Would I Lie To You (7 page)

“Well, well, well, look what the hairless cat dragged in.” Chuck Bass slid his titanium Christian Roth sunglasses down his nose and fired a crooked smile at Vanessa. She’d barely taken two steps into Bailey Winter’s expansive yard before Chuck had stepped into her path and started clucking at her. His pet snow monkey, Sweetie, was perched on his shoulder, wearing a sequined sailor outfit, bobbing up and down on its hind legs and tugging at the collar of Chuck’s pale pink Hugo Boss polo. It occurred to Vanessa that Sweetie was quite possibly using it as toilet paper.

“Oh, hey, Chuck.” She vaguely remembered that this guy was bad news—Dan didn’t like him for some reason, and she’d heard people gossip about him, although you couldn’t ever really trust that.

Is that a fact?

“You just missed the show, honey.” Chuck popped his polo collar back into place and smiled insinuatingly. “Blair and Serena, up to their old tricks.”

“Thank God they’re here.” Vanessa released an audible sigh of relief. After all, she’d come specifically to see them, following a hot tip from the nanny next door, a svelte Irish girl named Siobhan who, despite being a servant like Vanessa, seemed to be at the center of the Hamptons social scene. She felt moderately self-conscious about her outfit— actual black capri pants that she hadn’t just cut off herself and a simple black cotton shell she’d bought at Club Monaco just before leaving for Amagansett—but she figured it would be okay since her friends were here.

“They were, darling.” Chuck was distractedly checking his text messages. “You totally missed it. Hurricane Blair left some real damage in her wake.”

Behind him the scene was pandemonium: a deeply tanned near-midget was kneeling by the edge of the swimming pool crying hysterically, while a thick crowd of gorgeous gay men moved further and further away from him. Standing nearby, in the middle of some orange-splattered white pillows, were two very familiar girls. “But isn’t that—”

“Blair and Serena? Don’t be fooled, darling. Total impostors. Look closely.” Chuck went back to texting in his BlackBerry.

Vanessa looked again and realized that Chuck was right—the brunette and blonde she’d first taken for Blair and Serena were not quite as pretty or healthy-looking as the originals. The fact that their once-white outfits were both marred by sloppy, barfy-looking stains further cemented it. She squinted at them, realizing they were the faux versions she’d seen on the beach only hours before.

Just what she needed—a reminder of her horrible after-noon with the terror twins. The rest of their time at the beach had been uneventful enough, but the moment they returned to the house, Ms. Morgan had dug into her about what SPF she’d used on the boys, what books they’d read, and how she’d really prefer Vanessa not ruin their dinner with Cheez-Its. Vanessa had nodded patiently, then raced to her upstairs room and quickly changed into something relatively presentable. Then she’d dashed out of the house and into the night, refusing to let the minor fact that she didn’t have either a driver’s license or a car get in her way. She’d grabbed one of the twins’ tiny bicycles from the hook from which it was suspended and pedaled toward civilization, figuring that it would only be a matter of time before she came across someone who could direct her to where Blair and Serena might be. Luckily, she’d bumped into Siobhan after about one block.

“Do you know where they went?” Vanessa turned to see Chuck Bass disappearing into the crowd, his hand raised high above his head to avoid spilling his drink.

Great. No Blair, no Serena, and now, no Chuck. Vanessa had a vision of herself alone, shivering on the beach, trying to avoid the perverts and murderous models.

Just another night in East Hampton.

Well, there’s only one cure for a lonely night, Vanessa reasoned as she dove into the crowd, slipping through a trio of shirtless musclemen, making a beeline for—where else?— the bar.

“Vodka martini.” She smiled at the bartender, giving him her best yes-I’m-on-the-guest-list look. She almost never drank, but holding a martini might give her a new outlook on life.

The bartender went right to work and smoothly handed over a glass. Clutching the stem, Vanessa turned back into the crowd, unsure who to talk to. There was Chuck, laughing as he made small talk with a very tall man, and there were the two impostors from the beach, frowning and pathetically dabbing at their stained outfits with damp napkins.

Tough choice.

Vanessa wove through a thicket of linen-pants-clad types, heading toward the edge of the pool. “We meet again,” she offered by way of introduction. “I’m Vanessa.”

The blond girl stared at her dumbly through her tear-blurred slightly crossed eyes.

“You again.” The faux Blair glared at her. “We must go change.” The girl grabbed her friend’s hand and started walking away from Vanessa. “Maybe you should also change.”

Vanessa resisted the urge to pitch her drink at the girl’s bucktoothed face.

