Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(47)

“How was work?” Blair strolled into the kitchen wrapped up in a massive white Frette towel she’d swiped from her mom’s well-stocked linen closet. She pulled a pack of Merits from Serena’s abandoned purse and used the gas stove to light one.

“Work was work.” Serena stared glumly down through the slats of the fire escape at the slate backyard below. She sighed. “Honestly, Blair, it kind of sucks.”

“What do you mean?” Blair’s workday had consisted of running fabric samples from the tailor on Thirty-ninth Street to Bailey Winter’s home, where he was enjoying a “tea” party and private fitting with a Saudi princess.

Blair pushed open the window next to Serena’s and leaned outside. She exhaled a plume of smoke into the wind and glanced over at Serena. The breeze blew her blond hair gently as she swung her bare feet and frowned.

“I don’t know,” Serena sighed, chugging her beer. It had been one of her worst rehearsal days to date. She’d overheard some of the crew members calling her Holly Go Slightly, and then Ken had yelled, “Fuck, f*ck, f*ck!” right in the middle of her scene. “It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me everything,” Blair urged.

Serena hesitated. They’d never really discussed it, but she knew Blair well enough to know that she wasn’t exactly thrilled that Serena was starring in Breakfast at Fred’s. It was Blair’s lifelong dream, after all, not Serena’s; how would Blair react to hearing Serena complain about it?

“I’m having some trouble getting this whole acting thing down,” Serena admitted sheepishly.

That’s an understatement.

“I thought I could do it. I mean, I did it before, but that was different, without lots of experts and people running around on set, watching you, and without that big, huge camera just staring at you like, like . . . like Darth Vader or something.”

“Tell me more.” Blair leaned out of the window, exhaling smoke into the hot summer night. She loved helping other people with their problems.

More like she just wanted to hear that other people had problems.

“I can’t do it,” complained Serena. She frowned down at her Marc Jacobs flip-flops. “It’s just not connecting.”

“Serena,” Blair murmured dreamily, “you know what you look like?”

“Huh?” Serena looked up. Blair was leaning out the window, still clad only in her towel, clutching a cigarette but not smoking it, so her ash was almost an inch long. She looked like a crazed Madison Avenue maven in an alcoholic trance.

“You look exactly,” Blair said, “I mean, exactly, like Holly Golightly. The fire escape, the wisps of hair, the light—it’s all perfect. It’s f*cking creepy almost.”

“Thanks,” Serena uttered. It was one of the nicest things Blair had said to her in their many years of friendship.

“I’m serious,” Blair proclaimed. “I’m an expert. I’m in the business, okay? I know about fashion, I know about looks, I know about glamour, and you’ve got it. I don’t care what Ken Mogul might say: you are Holly Golightly,” she continued determinedly, “if I have anything to do with it.”

“What do you mean?” Serena demanded.

“Who is the world’s greatest Holly Golightly expert?” Blair asked.

Serena laughed. “You are, no question.”

“Well, you’re pretty damn lucky to know me, then, aren’t you?” Blair remarked. If she couldn’t be Holly Golightly, well, then she could make Serena into her. That would be satisfaction enough. “Come on.” She stubbed out her cigarette and grabbed her friend’s hand. “We have work to do.”

Their first stop was obvious: the sidewalk outside of Tiffany.

Blair had thrown on a vaguely Mexican embroidered cami she’d bought the previous summer at Scoop and a pair of jeans and had insisted that Serena dress down too. When the cab pulled up in front of the store, Blair practically shoved Serena out into the street.

“Now,” Blair barked. “Let me see your walk.” Blair stationed herself in front of the store windows and faced her friend. With the traffic zooming past behind her and the tall buildings rising into the sky, Serena looked very small, very vulnerable. Very un-Serena. Very, very un-Holly.

Serena strolled awkwardly toward the store, taking funny little half-steps like a flower girl in a wedding.

“Stop!” Blair howled. She walked out into the middle of the sidewalk. “What was that?”

“What do you mean?” Serena was barely audible over the roar of traffic and the chatter of all the shoppers and tourists milling around.

“You’re not trying,” Blair intoned, channeling a tough but lovable coach from some inspirational sports movie she’d seen on HBO. “Show me, show me, show me! I know you can do a more convincing walk.”

“I feel so stupid,” Serena admitted. “Everyone’s looking at me and I feel all weird and self-conscious.”

Miss Dancing-on-the-banquette-at-Bungalow-8, self-conscious?

“You can’t feel that way,” Blair snapped. “You’ve got to feel confident. You’ve got to feel cool. You’ve got to feel like the whole world is at your disposal, like you’re calling the shots, like you’re in charge.”