Upper East Side #10 Read online

  Also by Ashley Valentine

  Bridgeport Academy

  Bridgeport Academy #1

  Upper East Side

  Upper East Side 1

  Upper East Side 2

  Upper East Side 3

  Upper East Side 4

  Upper East Side 5

  Upper East Side 6

  Upper East Side 7

  Upper East Side 8

  Upper East Side 9

  Upper East Side 10

  Upper East Side 11

  UPPER EAST SIDE 10

  Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Valentine

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Based on the Gossip Girl series by Cecily von Ziegesar.

  Table of Contents

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  Author's Note

  1

  “Hello? Hello?” Porsha Sinclaire and Chanel Crenshaw swept into the sparsely decorated foyer of Bailey Winter’s East Hampton modern retreat. Outside the hydrangeas were blooming, the pollen was flying, and the temperature was rising, but inside it felt cool, clean, and crisp. Porsha dropped her pink leather tote bag onto the zebrawood floor and called out again, “Hellooooo?”

  “Anybody home?” Chanel pushed her vintage sunglasses on top of her head. She was used to houses full of antiques, but if she had a summer house, she’d want it to look just like this—sleek, clean, and antiqueless.

  “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here!” The world-renowned fashion designer glided down the polished staircase like an oversize toddler on Christmas morning, clapping his hands delightedly and shouting over the chorus of yelps from the five pugs following in his wake.

  Porsha swapped three air kisses with the designer and noticed, for the first time, that he was so short his head was exactly level with her chin. After providing the costumes for Breakfast at Fred’s, the urban teen remake of the Audrey Hepburn classic Breakfast at Tiffany’s starring none other than Porsha’s oldest and best friend, Chanel, Bailey had invited Porsha and Chanel to be his muses at his Georgica Pond estate for the summer. They would inspire his new line, Summer/Winter by Bailey Winter, a one-show-only collection of his most exciting summer and winter looks.

  “Thank you so much for having us,” Porsha purred as the five little dogs sniffed enthusiastically at her pink-polished toes, clad that day in—of course—white Bailey Winter sandals.

  “Don’t be shy!” the designer cried over Porsha’s right shoulder, startling Chanel, who was still standing on the threshold, taking in the scene. “Come here and give me a big kissie-poo immediately!”

  Chanel followed Porsha’s example, depositing her green Hermès tote on the well-polished floor and embracing the diminutive designer. The pugs swirled around her, rubbing their fat, drool-dripping jowls against her already-tanned legs.

  “Oh my goodness, behave!” Bailey scolded the dogs, though they paid no attention, wagging their tiny blond rumps crazily. “Girls, let me introduce you. These are Azzedine, Coco, Cristóbal, Gianni, and Madame Grès.” He nodded to his five bug-eyed dogs. “Kiddies, these are the girls: Porsha Sinclaire and Chanel Crenshaw, my new muses. Play nice!”

  “Should I get the bags?” inquired a deep voice with a vaguely German accent.

  Porsha turned to see a lanky boy enter the room from the sunlight-flooded hallway that led to the back of the house. She could see an almost-black swimming pool through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. The boy was wearing a white T-shirt that barely covered his caramel-colored biceps, and tattered cargo shorts that hung below his knees. Where had she seen him before? In an Ralph Lauren catalog? In his underwear on a billboard in Times Square?

  In her dreams?

  “Oh hel-looooo, Stefan,” Bailey squealed. “The girls will stay in the pool house.”

  “Certainly.” Stefan grinned, grabbing Porsha’s and Chanel’s abandoned bags.

  “We’ve got more in the car,” Porsha informed him, admiring the way his biceps flexed as he negotiated her overstuffed tote bag.

  “Naughty girl!” Bailey stage-whispered, catching Porsha’s eye. He placed a well-tanned if slightly orange arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. “He’s a treat, isn’t he?”

