Only In Your Dreams (15 page)

Slamming the heavy door behind her, Vanessa stormed into the foyer of the Humphrey homestead, dropping her battered army surplus knapsack onto the creaky parquet floor and upsetting a stack of old newspapers in the process.

“Damn!” She knelt and restacked the newspapers as tidily as she could, but the apartment was always in such a state of disarray it hardly seemed to matter.

“What’s that?” a booming voice called out. “Who’s there?”

Vanessa stood and looked around guiltily. She was so exhausted from her afternoon with the tireless twins, so humiliated and pissed off from her run-in with Dan and his tight-butted rollerblading slut, so furious about getting fired by the psychotic Ken Mogul, that she had forgotten that she wasn’t at home: she couldn’t just stomp around, slamming doors. She was technically a guest.

“What’s all this racket?” Rufus Humphrey shuffled into the dimly lit foyer, clutching a sheaf of loose-leaf papers to his barrel chest. His thick tangle of frizzy gray shoulder-length hair was tied up in a green twist-tie, there were peanut shells in his salt-and-pepper beard, and his glasses had slid all the way down his broad red nose. He was wearing a tattered pair of beige cargo shorts with several pens and highlighters sticking out of one of the pockets, a light blue way-too-tight wine-stained polo that Vanessa recognized as one of Dan’s discarded school shirts, and a pink plastic apron embellished with daisies.

“I’m so sorry,” Vanessa apologized. “I didn’t mean to dis-turb you.”

“What day is this?” Rufus demanded, staring at her intently without any hint of recognition.

She wondered if she should remind him who she was. “Sunday.”

“Sunday, yes, Sunday.” Rufus nodded, tearing off his rim-less reading glasses and tucking them into one of his many pockets. “So, are you home late or early? Should I scold you or something?”

Vanessa laughed, relieved that he seemed to know exactly who she was. “Don’t worry. I can assure you I’ve been behaving.”

“Come in, then,” he urged, turning and retreating to the steamy and disorderly kitchen. “I’ve been working on dinner, and I need a fresh palate to sample what I’ve come up with.”

As if she hasn’t had a rough enough day already.

Vanessa stationed herself on one of the rickety, uneven chairs at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of murky tap water and watching Rufus Humphrey busy himself at the stove. Whatever he was cooking it was very fragrant and it made her stomach growl noisily. The only thing she’d eaten that day was her hastily scarfed ice cream sandwich; after the whole scene in the park she just hadn’t been in the mood for lunch.

“Taste this,” Rufus commanded, handing Vanessa a wooden spoon.

She blew on the steaming mound of couscous and sampled it. “Really good.”

“It’s a tagine,” Rufus informed her. “Paul Bowles’s recipe. I totally forgot I had it. Where’s Dan? He loves Paul Bowles. He’d get a kick out of this, I just know it. I replaced the saffron with vermouth!”

“Dan? I’m not really sure,” Vanessa admitted. She fiddled uncomfortably with the faded white linen place mat, which was embroidered with little lavender flowers. It seemed so out of place in that moldy, disorganized kitchen.

“Trouble in paradise?” Rufus asked, energetically stirring the bubbling pot.

Vanessa hesitated. She was really in the mood to just spill her guts. She hadn’t spoken to Ruby since leaving the apartment in a huff, she hadn’t talked to her parents in ages. She didn’t even care that Rufus was Dan’s dad, she just needed to talk to someone.

“Paradise,” she scoffed. “I don’t think we’re living there anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Rufus paged through a cookbook, nodding sagely. “Shit! Two teaspoons. Well . . . six teaspoons isn’t going to kill anyone.”

“I mean,” explained Vanessa, a lump forming in her throat, “I think we’re broken up.”

“What happened?” Rufus asked as he rifled through a drawer, clattering the utensils together.

“I don’t know,” Vanessa lied, suddenly embarrassed. Did he really need to hear all the gory details?

