Lucky Break Read online

  “Hi, Dad.” I gave him a kiss. “So Minsk was a no-go?” I couldn’t remember what my professionally globe-trotting parents were up to in Minsk, but if my dad had anything to say about it, the trip was probably related to his crazy real estate adventures.

  “Between you and me,” Dad whispered, “I’d much rather go straight to Amalfi. You can’t beat the burrata down there. Melts in your mouth. But don’t bring it up to your mother. She’s all touchy because she was supposed to lunch with Putin’s wife in Minsk. Grab a seat—they’re filling up fast.”

  “Okay, but uh, who are all these people?” I asked. I was used to seeing my parents’ assistants dashing in and out of our house on the rare occasion when Mom and Dad graced our brownstone with their presence … but this much help seemed excessive even for my parents.

  “What, you didn’t bring your personal assistant?” My older brother, Patch, appeared out of nowhere to pull my hair, which he did every single time he saw me—whether or not I was sporting an expensively blown-out updo. Luckily, today, it didn’t mess up my no-fuss look.

  “Seriously?” I asked, looking around. In the mayhem of the private dining room, I recognized my mom’s personal assistant, Leora. She never left the house without something leopard print, and today was no exception. A big head scarf and suede high heels—a bold move.

  But I didn’t recognize the guy next to her in the tweed three-piece suit and the retro bowl cut—or the redheaded twins sitting across the table from my sister, Feb, who’d dyed her hair a similar shade of red. Feb was wearing a simple brown slip dress that looked like it could have been made of burlap, and all three of them were looking down at a very big calculator.

  “Well, you know Leora, of course,” Patch gestured. “Tweed Man is Dad’s assistant on the Amalfi deal, forget his name. And the Double Trouble tête-à-tête with Feb, they’re some sort of animal rights activist cohorts or something. If I were you, I would not get them talking about the earth-friendly henna dye they used to get that hair.”

  Leave it to Patch to explain my family’s craziness with so much nonchalance that we almost seemed normal.

  “And where’s your PA?” I asked him, jokingly. Hiring an assistant was so not my brother’s style.

  Patch rolled his eyes and pointed behind him to where his girlfriend, Agnes, was barking orders at a cowering blond girl with a notebook.

  “I try to stay out of it.” Patch shrugged. “What about you, little sis? You didn’t bring your own trip planner? Word is you’re off to gay Paree … with Alex?”

  “Yeah.” I grinned. “But all my friends are coming too, and actually, I planned it by myself. We’re renting a couple little flats on the Seine that I found online. I have our whole itinerary right here.” I started to pull out the GPA binder, but it was so heavy, I opted for just pointing at it.

  Patch blinked at me a few times. “You did all that yourself?” he asked. “Impressive.”

  “This meeting will now come to order,” Leora boomed. Someone had wheeled in a podium and a microphone. A projector screen lowered behind her.

  “Wait,” I heard my mother shriek. “No one told me Flan arrived—or that she looked so spectacular in her dress!” Mom darted over to me and planted a big kiss on my cheek. “Hi, darling. So glad you’re here.” She looked up. “Leora, carry on!”

  On command, Leora recommenced, and the dinner party ran in a remarkably organized manner. There was a PowerPoint show detailing my parents’ vacation—it was a vacation, Mom kept interrupting to insist, pointing at my father, meaning no BlackBerries!

  Then there was a short video that Feb’s PAs had come up with to go over her upcoming trip to Bangkok. The plan was for Feb and her boyfriend, Kelly, to spend three months helping the locals sow organic rice fields. It looked more like a Peace Corps advertisement than anything else, but it also looked really cool and unique. Feb’s face lit up as she watched it. Clearly she was totally psyched to get over there and get her hands … uh … ricey.

  In between presentations, Morimoto stopped in to say hello and to offer us a palate cleanser. The look on his face when he saw our dinner party, board meeting style, was priceless. He was so stunned, he nearly dropped his tray of lychee-cucumber sorbet.

