Only In Your Dreams (6 page)

Blair Waldorf crossed her legs and leaned back in the deep-brown high-backed leather chair. Lifting the white Spode porcelain teacup to her lips, she took a dainty sip of lukewarm Earl Grey tea and smiled at Jemima, the salesgirl who was hovering over her. “Miss Waldorf,” Jemima tittered, handing Blair a small navy blue leather portfolio. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Blair opened the book; inside were her black American Express card, a receipt, and a pen, which she grabbed, signing the dotted line without glancing at it.

“Lovely. Now, I’ve had your parcels packed up and they’ll be off to Claridge’s shortly. Can I do anything else for you? Fetch a taxi, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.” She smiled gracefully. “I think I’ll walk.”

She had been sitting comfortably in a private back room in a new boutique called Kid in West London for an hour, keeping Jemima, a pretty brunette with terrible teeth, busy fetching every style of boot they stocked. As she tried on the twenty-plus pairs of boots, she’d had two cups of tea, glanced at the new issue of French Vogue, and made a telephone call to Lord Marcus. Voicemail. She wondered if he was working, or if he was off with Camilla somewhere, buying new croquet mallets, or ...

Or what?

Blair didn’t give up easily and she was determined not to let yesterday get her down. Maybe Marcus and Camilla needed to get their cousinly bonding thing out of the way. They’d undoubtedly soon tire of each other’s company. Besides, Marcus was likely to forget Camilla’s name when he caught a glimpse of Blair in her new knee-high black python-skin boots and her new black lace Gossard corset and matching boy shorts, which she planned on modeling for him that very night in between courses during the champagne-and-chocolate room service dinner she’d planned.

Tucking the still-warm credit card back into her new Smythson billfold, Blair dropped her wallet inside the limited-edition hand-painted Goyard bag she’d picked up the day before and walked out of the store and onto the quiet stretch of Press Street. She’d been to London only once with her family, when she was twelve. They’d stayed at the Langham Hotel just off Regent Street, visited Old Ben and Buckingham Palace, seen the crown jewels, watched the changing of the guard, drunk tea, and eaten scones. As far as she could remember, she’d spent most of the trip listening to Madonna on her iPod. But that was London as a tourist. Now that she lived here, things were totally different.

Everyone said London was gray, overcast, foggy, and depressing, but it had been clear and sunny all week. The trees were in full bloom, there were lush gardens on every block, and every building was ornate and beautiful. Everyone also said that the English were standoffish, with bad teeth and thick accents, and although their teeth and accents were distractions, so far every person Blair had spoken to had been unfailingly polite.

Of course they had been—she’d only talked to salespeople who worked on commission.

Blair checked her cell again: no messages. She tossed the phone back into her bag. She understood that a gentleman had to pay extra attention to his guest—family was very important to the English upper class—and Camilla was lovely, really. She really was. Even if she did look like a blond cartoon freakworm. And Blair understood, really she did. But she was ready to spice things up a little, and the more Lord Marcus made her wait, the more fidgety and eager she got. Maybe the whole thing was just a ploy to turn her on as much as possible?

Um, maybe.

Strolling down the street in the general direction of her hotel, Blair felt like a cross between Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—the scene where she goes shopping in a giant black wide-brimmed hat and has all the Rodeo Drive salespeople waiting on her hand and foot—and Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, the beautiful Cockney waif who rises from obscurity on the streets of London to become the toast of the town. Except Blair was neither a prostitute nor a waif from the gutter.

Details, details.

She glanced up and down the street, but every store window, every awning, looked familiar. Had she really made it to all the stores in the neighborhood? Finding great clothes in London was easy, and the exchange rate made it even better. Blair noticed it the minute she arrived; she had to get cash for a taxi and was surprised at how many bright, pretty pastel-colored bills she got in exchange for her boring old U.S. dollars. The teller at the bank even gave her a handful of change—including an oversize penny that was worth two cents, not just one, a funny hexagon-shaped coin, and a bunch of thick, heavy coins that were worth a whole pound each. If the English used coins for the same thing Americans used bills for, clearly this was a place to find great bargains. Not that she needed to find bargains.

Blair was standing outside of what at first looked like just another West London brick mansion: a tall, well-lit town house with big, clean windows and blooming flower boxes underneath them. A lifetime of shopping had given Blair a sixth sense; she just knew when something good was lurking nearby. Through the street-level windows she could see an ornate Chinese vase stuffed full of white camellias on a pretty gilded table. Blair couldn’t see any clothes but she was absolutely convinced something incredible was inside.

