October 20
The Present
12:00 A.M.
You love Blake. Do I? How much did Celine know? Did she just guess or had Ellie spilled the beans once? Ellie thought that maybe she had told her friend about her and Blake. Oh, Celine was right about that. She had loved him once. Very briefly. But she had loved him all the same.
She had to find Blake to talk to him, at least this way she wouldn’t have to talk to him just yet. She had no desire to rehash the past. If only she hadn’t told so many people about her party.
Anyway, Blake. It was right after she and Archer had broken up the first time. Blake came to take her out. Blake was always around back then. He was such a handsome thing. Todd once accused her of sleeping with everyone they’d met. All because she’d admitted she’d slept with Jared Leto when Todd introduced her to him at the Emmys! He was so jealous about that one. And oh my god, it was just Jared Leto. Everyone slept with Jared Leto, and Jared slept with everyone. (And he didn’t have a small penis; she just told Todd that to make him feel better.)
She didn’t sleep with everyone she knew. Or did she?
Ellie had to admit Todd was right about Blake. They’d had a fling. But did her husband have to know everything about her past? What did it matter whom she’d slept with if she wasn’t sleeping with them anymore?
Anyway, Blake. He had come over to the apartment when he’d heard she was depressed after the breakup with Archer.
“Come on, let’s go out,” he said. “You can’t just stay here, moping.”
Archer was in Spain again. He was always in Spain. And she’d just found out he was fucking the housekeeper. Only Archer would have a hot housekeeper. Only Archer would take their housekeeper to Spain for the weekend.
She’d thrown one of her shoes at Archer when he left. “FUCKER!”
Why did she think he would be faithful? Why would anyone think she was enough? Why couldn’t anyone love her the way she deserved to be loved? Would anyone ever love her the way she loved them? She loved Archer, but it didn’t matter. He loved his freedom.
Blake came over and kicked her. Lightly.
She was lying on the bed, unable to move. The place was a mess. (See: housekeeper. Ibiza.)
“Come on, get yourself up; it’s just Archer.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one mopes around for Archer,” Blake said, sounding particularly posh right then. She’d always loved his British accent.
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Blake. “That’s just what he does. He slept with my sister. Did I tell you? She was mad for him. But he dumped her too. He dumps everyone.”
“We. Are. Married,” she told him. “It’s different.”
Blake shrugged. “Tell yourself that.”
Blake was her age. Archer was old. Blake was fun. He had a lot of sisters. One of them was Archer’s age. That’s how they knew Blake.
She couldn’t remember the first time she met him, only that he was always around and always up for another drink. Blake Burberry. This handsome, skinny boy.
“Come on, Elle, get yourself up. There’s a party. I need a drink,” he said.
She dragged herself out of the bed. She put on something to wear and she went out with him. They went to Groucho, then Annabel’s, and ended up dancing next to a stuffed giraffe at Loulou’s at 5 Hertsford Street. The place was packed with royals and billionaires and socialites, her favorite kind of party. It cheered her up. She was glad to be out.
“Thanks, man,” she said, punching him on the arm.
He was so pretty back then.
“You’re so pretty,” she told him, lying in his arms the next morning. Right, they’d tumbled into bed at dawn. It seemed only polite.
“You’re so pretty,” he drawled.
She looked at him. He had saved her. He had pulled her from the funk. Sanjay had saved her too. (Literally. Who knows what that crazy sheik would have done?) But Blake had saved her heart. Archer broke her heart. She had loved him and he had broken her heart, but Blake had pieced it back together. They spent the week going to art galleries and shopping and ordering seafood towers at Scott’s.
Their favorite pastime was to go to Harvey Nick’s and try on clothes and critique each other’s choices. Blake dressed like an English dandy, all Berluti suede jackets and Drake’s scarves.
“You have a good eye,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that much of a douche all the time. Maybe he had even helped her figure out her company.
“I don’t know. I was thinking something in fashion,” she said. “I have an interview with Chanel next week.”
“You should have a brand,” he said. “And you should be the face of it.” At last, years later—after she left Chanel after five years to work for Michael Kors for three—she did exactly that.
But back in London, when they were young, those two heady weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, after he’d rolled off her.
“Hmmm,” said Blake, now rolling a cigarette. “Pardon? Didn’t quite catch that.”
“Nothing.” She didn’t repeat it. But she had said it and she meant it. She loved him. It was why she could never get rid of him later.
It didn’t last. He started dating someone else. A beautiful boy.
He was bisexual, but she was the only girl he’d ever been with, or at least that’s what he said. She liked to think she was special, but who knew.
He told her as much. He cared for her, but it was over. He had gotten her out of her funk, and she was on her feet now, and he had moved on. He would dance with her at her wedding to Todd a few years later.
Blake Burberry. Still single, still searching. She wondered if he would ever settle down, or would he grow up to be just like Archer, the perennial bachelor?
Blake was sprawled in the corner, holding court, his long legs on their Minotti couch, holding a glass of red wine. “Relax,” he said when he saw her face. “I’ll pay for it if it stains.”
“You better!”
He dismissed his minions. “What’s up?” It was only then that she noticed he was wearing an ascot. She tamped down the slight irritation.
“Celine said your new boyfriend is the dean of studies at Stanford,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m getting intellectual in my old age.” He smirked.
“Good,” she said.
“Why?”
“I need a favor.”