Would I Lie To You (5 page)

Taking the rickety Strand steps two at a time, Dan made it from the main floor to the basement-level employee lounge in about thirty seconds, by far a personal best. He’d been pretty down ever since last night, when he’d come home from reading the salon member e-mails with Greg to find a yellow Post-it note on the refrigerator addressed to both him and Rufus. It was written in Vanessa’s weirdly boyish handwriting: Off to the Hamptons for work. Will e-mail with details. Left half a turkey sandwich in fridge. –V Dan had opened up the fridge to find the sandwich with another Post-it stuck to it. It said simply: Eat me. He couldn’t believe she was just . . . gone.

He’d thrown himself into work all day, trying to keep his mind off of her, which had suddenly completely paid off while he was shelving outdated biographies. The empty feeling inside of him had instantly filled with excitement. And he had to share.

Dan shoved the door marked PRIVATE open with his shoulder, crying out at the top of his lungs, “Greg? You in here?”

Of course it was totally unnecessary to shout, since the room was about the size of an elevator. Greg was inside, digging in his cruddy locker.

“What’s up?” Greg looked a little startled but smiled broadly, pushing his tortoiseshell frames back up his long, slender nose. He slammed the vomit-green locker door shut. “What’s going on? I’m just knocking off for the day.”

“You’re never going to believe what I found.” Dan bran-dished a tiny, tattered chocolate brown hardback. “The second I saw it, I grabbed it off the shelf and ran down here.” Technically, employees weren’t supposed to leave the floor when they were on a shift—there wasn’t even an only-in-an-emergency clause—but Dan had always lived by the rule that rules were made to be broken.

“What is it?” Greg asked excitedly, stepping over the low, wooden bench that was screwed to the floor.

“Ta-da!” Dan waved the book in the air above his head. “Just guess, first.Take a guess, please.”

“I can’t!” Greg reached out playfully and tried to grab the book from him.

“No you don’t.” Dan tucked the volume behind his back.

Greg reached around him, still trying for the book. “Let me see, come on.”

Dan brought the book in front of him, holding it faceup on his palms. “I hold in my hand an out-of-print masterpiece . . . by one of the most important midcentury American novelists . . . published by a seminal San Francisco publishing house ...in 1952....”

“Shut.” Greg sat down on the bench, as though he might faint. “Up.”

“I’m serious,” Dan confirmed. “The Poet’s Wake! By Sherman fucking Anderson fucking Hartman.”

“That’s, like, the Holy Grail or something,” Greg muttered in awe. “Can I see it?” he asked, his voice wavering.

“Just be careful. Some of the pages are pretty moth-eaten, which is really tragic, but I guess we can’t complain, I mean, given how hard it is to find a copy of this anywhere. I’ve heard stories about people unearthing them in old used bookshops in Midwest college towns, but right here in New York City? What are the odds?”

Greg placed his hands over Dan’s, enveloping both Dan’s fingers and the book within his grasp.

Hey, grabby.

“I’ve got a better idea actually, Dan,” Greg whispered seriously, knitting together his fine, blond eyebrows. “Why don’t you read me a passage?”

Dan shrugged. He did have a pretty good reading voice. He glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be upstairs, shelving books, but no one ever came into the employee lounge—he could afford to spend a few minutes. Besides, some things were just more important than work.

Clearing his throat, Dan flipped through the book to a random point and then began reading:

“Emily arrived some time after midnight. She’d taken the train. She looked the way he had always pictured her, in his late-night fever dreams, when he’d thrown down his pen and pushed his paper off of his desk, unable to write, unable to concentrate, unable to think about anything other than her graceful neck, the curve of her hip. She looked like the very idea of a woman, and wasn’t that better, he wondered, than the reality of the situation? Weren’t ideas, when all is said and done, so superior to reality?”

Dan stood in silence, still cradling the tattered volume reverentially, and Greg just sat there, staring up at Dan the way you’d stare up at a complicated stained-glass window, or at someone undressing in front of an apartment window, high above.

