“That’s Jack Laurent!”
Jack paused mid-step at the corner of Sixty-third and Madison on Tuesday afternoon and glanced down the busy, pedestrian-clogged sidewalk. She was already a little late to meet J.P. at Barneys and she didn’t want to keep him waiting, especially since she’d spent her afternoon chemistry class formulating a plan.
And let’s guess: The plan involves a certain type of chemistry?
A tubby-looking guy in a way-too-tight blue polo shirt and knee-skimming cargo shorts waddled up to her, waving wildly.
“Billboard girl!” The guy smiled in recognition, offering his hand for her to shake. Jack nodded dumbly, feeling like a deer trapped in headlights.
“What billboard, honey?” A tracksuit-sporting woman sidled up to the man. She quickly yanked a clunky Nikon from her shiny pink LeSportsac fanny pack and began taking photos of Jack. “Does anyone know who she is?” she yelled as a small crowd began curiously assembling around Jack.
“Hi,” Jack began brilliantly. She felt very exposed and almost embarrassed. It wasn’t like she was famous famous, so actually stopping to smile felt sort of cheesy and fake. “I’m sorry, I have to run.”
No pictures please!
Jack hurriedly dashed across the street, eager to get away from her entourage and meet up with J.P. She had been ridiculously busy—Jeannette and Candice, the Cashman assistants, had set up an absurd schedule of shoots and appearances for her, culminating in the lofts’ big launch party this Friday night, when the building would officially open its doors—and she and J.P. had only crossed paths at home. Today was pretty much the first time they’d actually be getting together outside of their apartment, and she was beyond happy to be free of Magellan. She was going to head to the fifth floor at Barneys, pick out some awesomely sexy lingerie while J.P. watched, and then tell him about her plan: that they’d do it—it it—on Friday night, after the party. It would be perfect.
“There you are, gorgeous!” J.P. broke through a Japanese tour group that was crowding the sidewalk, taking pictures of the iconic Barneys edifice. Jack smiled, her heart sinking slightly when he realized he was wearing his sweaty, ugly, polyester bright yellow Riverside Prep Squash T-shirt—again. The name of the sport was almost as ugly as the shirt itself.
“Hey!” Jack grabbed his arm and quickly pulled him toward the gold-plated door of Barneys. It wasn’t like she was embarrassed by him, but the whole scene of meeting her high school boyfriend outside the store seemed a little cliché.
“Hold on! Let’s let them take a picture!” J.P. gestured to the guy with the camera from across the street. “My dad’ll be happy. He’s really excited about all the press the lofts are getting,” he explained.
Jack frowned. Hello? This was supposed to be the private moment where she was going to tell him she wanted to be ravaged?
Looks like someone didn’t get the script.
“Let’s go,” Jack pouted, taking his wrist and dragging him through the doors. Instantly, she relaxed. So what if there were pervy guys on the street who recognized her. This was Barneys, her home away from home, a place where no one bothered you.
“Jack Laurent, darling!” A fortysomething woman approached, grabbing Jack’s elbow. She wore a tight black Tocca suit and her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked like her eyes were popping out of her head. Her name tag read GLADYS. “So glad you came to us. Now that you’re the new Manhattan It Girl, we’d love to show you some of our latest fall offerings,” Gladys said, yanking Jack toward the Natura Bissé makeup counter.
“That’s okay,” Jack responded shortly. All she wanted to do was head upstairs and let J.P. pick out exactly which black La Perla underwear set he wanted to see her in. “Come on, J.P.,” Jack added unnecessarily, her kitten heels clacking against the buffed marble floor as she led him to the banks of elevators.
“Jack Laurent, darling!” A tiny, spiky-haired sales associate appeared. He was only about five feet tall, so Jack completely towered over him. From above she could see his totally terrible bleached-blond dye job. “I’m such a huge fan of yours. I read on Page Six you were a dancer, but modeling is much more your speed. I’ve already picked out a bunch of dresses I could see you in—I know everyone will want to look like Jack this season!”
His name tag read MICK and he was practically jumping up and down like Magellan, who was probably peeing on her bed right now. “Can I please show you?” Mick begged. The cloying smell of Acqua di Parma seemed to emanate from his pores. “And of course, your boyfriend as well. You sure know how to pick them.” Mick winked showily.
Jack stiffened. While free clothes sounded amazing in theory, something about his attitude made her feel naked and exposed.
And she was saving that for Friday night.
Jack shook her head, the mood broken. “You know, I think I’ll have to come back another time. Thanks, Nick.” Jack smiled tightly.
“Of course! And, um, it’s Mick? Here’s my card. Call me for anything,” he added urgently. “I really want to be a stylist. I think we’d make a good team!”
Jack snorted to herself. “Let’s go,” she said shortly to J.P., who was standing awkwardly with his arms crossed in the ways guys do when they’re tagging along on a shopping expedition with their girlfriends.
“I thought you needed something?” J.P. asked, sounding confused.
Jack shook her head definitively. “Nope. Come on!”
They burst back onto Madison, where a small crowd was still huddled near the entrance, obviously drawn to the guy with a camera like sharks to blood. Jack pulled down her Gucci aviators and tried to look busy and important. Perfect, she chanted to herself. It was her mantra, the word she used whenever she needed to nail a pirouette, ace a test, or just calm the fuck down.
“So, where to?” J.P. asked companionably, shifting gears from their aborted Barneys mission. He draped his arm over Jack’s navy Sutton Studio cashmere sweater–covered shoulder. Jack wiggled away.
“Let’s just go home,” Jack said, crossing her arms over her chest. Suddenly, she felt cold and exhausted and didn’t know if she could face one more thing not going to plan.
“Sounds good.” J.P. smiled broadly as he held his hand up to hail a taxi, not missing a beat. It was like it was all he’d wanted to do all along. Because maybe it was?
Jack tried to conceal a sigh. She wouldn’t say no if J.P. suggested getting a drink at Rose Bar or dinner at Balthazar. But Jack knew he wouldn’t. It wasn’t until this week that she’d realized just how much J.P. loved hanging out at home. Maybe he’d always been like that, and she just hadn’t noticed because they hadn’t been living together.
As Jack got into the taxi and it sped downtown to the lofts, a wave of claustrophobia rushed over her. Genevieve, Sarah Jane, and Jiffy’s nights were just beginning. They’d probably go for cocktails, followed by dinner, followed by more drinks at a bar and maybe a club. They could get home whenever they wanted, and they certainly didn’t have to worry about coming home to dog pee in their sustainable bamboo beds.
But of course they could do what they wanted—they were single. And it wasn’t like Jack wanted that. Besides, after Friday night, she and J.P. would definitely have something to do with all their free time at home.
That’s the spirit.