“You kids.” He shook his head. “Young love.”

Or young loveless.

Trying not to lose control, Vanessa continued. “And the thing is, he doesn’t even know what else is going on in my life. I mean, I lost my job today. I got fired by Ken Mogul.” She sighed, her whole body trembling. Hearing the words out loud, even out of her own mouth, made the reality even more harsh.

“Fired?” Rufus repeated, adding what looked like way too much honey to the couscous pot. “Don’t worry about it. Believe it or not, I once got fired from a job. I was an usher at the Brattle Theater, back when I was a student.” He chuckled. “I got canned for screaming obscenities during a play about red Russia, but it’s kind of a long story.”

“Well, I really appreciate you letting me stay here. I’m sure I’ll figure out another place to go soon,” Vanessa mumbled miserably. “I can call Ruby and maybe she’ll let me crash on the couch. Or maybe I can ask Blair Waldorf for help. I mean, I helped her out when she didn’t have any place to go.”

Miss Sleeps-in-a-new-bed-every-week? Don’t count on it, sister.

“Hold the phone, dude!” Rufus exclaimed with one of his classic nonsensical outbursts. “Last I checked, this was my apartment, not Dan’s. Jenny’s in Europe, and then she’s off to that schmancy boarding school. Dan’s going to Evergreen, of all places, and I’m gonna be stuck talking to myself and cooking for one. I don’t think so, dude.”

Vanessa had never been called “dude” before, at least not by someone’s dad. She kind of liked it.

“I don’t know,” she protested. Finally, someone was being nice to her, and she had no idea how to handle it. “I’m not sure I’d feel right taking advantage of your hospitality like that.”

“If that’s really how you feel.” Rufus replaced the lid on the cast-iron pot with a bang. “We can work something out. You’re going to be at NYU in the fall, right? Not much income there, and you’ll be studying too hard to work. Maybe you can rent Jenny’s room for a small fee. As long as you promise to let me cook for you.”

Vanessa rubbed her stubbly head and blinked up at wild-haired Rufus.

“Ah! Chili powder!” he yelled, before dumping in several tablespoons.

Sure, he was a little weird, but he was really nice and she was sure the rent would be more than reasonable. She could make herself scarce until Dan left for Evergreen. And maybe it would actually be fun rooming with Rufus. He’d be the wacky dad she’d never had. Actually, she did have one, but it couldn’t hurt to have two.

“Thank you, Mr. Humphrey.” Vanessa wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’d love to.”

“Great. Now grab some bowls and a couple of wineglasses. Supper’s on.”

Better grab the Pepto while you’re at it.

Serena cowered inside her trailer for as long as possible, studying her script for the millionth time, trying to soothe her horrible Monday morning jitters. She sipped her second latte of the morning and thought back to her weekend rehearsals with Blair.

“Close your eyes,” ordered Kristina, her thin-as-a-wisp German makeup artist. Kristina wore insanely heavy black eyeliner and Serena was slightly terrified of her.

She felt the soft caress of a brush across her closed eyes.

“Okay, open,” Kristina said. “All done.”

Serena opened her eyes and sighed. At least she didn’t have any lines in this big scene, just lyrics: that morning they were shooting a direct reference to the scene in the original film when Audrey Hepburn sings “Moon River” on the fire escape. Ken Mogul had decided to recreate the scene in its entirety, so Serena’s trailer was stationed outside of the dilapidated East Village tenement that was her character’s home in the movie. Serena downed the last drop of her Starbucks latte and thought about what Blair had told her the day before. She could almost hear Blair’s voice inside her head.

Now there’s a scary thought.

“You don’t have to act. You’re already her. That dress is your dress. That voice is your voice. Own it.”

“I think they’re waiting for you,” Kristina reminded her.

Glancing at herself one last time in the bulb-lined vanity, Serena swallowed. She was as ready as she was going to get, but it was going to take a miracle to pull this off.

A miracle named Blair Waldorf.