Sliding off her flip-flops, she took a seat and dangled her feet into the aqua-colored water. She sipped her martini nervously, trying to drink her way through that horrible I’m-at-a-party-and-no-one-is-talking-to-me shame. Then she glanced at her watch, fiddled with her outfit, and stared at the placid surface of the swimming pool, pretending to be engrossed in each task.

“Yooo-hooo. Excuse me, dear.”

Had someone called security?

Vanessa turned oh-so-casually to come face-to-face with Bailey Winter himself, the gaytastic designer she’d crossed paths with on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s the day before she was excommunicated, and the host of the party she just happened to be crashing.

“Hi!” She smiled enthusiastically, hoping to make him forget he hadn’t invited her to his soirée.

“Oh dear.” The designer produced a floral-printed silk hankie from the breast pocket of his navy blue linen blazer and dabbed at his red eyes with the tip of it. “I’m all at sixes and sevens. My cushions, you see—they’re ruined.”

Vanessa frowned at the booze-stained ivory cushions perched at the edge of the pool. “That’s too bad.”

“Oh, every cloud has a silver lining, honey,” he announced dramatically, his tears spontaneously drying up. “And dare I say, I think you are positively sterling! Who are you and where did you come from? You’re just the most delicious little thing.” Still clutching his handkerchief, Bailey Winter reached up and caressed Vanessa’s cheek.

Silk and snot. How lovely.

“I’m, um, looking for some friends of mine. Blair and Serena?”

“Yes, those two vixens, well, who knows where they’ve gone off to—and who cares!” He gripped her upper arm tightly with his small hand. “You’re what I’ve been looking for.You’re the new new new look. At last!”

“Excuse me?” Vanessa wanted to back away, but if she did, she’d fall into the pool.

“You must stay with me this summer,” he continued, enraptured. “Your energy, your profile, your . . . baldness. They’re positively inspiring! Say you will, my dear. Spend the night. At least one night. Please. Don’t make Uncle Bailey beg,”

“Stay here?” Vanessa surveyed the scene once more: a modern glass-and-concrete mansion, a glittering blue pool, hundreds of perfectly dressed and groomed men, chilled martinis—it was like a Fellini film, if Fellini had ever made a movie about summer in the Hamptons. She felt a surge of creativity that almost took her breath away. Of course! A movie, in the Hamptons! An impressionistic documentary, inter-splicing party footage with first-person interviews, documenting the creative process of one of the fashion industry’s leading forces. It was a little bit Robert Altman, a little bit Grey Gardens. Not to mention that it beat the shit out of booger patrol at the James-Morgans’. “Stay here,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Why, yes. I’d love to.”

She would?

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

Okay, so I know I already interrupted your regularly scheduled programming for an important message, but this is an emergency. I’m putting out an APB—that’s all-points-bulletin in case you didn’t know—on some of our very favorite people. . . .

Missing: A vintage hunter green Aston Martin convertible. Last seen speeding out of Georgica Pond a little after sundown. Reports vary, but my best sources say the car contained at least three people—a guy and two girls—and I’m getting reports that at least one of the girls was wearing white. Could someone be eloping? Please keep your eyes peeled. And now, back to your regularly scheduled dish.

book report

Our first juicy report affirms what I both hoped and feared about those book geeks: they really are freaks in bed. Rumor has it that a certain Harlem-based intellectual salon went from swapping literary thought to swapping spit—and fast. Talk about an introductory “getting to know you” meeting. I wonder if that’s what D and his new friend G had in mind when they sought out “like-minded young men and women” and asked applicants to attach their pictures. . . . Then again, from what I hear, these eager literati saw beyond the shackles of identity—like, um, gender—and simply embraced the soul (and some other things) of the person next to them. I guess that’s what they mean about not judging a book by its cover.

So does this little freak-orgy mean the demise of literary debate? Can people no longer sit around a rambling Harlem apartment and discuss great works of literature without getting frisky? Or does it symbolize the return of freaky group-sex organizations like Plato’s Retreat? (Can I just say . . . ew.) Sorry to disappoint, but for once I don’t know for sure. I will tell you what it means for me, however: I am never, ever going above One-hundredth Street. I don’t care how “stimulating” the event promises to be.

