thumb against the door handle in time to the music. He would know?he usually caused the rifts
between them.
?It?s good news for Serena, though,? Chuck added coyly. ?She could really use a friend right
about now.?
Nate didn?t respond. Everything Chuck said made him feel a little uneasy, like the world was
moving on without him. He?d only been in the Hamptons for a week, and already he didn?t know
what the fuck was happening.
?Word is she?s having alittle trouble with the whole acting thing,? Chuck observed. ?But I?m
sure she?ll come out on top. She always does.?
?Acting, right,? Nate repeated. He?d forgotten about Serena?s movie. It seemed totally alien
from his life as a day laborer. Nate was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for a smoke. He
shoved in the car?s electric lighter. ?You don?t mind, do you
Chuck shrugged. ?No matter how much trouble Serena might be having, it?s nothing compared
to the mess Blair?s got herself into.? He drove fast, veered right at a fork, and caused the tires to
squeal. The houses were getting grander and the lawns bigger the farther they drove.
?What trouble Nate demanded, igniting the half-smoked joint he?d wisely saved for just such a
moment. ?Blair just came back from London in a hurry. With some ...parcels .?
?What parcels Nate already felt extremely stoned. Was it him, or was Chuck such a huge
asshole he was almost not human, like an android or something.
?Well, when she was in London, Blair bought a bunch of things she just couldn?t live without.
Like a wedding dress. And one of those old-fashioned English baby carriages. Then she booked a
ticket back to New York.?
?What are you trying to say Nate demanded. A big white event tent set up on a lawn caught his
eye. A frou-frou bride and mangy-haired groom holding a guitar were posing for pictures by an
old oak tree not far from it. Wannabe rock star types were always getting married in the
Hamptons.
?Blair?s back in a big hurry, packing a wedding dress and a baby carriage.... I don?t know.?
Chuck sighed impatiently. ?You do the math.?
That math wasn?t hard?even for a stoner.
It would definitely take a major event to convince Blair Waldorf to cut her trip short. Had she
come home to plan her wedding? Nate wouldn?t put it past her, but he just couldn?t imagine Blair
putting on a wedding dress and marching down the aisle unless he was there, too, in a tuxedo,
right by her side. Of course they weren?t even together anymore, but some-how it was impossible
for Nate to imagine Blair?hisBlair? marrying anyone but him.
Nate was beyond relieved when they pulled into the winding gravel driveway of the Archibald
estate. He needed to be alone with this news and another, much larger joint.
?Thanks for the ride, man,? Nate muttered distractedly, fumbling with his roach as he climbed
out of the car.
?If you want to talk some more, Nate,? Chuck called through the passenger window, ?I can come
in. We could order sushi.?
Ignoring Chuck?s pathetic, lonely offer, Nate retrieved his bike from the trunk and trudged up the
driveway. He needed to clear his head.
He also needs to learn not to believe everything he hears. (Not that we don?t all make that
mistake from time to time.)
s follows in audrey?s footsteps. literally.
Serena stepped out of a flaming yellow taxi onto a crowded stretch of Fifth Avenue, wearing a
simple black shift and a pair of enormous sunglasses, courtesy of the designer Bailey Winter. She
was in costume?even Serena wouldn?t prance around the city in the middle of the day in a cocktail
dress? rehearsing the opening scene of the movie. Holly had to peer into the display windows of
the famous jewelry store Tiffany and Company while eating breakfast after a long night out, just
like Audrey Hepburn did in the original movie.
Gripping a takeout cup of coffee and brown paper bag full of pastries provided by the prop
department, Serena strolled primly toward the elegant building, counting the steps to her-self,
slowly and deliberately.One,two,three,four.
?Watch it,? barked a suited businessman, brushing by her as he snarled into a cell phone.
?Sorry,? Serena mumbled, feeling flustered. She walked back to the curb, turned around, and
retraced her steps. She tried to keep her back perfectly straight, the way Ken had instructed her to,
but she had to focus on making a direct path to the store, too, which was nearly impossible
because there were so many people around. She finally made it, but the windows were completely
blocked out by tourists, frantically snapping pictures of the window displays. That was
definitelynot in the script.
