Skinny Dipping

by Melissa de la Cruz

  They spent the rest of the day browsing among the East Hampton shops and then returned to the Perry house in time to get ready for the show. Mara looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a skinny Christian Dior evening dress with hand-beaded pearls and a feathered hemline. Scott Barnes, the famous makeup artist, and one of Mitzi's clients, had arrived to do her makeup. He'd attached custom fox-fur lashes to hers, just like he did for J.Lo., and Edward Tricomi, who'd given half of

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  Hollywood their shaggy cuts, had personally cut and styled her hair for the evening. On top of that, she was wearing ten carats' worth of flawless ice on each of her earlobes.

  Megan came out of the bathroom. "Isn't this the best?" she said. "I got it from Loehmann's!"

  She was wearing a Marc Jacobs mod minidress with big plastic buttons and knee-high white go-go boots. It had been a huge hit. . . two seasons ago.

  "Why don't you borrow something from me?" Mara asked, motioning to the racks of clothes that were stuffed with the latest fashions. "Really, I don't mind."

  "Are you kidding? I bought this especially for tonight!"

  Mara groaned. Her outfit practically screamed, "Over," which wasn't exactly what you wanted your fashion show ensemble to say. Mara knew it was wrong, but for the first time, she felt a little embarrassed to be related to her sister.

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  don't hate them because they're

  beautiful

  BACKSTAGE, THE DESIGNER'S ASSISTANT, WHOSE REAL

  name was Octavian, but who preferred to be addressed as "Miss O," gathered the models around. "Listen, people!" he yelled. "Boys! Wear your willies down! Girls, you are ski bunnies on vacation! Hot, hot, hot! Got it? Okay? Okay!"

  Jacqui stood in her first outfit, a skimpy thong-tank top combination and a pair of very low-cut bootleg jeans. The tank top stopped about halfway down the midriff, so that in the back was merely a thin line of fabric that tucked into the jeans' waistband.

  She nearly hadn't made it to the show, and now she wasn't all that pleased that she had. When she and Philippe had agreed to model, they had completely overlooked the fact that they would need to be there the whole day. The only thing that had saved them was an overnight retreat for the kabala camp that Anna had insisted the kids attend. She was determined to have the kids befriend Lourdes and Rocco, who were rumored to be in attendance as well.

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  At the show, Jacqui couldn't believe how stupidly they were being treated. All the production assistants and wardrobe dressers talked to them very slowly, as if they were children, or mentally challenged, or mentally challenged children. Each model had a team of no fewer than three people to herd him or her from makeup to hair to dressing station.

  Octavian ran over. "Jacqui! I've been looking for you. Reinaldo has a new vision for the finale." He herded her over to the hair dock, where intrepid stylists were turning the girls' manes into gravity-defying rats' nests, and the lead designer, Reinaldo, was approving each model's up do.

  "So, I was thinking," Reinaldo said, touching Jacqui's silky black hair, "what about Sinead, with a little Good Charlotte thrown in?"

  "Divine!" Miss O agreed.

  Jacqui sat on the chair, looking quizzically at the two of them.

  The hair stylist held a razor in his hand. "Darling, how do you feel about a Mohawk?" he asked.

  "You can't be serious!" Jacqui said, reaching up protectively to cover her head. Her long, lustrous black hair!

  "It is imperative!" Reinaldo declared, suddenly positive. "Punk-rock wedding, retro meets old-school. Have you seen the movie ..." he said, frowning and snapping his fingers. "Star Wars: Attack of the Clones?'

  "More like a fauxhawk, you know, spiky but messy," Octavian nodded. "Richard Avedon meets Helmut Newton in a Baz Luhrmann fantasy!"

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  "Genius!" the hairstylist pronounced.

  Before Jacqui could reply, he was shaving into the side of her scalp. It hurt, and a few minutes later, a broom was sweeping up Jacqui's hair, and she was stricken, looking at herself in the mirror.

  She'd always taken her looks for granted--but this? She reached up, feeling the downy duck's back that her scalp had become.

  "Perfecto! Beautiful!" Octavian gushed.

  Jacqui had never felt uglier in her entire life.