  After we’d palate-cleansed, Agnes shoved her terrified PA to the podium to present the slide show of Patch and Agnes’s Superchill Aussie Bonfire Experience. Patch’s face lit up at the pictures of all the partying on the beach, but I had to laugh at Agnes’s very detail-oriented schedule: wake up, 7:05; breakfast on the terrace, 7:15; and so on.

  And just before dessert, my mom got up on the podium and said, “Flan, would you like to tell us anything about your trip?” She squeezed Leora’s hand and bragged, “Flan’s going to Paris with the Prince of New York!”

  Leora, who must have been used to my mom gushing about things no one else understood, just nodded her approval.

  I looked around at the full house, suddenly aware that I was going up there solo—no presentation, no PA to fall back on. I heaved my binder out of my bag. But once I got up there, I realized I didn’t even need it. I knew all the details by heart.

  By the time I gave my five-minute spiel about all the amazing sights we were going to see, food we were going to eat, and clothes we were going to buy, I was really revved up about the trip.

  “Who’d you use, Flan?” Agnes called from her seat. “I mean, to help you plan?”

  “No one,” I stammered. “I planned it myself. I read a couple guidebooks and Googled some stuff.”

  For a second, I wondered if maybe I’d been careless about this. Should I have outsourced some help? But then, led by Patch, my entire family rose and gave me a standing ovation.

  “Marvelous, darling,” my mom gushed, tears in her eyes. “Just promise me one thing?”

  I nodded, waiting for her to go on.

  “That you’ll wear that gorgeous dress at the top of the Eiffel Tower with the Prince of New York—and e-mail it to me in Sorrento!”

  “Done and done.” I laughed.

  Chapter 3

  CAPPUCCINO AND COUNCIL

  After French class the next day, I skipped out on the faux French onion soup in the Thoney cafeteria and met my French-manicured sister at the Upper East Side’s premier French brasserie, Orsay.

  It’s sort of an unspoken rite of passage for a girl to be taken to Orsay by her mother when she reaches a “certain age” in New York. With its old-style brass Parisian bar, supertraditional French menu, and classy dark green leather booths, Orsay is definitely not a place for children (though I’m sure more than a few stroller-wielding, salade niçoise–munching Upper East Side mothers would disagree).

  The food is always sophisticated and precise, though often an acquired taste. I’ll never forget when my mother took me to Orsay for frog legs the day I first got my period, because “I was a woman now and needed to be able to handle things that might initially not be to my taste.” Plus, she told me—and, to my utter horror, the waiter—nothing combated a bad case of menstrual cramps like a nice crispy order of cuisses de grenouille.

  Once I got over the mortification of having the whole restaurant overhear her, I actually kind of got into the frog legs. They really do taste like chicken! Plus, as Camille later told me, it could have been worse: when she got her period, her half-Jewish grandmother slapped her across the face, because that was what they did in the old country to welcome a girl to the harsh realities of womanhood. Yikes.

  Today, when I crossed Lexington Avenue toward Orsay’s outside patio lined with overflowing planters, I decided to pass on the frog legs. It was one of those rare sunny mid-March afternoons in Manhattan, where there was almost a hint of warmth in the air, and my plan was to celebrate the advent of spring with the famous Orsay spring salad, topped with a crusty roulette of sautéed goat cheese.

  Feb was seated with her back to Lexington, but I could still spot her a mile away. Her massive black Dior sunglasses were perched atop her head, and she was
typing madly on her BlackBerry (a trait I know she must have inherited from my father). Even though Feb had “gone granola” (as Patch liked to say) when she met her boyfriend, Kelly, a few months ago, there were still a couple things from her former city life that she hadn’t given up.

  “Bonjour, Feb,” I said, kissing her high cheekbone as the black-suited waiter pulled out my chair.

  “Coo-coo, chérie,” Feb said, turning her face to accept my kiss without even looking up from her PDA screen. “Two minutes and I’m all yours.”

  “Can I get you something to drink, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked me, his pad and pen at the ready.

  “How about a cappuccino?” I said.

  Feb’s head shot up. “Uh-uh.” She shook her finger at me. “Cappuccino is for after the meal, to be drunk slowly, over dessert.”

