Would I Lie To You (3 page)

“Okay.” Vanessa sighed, kneeling on the fifth-floor play-room carpet of the James-Morgan family’s Park Avenue town house. “Let’s just do one final bag check and then we are out of here. Ready?”

“Ready!” Nils and Edgar screamed in unison. They were twins and so they did pretty much everything in unison, whether it was spilling cranberry juice on their mother’s antique ivory silk–upholstered armchairs or screeching at the top of their lungs (probably to remind their mother that they indeed existed). They were adorable in their own way, but that way was particularly hard to see when you were responsible for wiping their various body parts and making sure they got through the day with those body parts intact and unharmed. And that was exactly the position in which Vanessa found her-self. She’d been fired from her first serious Hollywood gig as the cinematographer on Breakfast at Fred’s, and in a moment of personal and financial desperation, she’d signed on to be a nanny.

Also, she’d been drunk at the time. Obviously.

It was almost too depressing to consider that two weeks ago she’d been in private rehearsals in a major movie star’s suite in the Chelsea Hotel, doing what she loved best, and now she was in a slightly Edwardian attic nursery in Carnegie Hill with a grape jelly stain on her Levi’s and two snot-nosed boys somersaulting at her feet, while the movie’s stars were sunning themselves on the beach, only a few miles away, in the Hamptons. Not that she was much of a star-fucker, but still.

“Here we go.Tissues?”Vanessa asked.

“Yay!” cried the twins, brandishing two Kleenex bundles. They flung them into the pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer tote bag.

“Snack bags?”

“Yay!” They whipped in two little plastic baggies filled with cheddar cheese goldfish crackers.

“Juice boxes?”

“Yay!”

“Don’t throw them!” Vanessa immediately recalled the pink stains she’d tried so hard to scrub out of the antique chairs.

“Throw what?” Allison Morgan—also known as Ms.— strode purposefully up the narrow wooden stairs and into the sun-drenched playroom, her snakeskin Jimmy Choo stiletto slingbacks clacking on the blond parquet.

“Mommy!” The boys abandoned their day-trip bag and threw themselves face-first into the ivory bouclé of her knee-length Chanel pencil skirt.

“Packing up for an outing?” Ms. Morgan asked in an über-fake, high-pitched tone, backing away from the twins.

Very perceptive, Mom.

“Thought we’d head to the Central Park Zoo today,” Vanessa explained.

“Oh dear,” clucked Allison. “Central Park? You remember what happened last time.”

Of course Vanessa remembered: she’d never forget the sight of Dan in neon yellow kneepads and Rollerblades, hand in hand with another girl. A long-haired, spandex-clad, horrifically perky girl. It had been so hilariously bizarre and so completely heartbreaking. Smoking a cigarette, scruffy rock star hair matted, dirty T-shirt, long-to-the-point-of-ridiculous puke-colored cords—that was the Dan Humphrey she knew.

And loved?

But of course that’s not what Vanessa’s militant new boss was referring to. She meant that the twins had ruined their clothes eating Fudgsicles and stayed up half the night yelling, “Fudgie-poo!” because of the sugar.

But Vanessa couldn’t stop thinking about Dan. Things were kind of back to normal now. Or almost normal. Maybe it was just from lack of sleep, or the fact that she was so relieved that he’d ditched the blond yoga-toned health-nut bombshell and the old Dan was back, but damn, that morning in the kitchen Vanessa had barely been able to resist kissing him. He just looked so sweet, gulping bad coffee from that lumpy mug, sleep crusties still stuck in his eyes. It almost felt . . . natural, the way she’d always pictured their life together. Except they weren’t together. They were just ...friends. And she probably didn’t want to do anything to ruin that, like bury her nose in his warm, delicious, stale-cigarette-smelling hair. No, she absolutely did not.

Liar.

“Listen, Vanessa, I’m glad I caught you.” The sound of Allison’s raspy, too-much-chardonnay-last-night voice snapped Vanessa back to earth. “Were heading to our place in Amagansett in a few days. The city’s just so unbearably hot, and the boys do so love the beach.”

“The beach!” screamed Nils and Edgar, in unison of course, taking the announcement as their cue to race all over the playroom in a frenzy.

“You see how excited they are already,” Ms. Morgan observed. “Anyway, what do you say? We’ve got an extra suite in the top wing of the house—very comfortable, very private. You’d spend days with the boys and be free to go at, say, sixish, when they sit down to have their dinner.Your pay would remain the same of course.”

