A/N: Hello again! I hope everyone's holidays are full of twinkling lights and lots of joy. =) I found some free time, so to make up for months of sparse updates, I'm delighted to deliver our next installment.
Every single one of your reviews, follows and favorites fills me with glee. If writers can have holiday wishes, I very much wish that my kind anonymous reviewers would make proper accounts so I can thank them personally! =)
But to everyone who lends me an ear, know that I'm filled with gratitude. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
i.
She's sure he's glanced at her a few times, and she's taken stock out of the corner of her eye. She busies herself watching the other patrons; the bar is sparsely populated, bartender dipping in and out every few minutes, not hovering as he would if the place were more crowded. There are only a few people at tables. The murmur of conversation, the air saturated with warmth and comfort, is enough to bury her memories of the last twelve hours, even if they're in a shallow grave.
She feels her posture slacken and pulls herself upright.
Takes a deep breath, lets it go.
The newcomer asked for a dish of black cherries to go with his Weltevrede; the bartender provided it with a speed that surprised her. She hears, every so often, the clink of the cocktail fork against the scalloped dish.
Lightly, she rakes her fingers through her hair, noting in dismay that her carefully combed waves are damp. She was hardly outside when it was raining, for God's sake. Surely she can salvage-
She remembers spritzing on finishing spray, misting her hair with shine, fluffing and smoothing and twisting the curls around her fingers, slipping her headband into place and checking the gold bow at her chest. Stopping home just to freshen her appearance, not for any other reason than because Waldorfs always look their best.
She lets her hair go. Her fingers move, instead, to toy with one floppy ear of her bow. She tugs, ever so, at the tail; like she's going to unravel the knot, let it loosen in its eyelet, and bear her throat and collarbones to be…
And bites her tongue, in punishment.
And takes a long, slow sip of wine.
And glances sidelong, and catches the newcomer's gaze sliding away.
She smiles, vacantly, turning her head in his direction like she's looking there by coincidence. He's fairly dashing: dark brows, good bone structure, a classic haircut and impeccably dressed.
More deliberate, he looks over at her. Smiles at her. It reaches his eyes, warms her all over; a little thrill runs through her, tonight, of all nights, to be looked at like that.
His eyes drift away, and he takes a careful sip.
Emboldened at the admiration she knows- knows- she saw in his smile, and at the thrill that courses through her when she remembers she's Blair Waldorf, she places her fingers on the stem of her own glass, searching, searching-
"Black cherries?" she says, without preamble.
He looks back at her, pleasantly surprised.
Opens his mouth; stops to clear his throat.
"They're perfect with this. From Western Cape." He gestures with one hand at his glass.
She blinks, smiles, tilts her head in a way that lets one glossy wave fall against her cheekbone, in a way she knows is attractive. She's practiced it in the mirror enough times.
He smiles perfunctorily. And checks his watch.
A prickle of nerves tingles inside her. The same familiar prickle that bubbled up every time Nate's eyes drifted elsewhere, attention rushing away from her like the leftover froth of a wave being pulled back into a breaker, oblivious to the pains she took to look beautiful for him, the effort she was expending trying to beguile him.
She hasn't felt that in a while. She's now used to feeling wanted, desired-
And I can't see why anyone else would.
Her eyes fall, for a moment, just a moment, at the little stab in her chest. Her shoulders droop imperceptibly.
Just for a moment.
The heel of her hand presses into the seat of her tall chair, allowing her to shift her weight, dangling legs stretching away to anchor her, and she leans toward the newcomer.
Extends her hand.
"Blair Waldorf."
ii.
Tuesday, January 29
He sounded fine when he called her this morning, but she can't deny that she's darting glances at the clock as his appointed arrival time draws near.
At his footsteps on the staircase, she exhales, slowly.
He smiles at her, a real smile, no knock necessary because she left her bedroom door open.
"So?" she prods.
"So," he drawls back, pulling out her vanity chair, and nodding toward her: "that's a stunning shade of green."
She rolls her eyes. "Dorota has surprisingly good taste in lounge clothes." When he doesn't reply at once, she shakes her head. "Bart? What happened?"
