“Twenty pages. You must be so excited!” Fiona, a petite British girl who was a dead ringer for Kate Moss, smiled, putting aside the issue of French Vogue she’d been reading. She poured Jacqui a margarita from the pitcher beside her and Jacqui took it gratefully.
“Is it your first?” Sam, a tan, raven-haired, green-eyed girl asked. She had a slight midwestern accent. “I remember my first Vogue with the boys,” she added, looking off into the distance as if she were reminiscing about years past. “We went to Paris. I was so excited—I’d never been out of the country before that.”
Jacqui took a sip of the ice-cold drink. Other than São Paulo, she’d never been anywhere but New York and one trip to Florida with the Perrys, and she felt the slightest bit jealous. But then, she would be starting NYU in the fall, her dream, so who was she to complain?
“How’d you like working with the Eastons? They are very sweet, no? Midas can be a bit of a stickler, but the pictures come out beautiful,” Katrinka jumped in, pushing her sunglasses back on her spiky red hair.
Jacqui nodded. “I like it. To be honest, I didn’t expect to, but it’s a lot of fun,” she admitted. She was surprised at how friendly these girls were. The models she’d met in the past had been distinctly bubble-headed, catty, and hostile. And it was sort of nice to be able to talk to people who understood what she’d been up to all summer.
“When my issue came out, I got signed by Versace to do their ads,” Sam said, piling her luxurious dark hair on top of her head. “Just wait—your life is totally about to change,” she added excitedly, her green eyes sparkling as she smiled eagerly at Jacqui.
“How do you mean?”
“It happened so quickly,” Sam said, folding herself in her arms and tucking her legs underneath her chin. “I mean, one minute, I was just nannying on the Upper East Side, kind of bumming around, not really doing much, and suddenly I was on a private jet to Morocco with Marc Jacobs and André Leon Talley.”
“You were a nanny?” Jacqui asked, surprised. She removed her Tory Burch cover-up and began to lather the body oil Sam handed her on her skin. She was feeling more at ease by the minute.
“Yeah. No one can work a juice box like me.” Sam winked. “Is that an Eliza Thompson?” she asked, critically studying Jacqui’s swimsuit.
Jacqui nodded. “She’s a friend of mine, actually. And I’m an au pair.”
“Not for long,” Sam said wisely.
“I’m not sure I want to make modeling my life, though,” Jacqui told them.
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be. Do you think I’ll be doing this when I’m twenty-five? Be serious.” Sam shook her head. “I’m totally doing the Christy Turlington thing. Retire, start up a company, marry a cute guy, have a great family.”
“In the meantime, the traveling is awesome,” Fiona gushed. “Last week I was in Shanghai, Milan, and the Canary Islands. The lifestyle is great—it’s so flexible. You can work if you want, but if you don’t want to, you don’t have to get out of bed.”
“And of course, there are the parties.” Katrinka nodded. “Not to mention getting to stay in this little cottage here.” She waved a hand at the enormous stately house behind her.
“Your agency put you up here?” Jacqui asked. A little shack on the beach this was not.
“Yup, it’s their little gift to us to let us relax and get away from the city. We’re all roommates in New York too. In a little loft in the Bowery. You should come by sometime.”
“I will,” Jacqui agreed, thinking that a loft in the Bowery sounded a whole lot cooler than a tiny little dorm room. Looking around at the three confident, beautiful girls—each with a distinctive look and a lucrative contract—she began to think that if she ever were to model full-time, she could do worse than become a Chrysler girl.
“Can I steal you for a moment?” Marcus interrupted, coming over with a fresh drink and holding out a hand. Jacqui bid the girls goodbye, and he brought her over to a more private area of the pool patio.
“Big news,” he continued once they were alone. “That was Gilles Bensimon I was just chatting with. Midas and I sent him some outtakes from the Vogue shoot last week and he loved them. We’re going to Paris!” he said gleefully, picking her up and spinning her on the grass.
“Meu Deus! Paris?”