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  that's why they

  call it b-list, baby

  THE BRIDGEHAMPTON POLO CLUB HAD SET UP A HUGE

  white tent for the fashion show in the middle of the polo field. A line of white tables greeted Mara and Megan at the entrance, and several guests were walking around drinking cocktails, their heels sinking into the grass. Mara spotted Eliza manning the first table and pulled Megan with her to the very front, pushing and murmuring "Excuse mes" while Megan apologized to everyone they jumped in front of. Alan and Kartik had "loaned" Eliza to Mitzi to help run the show, since half of Mitzi's office had had an allergic reaction to a client's new face cream. Apparently, unprocessed seaweed extracts were not for everybody.

  "Are you sure this is okay?" Megan asked.

  "Excuse me--sorry--excuse us. Sorry, could you move?" Mara asked, stepping forward without waiting for an answer.

  Several Waspish socialites cast annoyed glances in their direction, which Mara ignored.

  '"Liza!" Mara called.

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  Eliza, wearing her signature headset and a pretty black-and-white Temperley dress she'd bought with her tournament winnings, waved them over.

  "See, I told you--she's a friend of mine," Mara said, not bothering to explain that Eliza had also been one of the au pairs the year before.

  Mara pecked the air on either side of Eliza's cheeks, while Eliza did the same to her. Things weren't exactly normal between them, but on the other hand, they weren't exactly estranged, either.

  "Eliza, this is my sister Megan," Mara said.

  "Oh, hi!" Eliza smiled. "Wow, you guys look so much alike!"

  "Really?" Mara asked, not sure if it was a compliment. Hanging around Sugar and Poppy had made her think everyone was always being sarcastic.

  "You are gorgeous!" Eliza told Megan, and Mara felt relieved.

  Eliza looked down at her clipboard, frowning. "I don't see Megan on here," she whispered to Mara.

  "Urn, you don't?" Mara asked. She'd meant to ask Mitzi for a seat for her sister, but she'd completely forgotten.

  Eliza glanced down. Several of the celebrities they'd been expecting still hadn't shown up, and there was a very slim chance that they would even make it.

  "Follow me," Eliza said, pulling back the tent flap. The two Waters girls followed Eliza inside. A long white runway with plastic covering ran the length of the room, and on either side, white

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  folding chairs were arranged in neat rows. Each chair held a small black bag filled with numerous beauty products and glossy magazines, but the bags in the front row were considerably larger than the others.

  "Here you go," Eliza said, finding a seat with Mara's name on it. Eliza peeled off the name of a celebrity on the seat next to it. "Megan, you're here too."

  "Thank you," Mara mouthed.

  Megan plopped down, her eyes agog over the commotion. At the end of the stage, photographers were setting up their tripods and cameras, and a roving band of paparazzi were snapping pictures of the people seated in the front rows. There were famous fashion editors hiding behind their signature sunglasses; a cadre of young, mostly blond women wearing pastel-colored cashmere sweaters around their necks; and a smattering of famous actresses sitting in the best seats. Perky "news" correspondents from all the celebrity news shows and networks-- Access Hollywood, Entertainment Tonight, The Insider, E!, VH1, the Style Network--were interviewing fashionistas, socialites, and celebrities.

  Mara crossed her legs and angled her face for the best shot, knowing that they would soon make their way over to her and take her picture. She was pretending not to notice that her sister was already rooting in the goody
bag and exclaiming over the items inside it.

  "Look, Mar--free Kiehl's lip balm!" Megan said excitedly, showing her the loot.

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  Mara nodded, smiling. "It's the best," she agreed. She didn't mention that the company had sent her a carton of its products just the other day. Mara smiled at a tiny, curly-haired woman in enormous sunglasses who was sitting down next to Megan.

  "Oh my God! I loved your show!" Megan said turning to look at the woman. "I'm totally a Carrie!"

  "Thanks," the star replied modestly.

  "Can I get your autograph?" Megan asked.

  Mara almost died. Even though Sarah Jessica Parker happily obliged, Mara was embarrassed--celebrities totally didn't come to fashion shows to be hassled by fans. It didn't help that once the photographers had stopped taking Jessica Simpson's picture and started taking Sarah Jessica's, none of them even stopped to take a photo of Mara Waters.

