Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Something in Mara snapped. She didn’t need him or his mother. There were other agents in the city. Besides, she had a lot of readers now—who were interested in what she had to say, not just what she looked like. She did not have a webcam, thank you very much, and she wasn’t about to whore herself out to an agent who simply wanted a sexy author photo.

  “You know what? I’m not okay.” She stood up and began stuffing her clothes back into her suitcase haphazardly. She grabbed her cosmetics from the bathroom and threw them in, not caring if the shampoo spilled on her new Eliza Thompson tunics.

  “What are you doing?” David asked, aghast. “My mother is waiting for us.”

  “I’m not going to dinner. I’m leaving,” Mara said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m not your little squirrel,” she added icily.

  “Squirrel?” he asked, confused.

  “Ibsen. A Doll’s House,” she snapped, just to show that she too could make hoity-toity literary references if she wanted to.

  “But why? I don’t understand.” He looked truly distressed, and for a moment she felt bad for him. He really didn’t get it. “Just because I said you couldn’t bring your blog? For God’s sake, bring it if you’d like. It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

  It didn’t make a difference to him? She didn’t feel so bad anymore. Mara stuffed her manuscript into her laptop bag and it bulged a little. “It’s not just that, David. And if you can’t figure it out, then I can’t help you.”

  “Mara, don’t be an idiot. You clearly have no clue what a huge opportunity this is,” he warned. His voice suddenly had a frightening edge, one she’d never heard before.

  “Oh, I don’t, don’t I?” She hoisted her suitcase upright and marched for the door, wobbling on her heels a little. It was a little difficult to make a graceful exit in a tight dress and spindly high heels.

  “No. You’re being ridiculous,” David said angrily, throwing up his hands. “You’re going to embarrass me in front of my mother and her friends. Now put that suitcase down and let’s go to dinner. All right?”

  “No.” She turned as she reached the door, trembling slightly. She looked at David, in his expensive-looking blazer, his trendy horn-rimmed glasses, and his shiny monogrammed cuff links and couldn’t remember what she had found so attractive about him anymore. Ryan was right. David was an impossible snob. Worse, he was kind of a jerk.

  Suddenly she thought back to last summer, when she was living with Ryan on the yacht and writing her column for Hamptons. Ryan never understood the writing thing the way David had—it just wasn’t one of his interests. But there was a huge difference between her two ex-boyfriends. Ryan would never, ever look down on her.

  “What am I going to tell my mother?” David asked, his angry expression crumbling into doubt. Suddenly he looked like a whiny little mama’s boy.

  “I don’t know, David. Why don’t you make up a story? That’s what writers do, isn’t it?”

  She slammed the door in his face and raced out of the Dakota and onto West Seventy-second Street, hailing a cab. She hoped she could still catch the last Jitney and make it to the big Vogue party. Maybe it wasn’t too late to make everything right.

  jacqui doesn’t seem to like surprises either

  “IS IT EVERYTHING YOU EVER wished for?” Marcus asked with a grand wave of the arm, gesturing at the scene before him.

  “More,” Jacqui said breathlessly.

  She had expected the usual Hamptons blowout for the Vogue party celebrating Eliza’s collection: a cadre of security at the front gates, bedlam at the door, valets hustling guests out of their shiny new Porsches. But the fete at the Calvin Klein mansion was a far cry from the extravagant, over-the-top, anything-goes bacchanalian parties that put the Hamptons on the map.

  Instead, the spare, modern spaces of the large and airy home were as artfully decorated and well edited as any Vogue spread. The pristinely white walls were adorned with enormous, elegant black-and-white blowups from the shoot, and classical music was piped in from the invisible overhead speakers. The magazine had invited only an intimate handful of the most powerful, influential, and well-known style arbiters who had passed muster with the publication’s exacting editor in chief. It was a chic and stylish crowd, comprised of old-money scions and blue-chip heiresses like the Lauders and the Hearsts. Needless to say, Chauncey Raven wasn’t on the guest list.