After all, everyone has a special talent.

She rang the doorbell and the door buzzed back, so she pushed it open and stepped into the marble foyer of the elegant house. The open, airy parlor floor was filled with simple displays: an incredible Kelly green crocodile bowling bag perched on top of a broken Corinthian column bathed in the soft glow of a spotlight, a show-stopping pair of red velvet ballerina flats atop a satin pillow. They were so plush Blair couldn’t resist stroking them. A tall Indian girl with long, thick hair smiled at her from behind the antique art nouveau desk. Blair felt a little self-conscious in her Rock & Republic jeans, her gold silk Eberjey camisole and her skimpy sandals, but she wasn’t about to walk out.

“I’m Lyla,” the salesgirl chirped in a clipped English accent. “Do let me know if I can help you find anything.”

Blair walked to the foot of the gracefully curving staircase. Sensing something in the distance, she ascended the marble steps grandly. The steps were exactly like the ones Eliza descends in My Fair Lady, in the scene where she has her society debut.

See, life really does imitate art.

The second floor was nearly empty, except for a floor-to-ceiling three-way mirror against the far wall. Sun flooded in and Blair paused, pretending it was her own private dressing room. In the middle of the space, suspended from a glass hanger, hung a long white dress. It was made of silk, cut along the bias, and seemed to breathe as if it had a life of its own. It was ... beautiful. Whoever wore that dress would be the star of a never-ending love story with herself. Blair reached out to touch the dress, transfixed. Could it be? It was.

It was a wedding dress.

It was her wedding dress.

“Would you like to try it on?”

Blair whirled around to see Lyla from downstairs. She hadn’t heard her coming.

“Yes, definitely,” Blair half whispered. “I think I’m going to need it.”

For what, exactly?

The shop only accommodated one customer at a time, so there was no need for dressing rooms. Lyla explained this, reaching up to remove the glass hanger from its tack on the wall, while Blair all but leapt out of her clothes. She grabbed the gown and slid into it headfirst. The chiffon was as soft and light as fresh whipped cream, and she shivered as it fell down the length of her body.

Avoiding the mirror until everything was perfect, Blair stood by the windows, looking down onto the lush private garden behind the store.

“Here, let’s put this on as well.” Lyla held up a delicate gold lariat necklace and slipped it around Blair’s neck. “I think you’re ready to have a look now,” she murmured, turning Blair so that she faced the mirror.

Blair crossed the room carefully, holding the dress up so she didn’t trip on the delicate hem. There was a small platform in front of the mirror and she stepped up onto it, avoiding her reflection until she was perfectly situated. She let go of the dress, shook her hair back from her face, and then gazed at her reflection.

“Oooh!” she gasped.

There it was: the future. Blair had never seen a more perfect dress in her life. It was so amazing, its beauty rubbed off on her. She wasn’t even wearing proper makeup, but her face had never looked more flawless. She was wearing the wrong bra but her breasts had never looked so full. She felt like she’d stepped off the cover of Town & Country’s summer wedding issue. That old theory—that you just know, somehow, when you’ve found the right wedding dress—seemed to be true.

They’d be married in St. Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue and they’d rent all the rooms in the St. Clair for the guests to stay in and for the reception. Her father would give her away with tears in his blue eyes, whispering, “I love you, Bear,” as he handed her off to Marcus. Marcus would hold her hand throughout the ceremony in that intimate way of his, reminding her that they weren’t just passionately in love, they were best friends.

“It’s really quite something, isn’t it?” Lyla crossed her arms in front of her. She was standing behind Blair, smiling approvingly. Blair met her gaze in the mirror.

“It’s just perfect,” she breathed, her eyes transfixed on the endless train of pure white silk.

“Have you set a date?”

Um, how about a proposal first? And what about, you know, college?

“I’ll take it,” Blair declared.

“Of course,” Lyla agreed. “You won’t be sorry. He’s going to love it.”

Blair nodded back hypnotically, still staring at her own reflection.

“And what about the necklace?” Lyla queried.

Why not? Blair thought.

Oh, yes, why not?

The single complaint Dan had about his job at the Strand was that the bookstore lacked one essential, modern amenity: air-conditioning. This morning he was stationed in the completely airless basement, manning the information desk and keeping an eye on special orders, like the request for a skin diseases photo calendar. After a couple of torturous hours, he was definitely ready for some fresh air.