A chubby older woman in a tennis skirt held her camera out to Serena, gesturing that she wanted
Serena to take her photograph. Serena shrugged, dropped the paper bag onto the street, and took
the camera. She focused and took a picture of the woman, smiling and pointing to the Tiffany
logo.
?Thanks! And now may I take a picture of you? You work for the store, right Serena was
flabbergasted. Of course she must look like some moronic walking window display, hired by
Tiffany in hopes that the nod to the old film would sell more jewelry. She kept a smile plastered to
her face while the woman snapped away, then picked up her paper bag and walked back to the
curb. A bus roared past, sending a blast of hot exhaust up her dress.
Aaah, summer in the city.
Serena looked up at the store, her whole body trembling with frustration. It was nearly a hundred
degrees, she was sweating and overdressed, people were staring, and she just wanted to go
home?to her parents? penthouse, not her cat-piss-scented dump?and change into linen boxers, a
wifebeater, and some comfy flip-flops, and spend the afternoon drinking Coronas and watching
aLaguna Beach marathon. She?d always managed to excel at everything, from school to
horseback riding to boys, all without even trying. She?d been sure acting would come as easily to
her as everything else she?d tried in her life, but so far Ken Mogul was clearly unhappy with her
performance.
She wondered if even Blair Waldorf, the world?s most die-hardBreakfast at Tiffany?s fan, would
have been able to put up with Ken Mogul?s maniacal tirades.
She started her approach toward Tiffany?s once more.
?Look, sweetheart,? a stocky, loud-voiced Southern woman cried, pointing out Serena to her
balding, paunchy husband, who was sporting a winning ensemble of pleated khaki shorts and a
knockoff Lacoste polo, topped off with black socks under his cheap leather mandals.
?Well, now I?ve seen everything,? the man exclaimed.
?It?s just likeBreakfast at Tiffany?s , isn?t it the woman continued, approaching
Serena. ?Yoohoo, dear, is this some kind of publicity stunt
Serena pretended not to hear. Who knew Manhattan?s sidewalks were so treacherous? She
retreated back to the curb and steeled herself, then made the walk again.
Now that?s dedication.
She might have looked like a funny tourist attraction to the people walking by, but inside she was
a seething, frustrated actress on the verge of a major temper tantrum. The truth was, Serena didn?t
even want to act anymore; she wanted to give up and walk over to Barneys and see if anything
new was on the racks. But of course she couldn?t do that: first, because it was closed due to
filming, so she was partly responsible for her own worst nightmare, and second, because she had
never really failed at anything before and was secretly every bit as competitive as her sometimes
best friend, Blair.
?Nice ass, blondie,? called a deep voice from behind her.
Serena turned to see a guy leering at her from the backseat of a passing taxi. Gross. Audrey
Hepburn never had to deal with this sort of crap.
No, but then again, Audrey Hepburn?s ass was kind of flat. But at least she could act.
the honeymooners
?Good morning, madam!? trilled a female voice in a super-perky British accent.
Blair Waldorf sighed and turned over onto her side. She?d been in London three days but still
wasn?t over her jet lag. She didn?t mind, though: it was a small price to pay to see her
movie-star-handsome, real-life-English-blueblood boyfriend, Lord Marcus.
Wendy, one of the three maids whose round-the-clock services came with Blair?s penthouse suite
at Claridge?s, clacked across the blond parquet floors and deposited a heavy mahogany tray onto
the king-size bed, which was so big Blair had divided it up into four sections: one for sleeping,
one for eating, one for watching TV, and one for sex. So far,that section had remained unused.
Wendy drew the thick maroon velvet curtains on the massive wall of windows, flooding the
enormous room with light. It reflected off the opulent gold-filigree ceiling and bounced off the
gilded mirrors that lined the attached dressing room.
?Ouch!? Blair cried, pulling one of the six sumptuous goose-down pillows over her head to
shield her eyes from the sun.
?Breakfast as requested, Miss Waldorf,? announced Wendy, lifting the silver cover off the tray to
reveal a barfy-looking mush of watery scrambled eggs, massive greasy sausages, and a pool of
stewed tomatoes.
Classic English cuisine.Yum.
Blair smoothed her tousled chestnut hair and straightened the straps of the soft pink Hanro cami
she?d worn to bed. The food looked disgusting but smelled delicious. Oh well, she deserved a
little treat, didn?t she? She?d worked up an appetite the day before, walking around West London
sightseeing.