Vanessa considered the situation: there she was, filling an offensively preppy tote bag with juice and crackers while two little micromaniacs raced around her, yelping about the waves. What did she have to look forward to? Another night staring at the crack in the ceiling of Jenny’s room, which still smelled like paintbrush cleaner, wondering what Dan was doing on the other side of the wall, fantasizing about the taste of his warm coffee-and-cigarette-breath kisses?

She hated the sun, didn’t even own a bathing suit, and basically despised everything about the beach and the tan, half-naked, thoroughly annoying people who glommed to it. But her life sucked just enough right now that it actually sounded . . . not so bad.

“Amagansett,” Vanessa pronounced slowly, like it was a disease, or a genital area, or a Far Eastern country she’d never heard of before. “That sounds lovely.”

Oh, it is lovely. But only under the right circumstances.

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

hey people!

I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this late-breaking news:

my tipsters are the best. You may remember a concerned reader writing in a few days ago about a couple of look-alike impostors who’d infiltrated Hamptons society? Turns out they weren’t fooling: the gruesome twosome who bear a disturbing resemblance to and are a couple of Estonian semibeauties who a certain designer has hired to be the faces of his newest venture, a ready-to-wear line he’s launching this fall. Looks like it’s going to be double (quadruple?) the trouble. And here I thought scientists had only figured out how to clone a sheep! Estonia is so technologically advanced. But the real dirt is on these girls’ sor-did history. Details are surfacing as we speak! My money’s on to freak out first, but before she does, let’s all take a second to appreciate the possibilities—couldn’t having your own private look-alike come in mighty handy at times? I know I would have loved one this past May at exam time, when all this body wanted to do was lounge in Sheep Meadow. And what about avoiding boring family brunches at Le Cirque? Or having an extra pair of hands to do some charity work in our names? And isn’t more a little merrier anyway? Then again, more bodies = less space on those overcrowded Hamptons beaches. Maybe ditching those doppelgangers isn’t such a bad idea. (Did you really think that getting into college meant I’d forget all my SAT words?)

If you’re merely nodding to my overcrowded beaches comment and haven’t actually experienced it firsthand, consider this a public service announcement: no matter how many people flock to the Hamptons in the summer, it’s the only place to see and be seen. So fold up that lap-top, grab a beach bag, and get your booty to the nearest private jet! In a pinch, the Hampton Jitney will do—it should only take an extra couple hours of miserable bumper-to-bumper traffic. But trust me, it will be worth it when you’re digging your toes into the shimmering sand. What price glory!

Since you’d all be helpless without me, I’ll lay out exactly what you need to bring. . . .

packing list for a hasty hamptons departure

— Oversize Chanel sunglasses or old-school aviators. Impostor sunglasses are a little like impostor models: they look fine on first inspection, but close-up they just look bad.

— Clarins SPF 30 with moisturizer. That whole tanned-to-a-crisp thing went out with last year’s espadrilles.

— Kiehl’s SPF 15 lip balm with berry tint. Just because you’re avoiding tan lines doesn’t mean your lips should go naked.

— A monogrammed boat bag with matching towel. Sort of the designer equivalent of name tags on your clothes for summer camp. If you lose a towel, keep your fingers crossed that a hottie finds it—and then finds you to return it.

— Metromint mint-flavored water. It’s cooling for a hot day in the sun. Plus, it freshens your breath, making you all the more kissable. Mwa! Mwa! Mwa!

— Your best friends. You’re going to need someone to rub Coppertone on your back, and we all know that summer fling of yours isn’t really a long-term solution. . . .

your e-mail

Speaking of summer flings, it seems from your e-mails that you all are having some serious relationship woes. Let me help you out:

Q: 

Dear GG,

I’ve been living with my ex-boyfriend/friend, and now I’m planning to take off for a while. It’s nothing personal—just a vacation. What’s the protocol? Do I tell him or just let him figure it out?

—Roommate on the Run

A: 

Dear RotR,

Just because you know how your roommate kisses doesn’tmean you should go and throw the house rules out the pent-house window. Allow me to share the basics: 1) Food is communal unless otherwise labeled. 2) Give a call if you’re not coming home at night—we worry! And 3) If you aren’t inviting us onyour vacation, the least you can do is leave a note and a gift.(I’ve been checking out the new Marc by Marc Jacobs beachtotes, but maybe that’s just me.) Bon voyage!

