Only In Your Dreams (7 page)

“Cut!” barked Ken Mogul. “Fuck!” He threw his fluorescent green clipboard onto the floor and leapt out of the metal swivel chair he’d been slumped in. “Let’s take ten, please. I need a fucking smoke.”

Serena’s hands trembled as she held the tip of her Gauloise cigarette to the flame from Thaddeus’s silver Zippo. She inhaled deeply but the nicotine did little to calm her nerves. Memorizing her lines and reciting them properly had turned out to be harder than she thought. On top of everything, it was majorly scary to have Ken, freak show director extraordi-naire, yelling at her every five seconds.

“Don’t worry about him,” Thaddeus assured her, running his hands through his dark blond curls and smiling at her with his adorable light blue eyes. He put his arm around Serena’s shoulders and squeezed. “I know it’s rough, and personally, I think you’ve done great for your first film. We’re just on a tight schedule, you know, and he’s nervous about pleasing the producers. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you.”

It doesn’t?

“Do you really think so?” Serena wondered, burrowing into Thaddeus’s protective embrace. Normally she wouldn’t have been quite so touchy-feely with a guy she’d only known for a couple of days, but Thaddeus wasn’t your average guy. It was more than the simple fact that he was a movie star: they were pretending to be in love. They’d already kissed eight times for the stupid climax scene. Cuddling on the couch like old friends seemed natural.

“Listen up!” boomed the director, striding back into the room, tucking his pack of Marlboros into the chest pocket of his rumpled denim shirt, which, oddly enough, had the sleeves cut out, so it was really more of a vest than a shirt.

Serena shivered at the sound of his voice and Thaddeus put his hand protectively over hers.

“I lost it back there,” Ken apologized. “Let’s call it a day, shall we? Vanessa and I have to go over our shot list anyway, but I want you two to keep working. Go to dinner—it’s on me.”

“Thanks, Ken.” Thaddeus stood and stretched, yawning noisily and giving off the heavenly odors of sweat and Carolina Herrera for Men cologne. “It really has been a long day. I could definitely use a drink.”

“And this will give you a chance to work on your chemistry, right, Holly? Get to know your leading man. Talk to him, listen to him, learn from him. I really want to see you meld, okay?”

Serena nodded and stubbed her cigarette out in the mother-of-pearl ashtray perched precariously on the arm of the brown leather couch. She could meld, especially with Thaddeus, but maybe not while Ken was watching.

“Good,” grunted the disgruntled director. “So go, have a bite. That’s your homework.”

Dinner with a major Hollywood hottie? Is there extra credit?

After gorging themselves on the city’s best steak tartare— mixed with two delicate quail eggs and served with a healthy portion of sea-salt-encrusted French fries—Serena and Thaddeus emerged from As Such on Clinton Street, currently the coolest, most crowded spot for the summer. They’d shared a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a molten chocolate cake with fresh huckleberries for dessert, and Serena had tipsily blurted out the story of how she’d wound up not getting asked back to Hanover Academy last fall.

She’d spent the summer in Europe, partying with her older brother, Erik, and flirting with Frenchmen. Erik had left for Brown in August, but Serena had stayed and stayed. School just seemed so boring and unnecessary when the beaches in Saint-Tropez were so inviting, even in September. Thankfully Constance Billard, the New York City all-girls private school she’d attended since kindergarten, had been kind enough to take her back.

“I’d sort of thought I was bound for community college and living with my parents for the rest of my life,” she admitted. “Now here I am acting in this movie, living on my own, and going to Yale in the fall.” She grinned drunkenly and a little seductively at Thaddeus. “I guess you just never know what’s going to happen.” Secretly, it was an invitation to kiss her. But they were in a crowded restaurant full of starers and gossips—it was probably best that he didn’t.

“Should we go?” Thaddeus asked, as if he couldn’t wait to take her somewhere more private.

As the pair stepped outside onto the crowded, steaming street corner, they were startled by a sudden, insistent cry.

