“Mom, what do you think?” a sylph of a girl asked, walking out of the dressing room wearing a nude chiffon slip dress with a plunging neckline.
Her mother, a knockout with toned Linda Hamilton arms and a taut midriff, shook her head. “Don’t you think it’s a little too much for someone your age?” she asked.
“I’m twelve!” her daughter argued.
A thirty-year-old woman walked out of her dressing room wearing the same exact dress. She looked at the teenager and sighed. “I would kill to have your waist.”
* * *
The energetic salesclerk helped Jacqui and Eliza as they both disappeared into the dressing rooms underneath a humungous pile of clothing. Mara hung behind, her eyes widening at the prices. She found a cute bandanna-printed sleeveless blouse but immediately put it back when she saw how much it cost. $250! For a cotton top? Was there nothing in the store under fifty bucks? Yup—a pile of cotton belts in a bucket by the door. Eliza emerged from the wooden shutter doors in a slinky bias-cut Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.
“Omigod, that is totally adorbs on you! Reese bought the same one yesterday,” the salesgirl gushed. Dropping a celebrity name was just the thing to ensure a quick sale; even Mara knew that.
“You don’t say?” Eliza asked. “I’ll take it!”
The salesgirl grinned. Mara knew that smile: it said sucker, but Eliza was too pleased with her new dress to notice.
“Find anything?” Eliza asked Mara as she tugged at the under-fifty-dollar belt and critically ascertained her figure in the mirror.
“No, uh, I’ll just wait for you guys. Maybe I should get back,” Mara said.
“What are you talking about!” Eliza said, marching over. She pulled out a body-hugging red strapless Shoshanna dress that came with a pair of matching red lace underwear. “Try this on. With your dark hair, this is going to look perfect on you!”
“I don’t know . . .,” Mara said.
The mother and daughter who were arguing about the sexy chiffon dress walked up to the register. “Get out of my way, Mom, I’m getting it,” the daughter said, holding the hanger and brandishing her Visa card. “It’s perfect for Tiffany’s bat mitzvah!”
Her mother sighed and gave Mara a look that said: Kids, what can you do?
Mara didn’t return a sympathetic glance. She wasn’t sure she approved of twelve-year-olds in lingerie chic, but she was from Sturbridge, so what did she know. She had already spotted girls Zoë’s age wearing Porn Star T-shirts on the beach.
Jacqui walked out of her dressing room in a mini Polo shirt and the briefest striped denim shorts. “What do you guys think?”
“That is to die!” Eliza screeched. “Those look insane on you. Jac, don’t you think Mara should try this on?” Eliza asked, holding up the dress.
“Is perfecto. You must. We insist,” Jacqui agreed. The two of them pushed Mara into a dressing room.
“Oh, all right, but just for fun,” Mara said. Jeez, it was so tight, how did anyone get their hips into this thing? She zipped it up in the back and looked behind her at the mirror. It barely covered her butt! So that was what the matching underwear was for.
“Hey, guys, what do you think?” she asked, stepping gingerly out of the dressing room.
“Muy bonito,” Jacqui pronounced.
“What did I tell you?” Eliza asked. “But you need shoes. Sorry, but those Reeboks aren’t going to cut it and don’t you dare think you can wear your cowboy boots with that.”
Jacqui nodded and picked out a pair of matching red plastic Sigerson Morrison high-heeled flip-flops. “Here, put these on,” she said, slipping them on Mara’s feet.
The extra height lengthened Mara’s legs, which were getting good and brown from their daily excursions to Georgica Beach. “Perfect!” Eliza crowed. “Except for the hair. Have you always worn it that way?”
“Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
Eliza tut-tutted. “We’re going to have to let Pierre have a hand in it.” She punched some numbers on a cell phone. “Pierre? It’s Eliza. Do you think you could come and visit me later? I’ve got a friend who really needs your help.”
“Jim would never let me wear this in public,” Mara said, scrutinizing herself in the mirror.
“Who’s Jim?”
“My boyfriend,” Mara reminded them. The two of them seemed to have some kind of amnesia whenever Mara told them anything about her life back home. “He’s kind of pissed at me already for leaving him this summer.”
“Right. Mr. Numero Uno,” Eliza teased. “Why? Can’t he visit? Aren’t you from Boston? That’s only four hours away.”
“Sturbridge. And yeah, it’s not that far, but Jim’s kind of a homebody.”
“God. What a baby,” Eliza said. “If I were him, I’d want to keep an eye on you!”
“And who cares about Jim? Esqueça-se dele. That’s going to blow Ryan’s mind!” Jacqui said.
