Lucky Break Read online

  Gulp.

  Chapter 13

  A NOT-SO-THAI-RIFFIC TURN OF EVENTS

  I need seventy-two jumbo paper lanterns, with the energy-saving lightbulbs, and I need them delivered now.”

  There was the sister I knew and loved! When I stepped into the long open bar on the top floor of the Oriental Hotel, I was greeted by Feb, pacing the hardwood floor on her phone. She was still the same girl—she’d just been hiding under that organically woven paper bag of a dress for the past few days.

  She’d sent me an urgent text to meet her at the hotel at four-thirty on Wednesday afternoon. The fast was just about over, and we were all gearing up for the big party she was throwing to honor a good monsoon week on the rice marsh. Quite a change from the parties she used to host in honor of a friend’s movie premiere or club opening, but a party nonetheless. I was excited just to be out on the town and spending some nonyoga time with my sister. But I was also very excited that the party was being held at the city’s swank Oriental Hotel. It had been around forever, and over the years had seen all of Thailand’s glitterati spin through its golden doors.

  Speaking of spinning, Feb was starting to make me dizzy with all her pacing back and forth.

  “Feb, can I—”

  “Flan, I haven’t eaten in seventy-two hours and fourteen minutes and Idon’tevenknowhowmanyseconds. I really can’t deal with—”

  “I was just going to ask if I could help with anything for the party,” I jumped in before she said something she regretted.

  Feb paused, snapped her phone shut, and said, “Actually, there is something you can do.”

  Before I knew it, she had led me into the walk-in fridge in the large gleaming hotel kitchen. She stopped in front of six boxes full of coconuts and six boxes of the biggest, ripest mangos I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Ouch,” I said, when Feb slapped my hand after I reached into the box to examine one of the fantastically pink pieces of fruit.

  “Look, don’t touch,” Feb said brusquely. “They’re for tonight. Ugh, I’ve got a million things to do,” she said, looking down at her PDA, which looked so out of place in her henna-tattooed hand. “Let’s see. We have to have a signature cocktail. You can come up with something on the fly, right?”

  It was a good thing I wasn’t holding a mango, because I would have dropped it. “Me? Bartending?”

  “Not bartending,” she said, sounding only slightly impatient. “Bar inspiring. Isn’t that what you do? Patch mentioned something you whipped up for some Thoney party….”

  Camille and I had concocted a really delicious Virgiltini for January’s Virgil event. And my friends always said that I made the best acai spritzers (the secret was to line the rim of the glass with real dried acai berries crushed with sugar). But I’d never stopped to think about the fact that I actually had a gift for concocting delicious and refreshing drinks. I loved that Feb made it sound like cocktail commander was my obvious terrain.

  “We just need a pretty face behind the drink. It’ll market better,” she said.

  “You can take a girl out of a Manhattan PR firm …” I joked.

  “Ha-ha,” Feb said, motioning for me to help her carry a box of coconuts. “So what do you think?”

  “Well,” I said, looking down at the boxes of fruit. “In this kind of sticky heat, people want something light.”

  “So no coconut milk?” Feb asked. Her face seemed to fall. We were looking at six huge crates of coconuts.

  “I’ve got it,” I said finally, thinking of what my friend Ramsey, the captain of my field hockey team, was always telling us to drink before practice. “We’ll go with nature’s biggest thirst quencher: coconut water! Blended with ice and mint and a dollop of mango puree. We can call it … Thai-riffic.”

  “She’s a genius,” Feb said to the team of Thai chefs putting on their aprons. “Okay, now we divide and conquer,” she said, turning back to me. “I’ll make sure the music’s cued and the candles are lit. You find the bartenders and spread your refreshing gospel, okay?”

  “Just one question,” I said, looking down at myself and realizing one very big hitch in the plan. When I’d showed up in my jeans and casual Theory tee, I’d envisioned having time to make it home and change. “Am I going to wear this to the party?”

  Feb threw her head back and started laughing hysterically, telling me all I needed to know.

  A half hour later, I had just made a sample virgin Thai-riffic cocktail for the bartender to taste, when Feb shoved a hanger under my nose. I held it out in front of me to examine the short silk sheath dress. The cut was simple; the print was anything but. It was white with dashes of black, hot pink, bright green, and dark red. If I squinted, I could almost make out a graphic print of Marilyn Monroe. It was cool (sorta) and edgy (very), but the dress was not at all me.