“Thad! Thad!” A bulky, bearded figure emerged from the shadows wielding a camera. He snapped pictures as he hurried toward them, the bright flash illuminating the otherwise dark stretch of street.

Thaddeus put his arm protectively around Serena’s waist, a phony but still charming smile plastered to his handsome face.

Serena smiled, too. She was used to having her photo taken for newspaper society columns. She’d even modeled a few times, but it felt a little scary to be hounded like this.

“Let’s go,” sighed Thaddeus. He waved at the photographer. “Okay, man, that’s cool, that’s enough. We’re going.”

But the guy trailed them, weaving and bobbing like a boxer, snapping and clicking the camera’s shutter so quickly it sounded like machine gun fire. He finished a roll, deftly reloaded the camera in a matter of seconds, and kept shooting.

“That’s enough,”Thaddeus ordered, more firmly this time. He tugged on Serena’s arm, pulling her across the street, “Come on. Let’s go.”

Serena continued to smile but her huge blue eyes darted around, searching for a cab.

“Who is she, Thad?” the photographer demanded from behind them. “What are you wearing tonight, Thad?” he continued in an almost mocking tone. “You’re gorgeous, sweet-heart. What about you? What are you wearing?”

Actually, she was wearing her favorite black Les Best pique cotton sundress and black Capezio ballet slippers, but she was too freaked out to open her mouth.

“That’s enough, man!”Thaddeus yelled angrily.

Was he going to pull a Cameron Diaz?

Thaddeus stepped into the oncoming traffic on Clinton Street, waving his arms frantically like a survivor marooned on a desert island flagging down a plane. A taxi pulled over, and he shoved Serena into the backseat. Then he jumped in behind her and slammed the door. The photographer pressed his camera close to the window and Serena buried her face in Thaddeus’s broad shoulder, feeling a little like Princess Di must have just before she died.

“Let’s go, let’s go!”Thad barked at the driver.

As they sped away, the photographer called after them. “That’ll be the cover of the Post tomorrow!”

When they reached Seventy-first and Third,Thaddeus paid the driver and hopped out so he could open her door. Their footfalls echoed into the night, and the distant traffic on Second Avenue sounded vaguely like the ocean. Serena climbed the bottom step of her stoop and then turned. Standing there, she was at eye level with Thaddeus.

“Would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked, determined that the ugly incident with the paparazzi wouldn’t put a damper on the evening. After all, this was the first time she’d had Thaddeus all to herself. There was no angry director, no fussy cinematographer, no script to follow. She wasn’t going to let this moment pass.

He shrugged. “Maybe we should just sit here for a while.” He sank down onto the stoop. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she breathed, delicately pulling at her dress before sitting down next to him.

“That fucking photographer,” he growled sulkily.

Serena put a protective hand on his leg. “He was just an asshole.” She smiled cheerfully at him. “Don’t worry about it. Come up and I’ll make you a nice cold mojito.”

“Sometimes I just get tired of it—the way they talk to you like they know you. The way he called me Thad, you know?” Thaddeus went on, ignoring her invitation. Serena blinked at the sliver of moon hovering over a Seventy-second Street high-rise.

“It must be hard for you. I mean, people probably think they know you. They see your movies, they see you in maga-zines.”

But they don’t get to enjoy intimate dinners with him, poor babies.

“I mean, my name’s not even Thaddeus, for Christ’s sake.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confused.

“It’s Tim. My agent thought it should be something catchier.”

“I guess it worked.” Serena nodded, wondering suddenly if she shouldn’t change her name. It might be good for her career.

Yeah, Serena van der Woodsen isn’t catchy at all.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a soft pack of Parliament Lights. “At least it’s quiet here,” he said, lighting up.

That’s right. You’re safe, right here, with me. “No photographers here,” Serena giggled. “Just the two of us.”

“Working on our chemistry,” Thaddeus laughed. “Our homework. Chemistry homework, get it?”

Better stick to the script, dude.

It was easily the best homework assignment Serena had ever been given, and she was sure she was acing it. The question was how to nuzzle up to him but make it clear she wasn’t rehearsing. She wanted to make sure he saw her as Serena and not Holly, and that he could distinguish the fake kisses from the real thing.