She stepped out of her gleaming chrome Airstream trailer and onto the sidewalk. St. Marks Place felt even more claus-trophobic than usual: it was crowded with an army of crew members and a forest of incredibly hot lights. Ken Mogul was slumped in his usual canvas director’s chair, smoking a cigarette, since they were shooting in the open air and not the pristine environs of Barneys, and fiddling with his new BlackBerry.

Blair waited between the two trailers with her loyal shadow/assistant Jasmine. The younger girl had a long Kelly green garment bag stamped with the ornate logo of the designer Bailey Winter tossed over her shoulder, ready to protect Serena’s gown from the elements when the scene was over.

It must be nice to have a sherpa.

“Serena on set!” called the second assistant director, and Ken’s army of crew began to dash around like ants.

As soon as he noticed his leading lady, Ken Mogul leapt out of his seat, almost colliding with a four-eyed intern. Behind the director, Serena could see the chiseled profile of Thaddeus Smith, leaning against his own trailer—a vintage Airstream identical to hers, only painted baby blue—chattering into a tiny black cell phone.

“Holly, love,” cooed Ken, tucking his BlackBerry into the back pocket of his weirdly inappropriate tuxedo pants. “You look ravishing. The costume is absolutely flawless.”

Serena was wearing Bailey Winter’s night-blue velvet smock dress and the prettiest silver bow-tie flats. Of course her legs were long and perfect, not that she ever exercised.

Exercise? How gauche.

“Thanks,” Serena replied shakily. She couldn’t wait get this over with.

“Good,” Ken barked. “Let’s get some light in here! This is the real thing, people!”

Serena strolled over to her mark on the set, just as she’d practiced walking yesterday.

“Let’s get light,” called the assistant director.

The light changed: the rest of the room grew darker but the spot on Serena was intensely bright. She didn’t even blink. She looked up into the light and she couldn’t see anything but the light, and couldn’t think about anything but standing there in the light. She was Serena. She was Holly. She didn’t know who she was anymore. She just was.

Own it, she reminded herself.

“Whenever you’re ready, Holly,” Ken called from some-where out in the darkness.

She was ready.

Taking a deep breath, she walked to the bottom step of the tenement’s stoop. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t count her steps, she didn’t stumble or run. Mounting the steps, she turned to face the cameras, inhaling deeply.

“It’s a nice night,” she sighed. “It’s always a nice night.”

She climbed to the top step and sat down. She could see Ken Mogul watching her intently as he puffed on a cigarette. She could see Blair, standing very still and squinting critically. She paused and then, with a heartbreaking little tremor in her voice, she began to sing.

Moon River, wider than a mile . . .

I’ll be crossing you in style, someday.

Dream maker, you heartbreaker . . .

She sang through all the verses of the song, unaccompanied. The set was completely quiet and the light so strong she forgot for a moment who she really was, where she really was: for the moment, she was Holly, and she was singing her heart out.

She finished the song and a tiny tear rolled down her cheek. She stared into the light, blinking and half smiling. She’d always been the center of attention; in fact, she was so used to it she barely noticed anymore. But this was the first time she’d ever felt like a star.

There was a long moment of complete and utter silence. No one moved. No one spoke.

“Holly,” whispered Ken quietly, but everyone could hear him—it was that quiet. “That was incredible. Where the fuck have you been keeping that, sweetheart?” He leapt out of his chair and dashed onto the set to scoop her up in his arms. Some of the crew actually started clapping. Even Blair.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ken Mogul cried, holding Serena closely against his chest and spinning her around in a circle. “A star is born!”

Ken smelled like sauerkraut and espresso. It made her eyes tear. But that was okay—she was already crying.

Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

hey people!