  “I picked it out for you in the shop downstairs. It matches your amulet,” Feb said, sounding proud of herself. “And it complements my dress!” she said, holding up a similarly loud blue and white splatter-painted T-shirt dress. Yikes.

  Usually Feb had impeccable taste when it came to clothes. Maybe she was just out of shopping practice? But she looked so busy, standing there crossing off things on her electronic to-do list. I knew she’d flip if I asked for a new dress.

  I looked past my sister at a group of three Thai girls about my age. They were giggling in front of the elevator. For a second, they reminded me of me and my friends, and I got a not-in-Paris pang. Then I realized that all these girls were wearing something very similar to what Feb had just picked out. Hmm.

  I wasn’t the type to follow trends that I didn’t genuinely adore, but then again, it was only one night, and if other people were wearing the style, at least my crazy Marilyn dress wouldn’t make me the laughingstock of Bangkok.

  “It’s great,” I said to Feb, slipping into the bathroom to pull on the dress.

  By the time I gave myself a quick touch-up (loosened side ponytail, shimmery Urban Decay highlighter rimmed around my eyes, and DuWop matte pink lipstick), the ballroom of the hotel was already filling up with guests. It seemed really early, but then I remembered that Feb and Kelly got up at the crack of dawn to hit the rice paddies, so most of their guests were probably on the same schedule. The sun hadn’t even set, and people were already lined up to order my Thai-riffics. If taste in cocktails was any indication, I guessed the party was off to a pretty good start.

  Feb was still in intense-planning mode, and she had Kelly handling the spillover chores, so both of them were rushing around making sure the lanterns were hung, the Thai dancers on time, the stereo system set up. They looked so frazzled, and I loved attending to these last-minute details. Over and over, I asked them if I could help, and over and over, Feb insisted that I get “out there” and enjoy myself.

  So I tried. I milled around the room, sampling barbecue fish skewers and spicy vegetarian dumplings. I stifled a yawn. I leaned up against the bar to enjoy the view of the city from the twenty-seventh floor of the hotel. I looked at my reflection in the window, yawning.

  From this perspective, unlike me, Bangkok never seemed to rest. But there had to be people out there doing normal things, just sitting down to dinner with their family, or going to see a movie … or nursing a broken heart. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell. It made me wonder whether anyone at this party could tell what I was going through.

  “Flan? Is that you?” a familiar voice said behind me. I turned around to see Arno Wildenburger standing with his arms extended. Arno was an old friend of Patch’s, but I’d hung out with him enough times that I felt like we were friends in our own right, too. The last time I’d seen him, he had hooked me up with tickets to see the Magnetic Fields’ secret show under the Brooklyn Bridge. It was strange to see a familiar smile in this sea of new faces, but Arno was impossible to miss, especially in this crowd. His dark hair practically gleamed with the Frédéric Fekkai glossing gel he bought by the case, and his watches (one for every day o
f the week) were always the size of a hockey puck. He’d always just seemed like a normal kid to me, but tonight he looked so New York.

  “You look sooo Bangkok in that dress,” he said, giving me an approving nod. “Way to go.”

  “Thanks, Arno.” I stepped in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, not expecting him to pull me in for such a tight squeeze. “What are you doing here?” I asked his shoulder, since that was what my face was mashed into.

  “Looking for you,” he said, giving me a super-cheesy wink. “No, really, I’m just stopping though on my back from Sydney, hanging with Patch, but I didn’t know I was going to going to have the pleasure of buying the most beautiful of all the Floods a drink.”

  I laughed, rolling my eyes. “I was just in Italy, and the men there can get away with saying stuff like that, but aren’t you supposed to be an icy cool Manhattanite?”

  It was good to see Arno. It was just his personality to be forward, so I could give him a hard time without worrying that it meant anything.

  “You’re right, that was embarrassing,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can tell me all about Italy … and whether you’re finally single so I can ask you out.”

  My face fell. It was completely involuntary and instantaneous, but Arno picked up on it in a second.