“Hello, again,” came a voice from above them. It was Jason, her downstairs neighbor, wearing a navy pinstripe suit. His blue-and-yellow-striped tie was loose around his neck and the collar of his white oxford shirt was unbuttoned. She hadn’t seen him since he’d come to her rescue her first day in the apartment, and she’d actually sort of forgotten about him.

“Hi, Jason.” Serena wanted to be polite but she honestly hoped he’d just disappear. He was friendly and cute but she and Thaddeus had homework to do.

“What’s up?” Thaddeus put on that same, friendly, flirty tone he used on the talk show circuit. He extended a hand to Jason but remained perched on the stoop. “I’m Thaddeus.”

Jason came down the steps. “I was just getting my mail. Hey, I’m Jason.” He gave Thaddeus’s hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pull up a step,” Thaddeus joked, scooting over a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Or we could go upstairs to my place and get a drink,” Serena suggested hopefully.

“Why don’t I just grab some beers?” Jason offered. “I’ve got some inside. Then we don’t have to bother with all those stairs.”

“Excellent. I kind of like it right here. Nice breeze. Good company.”Thaddeus grinned at Serena.

“Me too.” She smiled back, even though she’d much rather have been upstairs and alone with him. If he wanted a breeze, she could always open a window.

Jason lived on the parlor floor, so it only took him a minute to dash inside and fetch three cold bottles of Heineken.

“Thanks.” Thaddeus sighed as he cracked the top and tossed the cap onto the next step.

“Long day?” asked Jason.

“Seriously,”Thaddeus agreed.“What do you do?”

“I’m a summer associate at Lowell, Bonderoff, Foster and Wallace,” Jason explained before taking a long swig. A car honked loudly in the street. Serena looked at her watch. This conversation was really quite riveting, but frankly, she’d rather be soaking in a Bliss salt-and-sage bubble bath.

“They’re my lawyers!” Thaddeus exclaimed excitedly, like Jason was the most interesting guy he’d ever met. “You don’t know Sam, do you?”

“I know of him,” Jason replied. “He’s a partner over in the LA office, right?”

A gentle breeze lifted Thaddeus’s messy hair off his fore-head. “He’s a real pit bull. God, I remember one time I was having this contract dispute with a studio and—”

“It’s a small world.” Serena yawned and pointed her ballet-slippered toes.

“Here’s to a small world.” Thaddeus lifted his bottle and clinked it against Jason’s and then Serena’s.

She chugged the entire contents of her beer and inched a little closer to Thaddeus. Even if their conversation was deathly boring, she knew she was in the presence of two sweet young gentlemen who would probably carry her up four flights of stairs to her apartment if she happened to drink too much and couldn’t walk.

After all, she’s always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Blair Waldorf burst into the lobby of Claridge’s like a woman on a mission, which was exactly what she was. She had to get back to her suite and sift through the packages she’d had delivered. She was particularly interested in revisiting the show-stopping wedding gown that had been her week’s biggest quarry: at ten thousand pounds it was a splurge, even for her, but it was so perfect that it was worth every penny, and Blair knew her mother would agree. And if she didn’t, Blair knew her father, Harold J. Waldorf, would: he was a fabulous gay man living the high life in the south of France. If anyone understood the thrill of finding the perfect wedding dress, he would.

She’d been meaning to schedule a weekend rendezvous with her dear old dad in Paris—surely it was time for Marcus to meet her parents? It was only a couple of hours away by the Chunnel, and it would be so fun to take a romantic train ride with her boyfriend and leave cousin Camilla behind. As she marched through the lobby, she spied the concierge standing behind her neat little desk. Perfect, Blair thought. She could have her make the arrangements! Blair stormed across the marble tiles to where the woman stood, scribbling notes in some sort of leather-bound ledger.

“I need some assistance,” Blair ordered. “Tickets to Paris.”

“Madam! Ms. er, Beaton-Rhodes?” asked the concierge, a short, prim Asian woman sporting circular John Lennon–type glasses and a nononsense bob.