  “Feb, I only have fifty-five minutes before I have to be back for chemistry. I don’t know about all these courses—”

  “Flan.” She sighed. “You’ll be in Paris in two days. You really need to start adjusting your relationship with time. The French would never confine a good meal to a time-crunch just because of some boring class.” She turned to the waiter. “She’ll start with a Pellegrino now, and cappuccino later.”

  I looked at the waiter, whose shrug told me that my sister spoke the truth about the French rules and orders of beverage consumption.

  I shrugged back. You didn’t have to ask me to twice to skip chemistry. Slowly enjoying my cappuccino over dessert it was!

  “So,” she said, finally putting down her BlackBerry. “All packed up?”

  For my sister, who, like the rest of my family, never really stayed anywhere long enough to unpack, being “all packed up” was pretty much just her general state of affairs. For me, however, who hated to pack (how was I supposed to know what I’d feel like wearing six days from now?), packing was almost always put off until the very last minute.

  I shook my head meekly, knowing what was coming from my occasionally tyrannical big sister.

  Feb stared at me. “Well, have you done anything to prepare? Do you have your adapter and your passport ready? Do you even know what the weather is going to be like over there? It sounds like you need help getting organized.” She sighed. “Do I need to lend you Lena and Laura for the day?”

  “Hey,” I said. “Give me a little credit. Didn’t you hear my presentation last night at dinner?” For an off-the-cuff speech, I thought I’d presented my plans very well. Why was Feb giving me such a hard time?

  “Sorry,” she said, “I had to step out at dinner to take a call from Kelly. He’s all worked up about the water level in the rice paddies in Bangkok. The monsoons have been underwhelming this season.” She paused. “Sorry, boring. Anyway, I had to talk him off the ledge. Why don’t you give me a refresher course?”

  I sighed, heaving the GPA binder out yet again. Feb’s eyes widened when she saw the size of it, but they lit up when I started flipping through the pages. She nodded approvingly at the image printouts of our matching flats on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and the Métro route I’d already mapped out for us to take to the Champs-Elysées.

  “Magnifique.” She clapped when I’d finished. “Well, I guess I should eat my words—after I finish these oysters. You’ve really got a handle on your little Parisian adventure.”

  “Golden Parisian Adventure,” I corrected, as the waiter set down our main course.

  Feb gave me a mischievous smile and waved a sheet of paper in the air. “Then I guess you don’t even need the list of tips that Jade Moodswing and I prepared for you—”

  “Hey, let me see that!” I threw down my fork. The goat cheese could wait—I definitely wanted in on the latest Parisian scoop from Feb and Jade.

  “Okay, good,” Feb said, sounding happy to be needed again. “Keep that binder handy so you can take notes. You must, must, must go to Café du Marché on rue Cler for lunch; then there’s Angelina’s after the Louvre for hot chocolate, and of course Aubergine for the fizziest juices you’ve ever tasted.” She looked up from her list. “Can Alex dance?”

  “That’s like asking if the French make wine,” I said, remembering when Alex had hired a private tango instructor for us on Valentine’s Day—and proceeded to put me to shame with his moves. “The boy practically invented it.”

  “Good.” Feb nodded. “Then you’ll go to Étoile. It gets really good after about three a.m.” She looked wistful for a second. “God, I miss Paris,” she said. Then she shook her head and the nostalgia seemed to vanish. “You’re just going to have to go all out so I can live vicariously through you, okay?”

  “Promise,” I said. With these tips from Feb, there was little chance of our crew not going all out. I couldn’t wait to pass along these latest itinerary additions to my friends.

  “What else do I need to know?” I asked. “I’ve already been warned about my embarrassing tendency to prematurely order cappuccino. And I texted Jade yesterday to get her French thumbs-up on a pair of sandals that my friend Amory just bought at Bendel’s—”

  “Perfect.” Feb nodded. “I was just getting to fashion. Now, I haven’t been to Paris in at least three weeks, so I did have to lean on Jade a little bit more in that department. French restaurants are timeless—not at all like New York—but like New York, the look on the street changes every day.” She consulted her list. “Here’s what Jade says everyone is wearing, as of three-fifteen Paris time today: cigarette pants with billowy shirts and tiny men’s vests. You could do plaid, or cable knit, or even argyle.” She read down the list from Jade. “Nighttime is another story—everything has gone up, up, up in formality. You’re going to need some gowns.”