—GG

Q: 

Dear GG,

I know my ex-boyfriend is living on the same street as me this summer, but I can’t figure out which house is his. Help!

—Stalking the Neighborhood

A: 

Dear Stalking,

Maybe you should take a clue from Hansel and Gretel and help him find his way to you. If he’s like every boy I know, a trail of discarded clothes will do the trick!

—GG

sightings

An infamous lacrosse coach’s wife—we’ll call her older B—coming out of a tattoo parlor in Hampton Bays. I wonder who the experience was more painful for: her, or the tattoo artist who had to see her topless? Former yoga enthusiast D chain-smoking cigarettes outside the Strand. Looks like those downward-dog days are over. That is, unless someone else can whip him into shape . . . His little sister J all the way in Prague, sketching a totally adorable boy while he sketched the local market scene—nice to see traveling hasn’t changed her! A certain monkey-toting Manhattanite, C, stocking up on Fake Bake self-tanning cream in Chocolate Mousse. Yummy! Will the Hamptons be accommodating yet another visitor? V buying Bermuda shorts and a black-and-white striped boatneck tee in Club Monaco on Broadway. How positively summery of her. S and B sharing cocktails with their look-alikes—how weird would it be if the four of them became BFFs?!

Okay, darlings, that’s it for now. I have a mani-pedi scheduled for this afternoon, and I still can’t decide between pale pink Bikini with a Martini, golden-beige Cabana Boy, or bright-coral Shop Till I Drop. Decisions, decisions. At least I can’t go wrong!

You know you love me.

gossip girl

“Tell me again,” Serena sighed, idly flipping the glossy pages of that month’s Japanese Vogue as she lay sprawled across the minimalist oak platform bed, “why we’re inside on a day like today?”

The day in question was ninety degrees and clear as glass, with the slightest suggestion of an ocean breeze. Serena looked up from the close-up photo of a very blond Japanese model with painted-on eyelashes sucking on an applered lollipop. She could see an inviting cool patch of shade under the wide white canvas umbrellas stationed alongside the swimming pool. Today was definitely a lounge-around-half-in-and-half-out-of-the-water sort of day.

“You know the answer to that,” snapped Blair, who was angrily riffling through the dark walnut armoire where Annabella, Bailey Winter’s housekeeper, had hung all of their garment-bagged clothes. “I swear one of those fucking girls took my fucking Dolce sundress. The one with the grommets. I can’t find it anywhere.” She started haphazardly ripping dresses off of their wooden hangers and tossing them onto the floor.

Well, that’s what maids are for!

“Mmm,” Serena murmured. There was nothing special about Blair throwing a tantrum, although Serena kind of hoped she’d pick up the clothes afterwards. But ever since they’d arrived at Bailey Winter’s sprawling modernist compound, Blair had thrown more than her fair share—even for her.

Now that’s really saying something.

Blair was convinced that the skanky Eurotrash models Ibiza and Svetlana were out to get her. She kept accusing them of swiping her clothes or using her La Mer SPF 45 moisturizer and insisting that Ibiza, the brunette, was mimicking her every move, from her new chin-grazing hairstyle to her wardrobe selections. Serena had to admit the pair bore a troubling resemblance to her and Blair, but they seemed harmless enough. They were just annoying, like the copycat ninth-grade girls back at Constance Billard.

Isn’t mimicry the most sincere form of flattery?

“Fuck this,” Serena announced, closing the magazine and pushing it off the bed. She yawned. “I’m not going to rot in here all summer long just because we want to avoid some weird girls with buckteeth and cross eyes. I’m going swimming.”

“But I can’t find my new navy polka-dot Ashley Tyler cover-up,” Blair whined. “What’s the point of being a muse if I’m not dressed to inspire? If that Ibiza girl borrowed it, I swear I’m going to rip her malnourished arms off.”

Spoken like a true muse.

“Come on, Blair.” Serena slipped a Gauloise from the battered pack on the neatly made bed beside her, lighting it with the silver Dunhill lighter she’d swiped from her brother, Erik. It was engraved with his monogram EvdW. “Just throw something on and let’s go. It’s too nice outside.”

“Throw something on? I have nothing to fucking wear because of those fucking copycats.” Blair threw her hands in the air, as though the piles of tissue-thin cotton and fine washed-silk garments all around her were invisible

“Then just wear something ugly and see if they copy that,” Serena offered, exasperated. She loved Blair, she really did, and they’d been best friends for forever, but sometimes she just wanted to slap her perfectly toned little butt cheeks.