“It’s Miss Waldorf, actually,” Blair corrected her.

Not Mrs. yet.

“Yes, of course,” the concierge apologized. “Madam, I’m just confirming your reservation for another week. Is that accurate?”

“Sure, sure.” Blair waved her hand. She had business to attend to. “Like I was saying, I want to go to Paris. Like, immediately.”

“That’s fine, then. I’ll just need a credit card. For the room charge.”

“Can you just bill Lord Marcus?” Blair asked, irritated. “He’s handling the whole thing.”

“I see,” nodded the concierge, making a note in her little leather notebook. “And will his Lordship be visiting soon? We’ll need him to sign.”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Blair. She was on her way to set up the perfect romantic evening—lingerie, champagne, the whole thing—but technically she hadn’t spoken to him all day, so he didn’t even know that they had a date.

“Well, I’m afraid we’re going to need to schedule a time for his Lordship to drop by and sign the papers,” the concierge replied firmly.

“Fine,” snapped Blair. “I’ll figure out a time.”

A group of Italian tourists meandered by, randomly snapping pictures of Blair while she fumed.

“Well, Miss . . .”

“Waldorf,” she repeated.

“Miss Waldorf, we’ll need to have that signature on the bill by tomorrow, or I’m afraid we’re going to have to release the suite. We do have an interested party.”

“Fine,” Blair replied icily. “I’ll call him right now.” Blair dug out her telephone and selected the only number in her speed dial. Lord Marcus’s phone rang and, as she could have predicted, there was no answer. She opted not to leave a message. She’d already left three that day. She didn’t want him to think she was insane.

Like buying a wedding dress is sane?

“He’s not answering,” Blair informed the concierge. “He’s very busy at work right now, but I’m sure I’ll hear from him tonight. I’ll arrange for him to come by and settle the whole matter, okay?”

It had only been a few days, but Blair had already lapsed into a Madonna-like English accent, clipping certain consonants and using phrases like “the whole matter.”

“That’s fine.” The concierge nodded. “Just do remember that he’ll have to sign the bill by tomorrow or we’ll be obliged to release the room. I do hope he’ll find a moment to get away from his wife and come by.”

“Excuse me?” Blair demanded.

“I’m sorry?” the concierge replied snottily.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Blair could feel the tips of her ears glowing red with fury. For a moment she forgot about the dress waiting for her upstairs in her luxurious suite. She forgot about the maid, who would happily mix Blair whatever drink she requested as soon as she walked in. She forgot about the inroom massage she’d been itching for. She forgot about Paris.

“I believe I said, I hope he’ll find a moment to get away from his life and come by,” the concierge answered sweetly.

“You did not,” Blair whispered tightly, leaning across the counter, her voice very quiet. “You said wife.”

“I’m sure you misunderstood,” the concierge replied.

“Well, I’m sure you misunderstood!” Blair shouted. She had never been shy. “I heard what you said.”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course. I’ll just need to have his Lordship pop by to sign the papers and the matter will be settled.”

“He’s not married. She’s his cousin,” Blair went on. “And I’m his girlfriend.” She was practically shouting. On the other side of the lobby the Italians turned to look.

The concierge blushed deeply. “If we can just keep our voices down.”

“Fuck that.” Blair had had it with England, with everyone’s polite prattle, with the British insistence on quiet dignity. Blair wasn’t interested in quiet or in dignity. Fuck this bitch, fuck Britain, fuck Lord Marcus and fuck his horsey cousin Camilla. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be home. “You know what? I don’t want the room. I want you to call British fucking Airways and book me a ticket immediately. One way, first class. To New York.” Blair dug into her bag and found her black American Express card, which she tossed onto the desk angrily.

“One way to New York, first class,” repeated the concierge. “Virgin has flights at eleven daily. I’ll see if we can get you a seat.”

Virgin. How appropriate. Not.