“It’s a crime,” Dan muttered darkly. “How could this be out of print?”

“It is a crime,” Greg agreed, standing and placing his hands on top of the book. Dan looked at his wide-open brilliant green eyes behind the lenses of his chunky glasses. “Thank goodness there are people like us to keep things like this alive.”

“You’re right.” Dan nodded solemnly.

“Dan,” Greg whispered huskily, “I’m really glad we met.”

“Me too,” Dan agreed, checking his watch again—he didn’t want to be away from work for too long, but before he could even figure out what the numbers on the face of his Casio calculator-watch were telling him, he felt Greg’s long arms wrap around him.

“This is such a good omen for our first meeting tomorrow.” Greg’s hot breath tickled Dan’s neck as he hugged him. “We’ll have so much to talk about.”

“Y-y-y-yeah,” Dan stammered. Wow, Greg was sort of a geek, but he really did genuinely appreciate how cool the book was. “Here, why don’t you hold on to this for me?” he offered, handing Greg the book.

Greg hugged him again, even harder this time. “Wow,” he gasped. “I’m overwhelmed.”

Dan grinned at him and headed upstairs. Why did he always attract the geeks?

Um, maybe because he was kind of a geek himself?

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any hotter, the thermometer rises another ten degrees. Or maybe that’s just my computer—it’s practically overheating from your steamy e-mails! It seems people are responding to the temperature by shedding clothes and getting wet . . . and giving the whole neighborhood a show.

What in tarnation am I talking about now? Well, we all know that in the Hamptons, you can’t throw a stone without hitting someone you know (like it’s any different in Manhattan?!) Here, though, we have actual yards and fences. Crazy concept, huh? Rows upon rows of hedges separating the fabulous and beautiful from the fabulous and beautiful. They say good fences make good neigh-bors, so we should all stay strictly within our own property, I suppose. But what if your neighbor is hot and occasionally naked? This is all a hypothetical, of course. . . . I don’t actually know of anyone who skinny-dips in their pool and then invites the neighbors for a visit. But I’ve been hearing rumors about and doing just that, and you know those girls are always setting trends. You heard it here first: time for that fence to come down, people. Screw fences. Good neighbors make good fun.

So hello neighbor boys, come and find me. I’m lying out by my pool, enjoying my own form of A/C: alcohol/college boys. Yawn. Just another day at the office.

Q: 

Dear GG,

I know I should be out there at the beach with the rest of civilized society, but I’m unfortunately trapped in the city forsummer school. Who knew they were really so serious aboutthat whole attendance policy thing? Anyway, I’m freaking dyingover here, it’s so hot. Help!

—Sweltering in the City

A: 

Dear SITC,

Poor thing. Sounds like you could use your own doppelganger right now! But if that’s not an option, here are some quick fixes to stay cool in the city:

1) Find your nearest rooftop pool. If you don’t have a friend withher own (or if she’s out of town too), try Soho House or theHotel Gansevoort. If you’re really desperate, buy yourself a kiddie pool, bring it up to your roof, and don’t forget the hundredbottles of Evian. Now that’s what I call a private party.

2) The A/C at Barneys is to die for. I suppose it isn’t terriblysunny, but if you’re trying on bikinis, it’s almost like being at thebeach.

3) Three words: Tasti D-Lite. (Or is that a two-word hyphenate?)Okay, so Tasti D is totally five years ago, but you know you wantsomething cool and sweet. And if you’re really not going tomake it to the beach this summer, do me the favor of forgettingabout the calories and slurping up some hazelnut gelato fromCones. Yum.

4) You did say you were in summer school, right? Um, hello,isn’t it airconditioned? If you don’t know the answer, you bettercheck the attendance policy again!