“Actually . . .” Blair threw herself onto the bed and snatched Serena’s Gauloise from her lips. She inhaled deeply and narrowed her brilliant blue eyes thoughtfully. “That gives me an idea.”

“What a glorious day!” Blair flung open the impeccably clear French glass doors to the pool house and strode into the fierce afternoon sunshine, bare arms stretched out above her head. “Come on, Serena. Let’s get some sun.”

“Coming, coming,” Serena giggled, stumbling out of the shaded bungalow, the sun-warmed bluestone burning the soles of her freshly pedicured feet. She held her rolled-up magazine in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other, and her white horn-framed Cutler and Gross sunglasses covered most of her face. Other than that, she was completely, totally, outrageously naked.

“Maybe we should ask Stefan for some iced coffee,” suggested Blair, settling her own exposed hindquarters onto a teak chaise. Her only accessories were a tiny gold Me&Ro anklet and oversize black Ray-Bans.

“Vhat is going on?” demanded Ibiza, yanking her ninety-pound frame out of the pool. She was so emaciated she looked like one of those send-money-now third-world kids in the TV commercials, totally overdressed in her icky trade-mark lavender-and-gold striped cutout one-piece.

“What do you mean?” Serena casually tossed her maga-zine onto the chaise next to Blair.

“Your clothes,” accused Svetlana, still in the water, her colorless, overprocessed hair matted flat to her head. “You’re not wearing any clothes!”

“Oh dear.” Blair sighed dramatically and turned onto her stomach. The sweltering sun felt nice on her bare bottom. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” demanded Ibiza, glaring down at her pert, naked body.

“I guess the latest issue of Estonian Vogue or whatever it is you usually read neglected to cover the naked trend.” Blair yawned. “It’s the very latest thing.”

Serena stubbed her cigarette out in a large seashell on a glass side table next to her chaise. She tried to avoid looking at Blair in order to suppress the unstoppable hysterics and probably a snort that would spill out of her if she did.

“Is latest thing to go naked?” Svetlana glanced down at her spindly bikini-thong, which she’d probably mail-ordered from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. The water distorted her body’s appearance, so that it almost looked like she had actual hips and curves.

Merely an optical illusion.

“Yes, is obvious,” scolded Ibiza, pulling down the straps on the top of her cutout suit. Her body, with its circular cutout tan lines, looked like a Twister mat. “Is much better like this. Is European way, really.”

“Topless is so done though.” Serena gave an exaggerated yawn, staring down at her magazine and trying not to lose it. “Blair and I have been going topless at the beach since we were eleven, at least.”

“At least,” Blair chimed in. Flat on her stomach, she put her head down and closed her eyes.

“Right.” Ibiza took the bait. She hopped up on one leg and then the other, tugging off the rest of the hideous suit. It fell to the ground with a wet slap. “Of course, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, yes?”

“Yes,” concurred Svetlana miserably. She slipped out of her sad red polka-dot bikini and dropped it at the pool’s edge. Then she leapt into the water and swam away embar-rassed, her body a skeletal flash of underfed whiteness.

“Zo glad we can all just relax now, yes?” Ibiza asked, sounding confident but looking uncomfortable just standing there, her Twister-mat body completely naked, like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Blair noticed that her boobs were totally asymmetrical, like they’d been glued on wrong. Maybe they had.

“Have you seen hottie that lives next door?” Ibiza started to say in a feeble attempt at casual small talk while naked. She shook her hands out like they were burning up.

“Maybe we should ask Stefan for some iced coffee,” Serena suggested, ignoring her.

“Yes, sound very good.” Ibiza nodded then strode slowly and deliberately to the umbrella-shaded table. She pulled out one of the heavy wooden chairs and curled up on it oh-so-casually. “I call him. Stefan! Stefan!”

Serena held her breath, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Now,” hissed Blair quietly.

On cue, they jumped off of their lounges and took off running, giggling hysterically, over the plush velvety lawn and into the thicket of leafy trees on the perimeter of the large, sunny yard.