  Porsha nodded enthusiastically, although the sight of Stefan’s taut arms and sun-kissed skin made her think of the one-time, maybe-still love of her life, Kaliq Braxton. The sun always seemed to work magic on Kaliq’s body. He could be wearing a nerdy polo from back in ninth grade and the dorky khaki shorts his mom always bought for him, but with a tan he still looked ridiculously sexy.

  Pulling up to Bailey’s concrete-and-glass house a few minutes ago, Porsha hadn’t been able to help but secretly scan the neighboring driveways for sight of Kaliq’s car. His family always summered in Maine, but she’d heard he was staying at their new Hamptons beach house while he worked for his coach. She’d never been there, but it was around here somewhere. Not that she’d really thought about it or anything.

  Sure she hasn’t.

  It was the last summer vacation of her entire life—yes, college would have summer vacations, too, but Porsha expected they would be filled with important internships at fashion magazines, archeological digs in the desert of Mumbai, or “anthropological” research in the south of France. In a mere eight weeks she’d pack her new BMW (a graduation present from her globetrotting and gay but still-sweet dad) and drive to New Haven to begin her life as a Yalie. Until then, she was determined to make the most of her life as a fashion muse. She’d spend her days sipping chilled vodka by the pool and her nights kneading Stefan’s arm muscles. Or searching for Kaliq. Or not searching for Kaliq. Whatever.

  “Your house is beautiful.”

  The sound of Chanel’s voice snapped Porsha out of her reverie, and she stopped admiring Stefan’s shapely arms and studied her best friend, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by Bailey’s dogs, smiling happily. She wore a long white spaghetti-strap dress with purple crochet trim. On anyone else it would have looked horribly hippie, but of course it looked completely ravishing on Chanel.

  “I’m glad my humble abode meets Chanel Crenshaw’s exacting standards,” Bailey replied.

  Six bedrooms, seven baths, pool house, helipad, and tennis court: humble abode, indeed.

  Chanel cradled Coco in her arms and kissed her adorably deformed-looking face. The pug wheezed and snorted happily. Chanel hadn’t rolled around on the floor with a dog since she’d dated Porsha’s stepbrother, Tahj. His dog, Mookie, had drooled all over Porsha’s bedroom and scared Kitty Minky, Porsha’s cat, into peeing everywhere, but Chanel had a soft spot for him anyway. She wondered if Bailey would let Coco sleep with her in the guest house at night, like a real-life teddy bear.

  “Someone’s taken a shine to you, eh, Coco?” Bailey cooed, tickling the dog under her furry chin as though she were a hairy little baby. “Come, come. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Porsha frowned at the four other dogs, all staring at her ex
pectantly. The last thing she wanted was some mutt drooling all over her linen Prada tunic.

  “This way, girls,” Bailey beckoned, leading the five dogs and two girls like a flock of ducks down the cavernous hallway and into the main part of the house. The hall was lined with wall-size paintings that Porsha recognized from a spread on the Winter estate in last summer’s Elle Decor, and opened onto a massive kitchen with concrete countertops. A huge teak bowl filled with brilliant yellow lemons sat squarely on one counter. “This is the kitchen,” explained their jovial host. “But the only thing you really need to know is that the bar is over there.” He pointed to a metal corner table lined with an asymmetrical stack of glass decanters. “Allow me.”

  Bailey went to work pouring one of the clear liquors over ice and crushed mint leaves and handed two full martini glasses to Porsha and Chanel, who had to shift Coco under her arm to accept the drink.

  “What is this anyway?” Porsha raised her dark, perfectly arched eyebrows suspiciously.

  “Just a mint tea for my girls!” Bailey emptied his own martini glass in a long gulp, and then poured himself a refill. “And the fridge is stocked, so raid away. Just don’t tell me about it—it’s swimsuit season, don’t you know.”

  “Right,” Porsha agreed, inwardly rolling her eyes. Old people were always talking about watching what they ate, but she intended to consume as much ice cream as she liked and still look glorious in her new ivory-and-sky-blue striped bikini.

  Yummy.