Chuck inhales through an open mouth, a deep breath, shaking his head minutely. "He wanted… well, first, to apologize."
"Apologize?"
"I was as surprised as you are."
"Charles…" putting down his Alsace Riesling, mouth curving down at the corners in an expression that nudges Chuck in the gut- "I'm embarrassed to have to say this."
A pause, a shake of the head.
"No- I'm embarrassed to have done it at all."
Blinking back at him, hand frozen on the flute of ice water halfway to his mouth.
"Ellen brought to my attention the other morning that in all the commotion of- the last few weeks- I'd completely let your eighteenth birthday escape my notice."
Blair stares at him, pale lips forming a small "o."
"He forgot… completely?" she asks quietly, wide eyes riveted on his face.
He awakes before she does, by a solid half hour, and watches the soft glow of the digital clock tick the minutes slowly by. She stirs in her sleep every few minutes, her frown barely visible in the dark, and he guesses her freshly wrapped ribs are hurting her.
The guy has been dead only- what- fourteen hours; he evaded Serena's net only seven hours ago. As sometimes happens after sleep, it feels like a lifetime since any of that, since he existed anywhere but inside this bed, Blair asleep in her black v-neck sweater, hair damp and fragrant, propped on pillows beside him.
When she does surface into the world of the waking, long after the fog of sleep has lifted from him, she turns her head and half-smiles, eyes drifting closed lazily.
It's the first time he's seen her relaxed since he'd-rather-not-think-of-that.
A minute later, she breathes in decisively through her nose and whispers, "what time is it?"
He tilts his head back, checking the clock on the nightstand on his side of the bed- not that he has a side of her bed- and murmurs back: "12:41 AM."
"Mmm." She looks over at him again, eyes adjusting to the dark. "Happy birthday, Chuck Bass."
He blinks, surprised.
She sniffs, prim. "You thought I'd forget? Give me a little credit." Light. Teasing. "It was a rape, not a lobotomy."
He forces a chuckle; he knows it's a joke. He thanks her.
She doesn't reply, and silence falls, and he thinks she's sunk from consciousness, when she asks if he's hungry.
He shrugs. "It's not a big deal."
Her eyes shift side to side, trying to decide whether to argue, remembering the phone call they had later that night, when she asked him how he celebrated his official induction into manhood.
"Raged like a legend," he'd replied drily, and she'd chuckled, because she knew a joke when she heard one, too.
But she didn't press the subject, and he was glad, because though he'd brunched with Serena and Erik, kissed Lily on the cheek, exchanged a lingering, hopeful (on his part) hello with his father, and talked to Nate on the phone that day, other than Blair, no one had remembered, except Arthur. Arthur, who hadn't taken him anywhere, but who had called to ask if he could stop by to drop something off, and showed up with two cigars and a single malt, and chocolate-covered espresso beans. They'd clinked glasses at Chuck's kitchen counter.
"Interrupting the bender, am I?" she'd teased back.
He'd glanced at the small tin, nestled next to his espresso machine, still half-full of the chocolates. Arthur had stayed about thirty minutes, and silently, Chuck's heart had deflated when he'd left.
"Well," Blair presses after a minute, voice hard, "I hope he felt terrible."
"Terrible enough to ask Ellen to get me on the calendar for dinner," he observes.
She rolls her eyes again.
"Is that all?"
He shakes his head: "He said he had… some ideas for how I can start to get more involved with Bass Industries, now that I'm of age."
Her eyes brighten. "Like what?"
"Well…" he swallows and averts his eyes. "Victrola is doing quite well. The P&L is one of the best of the company's holdings, though it's a single, small venture, so that has to be taken with a grain of salt. So at least that project is off to a good start. He suggested I might start attending operational reviews and learning about the rest of the portfolio. See how it fits into-" he flips his hand- "'The Big Bass Picture.'"
Bart is also in the mood for oysters and a filet, rare, with a tomato basil salad.
