* * *
Later that evening, Jacqui and Ben shared a banana split at the Snowflake diner so she could take care of other unfinished business.
Ben reached over to hold her hand, and Jacqui gently but firmly pushed it away.
“Listen, I have to tell you something,” she said. She sighed; this was going to be hard.
But Ben, who was always sensitive to her moods, saved her from the difficult part. “I already know,” he said quietly. “I wish we didn’t have to make you choose. It was fun while it lasted. I think we all kind of knew what was going on, but we tried to pretend it wasn’t.”
“Ben—you guys were right. There’s not three of me, and it’s not fair to you.” She scooped up some fudge-covered ice cream, thought better of it, and put her spoon down again. It seemed rude to eat at a time like this. “I’m sorry,” Jacqui said.
“Don’t be. I had a great time.” Ben smiled. He caressed her cheek softly. “It was worth it.”
Jacqui leaned over to kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “Every minute.”
nicky hilton can do it—why not eliza?
IT WAS THE THIRD WEEK of August—summer had flown by so quickly. Mara sat at her cubicle at work, marveling at how much she’d learned that year. She was going over the proposed outline for her final column with Sam, who was on the other line yelling at her husband for having bought them tickets to the Caribbean without securing a free first-class upgrade. “Did you tell them who I am? You did? And—they didn’t?”
“So, I was thinking, for my final piece—there’s this really great new designer who’s showing on the beach next week,” Mara said when Sam had slammed down the phone. By now, Mara was used to her boss verbally abusing everyone, including her spouse. It was a common occurrence.
“Who is it? Can they send samples?” Sam asked, perking up and sounding completely normal, as if she hadn’t been screaming her lungs out just a second ago.
“No, it’s her first collection. It’s Eliza Thompson. Remember, the girl we put in the socialite centerfold the first week of July?” Each summer, the magazine regularly shot the season’s hottest social swans in a three-page foldout. It was a tongue-in-cheek nod to the Playboy model, with lists of the socialites’ “turn-ons” and “turn-offs.” Turn-ons: Five-hundred-thread-count sheets. Turn-offs: Flying commercial. Eager readers collected them like baseball cards. (“Oh, you have an Elisabeth Kieselstein-Cord! Trade you for an Ivanka Trump?”)
“She has a line?”
Mara nodded eagerly.
“I don’t know,” Sam said doubtfully. “This is the final issue, so we can only cover the really big names. Sydney Minx is having his show at the same time. Plus, I spoke to his publicist—he’s going to give us a full interview this time.”
“But I really think Eliza Thompson is going to be more relevant to the column, to the new generation of readers who are her age . . .” Mara argued. After the success of her column and since receiving the attention of the New York media world, Mara was starting to believe she could pull off being a reporter after all. She was eager to flex some of her new journalistic muscle, especially if it meant being able to help a friend.
“Maybe,” Sam said. “But the whole socialite-with-a-clothing-line is kind of done, isn’t it? Aren’t they all DJs now? Or porn stars? Let’s stick with Sydney.”
“Are you sure? I really feel like Eliza’s show will be more dynamic and current,” Mara wheedled, thinking of several fabulous outfits Eliza had in store.
“Sydney’s show is the biggest thing to hit this town,” Sam snapped. “It’s going to close the social season. Everyone is going to be there—nobody can stop talking about that show he did earlier this year. And your profile will only made him a bigger deal. People love scandal. It’s going to be his comeback.”
“But Eliza—”
“Enough. I want you at Sydney’s show.”
Mara nodded. She’d been shot down, but what could she do? After all, Sam had been in the business twenty years.