“The City of Lights! Singin’ in the Rain! Funny Face!” Marcus laughed. “Picture it: you and I walking along the Seine together. Dancing at Les Bains. It’s going to be absolutely brilliant.”
“But why?” Jacqui asked, still shocked.
“Midas and I just scored the Elle cover. Gilles doesn’t want his magazine left out of trumpeting the new girl. They’ve booked Versailles for the location, and we have to get there the day after the Vogue party. But no worries, they’re sending a private jet to take us straight there.”
“In ten days? That soon?”
Marcus nodded. “August 29.”
“But that’s the first day of orientation at NYU,” Jacqui said, her face falling. “Couldn’t we shoot it the weekend after?” she asked hopefully, even though she knew it was a stupid question.
Marcus scoffed. “You don’t tell Gilles Bensimon when to schedule a shoot. He tells you and you go, no questions asked. Darling, it’s all very simple.” He grabbed both her hands and squeezed them, looking deep into her eyes. “You need to forget about NYU. Come to Paris and we’ll stay at my flat; I’ve got plenty of space. Midas and I have big plans for our muse.”
Give up NYU? She’d worked so hard to get in for so long. But the opportunity to be an international supermodel certainly didn’t come along every day. She’d just met a bunch of pretty normal girls back there who led amazing, extraordinary lives. Traveling to the most beautiful places on the globe. Free designer clothes. Invitations to the best parties. Here was a chance to join the jet set. The beautiful people.
Marcus smiled at her, and the sun hit the blond highlights in his hair. She could picture it—photographer and muse, living in a charming flat on the Left Bank. It would be so romantic, like her favorite movie, Moulin Rouge, except she wasn’t going to die of consumption anytime soon. All she had to do was turn her back on NYU.
She had never been a great student—she’d had to work so hard just to maintain a B average—whereas modeling came so easily to her, it was like breathing. Could this be the one thing she was good at? She thought of Eliza and her designs and Mara and her writing. Maybe this was her talent. Maybe this was what she was meant to do.
“Give it a think. You’ve got a week and a half. But listen to me. You won’t want to miss spending autumn in gay Paree with me.” Marcus took her in his arms and dipped her low.
Jacqui laughed as she felt the blood rush to her head. Paris. She’d come to the Hamptons from São Paulo three years ago to track down the boy she thought was the love of her life. She was older now and wiser. But what should stop her from following another guy—one who had invited her to go with him—to the most romantic city in the world?
www.blogspot.com/hamptonsaupair1
it’s 10 PM—do you know where your friends are?
Seriously, do you? Because I don’t. J., E., and I are like three ships passing in the night. Make that a foggy night, without foghorns. Not that I think we’re in any danger of crashing anytime soon, but it would be nice to know they’re still out there. On the rare occasion that J. and I cross paths, she seems really out of it, like she’s so busy thinking about something she’s got no brain cells left for everyday cognition (did I mention she’s a model? Jk!). E., on the other hand, is simply an invisible wonder. She’s so busy at her store, working on her fall line, and generally being so on top of the world that she’s got twenty pages in Vogue that she seems to have literally exited this earth. I guess I should just be happy that they’re both happy…. That’s what friends are for….
Speaking of E.’s party, I’m totally torn up about missing it to go meet D.’s mom. I’ve always been the type to put hos before bros (tee-hee,), but this ti
me I must confess I’m leaning toward the dinner. So without further ado, a list of pros and cons re ditching my friends to solve the matter:
pros
Dinner with Manhattan’s top agent could make me a literary superstar.
cons
Might no longer be alive to launch my literary career once E. finds out I’m missing her bash.
I think I’m willing to take my chances….
Till next time,
HamptonsAuPair1
you know what they say
about people who live in
glass houses….
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” MARA ASKED WHEN SHE ARRIVED at their table in a cozy little restaurant not too far from the house. The three girls had been remiss in meeting up for their weekly catch-up meals, and all of them had made an effort to get together that evening. Summer was almost over, and it was criminal how little time the three of them had spent together. Mara had come straight from putting all five kids to bed and had found Jacqui and Eliza looking tense.