  Contrary to what Mara had grown to believe, she wasn't nearly as famous as she thought.

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  it's getting hot in where?

  JACQUI TRIED NOT TO LOOK INTO THE MIRRORS THAT WERE

  everywhere backstage. Her hair! Her glorious, beautiful, thick, black hair! Gone! Replaced by some trendy haircut--a fauxhawk, the stylist had called it--a halfway, wussy Mohawk that was long in the middle and gelled to a point, while the sides were short and cropped. She ran her fingers over the rough edges, shuddering at the buzz cut on the nape of her neck. It felt like it belonged on a boy. But there was no more time to think about it, because the lights went down in the front of the house and Octavian was in front, yelling at all the models to get in line.

  She tried to find her spot, her eyes bleary with almost-tears-- how could she face the world with this ridiculous haircut? She readjusted her bodysuit thing--was it on backward?--pulling it off her shoulders and letting it hang around her waist.

  "Jacqui?"

  She turned around--completely topless. "Yes?"

  "Oh! Hi! Oh!" Kit Ashleigh stood at the perimeter of the

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  dressing area, his face turning purple. He was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers. "God! I'm so sorry!"

  Jacqui folded her arms in front of her chest to cover up. "Kit!"

  "I'm sorry I'm late. These are . . . for you," he said, thrusting them at her and averting his eyes.

  "They're so beautiful! Obrigado. "

  A dresser slipped the tank top--thong back over her shoulders, but it didn't really make a difference. Jacqui was still very nude.

  Kit did a double take. He'd just noticed her hair. "Your hair!"

  "What do you think?" Jacqui said, nervously touching the ends. "Ugly, huh?"

  "You look ..." Kit's eyes shone with admiration. "You look awesome."

  "You really think so?" Jacqui smiled, raising her eyebrows in a hopeful expression.

  Just then, one of the production assistants spotted Kit. "No boyfriends here!" he said, ushering Kit out of the door.

  "I'm not her . . ." Kit blushed again, to the roots of his blond hair. "You look beautiful. Good luck."

  "'Bye! Thanks!" she called, as her dresser straightened the thong string into the back of her pants.

  Then something bronze and sculpted and perfect caught her eye--Philippe, in the middle of changing, his lean, tennis-toned body naked. He was doing pull-ups on a dressing rack, hanging-- ahem --out there, for all the world to see, when Jacqui caught his eye.

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  He shot her a wolfish grin. "Nice haircut!" he called.

  There were so many beautiful girls backstage, but for once, he was only looking at her. She ran to her place in line. The lights dimmed outside, and Reinaldo exhorted them to think, Sex! Sex! Sex!

  After seeing Philippe naked, that wouldn't be too hard.

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  musical chairs isn't just for kindergarten

  A FASHION SHOW WAS THE LAST PLACE ELIZA WOULD HAVE

  thought to bump into Jeremy, but here he was anyway. She had been helping to keep track of the donation checks, cross-referencing them with the checked-off names on the list, when he appeared at the entrance with Carolyn Flynn. The two of them were huddled together in the second row--sponsor seats, since Morgan Stanley had underwritten most of the event-- sipping from champagne flutes and looking around with bemused expressions.

  Eliza was watching them, wondering if Carolyn and Jeremy were a couple, when she saw Ryan enter from a side door and slip into his seat beside his sisters. Eliza's heart melted a little bit. So what if Jeremy didn't like her anymore--she had Ryan, and he was a great friend/hookup/whatever-they-were. Ryan winked and gave her a little wave.

  Eliza waved back, just as she was accosted by a heavyset woman who looked a little familiar. "Are you in charge here?" the

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  woman demanded. She was wearing a faded black polo shirt and baggy black pants, and was holding a Motorola walkie-talkie.

  "Er . . . yes, I suppose," Eliza said. "Can I help you?"

  "My client, Chauncey Raven, is about to arrive," the woman said, and Eliza remembered where she'd seen the woman before. She was the pompous publicist who'd asked Eliza not to let Ondine Sylvester into the VIP room earlier in the summer.

  "That's wonderful--we love Chauncey," Eliza said, giving her standard reply to the assistants of the famous.

