Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Well, get it out of here. If Sydney comes back and finds his clothes smelling like Chinatown, he is going to have a fucking meltdown.”

  Eliza shoved in a few more mouthfuls of the tangy dish before reluctantly tossing it in the trash chute across the hall from the office. She walked back into Sydney Minx’s ten-thousand-square-foot loft. It was on the third floor of a former factory building in SoHo. The designer had bought it in the seventies when the building had still been an art collective. Sydney had sworn he would never leave the neighborhood but once business had taken off had quickly repaired to a swanky Upper East Side address, and the loft had been turned into the headquarters for his line.

  Just the week before, Eliza had been beside herself when she’d learned her mother had talked Sydney Minx into hiring her as an intern. She’d even skipped her own high school graduation to be here tonight. Not that it mattered—after a year at Spence in New York and two years at Herbert Hoover High in Buffalo, she’d spent her last year of high school at boarding school, where she’d essentially phoned in her senior year, breezing through a host of AP classes. Wear a black gown and a cardboard hat just to receive a piece of paper? Nuh-uh. She’d asked the school to mail it to her instead. Besides, everyone knew a graduation cap made your hair flat.

  The Thompsons were back on top, and for Eliza, all was right in the world. The scandal that had bankrupted her parents and doomed them to social oblivion (aka Buffalo) was ancient history. With the help of some well-connected friends, her father had made some key ground-floor investments in an abandoned warehouse property on the west side of Manhattan, which was now being developed into the hottest real estate in the city. Voila: the Thompsons were back in business. After repurchasing their old Park Avenue co-op and re-upping their Knickerbocker Club memberships, their reputation had been reinstated along with their credit cards.

  It looked like all of Eliza’s dreams were finally coming true—she’d been accepted early to Princeton, her dream college—but then, that never had been in doubt, what with her perfect SAT score and legacy-kid status. Plus, this summer she wasn’t going to be taking care of the Perry kids, nor was she going to have to prostrate herself working at a nightclub catering to bratty celebrities. The internship with Sydney Minx was icing on the cake—allowing her to make some industry contacts (she could use a few good discounts to stretch her shopping dollars—she’d heard the sample sales were amazing!) and have a fun way to pass the time. Not that the job was any fun at the moment, but it could be, if only they would let her do something more interesting than paint fabric, steam clothes, and pack boxes.

  No matter; tomorrow she would be in the Hamptons with Jeremy and her friends—Mara was supposed to be there by now, and Jacqui would be flying in with the Perrys soon enough. The three of them hadn’t been together since spring break, when they’d managed to meet up for a few sun-soaked days in Cabo San Lucas. She couldn’t wait to tell them all about her new gig. Of course, stapling the fashion show programs wouldn’t sound too glamorous, so she probably wouldn’t describe it in any detail.

  She passed a full-length mirror and quickly checked her reflection. Horror of horrors—there were saddlebags under her eyes from lack of sleep, and her usually lustrous blond hair fell flat against her shoulders. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and watery. But somehow, even while looking her absolute worst, Eliza was still the best-looking girl in the room. She’d tied her loose white oxford shirt around her waist in lieu of buttoning it, displaying a sliver of flat, tanned stomach above her baggy sweats. And even though she was wearing a comfy pair of slides, they sported a discreet Chanel logo on each side. She gathered up her hair in a loose but elegant bun, securing it with a pair of clean chopsticks.

  Jeremy liked it when she put her hair up, she thought fondly. He was already in Montauk and couldn’t wait for her to arrive. She had seen him just a few weeks ago at his college graduation in Binghamton, and she’d been so proud of him. Jeremy was one of the few guys who made wearing that stupid cardboard hat look sexy—his dark curls peeked out from under the cloth cap.

  Dating long distance sucked, but they’d made it work, and they were going to celebrate their one-year anniversary soon. Not that it even felt like a year—whenever they were together, it was like they’d just met, and honestly, she felt like she was more in love with him than ever. She couldn’t wait to see him. Jeremy was the only guy she’d ever met who saw the “real” her, who loved her because she sometimes snorted milk out of her nose when she laughed. The only guy she ever felt comfortable enough with to drop the whole princess-diva act. So many guys just expected her to be this perfectly poised mannequin. Jeremy told her he thought she was beautiful when she had a pimple on her chin.