"We haven't spent much time together recently, Charles, and I admit that's largely my fault," he says as the waitress retreats from the table, palming the gilded spines of both their menus. "I must say, I've been very… impressed with your handling of yourself in this whole recent- business."
Chuck shifts in his seat.
"You've behaved like an adult. Jumping to your friend's aid, focusing on speeding the apprehension process. Andrew Tyler tells me you were quite insistent and, somewhat ruthlessly, focused. Lily raves about your steadfastness and discretion. Not to mention she claims you have better taste in decorating than I do."
A corner of Bart's mouth twitches up in a trademark Bass smirk.
"The Waldorfs themselves sing your praises for playing such a part in helping their daughter- I realize it was by happenstance, and not necessarily by virtue of upstanding extracurriculars, that you were the person to find her, but regardless- they feel that they owe the fact that Blair is alive to you having been the one that was there. That, if not for you, this- well- would have turned out quite differently. Eleanor has called me twice to that effect in the past week."
Chuck swallows, hard, and finds his voice. "I did what anyone would have," he manages. "Blair is my… friend."
His teeth catch his lower lip an instant too long on the "f" sound in "friend."
Bart regards him for a moment.
(… 'if it were Lily?')
"I know she is. She has been for a long time. But that doesn't lessen the impact of your actions."
Chuck manages to avoid clenching his jaws, with effort, at the unintended entendre.
"You seem to have done some growing up when I haven't been looking, and to that end, I think you've proven you're ready to be brought closer to the nucleus of the empire." They both accept the salads the waitress places in front of them; Chuck's is watercress and artichoke. "You've shown how you handle situations, even those with extraordinarily difficult circumstances, where the outcome matters to you. I'm not saying you'll be attending board meetings, but the level of responsibility and confidentiality required to be brought under the tent is something I no longer have concerns about you embodying."
It's the closest thing to a compliment Bart has paid him in recent memory. If only his stomach wasn't so sour at the backstory that his father doesn't know exists.
"Thank you, sir," he says, stiffly, trying to sound sincere. "I'll do my best to show you I'm worthy of your confidence."
Bart swirls his Riesling thoughtfully. "When I first started out," he says, slowly, like he's dredging up each word from memory, "I was nothing- no family money to speak of, no pedigree to gain access to the elite people who had it, no… nothing, really, except my instincts and drive. It was an uphill battle to get my first equity investor, and the next, and the next. There was very little for anyone to bet on."
For a moment, trailed off into silence, candlelight flickering on the slack lines of Bart's face, Chuck thinks suddenly that his father looks like an old man. An old man who has been- well, not quite alone, but adrift- for nearly eighteen years.
Then he looks back up, and again he is Bart Bass, King of Manhattan.
"I think what they saw in me was a maturity, an ability to hustle, to focus, and an unwavering resolve to close the deal. Those first few investors took a chance- a big chance, and mostly a blind chance- on me, and now-" one shoulder twitches- "everybody's winning. In thinking about the character traits you've shown yourself to have, I wonder if I haven't overlooked the same untapped potential in you."
It's not like Chuck Bass to be speechless, but he really, truly, can't think of a thing to say.
Bart raises his wine glass; Chuck hastily lifts his ice water to toast.
"To Bass family traits," Bart suggests.
Chuck clinks. "Hear, hear."
Bart is gesturing with his other hand as he brings the rim to his lips. "Let's get you some wine, for God's sake," he chides, waving the waitress over.
Blair's eyes are wide, lips parted again, but she's trying to read his face: "That's… very positive. Isn't it?"
He nods, slowly. "Yes. It certainly is."
A tentative smile spreads across her face. "Are you happy?"
That, if not for you, this- well- would have turned out quite differently.
But here she is: blonde; ribs bandaged; pink apostrophes on her face where her stitches have come out; on bed rest. Smiling at him, eyes lit up.
He smiles back, stomach roiling.
"I am."
iii.
Wednesday, January 30
She drags her purse across the cab seat behind her, slinging it over her shoulder as she gets to her feet. She pauses for a moment too long, and the cab driver twists around and says, "Miss?" through the open door.
