Walk of Shame
Page 4
“Gift-wrapped?” the girl behind the counter asks.
“Yes, please. And do you have a little card to go with the gift box?”
“Of course.”
As the girl wraps the onesie box in pale lavender, I dig a pen out of my purse, grinning as inspiration strikes for the card’s message.
Ramon & Marta,
For your darling princess, who will undoubtedly be as lovely inside as she is outside, just like her parents. Congratulations and our best to your whole family,
Georgie Watkins & Andrew
Mulroney
I grin wider as I put the card into the tiny envelope and write Ramon’s name on the front. Oh, to see Andrew’s face when Ramon thanks him for the overpriced baby outfit . . .
I give the girl my address to have the package delivered so I don’t have to carry it around all night, then kill another few minutes looking at Dior’s new lipstick line in the cosmetics department before hailing a cab.
“Forty-ninth and Sixth, please,” I say, shutting the door and mouth-breathing out of habit, since NYC cabs tend to take on the odors of whatever their drivers had for lunch.
It’s slow going, given that I’m trying to get around midtown at rush hour, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life, save for the four years getting an economics degree at Brown, and I know it’s going to sound nuts, but I’ve never ever gotten sick of it.
Oh, sure, the summers are gross, and I retreat to the Hamptons when the hot-garbage smell threatens my sanity. And, naturally, I wouldn’t be caught dead around Rockefeller Center at Christmas or in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But mostly not a day goes by that I don’t step out into the city that is my playground and feel darn lucky to be here.
It’s only . . . it’s just . . .
Hmm. Lately I’ve had the strangest sense that I’m missing something. Like the world is my oyster and all that, and I’ve got bunches of friends, and more money than I know what to do with, and I can get into just about any hot-spot restaurant or club I want, any night of the week.
I know, right? Sometimes I annoy even myself.
And the truth is, lately it’s all just feeling a little bit blah.
It’s not the city or the people. It’s me.
Even getting increasingly involved with my favorite charities isn’t taking the edge off lately.
I tap my red nails on the seat and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, let myself contemplate the prospect of getting a real job. A nine-to-five where I exchange time for a paycheck and have a boss . . .
Okay, for real? I’m not even gonna lie to you—it sounds sort of lame.
I like making my own schedule.
I like doing my own thing. I like helping my mom with a trunk show at a moment’s notice. I like that I have a ton of free hours to help organize fundraisers. And yes, okay, I like the fact that I can go shopping whenever I darn well feel like it.
But this endless loop of shopping and hair appointments and drinks and dinners and more drinks and dancing and repeat . . .
It’s getting old.
Or maybe I’m getting old.
The most annoying thing about all this is I can pinpoint the moment this seed of discontent was planted, almost down to the second. The very day I moved into my building and met Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, and his ever-present sidekick of intense disdain.
I liked my life just fine until I saw it through his eyes, and now . . . well, I don’t know.
You can see why I don’t like the guy. I had a great thing going, and he ruins it with every scowl.
I pay the driver using the app on my phone, and a couple of minutes later I enter Del Frisco’s bustling after-work scene, scanning the bar for Marley.
I spot her almost immediately, chatting up a good-looking blond guy in a charcoal suit. I contemplate giving her a few more minutes to work her magic, but on closer look, she seems more interested in the olives in her martini than in whatever the guy’s droning on about.
“Ah!” she says, brightening when she sees me. “There you are!”
She motions me forward, and after exchanging an air kiss with my best girl, I smile prettily at the guy who’s blocking the bar stool next to Marley.
His return smile isn’t nearly as bright, but I’ll give him credit for not being dense, because he backs away with a murmured, “Enjoy your dinner.”
“Fab dress,” I say, turning back to Marley, suit guy already forgotten.
“Thanks! New,” she says, glancing down at the navy sweater dress with a high neck and cutout shoulders. As I suspect she knows, it’s the perfect color to bring out the bright blue of her eyes. The cut’s interesting enough to be modern, yet classic enough to be consistent with Marley’s trademark look, which is very Betty Draper in season one of Mad Men. Marley even has the blond bob, although she wears it smooth and straight just below the chin rather than Betty’s hair-spray-dependent sixties style.
“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.
“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.
He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”
Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.
“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without me saying a word.
“Liv Dotson.”
“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”
Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.
She’s a gorgeous redhead who dabbled in modeling and started her own clothing line, then kicked up her fame another notch by marrying the New York Yankees’ center fielder a couple of years ago. They now have their own reality show called Live, Love, Liv, which I watch with far more enthusiasm than I’m proud of.
