Drew rolls her eyes. “You were the last to get a scroll and you strutted yourself up there, gave him a long hug, a kiss on the cheek, and whispered in his ear. You basically marked your territory. It was super hot, but trust me—if you didn’t have a target on your back, you do now.”
The next morning the house is buzzing with eighteen women doing their very specific morning routines. Smoothies, detox tea, avocado toast, yoga, Pilates, meditation. I settle for eggs with hot sauce, sliced avocado, orange juice, and a patio lounger. Last night, I tried to stay awake and flip through a few channels on the walkie-talkie, but after a marathon of filming, I hid my contraband gadget in one of my shoes and passed out.
As I’m eating my breakfast, I can’t help but overhear Addison holding court with a small group of women on the other side of the pool.
“Yeah, his mom was iconic, but the whole brand needs a major face-lift,” Addison whispers.
What? I run through the mental catalog of designers who I consider iconic for anyone who would have a son around Henry’s age. After all the excitement of last night, I completely forgot about Henry’s mysterious fashion empire roots.
“I just think it’s so precious that he’s staying in the family business,” a small redhead with corkscrew curls says in a dreamy voice.
Addison rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t say it’s precious, Chloe. More like a last-ditch effort to save a sinking ship.”
Jenny frowns. “I wore a LuMac dress to homecoming in tenth grade. I still have it. I love that dress.”
I gasp loudly. LuMac. Lucy freaking Mackenzie. Oh my God. Henry Mackenzie. How could I possibly have missed this?
From the small patch of grass where a few women are doing yoga, Anna stretches downward and waves at me from between her spread legs.
I snort. Classy. I beckon her with one hand, and she not-so-discreetly extracts herself from the group.
“Isn’t this kind of great?” she asks as she plops down on the lounger next to me and takes a swig of my orange juice. “Is this what college was like? I would have been, like, really good at sorority stuff. Kappa Gamma Boo-Hoo or whatever.”
I laugh. “No, definitely not. Especially not design school. Um, did I miss something this morning?”
She taps a finger to her lips and thinks for a moment before letting out a soft gasp. “One of the junior producers dropped off these little packets in the kitchen called the Henry Bible, and it’s—”
I stand up quickly and run back into the kitchen, where—sure enough!—there on the second kitchen island is a small stack of papers stapled together—much less ostentatious than last night’s scrolls.
I grab a Henry Bible for myself and return to the pool, where I find Anna polishing off the rest of my breakfast. “Anna!”
“What?” she asks with her mouth full of my eggs. “You know I can’t cook.”
It’s true. She’s like a little raccoon, always eating everyone else’s scraps. “It’s fine. I’ll make some more in a bit.”
She lies back and rubs her now-full belly as I study the Henry Bible. The first page is all about his mom and the business, but I probably could have written a better version myself.
Lucy Mackenzie is a Parsons alumna, so I am plenty familiar with her. The faculty talks about successful alumni on a loop, like it’s some kind of infomercial even though we’ve already agreed to sink an ungodly amount of money into our education. Lucy Mackenzie was a favorite of several of my professors. She’s best known for her slip dress, which was a ’90s phenomenon where everyone started wearing lingerie as clothing. Everyone always credits Calvin Klein or John Galliano as the creators of the slip dress that started it all. But Lucy Mackenzie (maiden name Mercado), a young, recently married half–Puerto Rican designer from Queens fresh out of design school actually debuted her version of the slip dress at her senior show in 1994, which was actually based off a design in her admissions portfolio from 1989. She worked under Isaac Mizrahi on and off for a little while before striking out on her own, and by 1997, her slip dress was being worn by pop stars and the teens who loved them. She managed to evolve through the early 2000s and expand into streetwear and footwear. Now her dresses have become a staple in department store formal sections, which is not so good for a luxury brand. I think I remember my textiles professor saying the company had recently filed for bankruptcy.
As for Henry, the packet tells us he’s just about to take over all of LuMac’s business dealings and has high hopes of expanding the brand, but as much as I can’t stand Addison, she’s not entirely wrong. LuMac is in desperate need of a face-lift.
All I know about Henry is what I’ve heard around Parsons and read on Page Six. He went to Harvard Business School and has been seen all over town with other children of famous people. Though I never actually committed his name to memory, because he was just another designer’s kid. Plenty of celebrity kids went to Parsons, so I know the exact type of crowd he might have hung out with. Half-assing their way through school because they’ve already got a job or a golden opportunity waiting for them on the other end. And charming as he might be, I’m sure Henry is no different.
When I head back upstairs to toy with my walkie-talkie some more, I find Sara Claire in a towel on her bed. “Did you know that girl Chloe has a whole room to herself now?” she asks. “All of her roomies got sent home last night.”
“That’s some incredible luck,” I say, and then eyeing Addison’s bed, I add, “Maybe we’ll manage to get just as lucky.”
“Fingers crossed!” She points to the papers rolled up under my arm. “Well, I was sort of right,” she says. “He’s here for redemption. I just didn’t think it would be Mommy’s company on the line. You’re in fashion. You heard anything about him?”
I sink into the armchair in the corner. “His mom went to Parsons, like me, and she’s a big deal there. I haven’t heard much about him other than the usual Page Six stuff.” I shrug. “New arm candy every night. Bad-boy antics in the Hamptons. Et cetera, et cetera.”
He was so witty on the plane…and then again last night, but now it’s hard to imagine him as anything more than just another rich boy.
“Where’d you go last night?” she asks. “During the blackout? I kept meaning to ask you.”
“Nowhere,” I say too quickly. My throat feels like sandpaper all of a sudden. I hate lying, especially to people I like.
“You were there one minute and gone the next, and then when the lights came up, I didn’t see you.”
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “I guess we just got split up in the dark. What do you think, I’m some Navy SEAL?”
Sara Claire snorts. “Yeah, I can just see you slinking around the château in that super-sexy dress with some serious night vision goggles on. Not at all suspicious.”
“Da-dum, da-dum,” I sing.
“All right, Pink Panther Elite, I’m going to get dressed and then I guess we just go downstairs and wait around for a group-date invitation.”
“Oh, yay, more waiting around for men to do something.”
“Cue the confetti cannon,” she says.