paint by numbers

Speaking of parties with an, ahem, same-sex appeal, I have a bone to pick with a certain flamboyant designer about his latest stylish affair: What’s with the all-white theme? For people who consider themselves free thinkers, the idea itself is just so . . . single-minded (although maybe I’m just smarting from my exclusion from the party, due to the similarly single-minded all-male theme). I suppose it’s a way for the rich and famous to make themselves feel chic and fabulous—anybody remember that rocker whose Greenwich Village apartment was done entirely in white? Even his guests had to match the décor. And while it may look it fantastic for five minutes, it’s so impractical—hello, drunk people, colorful drinks, and white sofas? Can anyone else put two and two together? Personally, I’m up for anything colorful, particularly in summer. To prove my point, a few of my favorite (colorful) things: sunset-pink Cosmos, blue-green ocean water, mint chocolate-chip ice cream, and last but not least . . . tan boys in pastel shirts. Talk about a color combination!

your e-mail

Q: 

Dear the Gossip Girl,

I am beautiful brunette from foreign land so maybe there is somethings I don’t understand about America. I ask your help to explain to me this please: is bald now beautiful? Do American men like girls to look like this? With shaved head? Please advise.

—Confused

A: 

Dear C,

I think you’ve misunderstood. Bald is beautiful when we’re talking about a Brazilian, but most fellows I know like something to run their fingers through. It’s the rare woman indeed who can pull off the full-on buzz. . . . I’ve seen it work only once before. Good luck!

—GG

Q: 

Dear GG,

I’ve been in Europe for the summer and am worried about my big brother back in New York. He hasn’t replied to any of my postcards, and when I called home a few minutes ago, my dad said he was “on the lam with a bottle of absinthe.” Eeek! Do you think he’s okay?

—Worried Little Sis

A: 

Dear WLS,

Not to worry! Your bro is probably just out enjoying himself and trying new things. Trust me, that’s a good thing. If you’re still concerned about his whereabouts, send me his pic. . . . If he’s cute, I’ll track him down for you!

—GG

sightings

N, making his first beach appearance of the season with a friend I hardly recognized—what’s up, A, you been working out? Great results! I’ve got the camera-phone pics to prove it. Yum. Two ladies matching the descriptions of B and S were spotted chewing gum behind a gas station on Main Street, late at night, but let’s take that one with a grain of salt, because another report also had B and S buying depilatories at Long’s, and something tells me those girls would never attempt a home job, even in an emergency. I mean, there are experts for that sort of thing, and yes, they make house calls! V pedaling around East Hampton on a child’s bike with training wheels. Maybe she’s making some kind of environmental point? Good for her. D’s being a good environmentalist himself, if that was indeed him passed out on the 2 train instead of cabbing it. BTW, K and I: if you’re going to try to crash an all-boy party, it helps immensely if you’ve got a shaved head and boring unisex outfit. More than a few of our readers spotted you slinking home in your Puccis after you were rejected at the gate. Sorry, girls!

That’s enough for now. I’m going to go get to know a new friend of mine—he’s a lifeguard and only speaks Dutch—and you’ve got work to do, anyway: get out there and create some more dirt for me to dish. You know how much I love you for it. And of course . . .

You know you love me.

gossip girl

“Turn it up!” Nate cupped the flame of Serena’s dainty silver lighter, trying to light a cigarette as Serena navigated the convertible roadster along the deserted Long Island Expressway.

Best way to beat the summer traffic? Set out in the middle of the night.

His cigarette lit, Nate tossed the lighter back onto the empty passenger seat in front of him. Serena reached over and cranked up the volume as high as it would go, but even that loud, Bob Dylan’s distinctive warble was barely audible over the whoosh of wind.

“I’m cold. Can’t we put the top up?” Blair wrapped her arms around herself and frowned.

“I don’t know how it works,” Nate admitted. “But I can help keep you warm if you like.” He draped his left arm around her shoulder protectively.

Just like old times.

Blair leaned into the front of the car and grabbed the cardigan Serena had abandoned there. “And I’m tired. Whose bright idea was it to stop for dinner?” She pulled the sweater on and leaned back into the caramel leather uphol-stery.

It had been Blair’s suggestion, actually, that they get dinner. She’d wanted to stop at a diner in Merritt—she and her dad had always stopped there on their family trips to Southampton when she was a kid—but they’d gotten lost, and it had taken an hour and a half just to find it. Nate decided not to remind her of this.

“Maybe you should take a little nap,” he suggested.

“We’ll be there soon,” Serena chimed in from the front seat. “I can almost smell the city.”

Nate sniffed at the cool, damp air. He couldn’t smell anything but the gritty burn of his cigarette and the honey-almond aroma of Blair’s hair. He couldn’t see much, either, just the vague outlines of the car and his friends, and the dark void of that along-the-highway wilderness, which was barely illuminated by the thin sliver of summer moon. After a couple of other pit stops—to fill up the tank, to take dorky pictures of the three of them making faces in front of different scenic spots, to stock up on cigarettes and Diet Coke and junk food—they’d managed to waste most of the night. It seemed almost impossible that in a few hours Nate was supposed to climb back on that shitty bicycle and show up at Coach Michaels’s house for another day of hard labor and sexual harassment.

