"I want to stay in New York next year," she said wistfully.
He looked up from the pool table. "Pourquoi?"
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She told him excitedly about her plans for Stuyvesant and hopefully NYU and how she hoped Anna would help get her a nanny position if she did a good job this summer.
They played, matching each other ball for ball, until only the black eight-ball was left. It was in a precarious position, and Jacqui hunkered down, twisting her body so she could aim with the cue.
"You have to keep one leg on the floor," Philippe reminded her, as Jacqui's mule heels dangled from the table.
"I'm trying!" she laughed.
"Like this," Philippe said, coming up behind her and gently guiding her arms. She let him press on the stick and release it. The ball shot into the corner pocket.
"So who won?" Jacqui asked, turning her head toward him. Philippe still had his arms around her.
"Call it even," he said, leaning down to smell her hair. He pressed against her back, and Jacqui felt the heat from his body. It was too much to resist. She melted into him, shuddering as he planted soft kisses down her neck. She closed her eyes and turned toward him. As if he'd read her mind, he gently lowered her to the table, bumping her head on the overhead light.
"Oops!" she laughed, pulling him down on top of her. She felt his hands twine through
her hair as he kissed her neck and shoulders. She snaked her hands up behind his back.
"Jacqui?"
The lights in the screening room suddenly blazed on.
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Jacqui pushed Philippe off her, unintentionally kicking up the pool stick, which smacked him squarely on the forehead.
"Ouch!"
"What were you guys doing?" Zoe asked, holding a teddy bear. "Why are you on the pool table?"
This was exactly why the No More Boys rule had been invented.
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Nobody puts mara in the corner
IT WAS ANOTHER BUSY NIGHT AT SEVENTH CIRCLE, AND
Eliza was trying to keep up with the rush of impatient club goers storming the velvet rope. Kartik had advised her to let guests trickle in slowly, in small groups of two or three. That way there was always a long line at the door, which made the club look even more popular than it was.
Eliza scanned the crowd, looking for Jeremy. She hoped he would stop by the club again, but so far, he hadn't shown up. She hadn't seen him since the disastrous dinner with her parents the week before. She'd left him a couple of messages on his cell phone and at work, where some schmuck had answered the phone and asked her to spell her name twice. But he'd never called her back.
"Name?" she asked an older woman in a beige pantsuit who had wrestled her way to the front of the line.
"Margot Whitman," the lady answered sharply.
Eliza ran a nail against the list, searching intently. Wilson (Owen), Wilson (Luke plus one), Williams (Venus & Serena),
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W, Women's Wear Daily. "I'm sorry," she concluded. "You're not on the list," she said flatly. Kartik had advised her that the guest list rule only applied to "civilians." Models, or other fearsomely pretty girls, as well as celebrities and other VIPs could always get in, regardless of their guest list status. But as for regular people-- which this woman clearly was--they could freeze in hell before they were allowed inside Seventh Circle.
"I'm Alan's mother," the woman declared. "Is this some kind of joke? Can you get my good-for-nothing son out here to let me in? This is ridiculous. I've got clients waiting here."