Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(25)
“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, f*ck Britain, f*ck Lord Marcus and f*ck 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 f*cking 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