(no subject)
With traffic in the rec room being what it was and Serena knowing as many people as she did, it was rare for her to sit alone and quiet for long. That didn't stop her from setting up shop at a table there. One thing she liked about the bookshelf was its tendency to supply her with piles of magazines and copies of the New York papers, and she occasionally would, as she was doing now, take an armful of these and spread them out over a table, leafing through for news from home. There didn't seem to be any point in taking them back to her room when she just wound up putting back nearly every last one back on the shelf. Sometimes she'd find out nothing more than what was projected for the spring 2010 runways and sometimes she'd find brief mentions of old friends from when she was fifteen.
She had her feet propped up on the chair opposite her as she sat, slouching back in the chair and leafing through a magazine. Today had been fruitful, in a weird kind of way. She'd found pictures of herself both with and without Poppy Lifton in copies of Page Six and Women's Wear Daily, and one in which she was positive the cut off woman in the background labeled as an 'unidentified friend' was actually her mother. She couldn't remember ever hanging out with Poppy and the whole thing just seemed sort of unreal, but she kept coveting her own wardrobe. Not even bothering to close one issue, she'd moved on to the next.
The best thing was looking at the runway shows from this fall, looking at all the tiny pictures in Vanity Fair, the collections for next spring from Marc Jacobs, Zac Posen, Alberta Ferretti. Eleanor Waldorf. Blair's mother was a great designer and Serena had always loved borrowing clothes from their house, but in recent years, it was true, the house of Waldorf had seen a slight decline in quality. This dress, though, was gorgeous, a real comeback piece for Eleanor and a fantastic finish to the show. That it was on Serena herself didn't hurt. How that had happened, she didn't know, but it was kind of awesome - even if Blair probably killed her after the show for ditching their traditional backstage viewing.
A lot had happened back home, it seemed like - things she couldn't know about, she was sure, no matter how many social columns she read - but it just seemed so far away, like something happening to another girl. In a way, that was exactly what it was. It was all interesting, but distant, removed from her life and herself. She'd seen her name in print for years, but always associated with events she'd actually had a chance to live through. She dropped Vanity Fair on the table with enough force to shift some of the others, one slipping off the pile to flutter to the floor, as she reached for a three month old issue of Nylon. "Oh, crap," she murmured, shifting in her seat to lean down and retrieve the lost magazine.
She had her feet propped up on the chair opposite her as she sat, slouching back in the chair and leafing through a magazine. Today had been fruitful, in a weird kind of way. She'd found pictures of herself both with and without Poppy Lifton in copies of Page Six and Women's Wear Daily, and one in which she was positive the cut off woman in the background labeled as an 'unidentified friend' was actually her mother. She couldn't remember ever hanging out with Poppy and the whole thing just seemed sort of unreal, but she kept coveting her own wardrobe. Not even bothering to close one issue, she'd moved on to the next.
The best thing was looking at the runway shows from this fall, looking at all the tiny pictures in Vanity Fair, the collections for next spring from Marc Jacobs, Zac Posen, Alberta Ferretti. Eleanor Waldorf. Blair's mother was a great designer and Serena had always loved borrowing clothes from their house, but in recent years, it was true, the house of Waldorf had seen a slight decline in quality. This dress, though, was gorgeous, a real comeback piece for Eleanor and a fantastic finish to the show. That it was on Serena herself didn't hurt. How that had happened, she didn't know, but it was kind of awesome - even if Blair probably killed her after the show for ditching their traditional backstage viewing.
A lot had happened back home, it seemed like - things she couldn't know about, she was sure, no matter how many social columns she read - but it just seemed so far away, like something happening to another girl. In a way, that was exactly what it was. It was all interesting, but distant, removed from her life and herself. She'd seen her name in print for years, but always associated with events she'd actually had a chance to live through. She dropped Vanity Fair on the table with enough force to shift some of the others, one slipping off the pile to flutter to the floor, as she reached for a three month old issue of Nylon. "Oh, crap," she murmured, shifting in her seat to lean down and retrieve the lost magazine.