she？d cut out her daily after…dinner milk…and…Chips…Ahoy routine。
Blair looked at the mirror； assessing her outfit。 Her Marc by Marc Jacobs shell pink sheer cotton
blouse was fine。 It was the fuchsia La Perla bra that was the problem。 It showed right through the
blouse so that she looked like a stripper。 But she was only going to Nate？s house to hang out with
him and Serena。 And Nate liked to talk about bras。 He was genuinely curious about； for instance；
what the purpose of an underwire was； or why some bras fastened in front and some fastened in
back。 It was a big turn…on for him； obviously； but it was also sort of sweet。 He was a lonely only
child； craving sisterhood。
Right。
She decided to leave the bra on for Nate？s sake； hiding the whole ensemble under her favorite
belted black cashmere Loro Piana cardigan； which would e off the minute she stepped into his
well…heated town house。 Maybe； just maybe； the sight of her hot pink bra would be the thing to
make Nate realize that he？d been in love with her just as long as she？d been in love with him。
Maybe。
She opened her bedroom door and yelled down the long hall and across the East Seventy…second
Street penthouse？s vast expanse of period furniture； parquet floors； crown moldings； and French
Impressionist paintings。 ？Mom！ Dad？ I？m going over to Nate？s house！ Serena and I are spending
the night！？
When there was no reply； she clomped her way to her parents？ huge master suite in her noisy
Kors wooden…heeled sheepskin clogs； opened their bedroom door； and made a beeline for her
mom？s dressing room。 Eleanor Waldorf kept a tall stack of crisp emergency twenties in her
lingerie drawer for Blair and her ten…year…old brother； Tyler； to parse from？ for taxis； cappuccinos；
and； in Blair？s case； the occasional much…needed pair of Manolo Blahnik heels。 Twenty； forty；
sixty； eighty； one hundred。 Twenty； forty； sixty； eighty； two hundred。 Blair counted out the bills；
folding them neatly before stuffing them into the back pocket of her peg…legged Seven jeans。
？If I were a cabernet；？ Blair？s father？s dramatically playful lawyer？s voice echoed out of the
adjoining dressing room； ？how would you describe my bouquet？？
Excusez…moi？
Blair clomped out of her mom？s dressing room and reached for the chocolate brown velvet
curtain hanging in the doorway of her dad？s。 ？If you guys are in there together； like； doing it while
I？m home； then that？s really gross；？ she declared flatly。 ？Anyway； I？m going over to Nate？s； so？？
Her father； Harold J。 Waldorf； Esquire； pulled aside the velvet curtain； dressed in his cashmere
tweed Paul Smith bathrobe and nothing else； his nicely tanned； handsome face looking slightly
flushed。 ？Mom？s out looking at dishes for the Guggenheim benefit。 I thought you were out。 Where
are you going exactly？？
Blair stared at him。 He wasn？t holding a phone； and if her mom was out； then who the fuck had
he just been talking to？ She stood blinking at him with her hands on her hips； tempted to peek
inside his dressing room to see who he was hiding in there。
Does she really want to know？
Instead； she stumbled out of the master suite； clomped her way across the penthouse； grabbed her
blood orange？ colored Jimmy Choo treasure chest hobo； and ran for the elevator。
Outside it was breathtakingly cold； and fat flakes fell at random。 Usually she walked the twelve
blocks to Nate？s house； but today Blair had no patience for walking？she had just discovered that
her father was a lying； cheating scum…bag； after all； and a cab was waiting for her downstairs。 Or
rather； a cab was waiting for Mrs。 Solomon in 4A； but when the hunter green uniform？clad
doorman saw the terrifying look on Blair？s normally pretty face； he let her take it。
Besides； hailing cabs in the snow was probably the high…light of his day。
The stone walls bordering Central Park were blanketed in snow。 A tall； elderly woman and her
Yorkshire terrier； dressed in matching red Chanel quilted coats with matching black velvet bows in
their white hair； crossed Seventy…second Street and entered the Ralph Lauren flagship store。
Blair？s cab hurtled recklessly up Madison Avenue； past Agn？s B。 and Williams…Sonoma and the
Three Guys coffee shop； where all the Constance Billard girls gathered after school； and finally
pulled up to Nate？s town house。
？Let me in！？ she yelled into the inter outside the Archibalds？ elegant wrought…iron…and…glass
front door as she swatted the buzzer over and over with her hand。
s moves out
？I？m going to 169 East Seventy…first Street；？ Serena van der Woodsen said to the cabbie as she
slid into the taxi？s black vinyl backseat。 She rolled down the window and let the warm late
morning air blow across her face。 Aah； summer。 All her life summer had meant parties at her
family？s estate in Ridgefield； Connecticut； or long； sunny afternoons in the park； reading oldW
magazines and slurping Stoli…and…cranberry popsicles with Blair。 Now； for the first time ever；
Serena had a job。 She turned a thick manila envelope over in her hands and removed the letter
she？d already read several times：
Holly：You must suffer for your art。 You must BE your part。 Pack your bags。 The keys in this
envelope are the keys to your new life？ the original life of Holly。 See you soon。 Kenneth。
It was an odd letter； sure； but what else did she expect from a world…famous eccentric like
KennethMogul？ He was her director； so she figured she better do as directed。
She patted the two old monogrammed red…and…white…striped Kate Spade tote bags beside her。
They still smelled deliciously like the ocean and suntan lotion and contained a stash of Cosabella
underwear； one of her brother Erik？s old Brown T…shirts that she？d swiped the last time he？d been
home； a flimsy Milly sundress； her most fortable Michael Kors flip…flops； a Cynthia Vincent
pink…and…black paisley print jersey dress； her trusty Seven jeans； a second pair of flip…flops； just in
case； and a white embroidered Viktor & Rolf top。 Only the essentials。
She stared out the window at the grand steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art； the lush trees
of Central Park； the grand apartment buildings on Seventy…second Street； the panoramic vista of
Park Avenue； and then at the unfamiliar； ugly modern towers on Third Avenue。 Ew。
？We？re here； miss；？ the cabdriver announced； grinning at her in the rearview mirror with a
mouthful of gold…capped teeth。 One tooth even had the initialZ stenciled into it。Maybe for Zorroor
Zeus？Serena wondered。
？Oh。？ She pulled out her burgundy Bottega Veneta wallet and thumbed through the cash。 Then
she climbed out of the taxi； balancing her packed…to…the…gills tote bags； and scanned the
putty…colored town houses for the right number。
There was number 171； and there was number 167； but there were some unmarked buildings in
between the two； and she couldn？t figure out which was hers。 She lugged her bags to the nearest
stoop and sat down。 Judging from some of the boxy； low buildings on the street； the place she was
moving into wouldn？t bequite on par with what she was accustom