  Jacqui couldn’t stop looking at the humongous life-size photographs of her. She was inescapable. She was no longer Jacqui Velasco, pretty girl from Brazil, but the one-named wonder “Jacarei.” She couldn’t cross the room without being accosted by several different people—editors, modeling agents, PR reps, reporters, designers, photographers, who all wanted a piece of her. The attention was almost overwhelming.

  “I’m . . . everywhere,” she said as she took it all in.

  “My dear, that’s how Jacarei was meant to be experienced,” Marcus drawled, nodding in pleasure at the enormous wall-high photographs.

  Whether or not that was true, the sight gave her a bit of a headache. She wished she hadn’t left her purse in the coat check, since she always kept a few Tylenol pills stashed away. She excused herself and made her way to the grand staircase and the coat check beyond.

  As she walked up the stairs, she adjusted the front of her dress, making sure her bra straps weren’t peeking out of the neckline. Knowing that most would expect her to show off “the Body,” Jacqui had decided to trump expectations by choosing a loose, poufy baby-doll dress from Eliza’s fall line. She’d worn it with sky-scraping six-inch Pierre Hardy wedges that made her tanned legs look endless. The effect was stunning and subversively sexy and showed that Jacqui could command a room without having to show off her figure. See? She didn’t need Eliza to style her after all.

  From the top of the landing, she could see the main hall below, where Eliza was holding court in the great room, looking poised to take over the global fashion market. She wore a smashing red dress with flamenco ruffles—for her resort collection, she’d decided to channel 1950s Cuba. Not that Eliza had told Jacqui that. She’d had to hear about it from Marcus, since she and Eliza still weren’t speaking, despite the fact that it had been an entire week since their argument.

  Eliza had come up to her when she’d first arrived at the party and hissed in her ear that she needed to talk to her about Marcus. But Jacqui had angrily waved Eliza away. She didn’t want to hear another warning about Marcus and the evils of modeling, and she was sick of Eliza thinking she needed to be taken care of. She’d made up her mind, and there was no going back: she’d signed up with the Chrysler agency and was leaving for Paris the next morning. She would have to let NYU know she wouldn’t be enrolling in the fall at some point—after all, they’d probably notice when she wasn’t at orientation tomorrow—and the thought brought a little sadness. But she was determined, and nothing was going to stop her.

  She was feeling a little dizzy from all the cocktails she’d drunk. They’d created a special drink in her honor—the Passionate Jac, made from Jack Daniels and Brazilian passion fruit juice. She looked for an empty bathroom where she could at least clear her head. As she stumbled around a corner, trying to find her way, she crashed into something. Make that someone.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she said. She looked up, feeling a bit disoriented. “Don’t I know you . . . ?”

  “Jacqui Velasco.” The person in front of her was six-foot three, blond, and beaming, in a tailored shirt with nice wool pants.

  “Pete? Pete Rockwood?” Jacqui asked in disbelief. “Am I dreaming?”

  “Nope. Not at all.” Pete broke into a wide grin. “It’s me.”

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted, too shocked to have any manners. Was this really the guy she’d met at the duck pond? He almost looked like a sophisticated Hamptonite and not the sweet tourist she’d met back in June.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, smiling at her so widely that she couldn’t help but smile back. “Ar
e you going downstairs?”

  She nodded, unable to remember what she’d been doing before she bumped into him, and he led the way.

  “I think there’s an elevator around here somewhere—I took it on the way up.” They walked down the length of the hallway to a small elevator next to the library that was almost hidden in the wall.

  “So, would you like to tell me the long story?” she prodded, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Well, it all started at the dentist’s office,” he said in a practical tone as he punched button to call the elevator.

  “The dentist’s office?” Jacqui burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it; it was all too surreal. Where could this story be going?

  “Yeah,” he said with a grin, letting her step inside the car first. He pushed the elevator button and the doors closed behind them. “Anyway, there I was, waiting for Dr. Finklemore, when I pick up a magazine and there you are. Your picture, that is. The article said you were spending the summer in the Hamptons, modeling for some store. So I stole the magazine and called up the boutique—Eliza Thompson? Anyway, the girl there said she knew where you were. So here I am.”