“Jacqui is moving to Paris,” Eliza announced in grave tones before soaking a piece of bread in a pool of olive oil on her plate and taking a delicate bite.
Mara took her seat and unfolded her napkin on her lap. “What? Why?”
“Marcus wants me to go to Paris,” Jacqui explained a bit defensively as she perused the menu. “It’s the next step for me, he said. There’s a chance I could be on the cover of Elle.”
“But what about NYU?” Mara asked. She reached into her oversize Alexander McQueen tote bag and removed a large white envelope with the purple NYU logo on the right-hand corner. “This came for you today. You’re never at the house anymore, so I thought I’d bring it tonight.”
“Oh.” Jacqui accepted the envelope. She opened it and its contents spilled out—registration forms, cheerful color-coded information memos on housing and meal plans. “It’s the orientation packet,” Jacqui said flatly, brusquely stuffing all the papers back into the envelope.
“So wait—back up—you’re moving to Paris and not going to NYU?” Mara asked, completely floored. All Jacqui ever talked about for two years was how NYU was her dream. She remembered how ecstatic Jacqui had been when she called Mara to tell her she’d just been accepted. “Just so you can model?”
Jacqui shrugged. “NYU will still be there when I’m done with modeling.” She was miffed that her friends weren’t more excited for her, but if they weren’t going to be supportive, she preferred they not talk about it at all. “Have you guys had the salmon here? Is it good?”
Eliza snatched the menu out of Jacqui’s hands. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “Jac, I hate to break it to you, but modeling is not that easy. The world is full of models who never made it living in, like, ghetto apartments. You’re better off going to school.”
“I have twenty pages in Vogue” Jacqui said defensively, reaching back for the menu and scanning the pages with an annoyed look on her face.
“Granted—but think about it. Most girls don’t get paid for anything until they score a cosmetics or designer contract. Editorial pays for shit. You might never hit it big, and then what?” Eliza raised her eyebrow haughtily. She didn’t meant to rain on Jacqui’s parade, but she’d seen too many of her friends in New York fall into the same trap. They left for Paris, Milan, or Tokyo with their portfolios and dreams of magazine covers dancing in their heads, wasting years appearing in beer ads in Ginza rather than the Galliano runway before giving up completely.
Jacqui grimaced. Eliza could be so bossy sometimes. She knew Eliza was right—Marcus had explained to her that she had to work for the lowest pay scale until she joined a proper agency, her rates went up, and a huge brand signed her. She knew her friends had good intentions, but she hated the way they always thought they knew what was good for her. Well, Jacqui could think for herself, and she thought Paris sounded pretty grand, thank you very much.
“And anyway, I think there’s something off about Marcus,” Eliza added, thinking about what Jeremy had said after he met him briefly earlier in the summer—that he seemed like a player. How could Jacqui just run off to another country with a guy she’d only known for a matter of weeks? She and Jeremy had been dating for three years, and they weren’t even living together.
She motioned to the waitress to refill their bread basket. All this talk of modeling was making her hungry, almost as if she were unconsciously rebelling against the strict diet Jacqui would have to adhere to once she officially signed on. Eliza remembered being accosted by a modeling scout herself and being told she had to lose another ten pounds to be considered runway ready. Hello, she was already a size zero—she wasn’t about to get into the negative figures. No thanks, she’d rather dine on pasta than on promises.
“How can you say that?” Jacqui asked, now completely irritated. “That’s ridiculous. He and Midas are making your career.”
“What?” Eliza cried, turning pink. Now it was her turn to feel the sting. “Jac, I can’t believe you don’t think I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Jacqui backed off quickly. “But you guys have to understand—it’s not every day that regular people get handed opportunities like this. Some people spend their whole lives waiting for their big break.” Jacqui looked down at her hands and bit off an errant hangnail.
Mara looked at Jacqui curiously. Regular people? Since when did Jacqui consider herself ordinary? Her otherworldly good looks always saved the day for her. The girl had never had to pay for a meal, a cab, or a drink in her life. She quietly took a sip of her water, not wanting to get involved.