"Sorry." She slams it shut and steps forward, onto the curb.
It's a miserable, gray, bitingly cold day, and her hair is tucked inside her coat, brimmed knitted cap meeting triple-looped scarf in the back to conceal the blonde.
The snow is melting from the storm that ravaged New York the night it happened; it's alternately chafing and freezing, turning into hardened cinder-colored mountains.
Mark Bar is open; she could go in.
Sit at the bar. Order a glass of wine. They might card her, given that the NYPD probably came knocking to ask how on earth seventeen-year-old Blair Waldorf managed to be served alcohol at such a reputable establishment.
Or she might ask them how on earth they didn't notice when that charming man in their reputable establishment managed to roofie her best friend, in what appeared to have been plain sight.
Instead, she turns, slowly, Chanel boots gristling on the salted pavement, to her left.
iv.
Eighty blocks south, in deep, thin studios with lofted frescoed ceilings, fashion assistants and couturiers and seamstresses tug and smooth and cinch, pin cushions filled to capacity dangling from slipknotted tape measures around their necks.
Fashion models, hollow-eyed and anemically beautiful, perch Bambi-like on stilettoes that hike them a half foot closer to the sky.
Makeup artists and hair stylists cluster at the outer bands, muted palettes and teasing combs held aloft in demonstration.
And slim racks in black and silver steel, laden with heavy garment bags bobbling side to side, trail obediently behind stylists and production managers at the perimeters.
v.
Serena turns left again at Fifth Avenue, digging for her phone when it chimes and hesitating when she sees that it's Dan.
She'll text him back later.
She wants him to think she's at home napping, like she said she'd be, after all.
Not well enough to receive visitors; the sore throat came on suddenly. She's afraid she's contagious. Just wants to make sure not to infect anyone.
The crosswalk sign beckons: WALK.
I walked in myself.
Serena imagines the thought of a child abandoned; this intersection deserted; the sky wet with snow; darkness, emptiness, everywhere: in the cab ride home, in the penthouse, in her heart.
Everywhere but here.
The footpath is clear, but the grassy areas beyond are uneven, sloping planes of dirty snow and most of the trees (save evergreens and pines) are bare. She worries, the wind whipping into her face underneath the brim of her hat, that she won't be able to find where it happened.
Her anxiety is unfounded; she's barely two minutes west of Fifth Avenue when she sees it, roped off, oddly comforting, in yellow.
POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS.
NYPD CRIME SCENE.
vi.
The yellow tape measure loops around the bust, clad in a skin-tone strapless bra, and then moves down and cinches just above the navel.
A harangued seamstress looks skeptically at the proffered garment – one of many similar pieces just pulled from a nearby rack – like it's telling her a long joke and she wishes it would get to the punchline already.
The stylist's face is wound tight, waiting for the blow.
"All this?" The seamstress gestures at the rack, then glances down the line of models that have been cast for three weeks, standing in their uniforms of flesh-colored bras and half-slips to match.
The stylist nods, tightly. The ask is not lost on her.
The seamstress gestures toward the model closest to her. Beckons her forward.
"Lift up your hair, darling," the seamstress murmurs, threading the tape measure between her thumb and forefinger.
vii.
Serena tries to see where he took her off the path, but it's useless. The snow hadn't really started by the time Blair left the footpath; and it continued long after she left the park.
She doesn't have to stare at the boxed-in clearing, traced with yellow, for long before she can see it.
Brown waves brushing dark red tweed; a ribbon of green and yellow glinting in the occasional illumination of starlight-
Scratch that. The sky was too heavy with clouds.
Prim Cole Haan high-heeled saddle shoes sinking in the wet earth, just frozen enough to crunch, the solid surface giving way at once to softness underneath, like crème brulee.
Head lolling, eyelashes fluttering, trying to keep herself upright.
Squirming away at the recognition- crying out at a shredding feeling on her lower lip, then a sharp burst across her cheekbone, too dazed to run.
Serena watches from behind the yellow, the world gone dark around her.
Run, Blair.