—GG

beach blanket bingo rules and regulations

For you lucky ones staying cool at the beach, don’t worry, I haven’t for-gotten about you either. The most important thing to remember this summer—and this is for your own good, as well as everyone else’s— is that when New Yorkers transport their social scene from the chic Manhattan bars to the sandy Hamptons beaches, we transport our social rules as well. After all, we have to have some kind of order in place. So for those not in the know, the unspoken rules of beach etiquette that you absolutely must obey are:

1) Wear big sunglasses if you’re going to stare. And you know you’re going to.

2) Leave at least four feet between your towel and that of your neighbor (and that is the bare minimum, only in the direst of situations.) If you think being packed like sardines in a hot subway car is bad, imagine feeling that way for four hours straight with hardly any clothes on. Nobody needs to be that up close and personal.

3) I don’t care if you’re Ricky Martin—no Speedos, please! Actually, especially if you’re Ricky Martin. Ick.

4) Same goes for scary amounts of chest or back hair. Wax it off, cover it up, or stay at home! It’s that simple, gorilla boys.

5) When rubbing sunblock on a friend or significant other, don’t get too frisky. We’ve all seen ladies do the girl-on-girl thing in bars to get attention, and we’ve all seen couples making out in dark corners, and both those acts are even tackier in broad daylight. Trust me, there are other ways to get people to notice you. I should know.

some burning questions

Running the gossip mill isn’t all parties and piña coladas, you know— it’s a round-the-clock job. Okay, fine, it’s a lot of parties and piña coladas. Maybe I’m not saving lives in the ER, but I’m saving your social lives, people, and that’s every bit as important. For those non-believers, I’ll share just a few of the questions that keep me up late into the night (when I don’t have a party, that is):

Could it be true that N has fallen for an older woman? He was last seen waving goodbye to a barely clothed older woman in Hampton Bays. Interesante. From what I hear, it wouldn’t be the first time. . . . Is it also possible that B and S are exploring their sapphic side—again? Apparently they’ve taken to nude sunbathing and to sharing a bed. Maybe they’ve finally made it official!? Will V be jealous? I’ve always wondered about her and that well-groomed buzz cut. Speaking of buzzzzzing, little Ms. V was seen taking a late-night swim last night in a less-than-flattering kiddie bathing suit. Keep your eye out for her bumble-bee-on-holiday beach ensemble, coming soon to a beach near you. And then there’s D . . . .

I can’t even tell you how many of you have been e-mailing me about tomorrow night’s literary salon. Am I missing out? I thought reading Proust in the dark was for skinny, pale boys with coke-bottle glasses, but according to your e-mails, some hottie bookworms are coming out and they’re looking for love . . . . Could this be the Great Geek Matchup? Well, just because I won’t be there doesn’t mean I can’t help you out. That’s just how generous I am. So here you are, by popular request. . . .

proper etiquette at a literary salon: dos and don’ts

DO . . . pronounce it properly: it’s saaaah-lon, not the place on the corner where all the women have long red nails and you get your hair cut.

DO . . . bring something potent and interesting to drink; that means Pernod, Chartreuse, or ouzo. Leave the Bud at home, thanks.

DO . . . nod along to what everyone says, even if you’re too busy checking out the hot poetry nerd across the room to actually listen.

DON’T . . . be totally silent. It’s not school—there are no wrong answers—so just make something up to impress people. Or say some-thing in another language. That never fails.

DON’T . . . be inflexible. If fellow members ask you to try something new, remember: truly artistic types are always willing to experiment.

DON’T . . . be surprised if things get heated. Emotions can run high between stanzas.

Okay, kids, have a good time with your books—and let me know how it all turns out. You know I’m curious, and you know what they say about geeks? They’re freaks—in bed. Toodles!

You know you love me.

gossip girl

“Hurry, hurry! Vanessa, hurry up!”

The boisterous four-year-old twins bounced ahead of her, a blur of elbows and curly hair and Brooks Brothers swim trunks with tiny sailboats dotted all over them—Nils in red and Edgar in blue. They ran along the wooded path to the beach, sending a spray of sand into the air.