  They were planning to spend the night together as soon as she arrived in town—and Eliza knew, even if Jeremy didn’t, that for the first time, it would mean truly spending the night together—no making out PG-13 style, the way they had been. After a year of seriously dating, she was ready to hand over her V card and make him her first. He was her one true love and had waited for so long for her to feel comfortable doing it. She was eighteen—for her, it was time. She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror again.

  If all went according to plan, by tomorrow evening, she would no longer be a virgin. She wondered if she would look different. Older? More mature? More experienced? And would anyone be able to tell? She’d find out soon enough.

  on the upper east side, jacqui finds that packing for the hamptons doesn’t help a hangover

  THE DOORBELL RANG, AND THE sound of bell chimes reverberated loudly in the studio, but Jacqui Velasco ignored it. She was hurriedly throwing clothes, shoes, and straw tote bags into two open suitcases in the bedroom. It was just half an hour since she’d walked onto the stage with the rest of the St. Grace Academy class to collect her diploma, and she was still wearing the pretty floral Blumarine dress and round-toe Gucci heels she’d chosen for the event.

  Her grandmother had already left for the airport to catch her flight back to São Paulo. It had been great to see her avó, who had been positively bursting with pride in her lace mantilla. After all, Jacqui had graduated with a solid B-plus average and honors in Spanish (being fluent in Portuguese certainly helped). She’d kissed her grandmother good-bye outside the auditorium and had scrambled to return home to pack for the Hamptons as soon as she could. The Perrys kept to a tight schedule and expected everyone to adhere to it.

  Why, oh why, had she put packing off for so long? Jacqui wondered, even if she knew the answer only too well. Senior Week. Instead of spending time getting ready for the Perrys’ annual pilgrimage to East Hampton, Jacqui had chosen to celebrate with her friends. The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind—there’d been a boozy bash at the Maritime Hotel, mini-golf at the Chelsea Piers, and an overnight retreat to the Catskills (campfire hookups and roasted marshmallows). Between the festivities and schlepping the Perry kids to their after-school activities, there just hadn’t been any time to pack.

  Her head hurt from a massive hangover, thanks to last night’s tequila-soaked grad party. She opened drawers haphazardly, throwing and discarding items at random. Pucci scarf. Yes. Cashmere cardigan. No. (Too hot.) Duro Olowu caftan. Yes. Juicy cover-up. Too last year. Havaianas. Yes. White Levi’s. Definitely.

  She ran a hand through her thick black hair—the short, spiky fauxhawk she’d weathered for a fashion show last summer just a memory. The pixie cut had been cute, but she felt more like herself with her long dark tresses.

  Her first year in New York had been nothing short of magical. The Perrys had installed her in a studio apartment formerly occupied by their ex-nanny. Jacqui had gasped when she saw the six-hundred-square-foot space—a charming, cozy room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a pretty alcove bedroom, a full kitchen, and a working fireplace. Only a block away from the Perrys’ massive town house, the apartment was close enough that Jacqui could come over and watch the kids easily but far enough that sh
e had her privacy.

  Jacqui had enrolled for her senior year at St. Grace—a small, all-girls’ parochial school on the west side that had accepted her after Stuyvesant, one of the most competitive public schools in the country, did not. The Perrys had covered her tuition as part of her compensation, and Jacqui’s classmates quickly idolized the brash, beautiful Brazilian in their midst. Jacqui had studied hard through the year but had still managed to become very popular. After all, she was the only one at school with her own apartment, and she’d hosted a lot of parties. She found an empty beer bottle underneath the bed and chucked it in the garbage can.

  The doorbell chimed again, and this time Jacqui could definitely make out Anna and Kevin Perry’s quarreling voices behind the door.

  “I’m talking to you—don’t answer your phone when I’m talking to you!”

  “Anna, this is work. It’s important. Give me a sec, all right?”

  “You never listen to me. Work always comes first!”

  “Babe, please shut up. I need to take this.”

  “Oh, just go ahead, then! Where is she? Jacqui! Jacqui!”