  “Come, come.” Bailey flung the doors open onto the sunny bluestone patio. “That’s the pool, and that,” he continued, pointing at a low concrete bungalow that was like a miniature version of the main house, “is your home away from home. The pool house. I daresay you’ll be quite comfortable there. We’ve got the AC cranked, the sheets are imported from Umbria, and Stefan will fetch you anything you need.”

  Anything?

  “There are just two more very important people you girls must meet,” Bailey gushed, and clapped his hands gaily, spilling what remained of his cocktail. “Svetlana! Ibiza! Front and center, please!”

  More dogs?

  “Coming, Meester Winter!”

  Two leggy amazons burst out of the pool house—their pool house—and rushed toward Porsha, Bailey, and Chanel. The dogs erupted into an ecstatic barking chorus.

  “I Svetlana,” announced the girl with ass-length silky black hair and no discernable hips. She was wearing a minuscule orange bikini bottom and two tiny orange triangles over her nonexistent boobs.

  “I am Ibiza,” pronounced the other girl carefully. She had thick hair layered to frame her almost foxlike face, milk chocolate skin, and a bright smile that was slightly marred by two very prominent buckteeth. Her lavender-and-gold striped bathing suit was one of those horrible and complicated cutout one-pieces that looks like a bikini from behind. A carefully placed circular cutout in front revealed her rather fuzzy navel.

  Ew!

  Ibiza, which sounded more like a brand of car than a name, placed her hands on Porsha’s arm and air kissed her twice. Porsha shuddered with horror, realizing that, except for her excruciating orthodontic issues, this girl looked exactly like her. She wrenched out of the girl’s grip and studied the other model, who was, on closer inspection, a diluted version of Chanel, minus the grace, poise, and New England breeding. What the hell was going on?

  “Ibiza and Svetlana are going to be the faces of the new line, darlings. On the ads, you know,” Bailey explained with a satisfied sigh. “You two are the inspiration, obviously.”

  Obviously.

  “They’re here to watch you. To be you, really,” he went on, dramatically raising his martini glass as if he were starring in Rent on Broadway. “I want them to capture your very essence!”

  Um, hello, creepiness?

  “Pleased to meet you.” Chanel offered her hand to the girls, turning to her own doppelganger first. Chanel was always unfailingly polite, but even she couldn’t stop skeeving out on the inside. Apart from the high-pitched voice and questionable taste in swimwear, Svetlana looked just like her, but not. It was like Halloween in fourth grade when she and Porsha had dressed up like their homeroom teachers, complete with wigs, ugly cardigans, and brown loafers.

  “It’s going to be like a giant slumber party!” Bailey screamed like a six-year-old girl.

  Ibiza and Svetlana giggled fakely. “Pillow fight!” they yelled in unison in their thick eastern-European accents.

  “God, you two are divine!” Bailey threw his glass onto the velvety green lawn and clapped his hands together again in rapid-fire applause.

  Porsha glared at the quasi-mirror images of her and Chanel. To everyone else, they probably looked like happy, carefree, malnourished Barbie dolls, but Porsha had always been more perceptive than the average girl. Sure, Ibiza and Svetlana were probably supposed to just sit around waiting for Porsha and Chanel to rub off on them, but Porsha could see something else in their beady foreign eyes. Something calculated and decidedly bitchy.

  And it takes one to know one.

  These girls weren’t interested in being second best. Ibiza and Svetlana definitely had other plans.

  Well, then.

  Porsha turned and grinned at Chanel, suddenly very happy that she had her best friend with her. She grabbed Chanel’s hand. “Let’s cool off,” she whispered naughtily.

  “Good idea.” Chanel understood immediately. She let Coco wriggle out of her grasp. Then the pair leapt into the tempting blue swimming pool, shoes and all, squealing as they landed in the perfectly body-temperature water.

  The weather report on her and Chanel seemed to change daily. Were they friends? Were they enemies? Frenemies? Lovers?