She looked at the invitation Eliza had sent—a carefully constructed origami representation of an oversize tote bag (“The Working Woman’s New Briefcase”)—and put it aside. There was no way she would be able to cover Sydney’s show and Eliza’s at the same time. Eliza was bound to be so disappointed; she’d already told several prospective buyers that Hamptons would be covering the collection. Mara only hoped her friend would understand.
daughter knows best
IN THE MIDDLE OF HER fitting, Jacqui got a call from the caterer. Bad news. The credit card account that Jacqui had given her at the meeting had been closed. Kevin had already started to freeze all of their mutual assets. Damn. Jacqui thought quickly and provided Georgina with Anna’s ATM card. She crossed her fingers. Hopefully, the checking account was still working. Georgina called back. It was. They were back on track.
“What’s up?” Eliza asked, pinning back the dress on Jacqui’s torso. “Does that feel okay?”
Jacqui nodded. She stood in the middle of Eliza’s bedroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She still couldn’t believe how well the dress fit. It was a cheeky take on a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, with a glen plaid pattern and a Peter Pan collar. But instead of looking . . . well, costumey and pervy, the dress was fresh-looking and fashionable while being incredibly comfortable.
“It’s fabulous,” she told Eliza. “It feels so good.”
“Cotton with a hint of spandex.” Eliza grinned. The glamour girl collection had been inspired by her idea—Girls Who Mattered. It was all about making clothes for girls who had other things to think about than clothes. The “uniform” was supposed to take all the angsting out of dressing—just grab a sweater, a shirt, pants, and go.
She had been able to talk a few of her old classmates into modeling at the show as well, and they were all sitting around Eliza’s room, waiting their turns.
“I still need two more girls,” Eliza fretted.
“What about Shannon and Madison?” Jacqui suggested. “I’m sure they’d love to do it.”
* * *
Jacqui found Shannon reading a book to Cody in the sunroom. She explained that Eliza needed a few more girls for her show and thought that she and Madison would be ideal.
“Me? In a fashion show? Fantastic,” Shannon said, putting down the book. “But . . .”
“But?”
“I don’t know about Madison. She’s kind of pissed at me right now.” Shannon told Jacqui how Madison had asked her point-blank if Anna and Kevin were getting a divorce and how Shannon had lied to her about it. “I think she suspects something.”
“Maybe we should just tell her,” Jacqui said thoughtfully. It seemed cruel to keep the kid in the dark. They were also still racking their brains on how to get Kevin back to the Hamptons, and maybe Madison, who was the most observant member of the Perry family, could help them figure out a plan.
The two au pairs found Madison in her room, IM’ing friends on her computer. “What?” she asked.
“First of all, Mad, I’m really sorry,” Shannon began. She explained how Jacqui had told her about the divorce and how she and Jacqui were trying to get the Perrys back together through some crazy schemes.
Madison’s face was a mask. “So they’re really splitting up? Anna’s going to have to leave? And Cody too?”
“We’ve been trying our best to keep that from happening,” Jacqui said, kneeling down to hug the girl. “I’m really sorry.”
“But, it’s not over yet,” Shannon said. “We’re throwing them an anniversary party a couple of days from their real anniversary.”
“The only problem is getting your dad out here to attend the party,” Jacqui said. “I thought if we could get him to come out for it, the party would make them feel better and then they’d realize they don’t want to split up after all.”
“Okay,” Madison said, not sounding convinced.
Jacqui spied a picture of Madison and Kevin on Madison’s desk. It struck her suddenly t
hat Madison looked a lot like her father and that she was stubborn in the same way. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to concoct such a complicated deception after all. “You know, you and your dad are pretty close. Maybe you could call him and ask him to come out to the Hamptons next weekend?”
Madison chewed on her bubble gum and blew a big bubble. “I guess. I do miss him a bit. And I have my first tennis tournament the day after.”
“He would be so proud of you,” Jacqui urged.
“It would be nice,” Madison allowed, adding, a little sadly, “He’s never even seen me play.”
“Have you ever invited him?” Shannon asked.
The young girl shook her head. “Dad’s always so busy. But you’re right—he should be at the tournament. He always brags about how he won the junior championship one year. I’ll do it.”
Jacqui clapped her on the back. “Wonderful.”