  Jacqui stood there looking at him, totally stunned. All that effort just to track her down? But then, hadn’t she spent the first weeks of the summer madly Googling him?

  “So basically, I came here looking for you. Does that make me a stalker?” His blue eyes twinkled and perfect dimples formed in either cheek. For a moment, all Jacqui could think about was that any girl would be happy to have Pete Rockwood for a stalker.

  She suddenly remembered herself and shook her head, as if shaking water out of her ears. “But how—how’d you even get into this party? I thought you were from Indiana,” Jacqui said as they arrived at the first floor with a ding. How did a small-town boy end up at an exclusive fashion event?

  “I am.” He smiled as he ushered her out of the elevator. “I’ve got my methods,” he said with a crafty grin.

  She raised an eyebrow, more curious than ever.

  “C’mon, a guy’s gotta have a few secrets, right? All that matters is that I’m here now and you’re here.”

  They stepped out of the elevator and into the main hall. “You’re everywhere, in fact,” he added with a laugh, gesturing to the enormous photographs of Jacqui plastered as far as the eye could see. “Anyway, I was thinking . . . maybe I could take you out? Tomorrow night?”

  “Take me out—”

  “On, like, a date?” he asked, his face hopeful. “Dinner. Movie. Awkward conversation. You know, that sort of thing.”

  “A date . . . tomorrow,” Jacqui repeated. She shook her head, reality suddenly coming back to her in a rush. “I can’t.”

  Pete exhaled, looking crestfallen. They stopped in an empty alcove where they could hear the murmur of the party in the adjacent room.

  “It’s not what you think,” Jacqui said gently. “I like you. It’s just I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow.” And I have a boyfriend now, she thought but didn’t say.

  “So how about when you get back?” he asked. “Tell me if I’m trying too hard,” he added, still managing a ghost of a smile.

  She shook her head, more slowly this time. “No, it’s not a vacation—I’m going to Paris to model. I’m staying there.”

  Now it was his turn to look shocked. “But what about NYU? Didn’t you need that down payment for tuition earlier this summer?”

  “I’m not going to NYU,” she said softly. She felt confident about the decision, but it still sounded foreign to say it out loud.

  “I see.” Pete frowned, biting his lip. He opened his mouth and then hesitated, shaking his head. “But at the duck pond, you said . . .” He trailed off.

  “What?” Jacqui asked.

  A white-jacketed server came out of the kitchen and looked curiously at the two of them. They waited until he was out of earshot to resume their conversation.

  Pete sighed. “Look, I know I don’t know you at all, but I think you’re making a mistake. When you were talking about what you really want to do in life, you never mentioned anything about modeling. It was all about NYU, your future. Are you sure modeling is what you want to do?”

  Jacqui felt her face burning with annoyance. This was just like the lecture Mara and Eliza had given her. “You don’t know me at all. I mean, seriously. You met me once, for like five minutes, and that was months ago,” she spat. She knew she was being totally unfair, but why couldn’t anyone trust her to make her own decisions anymore? Why was everyone treating her like a child or, worse, like some airhead model, when that clearly wasn’t what she was going to be?

  “Jacqui—,” he began, his voice soothing. But she wasn’t going to be placated.

  “It was great bumping into you again. Have a nice life.” And with that, Jacqui returned to the party, certain for the second time that summer that she would never see Pete Rockwood again.

  kiss a prince, find a frog?

  JACQUI WAS STILL ANNOYED WHEN she found Marcus, who was saving a spot for her on one of the modern white couches and keeping her champagne glass filled. She smiled when she saw him. Everything was going to work out splendidly—she was moving to the most romantic city in the world with her boyfriend, and she was going to be an international supermodel. The more people told her otherwise, the more she was sure of it.

