if he should feel guilty or relieved. Or overjoyed. Or ready to kill himself because he was such an asshole.

“Well, maybe this was the best time for a breakup. You know. The fall is full of fresh starts and . . . and the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new?” It came out sounding more like a question than he’d meant it to. Maybe if Rhys got over Kat—
Kelsey—
he would be fine?

“Have you ever been in love?” Rhys asked, ignoring Owen’s raunchy suggestion and looking deep into his eyes.

“Oh my God, you’re so fucking gay,” Owen laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. It was way too serious a conversation to have with the guy whose dumpage misery he was responsible for—especially in a polyester suit.

“Seriously. Like when all you want is to hold the other person. Like you can’t stop thinking about them in the morning and at night, and dreaming about them,” Rhys gushed, looking totally sincere except for the mustache that was half falling off his face and hanging over his teeth.

“Yeah,” Owen agreed. He did know that feeling. He felt it for the same girl.

“I thought we’d get married someday. Have kids, you know?”

“Are you sure those pants won’t make you infertile?” Owen asked, desperately trying to change the subject.

“Fuck you,” Rhys said good-naturedly, taking another swig of his beer.

They turned back to the green-awninged building. A flash of blue appeared. It was a girl.

“Shit! It’s her!” Rhys dropped the can of beer in his lap in panic. He grabbed it and put it on the ground next to him before any more could spill on the starchy green material of his suit. He already looked like he’d peed his pants.

Way to go deep under cover.

Kat was wearing a form-hugging blue dress, totally oblivious to their presence. She started to cross the street, her tan legs hurrying across before a car came.

“She’s coming this way! Fix your ’stache,” Rhys whispered furiously, brushing off his pant leg with one of the tiny white napkins from the donut bag.

Owen did as he was told, straightening his mustache and feeling the scratchy whiskers against his face as Kat walked closer and closer. She was twenty feet away, then ten, then five, and it seemed impossible that she wouldn’t recognize them.

“Ahhh, yeah, baby. So, I’m thinking we can have our commitment ceremony on the beach, just the two of us, and then partay!” Rhys blurted out in a terrible accent. He turned to face Owen, a wild look in his eyes.

“Can you confirm my six-thirty pedicure today?” Owen heard Kat’s lilting voice two feet away from them as she walked past, holding an arm up to hail a cab. He watched her blue dress swirl around her knees. A taxi pulled up almost instantly, and she got inside.

Rhys and Owen waited in silence until the taxi was out of sight.

“Aww, yeah, baby!” Owen yelled, high-fiving Rhys. It had been a close call. Kat had almost seen them. “These disguises are fucking awesome!”

“Nothing happened.” Rhys shook his head despondently.

“Well, she wasn’t with a guy, right?” Owen clunked his can of beer awkwardly against the one Rhys was holding. “Listen, I’ll help you find a new girl. You know, just someone to have fun with. Take your mind off things,” he added hopefully.

Rhys took a swig of Olde English and tried to ignore the dull pain in his heart. Maybe Owen was right. Maybe he did need to find a new girl. Actually, the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. As soon as Kelsey saw him with someone new, she’d be so jealous she’d beg him to come back. A smile spread slowly across Rhys’s face. It was such a perfect plan. “You’re right,” he said, feeling better than he had all week. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” Owen watched Rhys’s face light up, feeling pretty good himself. He’d clearly overestimated how broken up Rhys was. Rhys had been through the worst of it, and just getting him out there, meeting some new girls and having a good time, would do the trick. Soon Rhys would be over Kat, and she and Owen could be together. Everyone would be happy. Owen was so excited he couldn’t resist giving Rhys a beery hug.

“Get the fuck off me, dude,” Rhys burped cheerfully.

Next on
Tea with Lady Sterling
: my gay son’s big fat gay Key West wedding!