Guess he’ll be calling in sick. Again.

“So what’s our plan, anyway?” Serena glanced over her shoulder and into the backseat. “Where exactly am I driving us?”

“Let’s go to the Ritz.” Blair hopped up and down in her seat like a little kid who had to pee. “Let’s get a suite and order room service and sleep all day tomorrow.”

“How about we go right to the Three Guys coffee shop and we pig out on pancakes?” Serena suggested.

Nate weighed the options: a hotel room shared with Blair and Serena or a greasy early morning breakfast.

Decisions, decisions.

But Nate had his own plan. He’d been going over it in his head for a couple of days now, ever since Anthony told him to seize the day. And know he knew what he wanted: an impromptu summer cruise on his dad’s boat. He could just picture it. He’d navigate them out of the New York harbor, the sun rising over the East River. They’d head north, toward the Cape, and eventually toward his parents’ place in Mt. Desert Island, Maine. They’d spend the rest of the summer lounging around on the sun-drenched deck in their underwear. They’d dive overboard and splash around in the cool water like kids.They’d pull into small towns so he could stock up on cigarettes and beer and Blair could buy magazines and whatever else she needed. Then, when they’d worked up an appetite from fishing or swimming or making love, he and Blair would raid the fully stocked kitchen, eating artichoke hearts directly out of the jar with their fingers.

Forgetting about someone?

That was the summer he was supposed to be having, and at last, he was seizing the day. The only problem was, well . . . Serena. Never mind that he and Blair weren’t quite a couple again. They’d had ups and downs for as long as they’d known each other, but they always came back to the same point: they were supposed to be together. And that point was coming again. That point was on the Charlotte.Nate closed his eyes, trying desperately to think of a guy they could bring along on their grand voyage to keep Serena occupied while he worked on winning back Blair. Jeremy? Anthony? Nah, she was out of their league.

He flicked his cigarette out of the car and cleared his throat. “I’ve got it,” he announced. “Let’s get the Charlotte. Then we’ll just, like, sail away.”

“Awesome!” Serena took both hands off the wheel and clapped them together. “Natie, you’re a genius!”

“I don’t know.” Blair sat up. “I kind of just feel like taking a shower and going to bed.”

Blair fidgeted in her seat, her knee brushing against Nate’s. Was she doing that on purpose? It sent a palpable surge of electricity through his body. He felt more clear-headed and aware than he had in months. It was like everything that had happened to him lately—getting in trouble and almost not graduating, getting shipped off to slave labor in the Hamptons, having that weird short-lived romance with Tawny—had been leading him right here, to this moment. Never mind that he was going to bail on work in a matter of hours, never mind that he had stolen his father’s prized possession, never mind that he might not get his diploma—he was with Blair, and when they were together it was like everything else in the world was just . . . right.

“There’s a shower on board,” Serena reminded Blair, picking up her vibrating and blinking Nokia from her lap. “Don’t be a baby,” she called over her shoulder. “Hello?” she answered her cell phone. Who the hell was calling at four in the morning?

“Hey Serena. How are you? It’s Jason. You know, your downstairs neighbor at the town house on Seventy-first Street?”

Serena smiled quietly at the road. Blair was so not expecting this call.

“Hey!” She responded in her friendliest, most upbeat voice. Jason was cute but totally forgettable. After the Breakfast at Fred’s wrap party, that’s exactly what both girls had done—forgotten about him. But Serena wasn’t the girl Jason had had the hots for, anyway. “I guess you want to talk to Blair.” She shifted into fourth gear around a tight curve in the road.

“Kind of,” Jason admitted.

“Hold on.” Serena tossed her phone behind her, accidentally hitting Blair in the nose.

Blair had been happily ensconced in one of her epic movielike reveries starring herself and Nate naked on a beach in St. Barts, kissing on the sand while the waves splashed over their bodies, exactly like Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity. She took the phone. Probably it was her mother, wondering why there was a $10,000 charge at Tod’s on her AmEx.

“Hello?” she said with some annoyance. Nate’s leg was so warm against hers. She rested her head on his shoulder, seeking comfort while she prepared to have an extremely annoying conversation. “What is it now, Mom?”

“No, it’s me, Jason,” a boy’s voice responded gruffly on the other end.