If that’s what you call a smoke.

As soon as his replacement—a scowling, silent guy named Brent who’d worked at the store for about twenty years— arrived to take his place, Dan jogged up the narrow staircase and outside. A concrete ledge ran alongside the square beige building and he perched on it, enjoying the shade as he lit up.

The sidewalk was crowded with passersby browsing the Strand’s large outdoor carts, which were full of super-discounted books no one wanted, like Collectible Coins from Contemporary Canada and Tiger:The True Story of the Dog Who Loved a Cat. Dan closed his eyes and tuned out the chatter of the bargain hunters. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and thought about Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. “Love stirred in the hearts of the young daughters of the Brahmins when Siddhartha passed through the city streets, with his radiant brow, with his impe-rial glance, with his slender hips.” Dan couldn’t help wanting to be Siddhartha, or at least be more like him.

He wished he had someone he could discuss it with, especially since his attempt to chat about it with Vanessa had ended so badly.

A tap on his shoulder interrupted his reverie. He opened his eyes.

“Dan?” Bree stood before him like a fit, blond daughter of a Brahmin, admiring him in all his Siddharthaness.

Who says wishes don’t come true?

“Hi.” He stood quickly. Bree was wearing a form-fitting green tank top and white spandex shorts. Her blond hair was in two tidy pigtails and her skin had a bold, healthy glow.

“Are you smoking?” she demanded, aghast.

“Uh, no.” Dan dropped the lit cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out quickly. “I was holding it for this guy Steve. He had to run back inside.”

Nice play, Shakespeare.

“Whew,” she exhaled, fanning the air with her hands. “Smoking is just terrible for you.”

“Oh, I know,” Dan agreed earnestly, wiping his hands on his faded green cords. “It’s really bad.”

“I’m so glad I ran into you!” Bree hopped up onto the ledge and started swinging her legs like a kid who has to pee but doesn’t want to get off the swing. “I wanted to tell you how much I liked Siddhartha.”

“Yeah? That’s great. I was actually just rereading it myself.”

“Really? What a funny coincidence!”

Right. Coincidence.

“So you thought the book was interesting?” Dan asked, crossing his legs in a way he hoped looked quasi-intellectual and quasi-athletic. “What are you thinking of reading next?”

“Well, I’m going to read a book my yogi has been working on. It’s about improving the way the brain communicates with the other organs in the body by meditating and doing yoga and chanting. There are, like, fifty chapters and most of them are a hundred pages long. He’s been writing it for, like, eleven years, and he’s going to try and have it published this year and he asked me to look at it for him. Me! Imagine! It’s such an honor.”

An honor? Sounds more like a pain in her well-yogacized ass.

“Anyway, I have to confess,” she went on, looking Dan right in the eye. “I didn’t just come by to talk books.”

“You didn’t?”

She didn’t?

Dan blushed and looked down at the ground, kicking idly at the cigarette butt he’d claimed wasn’t his. He wished he had it back.

“No, I wanted to see if you’d be interested in getting together sometime. I know that might sound kind of forward, but you know, I’m a person who believes in taking chances. I believe that the universe rewards bold actions, don’t you?”

Dan nodded eagerly.

“Anyway, I’m kind of lonely this summer. I grew up here in Greenwich Village but I was in boarding school out west, so I don’t really know anyone in the city anymore. I’m going to UC Santa Cruz in the fall, but I don’t want to spend my last summer in the city all by myself.”

“No, definitely not,” Dan agreed. “I’d love to hang out.”

“Awesome!” Bree cried, hopping down from the ledge. “What’s your schedule like?”

“Well, I work days. So anytime after six.”

“Cool. Do you think you’d be up for Bikram?”

“Sure,” Dan nodded, even though he’d never heard of it. He didn’t go out to clubs very often.

“Awesome!” she squealed again. “Give me your number and I’ll call and confirm, but let’s say Saturday?”

Dan recited his number and she typed it into her hot pink Razr. He had officially taken a much longer break than he was entitled to, but after Bree strolled away he had to light another Camel to calm his nerves. He wasn’t quite sure what Bikram was—a trendy new nightclub? Some new Indian restaurant? Maybe it was a new underground independent film? But it didn’t matter. Vanessa was busy filming, and he’d scored a hot date with a sweet, gorgeous girl who loved to read.

Oh, it’s sure to be a hot date indeed.