Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(37)
As if Blair could possibly forget her little imitator.
There was something suspicious about a thirteen-year-old with such good manners. In fact, there was something suspicious about Tyler having a girlfriend—he’d never seemed even remotely interested in girls before, preferring instead the company of his computer, his hookah, and his vinyl record collection.
“Let’s go, Mom,” Blair demanded. “I don’t want to be late. This is my chance to make a really great impression.”
“Oh, honey.” Eleanor finished her sandwich and tossed the remains on the counter for Myrtle to clean up. “I’m so glad to see you taking this so seriously.”
“Wait, are you going to see Bailey Winter?” Jasmine demanded.
Wouldn’t she like to know.
“He’s interested in hiring me,” Blair informed her icily.
“I just love his clothes,” Jasmine gushed. “Of course, I’m not supposed to buy anything that’s not B by Bailey Winter— my mom says I have to wait until I start high school before I’m allowed to get my hands on the good stuff, but that’s okay by me. I mean, I have to wear a uniform anyway, so—”
“Yeah, whatever.” Blair cut her off. Did she ask for this kid’s life story? “I’m going down to ask the doorman to hail a cab. Mom, you better be ready in five minutes or I’m going without you.”
Blair rode down to the lobby alone and stood in front of the building smoking and keeping time on her Chanel watch. After precisely five minutes had passed, Eleanor breezed out of the building in a grapefruit-colored Bailey Winter shirtwaist dress and beige Tod’s flats. But she wasn’t alone: Jasmine was scurrying excitedly next to her like a three-year-old before her first Nutcracker performance. Blair was unfazed. There was a movie playing in her head: the waifish muse was on her way to visit her genius couturier. Even Jasmine couldn’t f*ck it up.
When they reached Bailey Winter’s grand Beaux Arts mansion on Park Avenue, Blair was first out of the car. Her mother and Jasmine followed behind like ladies-in-waiting. When it came time to edit her little film, the bit players could easily be removed.
They were greeted at the door by an honest-to-God English butler, in a morning suit and everything, who announced them by name after he led them to the second floor parlor: “Miss Eleanor Rose, Miss Blair Waldorf, and Miss Jasmine James-Morgan,” he cried in his booming voice. It reminded Blair of Lord Marcus, but all thoughts of him were erased the second she stepped inside the grandest room she’d ever seen. The walls were paneled mahogany and hung with massive oil paintings of beautiful, aristocratic women in incredible confections of lace and silk, smiling peacefully. There were marble pedestals topped with pure white sculptures of male torsos and heads, and high above, set into the wall that kept out the noise of Park Avenue, was a massive stained-glass window.
“Oh my God!” cried the familiar, shrill voice of Bailey Winter. The dignified Park Avenue designer skipped into the room like a schoolgirl, his yellow-white hair sticking straight up on end as if he’d been electrocuted while using his hair dryer. He was astonishingly short, like a man in miniature, and dressed in a blue blazer with brass buttons, an open shirt, white linen pants, and bare feet stuffed into supple cream-colored leather loafers that made a funny squeaking sound on the hardwood floors. Tied jauntily around his neck was a bold yellow ascot in the same print he’d used in his last collection. “Eleanor Rose, you bitch, you’re so skinny!”
“Bailey!” cried Eleanor. They embraced, dropping loud, wet kisses on one another’s cheeks.
Mwa, mwa, mwa, mwa!
“And who are these two gorgeous creatures?” Bailey asked, dramatically ripping his signature aviator sunglasses off of his face and cupping his chin in his hand. He inspected Blair and Jasmine intensely. “Fabulous. They’re just fabulous, aren’t they?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Bailey,” Eleanor told him, proudly, “this is my daughter, Blair, and my son Tyler’s girlfriend, Jasmine.”
“Eek!” Bailey Winter squealed.
Blair had never heard a grown man make a noise like that in her entire life.
“They’re incredible,” he gushed. “Come on, sit down. Let’s get some tea in us and talk things over, shall we, ladies?” The designer beckoned to the butler, waving his palm in the air like it had come loose at the wrist. He led them over to an enormous sectional sofa and froze suddenly. “Psst,” he hissed, turning and grinning maniacally at Blair. “Tea is just a code word for martinis.” He winked.
Blair winked back at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. This was not what she’d been expecting.
It was way, way better.
Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams
will v ever eat lunch in this town again?
“Okay, let’s do a take,” Ken Mogul said to his first assistant director. He slouched glumly in a tall canvas chair embla-zoned with his initials, clenching a chewed-up ballpoint pen in his teeth.
Vanessa focused her camera on the table where she’d be shooting. Fred’s, the Barneys restaurant that was central to the action of the movie, was a mob scene. Instead of the usual lunch crowd, the restaurant was flooded with harsh, industrial lighting and crammed full of the hundred-strong Breakfast at Fred’s crew. They’d moved out most of the chairs and tables to help accommodate everyone, but between the makeup people, prop people, hair people, lighting people, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to the assistant directors, and interns, it was kind of a tight fit.