  One thing Porsha knew for certain was that they were now certified, official fashion icons. Yes, she'd known all along, but it seemed the fashion-elite was finally catching up. She couldn't believe that after meeting her and Chanel on the film set of Breakfast at Fred’s last month, a certain monogrammed-velvet-slipper-wearing tastemaker—he of the capped teeth and year-round Palm Beach tan—had decided to keep them at his Georgica Pond manse for inspiration. She just hoped his menagerie (which apparently included several lapdogs, a pair of llamas, and two scary-thin saucer-eyed models plucked from Estonian obscurity to star in his upcoming ad campaign) didn't become too jealous of the new arrivals.

  Oh, who was she kidding? Her and Chanel always managed to make everyone jealous. After all, they had kind of a lot to be jealous of.

  “Eek!” screeched Bailey as the pool water splashed his gleaming white linen trousers. “Now this,” he announced to no one in particular, “is inspiring. Hilfe! Stefan, quickly: my sketchbook! Bitte, dearest!”

  Porsha dunked her head under the glittering, rippling water, feeling her hair swirl around her. She surfaced just in time to see Ibiza turn to Svetlana conspiratorially. And with that, the copycats stepped to the edge of the pool and cannonballed into the deep end, their bones slapping the water.

  Welcome to your new family, girls!

  2

  “Kaliq? Kaaaa-liq? Where are you hiding, my little gooseberry?”

  That muffled, far-off cry made the fine, sun-bleached hairs on the back of Kaliq Braxton's tanned neck stand straight up. He’d purposely chosen the dingy but deserted attic of Coach Michaels’s house for a quick escape from yet another day of indentured servitude in the not-so-fashionable part of Long Island.

  Escape, of course, meaning escape to stoned land.

  He took a long drag from the freshly rolled joint and blew a plume of warm dry smoke out the small half-window, straining to hear where the voice was coming from. The voice in question belonged to Patricia, also known as “Babs,” Coach Michaels’ ever-present and usually sun-bathing-topless-by-the-pool wife. Kaliq had been working at the Michaels’ Hampton Bays house since graduation—or in his case, semigraduation, since he hadn’t yet received his diploma, due to a now-infamous Viagra-stealing incident. And while Babs had always been friend
ly—bringing him tall glasses of ice tea as he guided the lawnmower over Coach’s beloved lawn, urging him to eat a slice of buttery cinnamon toast when he showed up in the morning, bleary-eyed and ready for work—for the past two days she’d been...well, extra friendly. He might have been high most of the time, but he was with it enough to notice that Babs Michaels definitely had a thing for him.

  Doesn’t everyone?

  Kaliq paused and focused all his energy on listening to the quiet house, but the only noise he heard was the pounding of his stoned nervous heart. He brought the joint back up to his lips and paused—maybe the weed was making him paranoid, but he thought he heard something. It sounded like footsteps coming closer.

  Shit! Kaliq hastily stubbed the joint out on the rough wooden windowsill, sending a shower of sparks onto the floor. Great—not only was he about to get caught smoking a joint on the job, he was going to burn the fucking house down in the process. He tucked the roach into his pocket—no sense wasting it—and frantically fanned the smoke out the open window.

  “Are you up here, Kaliq?” Babs’s voice boomed from the bottom of the attic stairwell. “Do I smell something...illegal? You know, I was a teenager once, too—not so long ago!”

  Kaliq was still waving his hands frantically when Babs emerged from the top of the stairs. A sly smile spread across her wrinkled, slightly sun-burnished face. Her dyed red hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and a halo of auburn frizz puffed out around her forehead.

  “There you are.” Babs sighed. “Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”

  Kaliq shook his head, suddenly very concerned about how high he was.

  “Well,” she continued, strolling toward him, past the piles of cardboard boxes and all the old toys and junk that she and the coach had stored up there. “You know what my husband said: while he’s out of town, you’re mine.”

  “Y-y-yeah,” stammered Kaliq. Coach was away at some lacrosse conference in Maryland for the week, probably learning new techniques in torturing high school boys. Kaliq was suddenly panicked he hadn’t completely put out the joint. Were his pants going to catch fire?