Madison grinned. “Besides, if it doesn’t work, I’ll just tell Dad that the neighbors are encroaching on his property. That always sets him off. He’ll totally come over to check it out.”
Jacqui laughed. That sounded like Kevin, all right.
“Are you mad?” Shannon asked tentatively. “I’m really sorry I lied to you.”
“A little,” Madison admitted. “But you were only trying to help. I don’t want Anna and Dad to split up either. She’s not great, but you know, she’s all we’ve got,” Madison said, showing a vast degree of maturity concerning her stepmother.
“But that’s not all we came to say,” Jacqui said, beaming.
* * *
The two younger girls found themselves in Eliza’s bedroom, being fitted by a team of seamstresses. They could hardly contain their excitement. They were going to be models!
“It’s nothing big, you know,” Eliza told them. “It’s not even a real show. It’s kind of a guerrilla event. I mean, we’re inviting the press, but it’s not sanctioned by Fashion Week or anything.”
“Who cares?” Shannon asked. “It sounds amazing!”
“Totally,” Madison agreed.
They grinned at each other, and the past few weeks of sourness and suspicion completely faded away and they were fast friends all over again.
* * *
Later that evening, Grant knocked on the door to the servants’ cottage. It had been a habit of his to pop in during the wee hours for a late-night booty call, and for most of the summer Jacqui had been agreeable. But not this time. She walked down the rickety stairs and met him at the doorway.
Grant raised his eyebrows, and Jacqui nodded, and they walked quietly to the beach, where Grant had already dug out the sand and collected wood for a fire. He knelt by it and struck a match. The flames licked the wood and were soon shooting sparks into the air. Jacqui huddled in the blankets Grant always brought for such occasions.
He snuggled next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. Usually this would be the time when Grant would start kissing her, slowly working his way from her mouth to her neck to the deep spot between her shoulder blades, warm hands underneath her shirt, her bra, her jeans. But after a few minutes of breathless, passionate kissing, Jacqui came up for air.
“Grant.”
“Huh?”
“We need to stop. I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry.”
“What do you mean?” Grant asked. “I thought—well, Ben and Duff, they said that you’d broken up with them, so I thought . . .”
Oh. Jacqui’s strained smile was all he needed to realize his mistake.
He took his hands away and put them around his head. “Man, I feel like a dork.”
“Don’t,” Jacqui said. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let it go so long.” She sighed. The thing was, she liked Grant, but he wasn’t the one. Just one of three.
“If that’s what you want.” Grant exhaled.
Jacqui nodded. “It’s what I want.”
Grant scratched his right sideburn for a while, looking at her intently. Finally, he spoke. “Well, one thing I always do is give girls what they want.” He kissed her softly on the lips one last time. “I’ll always think of you,” he said. He fixed her with his smoldering, sexy stare, and Jacqui knew he deserved a girl who only had eyes for him.
Jacqui stood by herself on the beach for a while, watching him walk away. She was glad she had done it but felt sad nonetheless. She’d had a fun summer with three boyfriends, but when it came down to it, there’d just been too many people in the relationship. The seagulls’ haunting cries filled the air, and Jacqui wondered if every summer would always be bittersweet.
fashion weak
UNLIKE EVERY OTHER MAJOR DESIGNER in new york, Sydney Minx decided to stage his show in late August, the week before Fashion Week, when the entire fashion world converged upon the Bryant Park tents in Manhattan. He was determined to make a splash by “showing early” but also to save money on the fees and expense a Manhattan show would entail. Besides, the bulk of his clients were in the Hamptons. He had rented out the entire Volcano nightclub, and there was a terrific buzz as the well-heeled audience gathered in the main room near the lava fountain to take their seats draped in white linen and decorated with fat goodie bags.
They were all there: the international fashion media (annoyed at having their summer vacations cut short), buyers from all the major department stores, coifed socialites, local celebrities and those who had jetted into East Hampton Airport just for the privilege of sitting in the front row.