Blair lifted her head from Nate’s shoulder and held the phone away from her face. Who?

She glanced at Nate’s profile. He was beginning to nod off, and she wanted to grab him and slip her hands under his shirt, just to feel his warm skin beneath her fingers.

“Hello? Blair?” Jason’s voice squawked out of Serena’s phone. Blair snapped the phone shut and tossed it into the passenger seat.

“Blair!” Serena scolded. The two girls giggled, sharing a glance through their reflections in the rearview mirror.

Nate shifted in his seat. “What’s so funny?” he mumbled, making them laugh even harder.

Then Blair turned, catching Nate staring right at her. But before he could look away, embarrassed, she let one eye-lid fall in the sexiest, most unexpected wink Nate had ever seen. “Can I have a smoke?” she finally asked, gently biting her glistening-pink bottom lip.

“Sure.” He dug into his pockets for the pack. Anything for you.

Aw.

Sunrise must have happened during the four minutes it took them to speed through the Midtown Tunnel and into the city: the sky was dark purple when Serena steered them into the gaping mouth of the tunnel, and by the time the little roadster emerged on the streets of Manhattan, the sun was up, the cars were honking, and it was already starting to get hot.

Nate tried not to be too obvious about watching Blair, which was hard because she was so close he could smell her, could imagine the weight of her body against his if she happened to nod off to sleep, could conjure the soft feeling of her lips and tongue against his on the off chance they just started making out right there in the backseat.

Stop it. Focus. “Just drive downtown.” Nate locked eyes with Serena in the rearview mirror. Did she know what he was thinking? Did she see something?

Not that she was uncool enough to say anything.

“Aye, aye, captain.” Serena made a wide right onto the FDR Drive that sent Nate and Blair hurling to the left as she did.

“Don’t kill us.” Blair tucked her wind-whipped hair behind her ears.

“Don’t worry.” Nate gave her right knee a reassuring squeeze.

Blair looked up at him, her eyes glazed and sleepy but the same brilliant blue they’d always been. She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder, still looking up at him.

Nate grinned back, feeling foolish and a little embarrassed, like he was fifteen again. He lost himself in the sensation of the wind in his hair, the thrum of the road beneath him, the smell of the girl he loved leaning against him. It took ten minutes for Serena to zip through the early morning traffic on the highway, and five minutes of navigating the twisting downtown streets before they reached the docks at Battery Park, where Captain Archibald kept the Charlotte docked.

“We’re here, kids,” Serena announced, playing mommy as she guided the tiny car into a curbside parking spot and turned off the ignition. “Ready to sail?”

Nate opened the door and clambered out of the back-seat. He breathed in the mingling scent of traffic and salt water and warm asphalt; it was a mix of everything he loved—the city, especially in the early morning, and the sea-side, where he’d spent the happiest weeks of his life. Maybe he’d been cooped up in the tiny backseat for too long, or maybe he was just excited at the thought of the illicit cruise he was about to undertake, but whatever the reason, Nate actually started to run, dodging pedestrians and leaping over a low gate that separated the docks from the street. The rubber soles of his flip-flops thwacked noisily against the ashy wood slats of the dock. His heart was pounding in his ears: it was really, finally happening—the summer was beginning at last. Once he and Blair stepped on board that boat, every-thing would change.

“Sir? Sir?” A uniformed dockhand was running down the pier toward Nate, waving his hands in the air above his head like bees were attacking him. “This is private property, sir, you’re going to have to leave.”

“I’m looking for my boat,” Nate explained, scanning the forest of masts for its familiar profile. He’d helped his dad build the thing—he’d have known the boat anywhere. “The Charlotte. It’s around here somewhere. I want to take her out.”

“The Charlotte?” The dockhand—a college-age kid who seemed cool enough—stared at Nate, clearly confused. “The Archibald boat?”

“Yeah.” Nate nodded, glancing behind him: Blair and Serena were perched on the security gate, swinging their legs in the air and laughing at something. “It’s my family’s boat. Can you give me the slip number?”

“Sorry, man.” The dockhand shook his head, slowly. “She’s not here. Captain Archibald sailed up to Newport at the beginning of June—he told me he was planning on keeping her there for the season.”

Shit. Nate frowned at the dockhand, then looked back at Blair once more. She was kicking her little tan legs up and down when a sudden gust of wind off the water caused her gauzy dress to flutter up around her waist. Underneath she was wearing pale pink cotton underwear. He could just make out little white polka dots decorating them.

Forget the boat: for now all he wanted was to lie down next to her, hold her hand, and never let go.