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 sure some of you have seen it, and I bet you couldn’tbelieve it any more than I could. There I was, happily traipsingdown Madison Avenue, in search of some new washed-cottonbeach cover-ups when what do I see? The worst sign ever:Closed. Closed? It’s not what you think though: it seems thatBarneys’ creative director and dandy-about-town, GrahamOliver, is besties with a certain fashion-inept indie auteur andagreed to close up shop for a few days so the cameras can roll.

I just hope they reopen on schedule: the word is a certain star-let’s debut performance might need a bit of tweaking. Things areso grim, in fact, they’re shooting every scene she doesn’t appearin first, in hopes that all her practice finally makes perfect.

Now that Barneys is closed for a while, I’m thinking of leavingtown for good—no more of this popping back and forth oncharter jets and helicopters. I know I said that things don’t getcooking in the Hamptons for a while, yet—I usually wait until theFourth of July to hunker down for the season—but I’ve beengetting reports about some intriguing activity out on the island. Imight have to check it out myself. It’s so hard to be me: howcan I be in two places—or three or four or five—at once? Notthat I’ve ever had a problem with it before.

summer survival guide

I’m not going to name names—unusual for me, I know—butthere are plenty of repeat offenders out there. So as a refresher course, here’s everything you need to know about:

1) Tanning

Obviously, the real thing is best. If Mother Nature isn’t complying, airbrushing is acceptable, but remember, whether poolside or in that little spray chamber, you must go naked: tan lines are a turn-off. And remember to wax two days before and exfoliate! Your streaks and splotches aren’t fooling anyone.

2) Brows

For starters, you know you’re supposed to have two, right? Now put down the tweezers. No, throw them away. Go see my friend Reese at Bergdorf’s ASAP. And I don’t want to hear any complaining about how it’s $45 per brow.

3) Waxing

It’s bathing suit season, so landscaping isn’t optional. If you’re going to be wearing that Eres bikini, we’re all going to get a show. Personally, I endorse the traditional Brazilian (no pain, no gain). And while I’ve been known to opt for a precious little Swarovski crystal appliqué tattoo, there really is no need to gild the lily, is there?

your e-mail

Q:

Dear GG,

I heard there’s a pretty racy film making the rounds on theInternet, and it proves that a certain someone has been ina movie before. It was shot on location in Central Park,with that stud N. Her hair looks kind of brown and curly,but it’s got to be S, right?

—Cineaste

A:

Dear Cineaste,

You’re going to have to get your facts straight: there was a movie, from, like, a year ago, and no one involved in that production has anything to do with what’s filming here right now. That well-endowed star is off making art—and who knows what else—in Prague. Au revoir!

—GG

Q:

Dear GG,

There’s this really annoying girl in my yoga class—I’m just trying to get in shape and keep busy while my best friend is at, like, art camp in Prague for the summer—but she’s always going on about how yoga is a “way of life.” Anyway, after class the other day she was gushing to the teacher about some new “spiritual book lover,” crush and he sounded suspiciously like someone I know—only not. Like his evil twin. Or his good twin. Anyway, I’m confused. Are there pod people in town replacing everyone with clones or what?

—Scared

A:

Dear Scared,

This is an intriguing development. I doubt it’s aliens, though—sometimes it’s nice to just enjoy a little summer fantasy. Haven’t you ever pretended to be someone you weren’t on vacation? Try it sometime: check into your hotel as the Principessa de Medici or something like that, and don’t be surprised if management sends up an enormous fruit basket or some Dom Perignon. Stretching the truth sometimes has its merits.

—GG

sightings

B paying an excess-baggage fee at the Virgin counter at Heathrow. Souvenirs for friends and loved ones, or was it that oversize wedding dress garment bag? N picking up a few staples, like Visine and condoms, at White’s Pharmacy in East Hampton. D enjoying a very healthy fourveggie smoothie at Soho Natural. Maybe he’s shaping up for swimsuit season? S might want to take a page from his book—after sneaking out of rehearsal early, she headed straight to the Tuleh sample sale near F.I.T. and then made a not-so-brief pit stop at Cold Stone Creamery. Now, now: looking like a star is half the work! Not that she ever has to worry.

You know you love me.

gossip girl