Stumbling, easily pressed to her knees in the mud, stockings dampening, tearing: her hair fisted in a hand that is not her own.
Serena's cheeks are wet. I'm right here, Blair.
One hand clumsily fumbling in her pocket, withdrawing her phone, screen alight, with a frantic jerk- losing it in the process- turning, reaching, stretching.
Hand snapped. A yelp.
Serena doesn't know how she wound up on her back, and she can't bear to watch any longer. She turns away, slowly retracing her steps down the footpath, and emerges onto and walks straight across Fifth (best to avoid the Met steps), hand in the air.
She's looking out the window, waiting for the cab to pull away from the curb. She glances up. They're right outside a sophisticated French bar called Pleiades, which she and Blair- all four of them, really- love.
viii.
In another atelier, a couturier cradles her forehead in both hands.
"You have to be kidding."
An intern, whose only job is keeping track of the emails for the production team (and fetching coffee) so they can focus on their work, shakes her head and holds out a sheet of paper.
"No, ma'am." When the couturier doesn't reach for the print-out, the intern offers a grande Americano instead. "He'll be here in an hour."
"Get someone to Mood, then," the couturier mutters, "and buy up everything they have."
ix.
Dan feels terrible that Serena got sick; he doesn't want to stay long, just drop off some get-well-soon flowers (pink carnations, feminine and lovely and soft like her) and some matzoh ball soup.
Gestures in each hand. Obviously he's concerned.
For her throat.
She's under a lot of stress lately, and what she needs is patience, understanding and love from those who care about her.
The front desk staff at The Palace know him well enough not to hassle him by now. Which is progress.
She's probably sleeping, since she hasn't replied to his text, but if nothing else, he can leave these with Erik or Lily.
In the end, no one answers the door. Serena must be out cold, Erik at some after-school activity, and Lily shopping for mixed-neutral outfits. Or something.
After a minute of hesitation, he places the container of soup and the carnations outside her door, leaning the carnations against the wall and hoping they won't be trampled.
He jams his hands in his pockets, checking his phone once more- she must definitely be asleep; just Jenny saying she feels like making cookies, and does he want chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin?- glancing around when the doors open on the 19th floor and close after an awkward pause where no one gets on.
x.
She knocks again, impatiently, on 1812. Her Chanel boot drums idly against the carpet, done in an elaborate tile pattern.
Her head tips backward in exasperation when there's no movement inside. She barely refrains from groaning aloud; her hand tightens around her purse strap. He's not hiding or ignoring her or gazing through the peephole, willing her away.
He's really not home.
The one day she needs him.
She resolves to wait, flopping her back against the wall and sliding down, knees rising parallel with her shoulders.
She'll call Dan as soon as she gets upstairs.
Flipping through the landslide of unread email that she's been neglecting for over a week, Serena comes to rest on a message from her mother, a forward of the schedule for fashion week for Serena's comments, updated and complete with Lily's comments in red under each show's time slot: On the List; Waiting to Hear; Need to RSVP Yes/No. Lily has marked in green which shows the Van der Basses will be attending as a family. She mentioned as much the other day, and seemed amused at Chuck's suggestion that they all coordinate outfits.
Her eyes fall on the highlights in yellow, of Waldorf Designs: which cocktail parties and brunches Eleanor is scheduled to attend, and, of course, her prime-time runway show.
On the List.
(Front Row.)
Surely Blair will attend this one. She'll have to. She'll be first chair. It's tradition.
She replies; Lily, CC Erik: Count me in for all.
Ten minutes later, no sign of her darling stepbrother, she throws in the towel. He hasn't called her back. She tries one more time, pressing her ear to the door of 1812, and hears nothing but dead quiet from inside. She sighs. He's probably off engaging in his own brand of self-medication.
She waits for her elevator to come up, watching the other one slide down, pale light skipping from circle to circle, pausing on 19 with a ding that she can faintly hear and then continuing its descent to the lobby.