So I happened to be walking by Barneys the other day (okay,I admit it: I’ve been keeping a vigil) and guess what? It wasopen. That’s right: up and running, back to normal, and not amoment too soon. I scooped up some adorable Margiela drawstring pants that will do quite nicely poolside and headedupstairs to Fred’s, which has been restored to its normal glory. Iguess it’s true what I’ve been hearing: filming on that movie haswrapped. Wonder how our favorite leading lady did? Reportsfrom the set have it that (surprise, surprise) she pulled throughquite nicely (that’s our girl!), nailing every take so precisely evenher famously sourpuss director couldn’t stop smiling and declaring his love for her. Take a number, buddy. The even betternews is, as any Hollywood player will tell you, that the end offilming means one thing: the wrap party. I hear this one is goingto be a complete old-school blowout, so cross your fingers andcheck with your doorman every hour on the hour to see if theinvitation has arrived. Mine, of course, arrived days ago.

a public service announcement

We interrupt this program to inform you of a very importantdevelopment: ABC Carpet & Home, the only place inManhattan where you’ll find handwoven rugs from Iran andthose so-delicious-smelling-you-want-to-eat-them Diptyque candles under one roof, is now offering a special service to itsdevoted customers. Stop by and ask for Sisi; she’ll help youpick out a glorious feather bed (because those university-issue

mattresses are paper thin), a charming Turkish kilim (the better to cover up the dreary cinder-block walls), a nice chandelier (go for vintage, one-of-a-kind ones to counteract the—shudder— dorm room fluorescents), and all the little odds and ends that make a house (even a teensy dorm room) into a home. You know, it’s never too soon to start prepping for fall!

your e-mail

Q:

Dear GG,

I was picnicking on the Hudson last weekend and I swear Isaw a certain Hollywood stud rollerblading shirtless by theriver. I’d recognize that chiseled jaw and those even morechiseled abs anywhere. Could it really be? Because here’sthe thing: he was wearing these teeny spandex shorts thatshowed off his taut little butt and underneath his skatesI’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of some rainbow socks. What gives? Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.

—ThadRulz

A:

Dear ThadRulz,

When did rollerblading become so popular again? Thatreally snuck up on me. Anyway, all I’ll say is this: straightboys are allowed to rollerblade too. In fact, I can think ofone (definitely straight arrow) who has recently discoveredhis love of the sport. If you’re looking for evidence that Tprefers the company of gentlemen, some say he’s hadaffairs with everyone from a certain director’s considerablyyounger wife to the director himself. You can’t believeeverything you read . . . unless you read it here!

—GG

Q:

Dear GG,

I’m in a rough spot. I’ve got this totally adorable neighborwho I thought I really hit it off with. All good, right? Well, then her just-as-adorable roommate moved in, and I think I might have hit it off even better with her. What do you think? Should I attempt the roommate swap, or am I better off dating outside my zip code?

—Indecision

A:

Dear Indecision,

You’re a brave fellow. Just make sure the love affair lasts as long as the lease—otherwise you’re in for some uncomfortable moments in the stairwell! And hey, there’s nothing more fun than a threesome!

—GG

sightings

N looking moony on a bench on Main Street in East Hampton. Wonder what has him down? D and an unidentified girl at Jamba Juice in Columbus Circle, “replenishing their fluids” after a tough workout. Hey kids, you do know there are, like, four hotels nearby, don’t you? B schlepping some tightly packed garment bags to her mother’s place on Fifth Avenue. Hasn’t she bought enough this summer? Or is keeping the leftovers just a fringe benefit of her new career in fashion? T buying flowers at Chelsea Market—just a little token for his favorite leading lady? V toting her collected works to the Fifth Avenue mansion where she’s working now. It seems that her new boss is quite a film buff, or maybe she’s just trying to get fired again by showing her charges some really twisted stuff.

Okay, that’s enough with the sightings. I don’t have time for this, really; I’m on my way to that amazing vintage boutique on Elizabeth Street. I don’t usually go for old clothes— they smell like dead people—but I thought it might be fun to dress the old-school Hollywood part for the old-school Hollywood party. Oops, I’ve already said too much!

You know you love me.

gossip girl