If you call Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and Whistlessights.
?And your paper,? added Wendy setting theInternational Herald Tribune on the tray with a
flourish. Blair had requested the daily paper when she checked in?a Yale woman had to keep up
on world events, after all. So what if she hadn?t exactly gotten around to the reading part?
?Will that be all Wendy asked primly.
Blair nodded and the maid disappeared into the sitting room. Blair speared one of the huge
sausages with her fork and picked up the paper, skimming the front page. But the tiny typeface
and matter-of-fact photographs were so boring she couldn?t concentrate. The only paper she ever
read was the Sunday Styles section of theNew York Times , if only to scan the charity event
pictures for familiar faces. Why would a worldly woman like herself need to read world news,
anyway? Shewas world news.
Blair had always been impulsive, but her presence in London had actually been Marcus?s idea.
His graduation present to her?other than the ridiculously extravagant Bvlgari earrings?had been a
plane ticket to London. Blair had envisioned rainy weeks locked in his enormous stone castle
having chain-sex?the equivalent of chain-smoking?stopping only to gnaw on a cold leg of mutton
or whatever medieval snack was stored in the castle?s primitive but well-stocked kitchen. But
Marcus had been so busy working for his dad all he ever had time for was lunch and a brief snog.
Dropping the unopened paper onto the floor, she scanned her bedside table for
BritishVogue ?she?d stocked up on all the English magazines so she?d know what to buy and
where to buy it?when her new razor-thin Vertu phone chimed prettily. There was only one person
who had her new London telephone number.
?Hello she answered as sexily as she could with a mouth full of scrambled egg.
?Darling,? Lord Marcus Beaton-Rhodes greeted her in his charming British accent. ?I?m coming
round. Just wanted to make sure you were up, love.?
?I?m up, I?m up!? Blair was unable to control her excitement. She?d spent the last two nights
alone, and her horniness was bubbling over into near-frenzy. How they?d made it this far without
actually doing it, she wasn?t sure. Was this their chance for a morning interlude sans knickers?
?Right,? he continued in his charmingly straightforward way. ?I?ll be by shortly. And I?ve got a
surprise.?
A surprise!thought Blair giddily as she shut her phone. That wasjust the kind of wake-up call she
needed to get her out of bed. She scurried to the bathroom, discarding clothes as she went. Could
it be roses and caviar? Chilled champagne and oysters? It was kind of early in the morning for that,
but judging from the last present he?d given her?the Bvlgari pearl earrings, with their dangling
goldB s?it was bound to be good. Some equally exquisite symbol of his undying love? Everyone
back in New York was so insanely jealous of her perfect English boyfriend that they?d spread
rumors Marcus was already engaged. There was only one way to putthat rumor to rest forever:
return to New York wearing his ring. Preferably a flawless, four-carat, emerald-cut diamond,
although an old family heirloom would do.
How humble of her.
Lord Marcus had initially invited her to spend the summer at his father?s Knightsbridge mansion,
but when he?d picked her up from Heathrow in his chauffeur-driven cream-colored Bentley he?d
taken her straight to Claridge?s. ?We simply haven?t got the room, sweetheart,? Marcus whispered
directly into her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine as the desk attendant handed
her the room key. ?Plus, when I come over, we?ll have complete privacy.?
Well, that?s hard to argue with.
Blair wasn?t sure what Marcus?s dad did for a living, but it had something do with bonds, and
whatever it was sounded very boring. Marcus was interning at his dad?s office for the summer,
and late nights and early mornings meant he had hardly any energy for . . . sex. Blair had only
done it a few times with Nate Archibald, and she was beyond eager to try it with someone older
and more experienced, like Marcus?not that sex with Nate had been so bad.
Her rosemary La Mer bath tonic and minty Marvis toothpaste masking the stink of scrambled
egg and tomato, she hurried back to the bedroom and hopped into bed, wearing only a light sheen
of lavender-scented bath water, Chanel No. 5 perfume, and the Bvlgari earrings she hadn?t taken
off once since her graduation party at the Yale Club a little over two weeks ago.
After ditching Vanessa Abrams?s small apartment in dingy and weird Williamsburg, with no
intention of moving back to the crazy world she used to call home, Blair had decided to live at the