  “Coming!” Jacqui yelled. She ran over and opened the door.

  Anna Perry, a vision in sparkling Chanel tennis whites, tapped her French manicure impatiently in the doorway. “The limo’s here. We need to get to the Thirty-fourth Street helipad pronto or we’ll lose our departure time,” she ordered briskly. Kevin Perry, who looked tense and rumpled in a gray wool suit, gave Jacqui a curt nod as he put a cell phone to his ear.

  “Yes, yes, sorry—just—give me a minute.” Jacqui nodded, closing the door in front of Anna’s face. The Perrys might pay for the apartment, but it was still her own. Besides, she totally had to hide the keg that was standing in the middle of the living room.

  mara achieves golden-girl status

  MARA STRODE CONFIDENTLY THROUGH THE Airport, taking a little-known shortcut to the baggage claim area. She was so focused she didn’t notice the many admiring stares in her direction. She cut a sharp figure in her tight white Michael Stars T-shirt, pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer clam diggers, and Tory Burch for TRB wedge sandals—recent purchases thanks to congratulatory checks from her grandparents. Her thick chestnut hair was expertly colored and styled, falling sexily just below her shoulders, and she was tan from spending a weekend on Block Island as part of graduation festivities.

  She retrieved the rest of her luggage, piled it on a cart, and walked out of the sliding glass doors to look for Ryan. She found him leaning against a flat red Ferrari Enzo illegally parked by the curb.

  He ran over toward her, taking long loping strides. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, plucking a garment bag from the top of the pile.

  “Hey, yourself,” Mara replied, her heart skipping a beat—it always did whenever she saw his handsome face. She smiled at him over her matching butter-leather Coach suitcases—graduation booty from her sister Megan, who had quit the beauty shop for a gig as a sales rep, meriting a deep discount.

  Ryan was wearing his hair longer, in a shaggy, college-boy cut, but otherwise he looked the same, the same burnished tan, the same slightly disheveled clothing—a worn Aboveground Records T-shirt over a pair of holey Rogan jeans, his usual rubber flip-flops, vintage Ray-Ban aviators perched on top of his forehead. Mara set the cart by the sidewalk and walked over to him, putting an arm around his waist as he fed the bag into his trunk.

  “New wheels?” she asked, admiring the Italian sports car.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged apologetically. “My dad. I think it’s some kind of guilt present. He forgot my birthday this year.”

  In Mara’s family, guilt presents meant homemade brownies and a trip to the mall, not to the Ferrari dealership. “What happened to your old car?”

  “Sugar’s driving it around L.A.”

  Mara thanked whatever gods were responsible that the twins, Ryan’s eighteen-year-old hellion sisters, were going to be absent from the Hamptons scene this year. Sugar and Poppy had “gone Hollywood,” and both were actively auditioning for movie roles. So far, they had made a total of one direct-to-video horror film but had managed to attend every red-carpet premiere in town. Sugar was currently recording an album (Melted Sugar), while Poppy was broadening her empire from a line of perfume—“Sniffers,” by Poppy Perry—to include handbags (“Stuffers”) and home fragrance (“Stinkers”). They were both famous for appearing inebriated and half naked in public and, needless to say, had become very popular in Los Angeles.

  Mara shook her head at the memory of the twins’ exploits—she had almost forgiven them for their hand in what had happened last summer, but not quite.

  “Missed you,” Ryan said, leaning down to give her a kiss. His lips pressed against hers, and Mara closed her eyes, opening her mouth to his. She felt him press against her body, and she tightened her embrace; soon the two of them were totally necking in front of the terminal. Ryan buried his face in Mara’s neck, and she breathed in his familiar scent—Ivory soap underneath salt water and suntan lotion. Yummy.

  Several cars beeped in annoyance since Ryan’s car was blocking traffic, and they reluctantly pulled away from each other.

  “Mmm,” Ryan said, holding her arms to her sides and squeezing her shoulders. “I think we should go.”

  “You think?” Mara winked, still feeling happy and dazed from his hello kiss.

  Ryan raised an eyebrow at the sight of all the luggage. “I don’t think it’s all going to fit in the trunk.” He shook his head.