Thanks to all the hype concerning Eliza’s helicopter stunt and the energy she had brought to the styling of the collection, there was palpable excitement and expectation to see what the designer would do next. Almost all of the women in the room were dressed in the distressed, shredded chiffon and metallic spray-painted clothes that Eliza had created. They were eager to find out what they would be wearing for the fall.
Backstage, Mara held up a tape recorder in front of the designer. Sydney had unleashed a torrent of half-baked explanations about his vision. But so far, the only thing Mara had been able to determine was that he didn’t have one.
“I think it’s all about party girls, girls who dance on tables, girls who get in gossip columns,” Sydney said, fluttering his fan. “It girls, it girls, it girls!”
It was a tired cliché, and Mara pitied the old man for trying to keep his pulse on the beat of the culture when it was so obvious he would rather be anywhere than at a fashion show. She noticed a sharp-faced dark-haired girl prepping the models for the show. That must be Paige, Mara thought. She thanked Sydney for his time and walked out to the main room.
She took her seat in the second row and rifled through the program, hoping she could find something there she could hang the piece on, something that captured the idea of the collection so she would be able to articulate it to her readers. She felt a stab of guilt at not being at Eliza’s show across town. She hadn’t had the heart to tell Eliza she wouldn’t be covering her debut.
Exactly an hour late, Sydney’s show finally started.
The crowd hushed, and all eyes focused on the end of the runway, and the first model appeared from behind the curtain.
Wearing a slashed-to-the-belly-button leather dress and clunky platform heels. It looked like an outfit better suited to dancing on a Vegas stage than to a chic Manhattan cocktail party. It went downhill from there.
The collection was a slew of tarted-up, décolletage-displaying blouses and thigh-skimming skirts that seemed completely out of touch with what women actually wanted to wear.
“Does he think we live in L.A.?” one swan snorted without checking off any of the items on the runway sheet for future purchase.
Dressing for Dinner, the accompanying notes read, while a model pranced out in a see-through feather-trimmed negligee.
“Maybe for dining at the Playboy Mansion!” another appalled blue blood retorted.
That was enough for Mara. She checked her watch. If she didn’t encounter any traffic, she would still be able to make it to Eliz
a’s show. She noticed her boss, Sam Davis, across the aisle, grimacing as a model walked out in a bra and skirt.
If she was going to do it, she’d have to do it now. Mara took a deep breath, ducked her head, and excused herself as she walked from her seat down the row and toward the exit.
She turned to look at the runway one last time and accidentally caught Sam’s eye.
“Where are you going?” Sam mouthed, looking cross.
Mara shrugged. She just had to trust her instincts, and if it didn’t pay off, well, her days at Hamptons were almost over anyway. There was no way she was going to miss her friend’s first fashion show.
a few technical difficulties
THE MODELS WERE ALL DRESSED and made up, and Eliza was touched to know how many friends she had—her makeup artist had donated his time, and so had her hairdresser. A crew from Lunch had prepared a table of appetizers, and colleagues from last summer at Seventh Circle had swiped alcohol for the pre-show party. Even the DJ had offered his services for free. There was a feeling of camaraderie in the air; the crowd was mostly made up of young people thrilled to be taking part in a real art event instead of a slick corporate presentation. She wondered where Mara was. Mara had told her she would interview Eliza before the show for the piece, but so far, her friend was nowhere to be found.
Eliza was pumped, except for one thing—on the way to her show, she had passed by Volcano and had seen Paige and Jeremy together outside the club. Paige was there to set up for Sydney’s show, but why was Jeremy there with her? The two of them were in a deep, intense discussion, and Jeremy even had a hand on Paige’s shoulder. The two of them looked up as Eliza drove by, and she caught both of their eyes. Jeremy looked guilty, and Paige looked annoyed. Eliza felt a stab in her stomach. So they were together after all. Jeremy was just waiting to get rid of her so he could go back to his former flame.
Beach Lane Collection Page 59