  Marcus smiled back as she sat down beside him on the couch. “Great news, love—we can get a ride to Paris on my friend’s private jet tonight. We’ll get there early, and I can show you the city before we have to get to work.”

  “That’s fantastic,” she purred, snuggling next to him on the oversize white couch. The sooner the better. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.

  “You’ll love Paris,” Marcus murmured, playing with her hair. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Paris, and they were leaving tonight. She was more than ready for her fantasy life to begin.

  “The other girls are going to love you,” Marcus continued, nuzzling her neck.

  Jacqui opened her eyes with a start. “What other girls?”

  “Your roommates,” Marcus said casually, running a finger up her leg and tracing all the way up to her thigh.

  She pulled away from his touch. Other girls? Roommates? Her Parisian dream was starting to look very crowded. “I thought we were going to be together in Paris, just you and me.”

  “You and me, and Natalie and Francesca and Zenobia,” Marcus said casually, setting his glass down on the table. “Although I’ll be gone for a little while after next month. Midas and I are doing a film.”

  “Excuse me?” Jacqui stared at him, her jaw agape. “Repeat that again. I know my English isn’t very good sometimes.”

  “My flat’s one of the Chrysler Model apartments. I rent it out because I’m not there a lot,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’ll like the other girls, I promise. You won’t be lonely. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” His tone indicated that he thought he was being very generous.

  “But I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she began to feel the tears well up in her eyes.

  “Oh, Jacqui, love.” Marcus sighed, turning to her and taking both her hands in his. “You had to know that this was only for the summer?” He tried to look shocked, but somehow Jacqui got the feeling he’d had this conversation before, with a lot of other girls.

  Jacqui’s heart clenched in her chest. Another sucker punch. “But you said—to move with you to Paris,” she said dumbly, drawing her hands out of his.

  “I said for you to move to Paris and be a model and that you could stay with me,” he corrected, carefully enunciating each word.

  Jacqui shook her head, more disappointed in herself than in Marcus. She’d thought that he loved her and had let herself be swept right off her feet. But when she stopped to think about it, his words had always been so vaguely stated that there were no promises of the future, just empty remarks. Hungry
for romance, she had filled in the rest.

  “Darling. You know how much I adore you. And the two of us, it was great for business. Great for the shoot,” he drawled, stroking her cheek. “And look at you, you’re a star.” He gestured to the enormous photographs on the walls.

  She looked at all the photographs, the intimate shots he’d captured—of her in his bed, wiping the sleep from her eyes, sitting wistfully by the window and looking out at the stars. Her eyes closed, waiting for his kiss. Marcus had made it look personal, like he knew her. But in reality he had only presented to the world a perfectly packaged image, sold as the real thing.

  “Reality fashion” indeed. It was all scripted, all staged, as fake as her relationship had been. Women look more beautiful when they’re in love, he’d told her. But for him it was just the way the industry worked. A way to get a better picture. He had used her, and worst of all, she had let him.

  “C’mon. If we leave now, we can wake up tomorrow on the Champs-Elysées.” Marcus stood, holding out his hand. He didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong.

  “Marcus, are you ready?” Rupert Thorne appeared at his side. His eyes lit up immediately when he saw Jacqui. “Is this your friend?”

  Jacqui felt like she might throw up. What an idiot she had been. She stood up from the couch, grabbed her drink, and threw it in Marcus’s face. The surrounding partygoers gasped. Who was making a scene at such a civilized event?

  Marcus shrugged as he wiped his face with a jet-black napkin. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  She turned on her heel and left the party, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Her hair was put up in a complicated pouf, and she was wearing so much makeup it felt like her face was going to crack. Her dress was too short, and her heels hurt. She looked like a beautiful doll. Exactly what she’d never wanted to be.

  This wasn’t her. The real Jacqui lived in jeans and flats because it was easier to run around after the kids in those clothes. The real Jacqui was hardworking and determined and never took the easy way out. Mara and Eliza were right. Pete Rockwood was right. She shook her head, unable to believe that a stranger had known her better than she had known herself.