“Slow down!” Vanessa readjusted the massive pink-and-kelly-green monogrammed canvas tote bag filled with fins and masks, rolled-up Pratesi beach towels, five kinds of sun-block, Bob the Builder activity books, juice boxes, snacks, plastic buckets and shovels, a Frisbee, a soccer ball, and two video iPods loaded with Little Einsteins shows. In her other hand, she was holding a massive navy-and-cream striped Smith & Hawken umbrella that Ms. Morgan had insisted she bring along.

“I said, slow down!” Vanessa cried again, as the bobbing duo disappeared behind the dune ahead. She was on the verge of screaming her sweaty head off when she decided she really didn’t care. Whatever. Go ahead. Drown. Get kidnapped. Fuck if I care. It would be a blessing. The truth was, the twins probably knew the beach as well as they knew their local Central Park playground. It was she who was lost.

She finally reached the crest of the hill and surveyed the scene: Nils and Edgar had vanished into the thicket of bodies crowding the beach, which didn’t seem to have one bit of sand available. Tripping in her black All Stars—she’d pulled the laces out and wrongly assumed they’d be every bit as comfortable as flip-flops—Vanessa wove through the maze of blankets, folding chairs, and blond, bronzed twentysome-things with the pale kids they were obviously babysitting. She had exhausted her last reserve of muscle power when she happened upon a four-foot-square patch of beach. Thank God. She dropped the overstuffed bag and heavy canvas umbrella onto the burning hot sand, then plopped down.

“Just a lovely day at the beach,” she muttered to herself, perfectly mimicking Ms. Morgan’s dulcet accent as she dug around in the basket for a blanket, which she half-heartedly spread out in front of her without even standing up. The tote had fallen onto its side but Vanessa didn’t bother trying to stuff all the contents back into it. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she scolded herself as she realized she’d neglected to bring anything for herself to do. What she’d give to be back in Manhattan, sitting in the cool dark of the Film Forum, watching the latest Todd Solondz movie. Instead she was sitting in the sand, the hot sun beating down on her, with nothing to do but pick the stubborn dried snot globs out of the inside of the twins’ tiny nostrils or read the latest issue of Highlights.

Reading the labels on the sunblock would actually be more fun.

Vanessa scanned the scene, searching for a flash of the twins’ blue or red swim trunks. A few brave nannies waded into the frigid Atlantic surf with the kids they were babysitting, gritting their teeth but laughing. She saw two little boys in swimsuits identical to Nils’s and Edgar’s and wondered momentarily if anyone at the James-Morgan household would even notice if she brought them home instead.

She’d been in the Hamptons for less than a day, but it was long enough to tell that Ms. Morgan was even less interested than usual in the boys, and that Mr. James Grossman’s single check-in phone call was pretty much the daily norm. It was like they were all a bunch of windup robots programmed to perform their own tasks with zero genuine interaction with or feelings about anyone else. Not that Vanessa was a mush, but come on.

It was just eleven in the morning, and the beach belonged to kids and their caretakers. Vanessa studied her peers, the army of au pairs, wondering if maybe she’d strike up a friendship. Did the rest of these babysitters have bosses who undressed in front of them? She imagined the Hamptons must be filled with people like Ms. Morgan, and she wouldn’t mind having someone to swap bizarre employer stories with. But looking around, it didn’t seem too likely that any of these lithe creatures, with their perfect tans, over-size sunglasses, and manicured nails, would want to have anything to do with her. Or vice versa. Basically, it was like being back at Constance Billard, the school that had tormented her for the last three years.

Vanessa stared out at the endless ocean, suddenly fighting the urge to cry. She kicked her sneakers off and crossed her legs, looking in the mess of things around her for some-thing to drink. She found a tiny box of apple juice and opened the cellophane-wrapped straw, stabbing it into the little hole in the box angrily.

“There you are!” Nils skipped toward her across the sand, taking a shortcut over their neighbors’ blankets and towels.

“Don’t do that,” she scolded him. “Or do and get yelled at.Whatever.Where’s your brother?”