  "Well, yes, but I need to know where she's sitting. Those girls over there said all the front-row seats are taken."

  "Oh!" Eliza exclaimed. Shit. The show was about to start in five minutes. Her headset squawked with Mitzi's grating voice "Eliza! Dollink! Code Blue! Chauncey Raven doesn't have a seat!"

  The heavyset handler scowled at Eliza.

  Eliza didn't know what to do. Mitzi's command to fix ///didn't really translate to anything helpful. How? Bring one seat from the second row up to the front? She scanned the room, which was filling up with guests, and settled on Mara and Megan. Surely they would understand how important it was to have Chauncey in the front row. Eliza click-clacked on her heels down the plastic-covered runway to where they were seated.

  "Mar, can I talk to you for a sec?" Eliza asked, pulling on Mara's arm.

  "What's going on? Anything wrong?" Mara asked.

  "Chauncey Raven is coming to the show."

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  "Oh, great!" Mara had hung out with Chauncey so much at Seventh Circle, she considered her a friend.

  "But there aren't any more front-row seats left. I'm so, so sorry. But do you think we could move you and your sister back to the second row? I can put you guys right there, behind the Perry twins."

  Mara straightened up. "But why?" she asked, noticing the Perry twins whispering across the runway. Sugar and Poppy were smirking, checking out Megan, and Mara blushed to think of what the twins were saying about her sister's outfit. She couldn't believe Eliza was asking them to move. Mara had been in the Hamptons long enough to know that being asked to give up your seat was completely humiliating.

  Chauncey Raven's publicist gripped Eliza's arm and whispered, "Chauncey is in the building! Now!"

  "I'm really sorry to have to do this," Eliza said, turning away from Mara and making a begging gesture to Megan. "But we have a really important celebrity attending who forgot to RSVP, and we really need these two front-row seats. I'm totally sorry, Megan."

  "No prob!" Megan said, beaming. "Who's the celeb?"

  "Really, Meg, you don't have to get up," Mara pressed, even as Eliza was helping Megan out of her seat.

  "It's for Chauncey Raven. Thank you, thank you, thank you," Eliza said, handing Megan her things and moving her to the second row. "Oh. Except you have to leave the goody bag."

  Megan's face fell. She noted the significantly smaller goody bag on the second-row seat.

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  "Okay, keep it," Eliza said. "It's fine."

  Chauncey arrived a full fifteen minutes later, with husband Daryl Wolf in tow. Since there was only one seat for the two of them, Chauncey promptly sat on her husband
's lap.

  The room went pitch black, and suddenly, a booming bass line thundered from the overhead speakers, and a sultry British voice began to rap in a sexy coo. The lights went up, and the models strutted on the runway to the beat of the electroshock hip-hop song "Fuck the Pain Away."

  The crowd thrilled to the nasty lyrics and the tiny little outfits. Jacqui came out in her tank top-thong and new fauxhawk, and there was an electric shiver in the air. It was all so bad . . . yet so good. Not one outfit was wearable. Not one item of clothing had any reference to the lives of any of the women sitting in the audience. But it didn't matter. The collection was a joyous celebration of sex and youth, and it would garner rave reviews in the papers. By the time the collection hit department stores, the sheer shirts would be lined, the miniskirts cut to a more modest length, and the tank top-thongs--well, they were really only for show.

  Eliza put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, looking back to where Mara was sitting. But she didn't see Mara, only Chauncey Raven, who was seated sideways on her husband's lap, completely blocking Mara's view of the runway.

  And that's what being a bitch will get you.

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  blood may be thicker than water, but nothing

  beats a VIP table

  ONCE THE SHOW WAS OVER AND REINALDO HAD TAKEN his bows, there was a stampede toward the reception on the grounds of the country club. Garrett had arrived just as the show ended and given Megan a once-over before completely dismissing her from his attention. Mara gave Megan her goody bag to hold so she could say hello to her friends.

  Once the real celebrities had departed and Garrett appeared at her side, the paparazzi finally noticed her. Mara saw that Megan seemed to be feeling awkward, but Mara had to say hello to so many people--gossip columnists, magazine editors, the various publicity handlers whose clients' designs Mara had worn at some point during the summer.