  All the advice from Feb and Jade was priceless, but it was also starting to make me a feel a little frantic. We were leaving tomorrow—was I supposed to tell all my friends to run out and buy argyle vests tonight?

  “Okay,” Feb said. “I can see from the way you’re biting that little bottom lip of yours that you’re freaking.”

  I grimaced—Feb had an uncanny way of reading me.

  “N’inquiétes pas, ma soeur,” she assured me. “Jade Moodswing has graciously insisted that you bring your friends to her atelier after you sleep off the jet lag. She’ll outfit you with the latest fashions. That way, you won’t even be one day out of style.”

  My eyes widened and I gripped Feb’s hand across the table.

  “Bring the boys too.” She shrugged. “You know she’s just starting to branch into menswear. She’ll be happy for a few studly American models. Okay, Flan,” she said. “I know you’re excited, but you’re going to have to stop waving my hand in the air like that. People are starting to stare.”

  Whoops. I hadn’t realized that my enthusiasm was causing such a scene. If Feb thought I was energetic, she should be there when I told my friends we’d be making a cameo at a real-life French atelier.

  The waiter came by to clear our plates and said, “You still want the cappuccino, mademoiselle? Or maybe you have already had enough caffeine aujourd’hui?”

  Feb laughed under her breath, and when I insisted that I could handle the caffeine without another embarrassing outburst of energy, we ordered the chocolate soufflé so that our savoring could linger on a little longer.

  So what if it was halfway through my next class already? When you were getting too-rare bonding time and travel tips from your big sister, who cared about the periodic table?

  “Thanks, Feb,” I said. “I know you’re busy with your Thailand planning, and—”

  “Please.” Feb waved her hand dismissively, never one to get too mushy. “Don’t flatter me. I feel like I should do more. I mean, it’s your first time in Paris with your boyfriend.” She grinned. “Which reminds me. I’ve given you fashion advice, and I’ve given you restaurant suggestions.” She tapped her finger to her temple. “What else am I forgetting? My little sister’s going to the romance capital of the world—voilà!” she said dramatically. “You must need some romance a
dvice, oui?”

  “Non.” I grinned, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to look coyly French. “Luckily, things with Alex are so great, romance is the one area I definitely don’t need any advice!”

  Chapter 4

  BACKOUT IS THE NEW BLACK

  Paging Ms. Flannery Flood to Women’s Sportswear. Ms. Flannery Flood,” the Saks Fifth Avenue intercom boomed. I’d just spun through the doors on the ground floor of the bustling department store for a shopping date with my best friend/teen starlet, Sara-Beth Benny. Both of us needed some last-minute pre–spring break essentials.

  Apparently, much of Manhattan had the same idea. The cosmetics department was jammed with girls and women of all ages and credit limits, suddenly in need of SPF foundation, skin-firming body lotion, and shimmery beach-proof lip gloss. Walking through all the commotion, I was relieved to have much of the shopping pressure lifted off my shoulders by Jade Moodswing’s gracious offer to provide some fabulous Frenchie clothes. But from the tone of SBB’s thirteen texts since lunch—and the urgent intercom summons—my movie star friend was in an altogether different state.

  SBB had just gotten the lead in an as-yet-untitled megablockbuster, but she’d been hesitant to spill any of the details. Until the official press release went out, the film was so under wraps that SBB was sure her phone was being tapped by the rampant paparazzi. She insisted on waiting until we met in person to fill me in, only stressing cryptically that the part was going to be “a real growing experience” for her.

  The elevator spit me out on the fifth floor just as the intercom clicked on again and I heard the beginning of my page: “Ms. Flannery Flood to the—”

  “Here I am,” I called loudly at the speaker on the ceiling, earning confused looks from a few nearby shoppers. “I’m coming as fast as I—”