“Look, look!” Serena ducked behind the leafy boughs of a baby oak, pointing at the scene they’d just fled: Stefan had appeared, as beckoned, clad in his usual ensemble of tight white tee and cargo shorts. He was also sporting a cute little grosgrain ribbon headband to keep his thick hair out of his brown eyes, which were wide with shock. Ibiza sat before him in all her bizarre pale-and-tanned polka-dottedness. She stuck out her chest, trying to look sexy, but her oddly shaped boobs just pointed in different directions. Svetlana had chosen just that minute to finally emerge from the pool, dripping wet. She picked up her iPod, stuck in her headphones, and began to dance, flapping her pale, spindly arms. She looked like an albino flamingo. “Ratfucker!” she sang loudly, totally misunderstanding the words to the latest Coldplay song.

Serena and Blair laughed so hard they nearly peed them-selves. Serena felt flushed and giggly, almost like a little kid again. A very powerful wave of déjà vu washed over her, and she was transported to a moment exactly like this one, only years ago, when they were much younger. She and Blair were changing out of their one-piece Lands’ End bathing suits behind some raspberry bushes at her house in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Nate kept threatening to chase them, and they were giggling so hard they kept pricking themselves and sticking their feet into the wrong holes of their terrycloth shorts.

“What the f—?”

Serena couldn’t believe her eyes—it was almost as if she’d conjured him. Nate stood in front of them, his eye-brows furrowed, brushing the splinters off the seat of his khaki shorts after jumping the wooden fence between the two properties.

“Natie!” Serena ran over and threw her arms around him, forgetting how completely naked she was. He hugged her back, awkwardly patting her bare shoulder. She giggled and bounded back to Blair’s side, obscuring her privates with a leafy branch.

Blair grinned devilishly. It somehow seemed so right to run into Nate like this. There was just something so obvious about the three of them together again, even if two-thirds of them weren’t wearing any clothes.

“Strip, Nate!” Blair cried, running after him like she was going to pull down his cargo shorts. He ducked behind an oak tree.

“Skinny-dipping?” Nate asked, peeking out from behind the slim tree trunk.

Serena smiled as she studied her old friend or boyfriend or whatever Nate was—she wasn’t even sure. That confused expression, those sleepy, stoner green eyes—he hadn’t changed a bit. But for once, Nate wasn’t looking back at her at all— he was staring, mouth agape, at Blair.

“Naked is the new clothed,” Blair told him matter of factly. She placed a hand on the fleshy curve of her hip. “Haven’t you heard?”

Blair had known he was around here somewhere, of course, but she hadn’t expected him to find her. Their whole relationship had always been about chasing him and trying to pin him down—she’d kind of wanted to just handcuff him to her bed, and not even in a dirty way, but just so she could keep track of him and make sure he wasn’t doing something idiotic. But now he was here and he’d obviously come looking for them. Or, judging by the way he was looking at her, he’d come looking for her.

“Totally,” Serena confirmed, crossing her arms over her sun-dappled chest. The fact that Nate wasn’t looking at her made her feel even more naked. She’d never clamored for Nate’s attention, but she’d wanted it. She’d always wanted it. Just then Blair lunged for Serena’s elbow, yanking her in the general direction of Bailey Winter’s pool.

“Wait, where are you going?” Nate stammered.

Blair held tightly to Serena’s hand as they ran. “Get a good look!” she called behind them as they pranced up the flagstone path to the screen door. “And think about us tonight!”

Don’t worry, he will.

newyork.craigslist.org/groups

Announcing Inaugural Meeting, Song of Myself Literary Salon (Manhattan)

Rejoice, righteous wordsmiths! We are pleased to announce a new and exclusive literary group in the grand tradition of the European salons of Gertrude Stein and Edith Sitwell.

We are two humble servants of the written word: one a vaunted young poet and songwriter with a semi-international reputation, the other a reader and thinker who cherishes Wilde and Proust over all else. We are looking for like-minded young men and women who love to read, write, and talk about reading and writing, and maybe drink a little Chianti or whatever. Consider the following statements/questions. We’ll read every response closely and then send invitations to our inaugural meeting to a carefully handpicked group of discerning New Yorkers.

1. Poetry deserves a more central role in the culture today. There should be an American Poet Idol show. Agree or disagree?

2. What is your favorite word? What is your least favorite word? Write a sentence using both at the same time. Example: Mayhem. Snack. Sitting in the middle of the iridescent-brown cockroach mayhem, Bonita ate a snack of butterfly wings.

Interested participants should attach a photograph. We need to make sure you’re not 12. Or 112.

Looking forward to some inspiring conversation! (BYOB!)