Fifteen floors below, Chuck has his phone set to screen all calls except Blair's bedroom extension. He's seated at the round table in the corner of his father's office, coat thrown over the loveseat, prospecti of Bass Industries' subsidiaries spread in a fan before him.
xi.
Serena.
"Hey- hi. How are you feeling?"
"Awful," she warbles.
"Yeah, you sound, I mean- no offense- but you sound terrible. Are you getting worse?"
She sighs, and he hears a rush of wetness as she blows her nose. "I don't know. I think I just need to pass back out. I've been dead asleep all afternoon."
"I, uh- I actually stopped by, rang the doorbell, but I guess…"
"You did?"
Her voice spikes up just enough.
"Yeah, I just wanted to bring you some flowers and soup. I actually left them right outside your door, like, ten minutes ago."
She glances at the flowers in their spot on top of her dresser, flinching at her reflection in the mirror.
"Oh, Dan, that's so sweet. I'll go out and get them right now."
Her heart pangs. She knows this girl she's looking at; all too well.
xii.
Chuck.
"Hey- did you need me?"
"I did, and you weren't there for me," Serena play-sulks, voice light.
"Sorry. What can I help you with, sister dear?"
She pauses, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, and squirts more eye makeup remover on her cotton ball.
And goes back to work at the mess of black streaking her cheeks.
"I can't remember at the moment," she muses. "But if I do, I'll call you."
"You know where to find me," he agrees, a bit resignedly.
She raises one eyebrow in the mirror at that, and snaps her phone shut.
xiii.
Thursday, January 31
Eleanor Waldorf arrives at her atelier, impeccable in a white skirt suit with black pin stripes, coiffed hair, and black brimmed hat with a white silk flower over one ear.
Her town car, loaded with hat boxes and hard-cover suitcases, is instructed to wait at the curb while she checks in with her production team, and then it's straight uptown; she's having dinner at home tonight.
The runway models, like mannequins on their fitting podiums, nod deferentially toward the lady of the house as she enters.
She smiles, murmuring to Laurel that the color palette looks fantastic. Just like they planned. Laurel agrees, pleasure lighting her eyes as she surveys the lineup for the show.
"Maybe a little wider on that neckline," Eleanor suggests, gesturing at the third model. "What do you think?"
"We're wide on number five; I think we wanted to keep each one different, unless you've rethought that."
"No, you're right." She blinks. "I think hair up, though, for both three and five."
Laurel gestures over her shoulder, and the creative director jots down a note to discuss with the hair stylist when he returns to the atelier.
"This seems too easy," Laurel remarks as she walks Eleanor to the door. "Everything came together without a hiccup." She does not add: which is a miracle, given we essentially overhauled the entire showcase in the last few weeks.
Eleanor wags a finger, smiling, and tells Laurel not to count her chickens yet; but as she raises her head Laurel can see the dark circles under her eyes, the layers of concealer and the sloppy liner job.
"I've hardly thought of anything else," Laurel says, quietly, before Eleanor slips back into her town car.
After a pause, Eleanor replies, "Consider yourself lucky. I've thought of absolutely nothing else."
Laurel touches her shoulder as she slides in and closes the door after her.
xiv.
Blair cups her hand around the receiver, laughing quietly in Chuck's ear: "So apparently Dorota didn't tell my mother I dyed my hair."
Chuck hisses sympathetically, picking up a bottle of Scotch and holding it at arm's length, inspecting it. The blonde was a shock for him; but Eleanor Waldorf?
"What did she do?"
"She turned three shades of white, but recovered quickly, to her credit." She pauses, and he hears the smile in her voice. "She hugged me for a long, long time."
He smiles, too.
"What's new at school?"
He licks his lips, grabbing for a topic other than everyone-is-still-obsessed-with-you as he slides the Scotch back into its cupboard.
"We… got knocked out of the basketball playoffs," he offers.
"Tragic," she says, dripping sarcasm.
"It's like the first year out of the last twenty that we didn't make it to the final four," he defends, reaching for a stemless wine glass. "And we lost to Dalton, for God's sake."
"Are we bad this year?"