  “Uh-oh. That’s a boy-trouble face if I’ve ever seen one. What’s his name?”

  “Actually,” I said, pushing him away, “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Alex.” I sighed at last. “Alex Altfest.”

  Arno crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head at me. “Please tell me you’re not all broken up over Alex Altfest.”

  “Why not?” I blurted out. “You know him?”

  “I know the kid. And let me tell you, Flan, he ain’t worth one pretty little tear of yours.”

  The mention of my tears must have had some sort of physical response, because I could feel them welling up. Who did Arno think he was, saying Alex wasn’t worth it?

  “If he’s not worth it, then why am I—” I cut myself off.

  “Flan, come on.” He reached for my shoulder, but I pulled away. His fingers snagged on the chain of my amulet and I felt the sharp tug of it catching around my neck. A second later, it snapped off. The glossy stone Buddha cracked in two clean pieces on the floor.

  “Crap,” Arno muttered. “Where’d you get that? I’ll buy you another one.”

  “You can’t buy me another one Arno. That’s the point of the amulet—it’s not replaceable. It’s valuable because of who gives it to you and why. And I don’t want one from you.” I knew it was unfair to go off on him, but at this point, I couldn’t stop. “I don’t need the necklace anyway, just as much as I don’t need you telling me who or what to cry over. What I need …” What did I need? “What I need is to get out of here,” I said, nearly tripping over the line of Thai-riffic orderers and rushing out of the bar.

  This party was a disaster, and if I didn’t find a bathroom quickly, I was going to cry in front of the still-giggling elevator girls.

  I ducked behind a Buddha statue and collapsed on a bench out of view from the partygoers. I wanted to call my friends, but I didn’t know if I could bear to be reminded that they were all having a blast with their boys. I already felt so far away from them. I pulled out my phone to find two text messages, one from Camille and one from SBB.

  Camille’s said:

  THINKING OF YOU FROM THE TOP OF THE CENTRE POMPIDOU. XANDER SAYS ALEX IS AT THE KNICKS GAME TONIGHT—NOT THAT YOU SHOULD WASTE YOUR TIME THINKING ABOUT HIM. JUST THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT HE’S STILL IN THE CITY, AND YOU’RE OFF SEEING THE WORLD!

  I guess it was sweet of Camille to put it like that, but all her text did was fill me with questions. We used to go to Knicks games together. We’d sit in his family’s box seats and order oysters from the Grand Central Oyster Bar and try to shoot oysters every time LeBron James shot a three-pointer. Who was he taking to the games now? Before the word Cookie could fully form in my head, I opened SBB’s text:

  AFTER A WEEK OF HOLLYWOOD MEETINGS, JR REWARDS ME WITH AN ORDER TO WEIGHT-TRAIN IN SYDNEY. HMPH! I KNOW YOU’RE BANGKOK-ROCKING, BUT OZ ISN’T SOOO FAR FROM YOUR HOOD, IS IT? WANNA POP DOWN AND HELP LITTLE OLD ME BECOME NOT-SO-LITTLE OLD ME??? PLEASE???? BIANCA WILL BE HAPPY TO JOIN US IF NEEDED….

  Hmm, SBB might be joking, since just popping down to Australia was a pretty ridiculous idea. But then I remembered Patch and Agnes’s presentation. Would they still be in Sydney? Only the world’s most strings-pulling travel agent could work this kind of flight-reservation miracle. I crossed my fingers as I dialed my mom….

  Chapter 14

  AUSTRALIAN FOR “CUTE”

  After one last night sleeping under the mosquito nets, and one final canoe ride down the Chao Phraya, I was back at the airport, holding a last-minute plane ticket to Sydney.

  I’d spent the whole morning apologizing profusely to Feb for my behavior (namely for blowing into their no-stress zone only to turn around and dash off, leaving a trail of tears). Not surprisingly, Feb would have none of it.

  “Will you shut up already?” she said, kissing me good-bye at the airport. “You’ll have much more fun down under with Patch. It’s impossible to sulk in Sydney. Frowning is practically illegal. Now get on the plane. Call me when you’re over he who shall not be named.” She practically shoved me through the gate.