“If you flake out on NYU, you’ll hate yourself,” Eliza pronounced, her voice carrying to the other tables so that the well-heeled patrons turned around to glare at her for breaking through the restaurant’s cozy murmur. She closed her menu definitively, as if closing the book on Jacqui’s character.
“How can I expect you to understand—you’ve always had it too good,” Jacqui said sourly. “Where is that waitress? I really need a drink.”
“Hey!” Mara said, unable to watch from the sidelines anymore. “Stop it, you guys. Let’s not spend the evening bitching at each other. C’mon, are we ready to order?”
“No, I’d really like to hear what Jacqui meant by that,” Eliza said, her color high. She took a furious gulp from her water glass. Always had it good? Hadn’t she suffered humiliation when her father lost their fortune and her family had to hightail it to Buffalo? It wasn’t such ancient history that Eliza had forgotten what being poor was like.
“Nothing,” Jacqui said sullenly, refusing to meet Eliza’s eye. She usually didn’t seek out confrontation, but if Eliza pushed, she would give it to her.
“No, go ahead. Please. Tell me,” Eliza challenged.
Jacqui put down her napkin. “I don’t know. It’s just sometimes you take everything for granted. Didn’t you pay for your store with your trust fund? I’m sorry, Eliza, but some of us don’t have parents who can buy them careers.”
“Anything more you have to say?” Eliza asked, her face now as red as her Chloé Gladys bag.
“Actually, yes,” Jacqui said fiercely. If Eliza was going to tell her all the mistakes she was making in her life, well, then she deserved a little wake-up call herself. “You don’t even take Jeremy seriously. You don’t want a commitment; you’re just wearing that rock on your finger for show.” There. She’d said it. Well, somebody had to.
“You’re one to talk about commitment!” Mara jumped in before Eliza, who’d turned completely ashen beside her, could respond. “Jac, you’re the one who bailed on me all summer! I’ve had to do everything for those kids!” Mara wiped her hands on her napkin in dismay.
“See what I mean? You’ve flaked out on Mara,” Eliza said in a triumphant tone, the color coming back to her face, although Jacqui’s words had hit home. She knew Jacqui wasn’t entirely wrong, but she didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
&nb
sp; “Don’t take her side—she’s not even going to be here for your big Vogue party.” Jacqui folded her arms over her chest. It was going to be a completely sober evening, apparently. The waitress was nowhere to be seen.
“You’re missing the Vogue party?” Eliza asked, turning to Mara. She looked more hurt than angry.
Mara flushed. “I was going to tell you,” she said, wringing her napkin. “I’m having dinner with David and his mother, Pinky Preston. She’s a huge literary agent—you both probably have never heard of her, but she’s really famous in publishing. I can’t miss it.” Mara shrugged. She hadn’t wanted the information to come out this way, but Eliza couldn’t really blame her, could she? Give up the biggest opportunity of her young career to go to a party?
“So let me get this straight—you’re missing my big night, and possibly Jacqui’s last night in the country, for some lame snobby literary thing?” Eliza said icily.
“It’s not lame,” Mara snapped, now on the defensive.
“Whatever, Mara. All summer long, you don’t want to come to any parties and you act like you’re so above it all, with your pseudo-intellectual better-than-thou boyfriend,” Eliza huffed. She was glad to have an excuse to change the subject, and for the opportunity to pass the feeling of guilt on to someone else. “And now you’re missing out on the biggest night of our lives!”
“Of your life—you’ve already established that Jacqui’s modeling career is going nowhere,” Mara said coolly.
The waitress arrived, smiling as she pulled a pencil from behind her ear and a pad out of her belt. “What can I get you girls? Can I start you off with some drinks?”
“I’ll have a mojito,” Jacqui decided.
“A margarita for me,” Mara added.
“Martini.” Eliza nodded. “Dirty, with extra olives.”
“Sure.” The waitress kept smiling. “I just need to see some IDs.”
For a moment, the three girls looked askance at each other. They never got carded. They were so used to drinking whatever they wanted at fashion parties, at the house, and at VIP rooms that they had taken the lax policy in the Hamptons for granted.
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