"We've been better." He hesitates; does he tell her that Nate played terribly? That he singlehandedly blew it for St. Jude's? That he traveled, which he's never failed to mock any other player for doing? (Honestly, athletic technique is one of the only things Nate is really serious about.) That he was one short of fouling out, and the coach benched him for the first time ever?
Does he tell her that Serena has started cutting class again, just like the old days, disappearing during sixth period study hall and no one seeing hide nor hair of her until the following morning? Her excuses of feeling sick are already wearing transparent in his eyes. Does he tell her that now, in addition to parents and teachers on the roster of people they're going to have to worry about concealing her possible future behavior from, Detective Humphrey is on the case?
And who the hell is left in the they that's going to do all this, anyway?
Luckily, he doesn't have to decide any of that because he's succeeded in boring her. "Anything else?"
"Fashion week's pretty much the talk of the school. And the gala." He pours himself a splash of white wine. Just a splash. He'll get more later if he wants it. And it'll go better with the chicken marsala steaming up from the room service tray.
She ignores his hidden addition – and you – and clears her throat.
"Have you gotten your tux for the gala yet?"
He smirks. "I'll probably just wear something I have lying around."
She snorts. "I'm sure. To the Met Gala. Directly following Fashion Week."
"My taste is timeless, Waldorf," he says with affected boredom, spearing a large bite of mushroom.
"Have you…" she pauses, "… decided who you're taking yet?"
He stops chewing, and then swallows the half-masticated mushroom, swigging wine to get it down without choking. "I think the Bass der Woodsen family is going as a unit," he says, carefully, "as of now. So I'll have… Erik as my date."
"Wingman," she teases.
"Stepbrother," he amends.
"Better get him flowers." She yawns; he hears the duvet rustling. It's late. "Or he might be more of a chocolates person."
xv.
Just down the hall, also with hand cupped over receiver, Eleanor is wearing a thick face mask, a terrifying bright mint green, her hair held back in a stretchy fabric headband.
Pacing.
"I understand, Laurel. I know what I'm asking," she says, tiredly. She keeps almost putting her fingers against her brow or temple, only to remember at the last moment that she's wearing a gel mask, and stops herself each time.
"I- I mean, we can try making it work with what we've got, but I realize it's a lot to ask of them. And that's not in anyone's employment agreement. So really, it's up to them."
She listens to Laurel's warning, painting the base-case scenario, which skews more toward worst-case than not.
She sighs.
"I'll sleep on it, but I can promise you now: my answer is not going to be different in the morning. I think we put it to the group tomorrow, and let the chips fall where they may, and we'll just have to address the damage at that time."
Laurel tries one last time: the image of an empty runway, music and lighting and the grandiose "EW" giving way to… nothing.
Eleanor doesn't catch herself, pinching the bridge of her nose, and her fingertips come away covered in green gel. She cuts into Laurel's projection of what the Times would say, what Vogue would print-
"Laurel, I have to go. I'll see you in the morning."
xvi.
Friday, February 1
Dr. Genove accepts a chamomile, steaming up from vintage bone china, and thanks Dorota.
She faces Blair, saucer resting on her knee.
"Blair, I want you to understand that these sessions are very much for you to speak your mind on any topic you want to talk about- anything you want help with, or just to bounce off someone- really, anything at all is fine."
Blair nods.
"At the same time, we were brought together for a reason," the doctor continues smoothly, "and I want to make sure that we're not avoiding the elephant in the room. I want to make sure that we're treating any residual difficulties you might be having by going straight to the source, and not just focusing on the symptoms."
She nods again, slower, and swallows a lump in her throat.
"So in that vein, I don't want us to lose sight of the trauma you've been through, and the specific ramifications it might be having on the way you view yourself and the world around you. We have different options for how I can help. I can ask you questions, both about tendencies I observe or comments you make to me, and together we can trace how those might be linked to what you've been through. Or if you have thoughts about what happened, or how it's affecting you, you're welcome to share those with me. If neither of those seems right, there are all sorts of exercises we can walk through together to help us get in touch with…" she pauses. "Well, anything, really."
