Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(30)

“It is!” Blair exclaimed. This was the mother she knew and sort of loved.

“Even so, I’ve talked it over with Cyrus, and I’m going to call your father this afternoon, but I think he’ll agree that, since you’re home now, presumably to stay—”

“I’m definitely not going back to London,” Blair inter-jected, trying not to feel emotional about her dramatic departure from Marcus’s hometown. Had he even noticed she was gone?

“—this is the perfect opportunity for you to find some work for the summer. A job.”

A what? No comprende, se?ora.

The room was spinning. “What did you just say, Mom? A job?”

“Yes, dear. A job.”

Blair fell back onto the pillows and threw her arm over her eyes. “But I’ll die if I have to work.”

“Don’t overreact,” Eleanor insisted. “It’ll be a terrific experience before starting school.”

“Have you ever worked?” Blair demanded. She began to flip through the magazine angrily, almost tearing the pages as she turned them. She’d just fled a country, having been spurned by the love of her life. A lecture from her never-worked-a-day-in-her-life mother on the merits of employment and pulling herself up by her bootstraps was the absolute last thing she needed.

“That’s beside the point,” Eleanor replied evenly. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you helping to pay some of these exorbitant bills. If you’re going to spend this much, you’re going to have to earn something.”

Work for the summer? Blair closed her eyes—no one she knew was working during this, their last summer vacation ever. No one! Well, except for Nate, but that was a punishment. There was Serena, too, but that wasn’t really a job—it was a dream come true.

Blair’s eyes suddenly came to rest on the page in front of her. Speak of the f*cking devil. There, smack-dab in the middle of Suzy’s latest reports on all the society gossip, was a photograph of Serena van der Woodsen arm in arm with the designer Bailey Winter. Blair remembered when that photograph had been taken, at Winter’s runway presentation the previous season. She and Serena had been seated in the front row—naturally—and when the designer had come out to take his final bow, he’d noticed Serena in the audience and pulled her up onto the runway with him.

Tuning out her mother’s relentless drone, Blair scanned the page to see whether there was some news about Serena. And indeed there was: Suzy’s column was all about how Bailey Winter had signed on with Ken Mogul to provide the costumes for Mogul’s new film project, Breakfast at Fred’s. It wasn’t enough that Serena got to star in a movie with Thaddeus Smith; she also got to wear custom designs by one of the best living American designers?

“I just think it’s a matter of responsibility, Blair,” her mother declared. “You know, when you turn twenty-one you’ll get access to your trust fund, and your father and Cyrus and I need to know that you’ll handle the money responsibly. We feel very strongly that a job is the perfect way for you to learn to manage money and carry out other people’s wishes, not just your own.”

Blair glared at the ugly eggplant-colored bedspread. Fine, she’d get a summer job. But she was not going to settle for anything less than the most glamorous summer job imaginable.

“You know,” she mused, “maybe you’re right. Maybe a job is just what I need to keep myself busy this summer.”

“Yes!” her mother cried happily. “I knew you’d come around!”

“And maybe you can help me get one?” Blair asked sweetly.

“Of course!” Eleanor agreed. “I’m sure we can make some phone calls and find you something wonderful in no time at all!”

There was, of course, only one telephone call she needed her mother to make. Being the daughter of Eleanor Rose, Bailey Winter’s most loyal couture client, would surely come in handy when it came to landing an assistantship on the set of Breakfast at Fred’s.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!





Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams

it’s getting hot in here

Furtively cupping the butt in his palm, Dan took a long last drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, stubbing it out quickly and exhaling smoke into the breeze. He was stationed on a bench at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Houston and could see Bree crossing the street. He didn’t want her to catch him smoking—again.

“Dan!” Bree called out, dodging the battalion of cabs creeping up Sixth Avenue, waving excitedly. She was wearing short, stretchy black pants that flared a little at her calves and a turquoise sports bra and was carrying a gray Nalgene water bottle. She trotted through the traffic and up to the bench.

“Hi! It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” Dan replied, oh-so-casually closing his book and grinning at her.

“Oh! You’re reading The Way of the Artist!” she exclaimed. “I love that book.”

“Really?” Dan had a feeling she might. “That’s a funny coincidence.”

Sure it is.

“Totally,” giggled Bree. “First Siddhartha,now The Way of the Artist? You must be the Strand’s spiritual expert.”

“Oh, definitely,” Dan lied. “Everyone they hire has a different specialty.”