Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(45)
trouble brewing
My spies at Michael’s have tipped me off about a very tense meeting between a certain highly respected photographer-turned-filmmaker and the Hollywood heavyweights (literally a pair of rotund brothers) who are bankrolling his latest venture. It seems that the deep-pocketed producers are less than thrilled with the dailies and want to rethink the casting. Could this mean that V won’t be the only one to get canned? Stay tuned.
sightings
B, Frappuccino and clipboard in hand, desperately trying to hail a cab on Park Avenue. Whatever happened to that graduation present? Is it true that she doesn’t actually have her license? Oops! N at the Amagansett farmer’s market, deliberating over the wildflowers. We knew he was a closet romantic! T showing an unidentified special guest around the set—we hear the private tour included a lengthy visit to the star’s trailer. V at Forbidden Planet, stocking up on comic books—but definitely not visiting D at the Strand, which is, after all, just right across the street. Interesting . . .
and they call it puppy love . . .
Speaking of love, I’ve finally met someone. Actually, two someones: they’re both irresistibly adorable and neither can stop showering me with kisses. I know it’s wrong to come between brothers, but I could never choose between my dear Luke and Owen.
You might have seen that big story about them in last week’s Sunday Styles: they’re puggles, the only hybrid for me: half beagle, half pug, but 100 percent love. And mine just happen to have come from the shelter. I’m a sucker for strays with impeccable breeding. It’s the new couture for a cause, so don’t waste your time with some haughty Chihuahua or a slobbery French bulldog.
your e-mail
Q:
Dear GG,
I’m a paralegal at a law firm in Midtown and I’ve been dying over one of my coworkers for weeks. He used to come out with us for happy hour, but suddenly he’s turned totally homebody—he practically runs back to his apartment after work. Do you think it’s something embarrassing, like a porn addiction?
—Crushed
A:
Dear Crushed,
Sounds like he’s definitely addicted to something—or someone—at home. But there’s only one good reason a happy-hour hottie turns stay-at-home stud: a girl. Here’s my advice: offer to tie him up with his new mallard-print tie and see what he says. Yes = porn addiction. No, thanks = girlfriend. Good luck!
—GG
What else is happening out there, people? Send me the scoop: hot gossip, the latest sample sales, the location of that new secret As Four boutique, the dirt on the set. And can someone please tell me the date and location of the totally top-secret Breakfast at Fred’s wrap party? I’ll need to reserve a preparty coiffing with Mr. Fekkai himself, of course. So spill!
You know you love me.
gossip girl
Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams
n hits the town
“Fuck you all very much!” The British-born lead singer of the jokingly named Sunshine Experience wiped a hand across his brow and flung his sweat into the crowd. Bare-chested and clad only in tight black leather pants, the scrawny singer, who was better known for squiring models and actresses than actually singing, spat angrily onto the stage and stormed off, disappearing into the thick crowd of revelers.
“God, I love them!” Tawny cried, squeezing Nate’s upper thigh and inadvertently spilling half of her Smirnoff sea breeze on the Ultrasuede banquette and her faux-Pucci print XOXO capri pants.
What a pity.
Nate nodded and took a swig of his third pint of Newcastle brown ale of the night. He glanced around the packed main room of Resort, the East Hampton nightclub: the dance floor was teeming with blond girls in Diane von Furstenberg dresses and perfectly groomed stockbroker types in khakis and Thomas Pink shirts—not exactly the type of crowd you’d nor-mally see at a Sunshine Experience show.
The Hamptons had been abuzz with word of this “surprise” show by the English punk band for a week now, and when Tawny suggested they go, Nate’s enthusiasm surprised even him. He hadn’t made it out to Resort yet that summer— in fact, he hadn’t really done much of anything besides clean out gutters, cut grass, fix shingles, and smoke weed with Tawny. It felt good to get out, to be where the action was, with a cold beer and a hot blonde and nothing to worry about.
“Archibald!”
Tawny nudged Nate gently with her elbow. “Is that a friend of yours?”
Anthony Avuldsen wove through the crowd, lifting his whiskey and soda high into the air to avoid a spill. He’d shaved his blond hair close to his head and had a deep summertime tan that made his smile seem even brighter than usual. The bouncer—a burly guy with no discernible neck— gave him a quick nod, allowing him to step up onto the platform that doubled as the club’s VIP room.
“Archibald, you son of a bitch,” Anthony said, knocking his glass against Nate’s bottle in greeting. “Where the hell have you been keeping yourself?”
“Hey,” Nate greeted him.
“Coach working you?” Anthony plopped next to Nate on the banquette, nodding his head in time to the thumping bass line.
“Something like that,” Nate admitted.
“Dude,” Anthony continued, shouting to be heard over the deafening din of the music. “I hear Blair’s back in town. What’s the story?”