Blair levels a smirk at her. "Ink blot tests and the like?"
Dr. Genove chuckles and takes a sip; too eager, and burns her tongue. She places the chamomile down on the vanity.
"We could, although those are more for aptitude and diagnosis, and I'm not sure that's really the agenda here."
"What is?"
They look at one another for a long moment.
"In my view, we're here to help you process what happened to you and how that impacted you. Nothing can take it away, and no amount of talking things out can erase it, but being able to be aware of your tendencies and the new ways you might come to think and feel as a result of it is the healthiest way of coping with it all."
Blair nods, again, gaze reverting inward. She hadn't wanted to start therapy- though she'd known, for one thing, that she couldn't avoid it; and for the other, that she certainly needed it, if only to help her get a decent night's sleep again- but she has to admit, she likes Dr. Genove. The woman doesn't dilly-dally. She's subtle, refined, yet unconcerned with sugarcoating.
"What," she asks carefully, "do you think we should do?"
The doctor clasps her hands over one knee; notepad must still be in her purse. "I'd like to understand more about what happened to you," she says, "although I'm aware you may not remember every detail of the assault, or even the period of time leading up to those events, due to the effects of having been drugged. But it would be helpful for me in treating you to understand what you do remember. I only know what I've read, and a little more from what your parents told me, but it's my understanding they weren't there when you gave your full statement to the police, and of course I haven't seen your medical charts or anything. So I'm very much in the dark."
Blair feels her chest tightening, remembering being naked, shivering, on that huge white sheet of paper, closing her eyes, clutching at the air, desperate for Serena, leaning her weight on the hand that steadied her, the chill of the rubbing alcohol on the cloth that Annemarie apologetically slid between her legs, and the sting she couldn't ignore any longer when it touched her skin.
Shame floods her, fresh and hot as that first moment.
She nods, breathing out slowly.
"Just as much as you're comfortable with," Dr. Genove says. "And we can stop or change the subject any time you want."
Blair opens her mouth and says: "I was at Mark Bar. By myself. Having a glass of wine." She pauses. "No judgment," she warns.
Dr. Genove smiles and waves a hand airily. "Please. I came of age in the '70s."
"I… this guy- the door opened, and someone walked in, and I knew someone had come in because I was sitting by the entrance and it was freezing when the door opened."
(Eye-rolling herself for sitting there; should she move?)
"And I looked over and it was this… guy. And I went back to having my wine."
"Did he just have a seat? Was he at the bar, or did he go to a table?"
Blair shrugs. "Just came in to get a drink, like me. He was a few seats away, in the corner chair at the bar."
"Was there anything you noticed about him right away?"
"I… he was tall, and good-looking," Blair says, without much conviction. "He said hello to the bartender, but nothing really stood out about his appearance."
Dr. Genove smiles. "Winter clothing, if one is approaching it practically, tends to be a bit of an appearance equalizer."
Blair smiles back in agreement. "I remember he had leather gloves."
(The soft slap as he dropped them down, palm to palm, on the bar.)
"And a long coat. He hung it up on the wall next to him."
(Her own coat neatly folded and laid across her lap.)
Dr. Genove must see her blinking increase, and she steers her, briefly, to a safer subject. "Do you remember what time it was? …Ish?"
"Uh…" She concentrates on calculating. "Maybe ten? Give or take. A few minutes after, probably."
The doctor nods. Then, slowly: "Do you happen to remember how it was that you started talking?"
She closes her eyes.
Cabernet in a broad bowl, stem firm between her third and fourth fingers; Weltevrede a few seats down. A dish, with a tiny cocktail fork, off to one side, the side nearest her.
She's silent for a long time, and the doctor's tentative voice reaches her, saying if she doesn't remember, that's okay; they can come back to it later.
Black cherries?
"I remember," she says.
(That familiar anxiety swirling in her stomach.)
(Leaning over, hair falling against her cheekbone.)
Blair Waldorf.
She opens her eyes, expression defeated, and meets the Doctor's gaze.
"He introduced himself to me," she says, with a slight nod. "Asked me my name."