“Don’t know.” He dropped to the ground and rummaged through the stuff that was strewn all over the blanket. “Vanessa, you got sand inside my Cheez-Its.”

“Life’s rough, sometimes.” Vanessa inspected her milk-white ankles and even paler feet. She almost wished she’d thought to get a pedicure. She swiveled them off the blanket and buried them in the sand. “Please, Nils, tell me you didn’t kill your brother.”

Nils grinned at her, leaned in closer, placing his sticky, sand-covered little hands on her shoulders, and burped in her face.

An overprivileged psychopath in the making.

“The boy you’re supposed to be watching is over there,”a familiar whiny voice piped up.

Vanessa turned to meet the cool glare of her old class-mate, Kati Farkas. Kati sported a professionally sprayed–on tan and a too-small black Gucci bikini. Beside her lay her best friend, Isabel Coates. Isabel was on her tummy with her pea green string bikini top off. A tiny redheaded girl was rubbing her back with Ban de Soleil bronzing oil.

“Oh, hello,” Vanessa responded coldly. Two other long-limbed mannequin types lounged beside Isabel beneath a pink-and-white striped umbrella. “Are you a nanny for the summer too?” she asked Kati, even though she knew it couldn’t possibly be true. Kati and Isabel work? Never.

Kati rolled her eyes. “She’s my niece. I like watching her. She gets us stuff and rubs on our lotion and guys think she’s cute.”

Vanessa nodded. She really had no response. Then she caught sight of Edgar across the beach, walking to the edge of the water and then screaming excitedly every time a frothy wave crashed at his feet. She was about to stand and grab him, but he saw her and started to run toward her instead. She turned back to Kati. “Thanks for the tip,” she said a little sarcastically. Maybe if she asked both twins to rub her with oil, she’d be thronged by hot Hamptons surfer boys— just her type. Right.

“Nice suit,” Isabel piped up meanly.

Vanessa knew she looked ridiculous in Jenny’s girls’ size 12 Hanna Andersson bumble-bee-striped bathing suit, but she could hardly resist the urge to kick sand in Isabel’s eyes. Instead she finished her juice box in one guttural slurp.

She heard the skinny girls lying next to Isabel snicker. Assholes. She was about to offer them an icy death-glare when she suddenly realized she knew them! Except . . . not. At first the girls looked exactly like Blair and Serena, but then the longer she stared at them, the more deformed they appeared. The brunette had a shaggy face-framing haircut and brilliant blue eyes, and two enormous teeth protruding from between her lips. The blonde, who was frighteningly skinny, was almost beautiful except for the visible pulsating purple-blue vein in her forehead and the fact that one of her nearly navy-colored eyes was slightly lopsided. Plus, a truly beautiful girl like Serena wouldn’t be caught dead in a purple cutout bathing suit like the one this girl had on. There was even a ridiculous cutout hole on her belly button.

Still, for that split second, a wave of relief had washed over her. Friends! She could have real, human friends out here! It made her realize: even if these low-rent versions weren’t the real thing, Blair and Serena must be kicking around some-where, right? Where else would those two go for the summer?

“Do you haff a problem?” The weird impostor Blair glared at Vanessa. “Maybe is something I can help you with?”

“Oh, sorry,” Vanessa stammered, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring. “It’s just that—”

“Yes?” the girl demanded bitchily.

“It’s just that you reminded me of someone I know.” Was this girl Russian or just retarded?

“Mmmm.” Bizarro Blair studied Vanessa closely. Then skankbomb blond version of Serena sitting to her right leaned over and whispered something into Bizarro Blair’s ear, dramatically.

How friendly.

“You know vhat?” Bizarro Blair smiled at Vanessa and ran her fingers through her thick, shoulder-length chestnut hair. “You give me very good ideas.”

“Vhatever.” Vanessa turned away from the blanket full of bitches and focused her attention on the twins, who were now taking turns spitting chunks of chewed-up orange cracker at one another.

“Very good idea,” the Blair clone repeated behind her.

Oh? And what could that be?