  “I kind of over-packed.”

  “I can see that.” He nodded, attempting to stuff a particularly large suitcase into the Ferrari’s tiny trunk. “If I’d known, I would have brought the Rover.”

  “Sorry,” Mara said sheepishly.

  Ryan cursed half seriously as the suitcase wheels became stuck in the doorjamb. Mara stood back, not wanting to get in the way. “What’s SGH?” she asked, noticing a small oval sticker on the left side of the convertible’s bumper.

  “Sag Harbor, where we’re spending the summer,” Ryan explained, blushing a bit. “Anna got them for all the cars—theirs say, ‘EH’, for East Hampton. I couldn’t stop her from sticking one on mine. It’s kind of cheesy, I know.”

  Mara smirked. A sticker proclaiming their summer destination—trust Anna Perry, Ryan’s status-conscious stepmother, never to pass up a chance to flaunt their wealth. In the end, Ryan was able to cram most of the luggage in the trunk and squish the rest in the sports car’s tiny backseat. Mara balanced her brand-new Mulberry handbag on her lap and stuffed the matching tote bag underneath her feet. She felt slightly embarrassed to have packed so much—but as an intern at the Hamptons’ most high-profile magazine, she was determined to look the part of a glamorous journalist, even if she would just be running to the Starbucks. She’d been in the Hamptons long enough to understand the meaning of “fake it till you make it.”

  Ryan climbed into the driver’s seat, and the Ferrari roared out to the lane. Mara beamed as her handsome boyfriend zoomed ahead of all the cars on the highway.

  Anyone who saw Mara would think she had always been one half of a golden couple. That she took for granted the kind of life most people only dreamed about. That she had been born beautiful, rich, blessed, and confident—but anyone who thought that couldn’t have been more wrong.

  eliza blings it on

  “HEY, VIDALIA,” ELIZA SAID, WALKING over to a Rail-Thin, six-foot-tall model who was half in and half out of her Sydney Minx original. “Paige said you needed help?”

  “I can’t seem to get this to work,” the model complained in the flat, nasal tones of her native Cincinnati.

  Eliza wondered if Vidalia (one name only) had changed her name to project a more exotic image and in doing so had unwittingly styled herself after a very common onion.

  “Let’s see, I think that’s the armhole that you’ve got on your head, and this actually goes over here, and this one buttons to that part, and then this is loose,” Eliza said, helping Vi
dalia out of the dress, then gliding it back over her shoulders and deftly snapping buttons and pulling the intricately shredded chiffon frock to its rightful position.

  Vidalia and Eliza stared at Vidalia’s reflection.

  “That’s it?” Vidalia asked skeptically.

  Eliza nodded, but she understood why the model looked doubtful. The dress, on its own, was supposed to be a show-stopper, but it still looked a little plain. It needed something. . . .

  Eliza spied several gold chain belts lying on a cutting table. “Here,” she said, draping the gold chains around the model’s neck. “Put these on.” Eliza layered gold-link necklace after gold-link necklace. Then she switched Vidalia’s strappy sandals for a pair of brown crocodile leather thigh-high boots. It was supposed to be a spring/summer collection, but everyone was going to want a pair of boots this summer—cowboy boots, motorcycle boots, why not skyscraper croc? Sandals were so over. Feeling inspired, Eliza also spray-painted the edges of the dress for a dramatic finish.

  The model grinned at her reflection. It was sexy, street, and luxe at the same time, hitting just the right note of savvy and super-expensive. It was the way everyone wanted to look right now, and somehow Eliza had articulated the desire with just the right accessories.

  “Better, no?” Eliza asked.

  “Perfecto,” Vidalia agreed, now sounding for all the world like a European heiress.

  They hugged each other, feeling an adrenaline high from a job well done, an outfit well planned. Eliza smiled, dropping to her knees to pin up the skirt hem to the right length.

  But when her high faded, Eliza felt nervous. It was a risky move, styling the dress and switching the sandals for boots. Only the head stylists—seasoned Seventh Avenue veterans with years of magazine experience and fashion show production under their braided Marni belts—were supposed to style the clothes for presentation.