“Yes, please. And do you have a little card to go with the gift box?”
“Of course.”
As the girl wraps the onesie box in pale lavender, I dig a pen out of my purse, grinning as inspiration strikes for the card’s message.
Ramon & Marta,
For your darling princess, who will undoubtedly be as lovely inside as she is outside, just like her parents. Congratulations and our best to your whole family,
Georgie Watkins & Andrew
Mulroney
I grin wider as I put the card into the tiny envelope and write Ramon’s name on the front. Oh, to see Andrew’s face when Ramon thanks him for the overpriced baby outfit . . .
I give the girl my address to have the package delivered so I don’t have to carry it around all night, then kill another few minutes looking at Dior’s new lipstick line in the cosmetics department before hailing a cab.
“Forty-ninth and Sixth, please,” I say, shutting the door and mouth-breathing out of habit, since NYC cabs tend to take on the odors of whatever their drivers had for lunch.
It’s slow going, given that I’m trying to get around midtown at rush hour, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life, save for the four years getting an economics degree at Brown, and I know it’s going to sound nuts, but I’ve never ever gotten sick of it.
Oh, sure, the summers are gross, and I retreat to the Hamptons when the hot-garbage smell threatens my sanity. And, naturally, I wouldn’t be caught dead around Rockefeller Center at Christmas or in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But mostly not a day goes by that I don’t step out into the city that is my playground and feel darn lucky to be here.
It’s only . . . it’s just . . .
Hmm. Lately I’ve had the strangest sense that I’m missing something. Like the world is my oyster and all that, and I’ve got bunches of friends, and more money than I know what to do with, and I can get into just about any hot-spot restaurant or club I want, any night of the week.
I know, right? Sometimes I annoy even myself.
And the truth is, lately it’s all just feeling a little bit blah.
It’s not the city or the people. It’s me.
Even getting increasingly involved with my favorite charities isn’t taking the edge off lately.
I tap my red nails on the seat and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, let myself contemplate the prospect of getting a real job. A nine-to-five where I exchange time for a paycheck and have a boss . . .
Okay, for real? I’m not even gonna lie to you—it sounds sort of lame.
I like making my own schedule.
I like doing my own thing. I like helping my mom with a trunk show at a moment’s notice. I like that I have a ton of free hours to help organize fundraisers. And yes, okay, I like the fact that I can go shopping whenever I darn well feel like it.
But this endless loop of shopping and hair appointments and drinks and dinners and more drinks and dancing and repeat . . .
It’s getting old.
Or maybe I’m getting old.
The most annoying thing about all this is I can pinpoint the moment this seed of discontent was planted, almost down to the second. The very day I moved into my building and met Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, and his ever-present sidekick of intense disdain.
I liked my life just fine until I saw it through his eyes, and now . . . well, I don’t know.
You can see why I don’t like the guy. I had a great thing going, and he ruins it with every scowl.
I pay the driver using the app on my phone, and a couple of minutes later I enter Del Frisco’s bustling after-work scene, scanning the bar for Marley.
I spot her almost immediately, chatting up a good-looking blond guy in a charcoal suit. I contemplate giving her a few more minutes to work her magic, but on closer look, she seems more interested in the olives in her martini than in whatever the guy’s droning on about.
“Ah!” she says, brightening when she sees me. “There you are!”
She motions me forward, and after exchanging an air kiss with my best girl, I smile prettily at the guy who’s blocking the bar stool next to Marley.
His return smile isn’t nearly as bright, but I’ll give him credit for not being dense, because he backs away with a murmured, “Enjoy your dinner.”
“Fab dress,” I say, turning back to Marley, suit guy already forgotten.
“Thanks! New,” she says, glancing down at the navy sweater dress with a high neck and cutout shoulders. As I suspect she knows, it’s the perfect color to bring out the bright blue of her eyes. The cut’s interesting enough to be modern, yet classic enough to be consistent with Marley’s trademark look, which is very Betty Draper in season one of Mad Men. Marley even has the blond bob, although she wears it smooth and straight just below the chin rather than Betty’s hair-spray-dependent sixties style.
“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.
“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.
He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”
Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.
“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without me saying a word.
“Liv Dotson.”
“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”
Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.
She’s a gorgeous redhead who dabbled in modeling and started her own clothing line, then kicked up her fame another notch by marrying the New York Yankees’ center fielder a couple of years ago. They now have their own reality show called Live, Love, Liv, which I watch with far more enthusiasm than I’m proud of.