  Following her last orders, I trooped down the runway toward the small first-class-only jet. When I found my window seat (thanks, Mom!), I sank into the smooth leather recliner, happy to see that there was a computer screen on the seat back in front of me. My iPhone reception had been so spotty in Thailand, it felt like years since I’d been able to check my e-mail, and I was dying for the extended version of the news from Paris. But the first thing I did when I logged on was a quick scan to see whether the Jerk of New York had decided to apologize (negative … hmph!). My spirits lifted when I saw the subject line of Camille’s e-mail: THIS IS A LONG ONE; SIT DOWN. I snuggled into my down airline blanket, glad that Feb had insisted on taking me to the airport extra early so she could get back in time for her session with the guru. Now I had plenty of time to read before takeoff:

  CHÈRE FLAN,

  HAVE FINALLY RECOVERED FROM YOUR CRAZY JET-SETTING NEWS ABOUT THAILAND. MUST KNOW EVERYTHING! ARE YOU SWIMMING IN TOM YAM KUNG SOUP? ARE YOU BUDDHIST YET? WHAT ARE THEY WEARING IN BANGKOK?

  It was funny, I’d been sort of bummed thinking about how I hadn’t given Thailand much of a shot before I jumped on the first plane out of town, but reading Camille’s e-mail, I was pleasantly surprised to have answers to all of her questions. I had tasted real tom yam kung, and I did have a memorable Buddhist moment. I even had the freaky Marilyn Monroe dress to prove how wild the fashion was. My short visit had exposed me to some really amazing new things.

  I was feeling pretty good about myself until I got to Camille’s next paragraph, where she launched into a series of questions about how I was doing re Jony. Of course, she had to ask—she was my best friend—but I didn’t want to sink into that particular depression at the moment. So I just glossed over it and started reading again when she switched subjects.

  Finally, this was the good stuff—a long description of what everyone had been eating (lots and lots of almond croissants), how many boutiques she’d spotted Jade Moodswing couture in (six), and how many times Morgan had gotten pissy because the daily half-hour rain shower was making her hair frizz (eleven). She also detailed this great lost-in-translation anecdote about Xander being chased down the street by a crazy French woman wielding a cast-iron pot, all because he’d accidentally called her a cow while trying to ask if she knew where he could find a good hamburger in her neighborhood.

  I was laughing so hard that tears were rolling down my face (oh yeah, I remembered these—the good kind of tears!), when a soothing voice overhead said:

&
nbsp; “Well, at least I know she’s got a sense of humor. That’s always a good sign.”

  I looked up to lock eyes with a tall guy a few years older than me. He was a dangerous combination of Zac Efron and Christian Bale, with an Aussie accent to boot. He lifted a bag into the overhead compartment and slid into the seat next to me.

  “I’m Dave,” he said, giving me a very manly handshake. “We’ll be each other’s entertainment for the next nine hours.”

  Dave had shiny light brown hair that he had to keep shaking out of his dark hazel eyes. He was really tan, with a splash of freckles across his nose and a smile that seemed to spread through every one of his gorgeous features. If this guy was from Sydney, I understood what Feb meant when she said that frowning was culturally illegal.

  “I’m Flan,” I said, smiling too.

  “And you’re flying from Thailand to Sydney,” he said, scratching his chin, “to meet up with your boyfriend? Oh, I can see that was the wrong question. On some sort of modeling junket, right?”

  As the flight attendants closed the cabin doors and the plane pushed back from the runway, Dave seemed to be sizing me up.

  “Not exactly.” I laughed, feeling myself turn red. “My brother’s in Sydney and my friend’s meeting me there.” Usually, I would have left it there, but even though Dave was a stranger, there was something really trustworthy about his face. I was surprised to find myself saying, “As for the boyfriend part, I guess you could say I’m flying away from him. We just broke up.”

  Two Shirley Temples and an assorted-nut-and-cheese platter later, I’d given Dave the entire rundown. Not just the breakup story with Alex, but also the story of my whirlwind spring break. I even offered up the details of the looming threat of Bianca, which, when I showed him the photo SBB had sent, made both of us wince.

  “Let me get this straight—you’re traveling to three continents in nine days to get over one guy?”

  I nodded, laughing to hear it phrased so succinctly.