Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(5)
Or maybe the sun is getting to him.
Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams
v’s date with destiny
Teetering ever so slightly on her black peep-toe Celine platform sandals—okay, so they were technically Blair’s, but she knew her onetime roommate would never come back to Williamsburg to collect any of the stuff she’d left behind— Vanessa thwacked over the cobblestones of the too-trendy-for-a-place-that-smells-like-dead-meat Meatpacking District toward the unmarked rusty door of Ken Mogul’s massive live/work loft.
Despite her classmate Serena van der Woodsen’s drunken promises to put a good word in with him at Blair’s wild graduation party a couple of weeks before, Vanessa Abrams had never seriously expected to hear from Ken Mogul again. Earlier that year, he’d taken an interest in her career when some nearly-X-rated film footage she’d shot of Jenny Humphrey and Nate Archibald hooking up in Central Park surfaced online and tried to take her under his wing as a protégé. But Vanessa didn’t like the idea of being under anyone’s wing, and working on a major Hollywood production out in LA wasn’t exactly her thing. She was more a dead-pigeons-and-used-condom film auteur than maker of big teen block-busters, but Breakfast at Fred’s was going to be shot right on her doorstep at Barneys uptown. It was tempting to write it off as a learning experience. Still, something about it made her uneasy. She rang the buzzer marked only with the director’s initials and waited, fiddling nervously with her clothes. Nearly her entire outfit had been garnered from the spoils Blair had left behind. She’d paired a black sleeveless Mayle cowl-neck top with her own tattered black jeans, Blair’s clunky Celine sandals, and the steel-gray leather DKNY messenger bag Blair used to carry her laptop in. The look was sophisticated and artsy: she looked like someone who didn’t care about things like looking sophisticated.
Like she ever cared?
Suddenly the door flew open to reveal an incredibly tall girl sporting super-short cutoffs and a pink tank-top. Her skin was dark brown and flawless; her hair was long, jet black, and perfectly straight; and her eyes were huge, green, and sparkling. She smiled, showing off a mouthful of absolutely perfect white teeth.
All the better to eat you with . . .
“Yeah?” the Afro-Asian model-goddess demanded with a hostile grimace. She looked almost like an evil character in that Xbox game Jade Empire, and Vanessa could imagine being decapitated with a flick of her long, lean, fighting-machine wrist.
“Um, yeah, I’m here to see Ken.”
“Come on up,” Jade Empire muttered, turning around. The heavy steel door slammed shut as Vanessa followed her up a narrow cement staircase and into a huge, bright, open room. A forest of rusting steel columns supported the vaulted ceiling, and a bank of windows showcased an incredible view of the Hudson River. The vast space was divided by a long, open bookcase and was overflowing with heavy art books and vinyl records, framed photographs and dusty vases. The latest Arcade Fire album blasted from tiny Bose speakers mounted to the top of the bookcase, and the music echoed all around.
“He’s in here somewhere,” Jade Empire explained, clearly disinterested. “You’ve got an appointment, right?”
“I think so.”
“Well, just hang out. He’ll show up sooner or later. Good luck with whatever it is.” She shrugged and kicked off her beaded yellow Chinese slippers and shuffled away into the depths of the loft, disappearing behind the bookcase.
Vanessa turned to the wall behind her, which was covered from floor to ceiling with framed photographs of all different sizes. She recognized some of them—they were Ken Mogul’s own work. Before meeting him, Vanessa had worshipped the filmmaker, and she knew everything he’d ever done. His favorite place in the world was Capri, in Italy, and before turning to filmmaking, Mogul had been a renowned photographer. Mixed in with his art photos of half-nude models lolling around on litter-strewn subway platforms were snapshots of Ken crammed into nightclub booths beside famous faces like Madonna, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and David Bowie.
“Like what you see?” came a gravelly voice from behind her.
Vanessa turned to see the taut, stubbly face of Ken Mogul himself. He had the unnerving habit of seeming not to blink, and he fixed his slightly bloodshot bulging blue eyes on her with a crazed smile. He wore a plaid flannel vest and old Levi’s chopped off at the knees.
“Here’s the deal.” He went on without waiting for her response. He wheeled around and Vanessa had no choice but to follow him past the massive bookshelf and into an enormous office with a garage-door-size window. “Here. Sit.” He poured Vanessa a tall glass of what looked like chilled mint tea from a green glass pitcher and pointed to a red leather Eames chair across from a paper-strewn midcentury modern table. He poured a glass for himself and sank down into a desk chair, swiveling it aimlessly before tilting back and resting his feet on the desk. “It’s a money job, is all, but just between us, Breakfast at Fred’s is going to f*cking rule. Don’t tell the producers, but this is not your average teen flick. I’m thinking Godard. Something human, humorous, and freaking dark.”
“Uh-huh,” murmured Vanessa, sipping her tea. Not only was she distracted by the director’s office artwork—over his desk hung a bigger-than-life-size picture of the director himself, completely naked, splashing in the waves with the bitchy Jade Empire skank—but she hated this kind of pretentious art talk.