“What do you mean?” Mara squeaked.
“Don’t tell us you don’t notice the way he looks at you. And he’s supernice to you all the time.” Eliza smirked. Shopping always made Eliza more magnanimous.
“He’s nice to all of us,” Mara said stubbornly.
“Have it your way.” Eliza shrugged.
By habit Jacqui began putting away the sweaters they had disturbed. She was enjoying herself as she folded the cardigans into perfect squares. But as she laid them on the shelf, she looked out the window and almost dropped the whole load. Outside was Luca! Her heart started to beat. They almost never saw each other during the day anymore. He always had some sort of excuse—he had to go back to the city for a family event or he had to go on a fishing trip with his dad.
“Luca! Luca! Um momento!” she said excitedly, heading for the door, still wearing all of the store’s clothes. She scrambled out to say hello, and just as she hit the sidewalk, she was pulled roughly back into the store by the ever-vigilant Scoop salesgirl.
“Whoa! Miss! Where do you think you’re going?” she said with a viselike grip on Jacqui’s elbow.
“Hey! Jacqui! It’s great to see you! Nice Polo!” Luke hollered from across the street without slowing his pace.
Huh. Jacqui reluctantly followed the salesgirl inside. Maybe he didn’t want to spoil the romantic dinner they’d planned that evening? Somehow that didn’t feel likely, and making all these excuses for Luca was starting to wear on her.
“Seriously, I can’t buy this. I can’t wear it and I can’t afford it,” Mara said.
“What are you talking about?” Eliza asked. “I get 25 percent off at this store. VIP discount, hello. That dress was made for you. And didn’t we just get paid?”
Jacqui paid for her outfit, and Eliza put her purchases on the table. A Marc Jacobs Stella handbag, several C&C California T-shirts, four pairs of Jimmy Choo sandals, and a new Theory dress. The whole thing amounted to five hundred dollars more than she had actually made. “Put the rest on my Visa,” she told the salesgirl.
Mara hesitated, but she did need a new dress, and those flip-flops were so cute.
“All right, I’ll take it,” she said reluctantly.
Shopping bags in hand, Eliza led them to her second-most favorite shop in East Hampton, Scoops—with an s—where they all ordered chocolate parfait sundaes.
contrary to queer eye logic, not all gay men dress well
THAT NIGHT, WHEN ALL FOUR KIDS HAD FINALLY BEEN put to bed, the three au pairs hung out in their room and made plans.
“You coming out, Mara?” Eliza asked. “Don’t say no again!”
Mara was reluctant, but it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. She had already walked Zoë to the bathroom, so she didn’t have to stay home for that. And Jim was giving her the cold shoulder after she had told him she couldn’t take the weekend off to visit. She had even sent him a care package from Barefoot Contessa, complete with scones and muffins, as a guilt present, but it had done nothing to thaw his temper.
“Oh, okay. But
we’re not going to stay long, right? The girls have ballet in the morning.”
“Yeah, we’ll stay for, like, a minute,” Eliza said, winking at Jacqui.
Mara pulled out her new red dress.
“WHAT are you doing?” Eliza asked, taking it from her and putting it back on the hanger.
“Um, wearing my new dress?”
“Sweetie. This is for the polo match. It’s all wrong for Jet East. This is a day dress. Also, you don’t want to show up at polo wearing something everyone’s already seen. Do I have to spell out everything?” Eliza sighed. “Here—put this on,” she said, handing Mara one of her own shirts—a clingy, black jersey halter with a plunging neckline. “You can wear it with your jeans; those are cool. And your new flip-flops.”
Jacqui came out of the bathroom wearing a black lace top and silk cargo pants that she had bought especially for her date with Luca that night. She stood in front of the cracked antique mirror with Mara.
“Don’t pull your hair back; wear it down,” Jacqui said. Pierre, Eliza’s hairdresser friend and self-proclaimed “Queen of Hair,” had come over that afternoon to give all the girls a haircut gratis in exchange for posing with their new styles for his portfolio. Jacqui started to brush Mara’s hair expertly. “See, you keep the flip—here, and kind of smooth it down here—but shake it out and make it all messy-messy.”
Jacqui brought out her twenty-pound, professional makeup artist’s trunk and began to apply foundation, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow, and lipstick on Mara.
When Jacqui was done, Mara looked at herself with the hand mirror Jacqui provided. “Don’t you think it’s too much?” She’d never worn this much makeup in her life, not even counting the spring formal she had gone to with Jim last year.
“You look almost better than me!” Eliza said, a little enviously. “Almost being the operative word,” she joked.
Mara laughed.
They said good-bye to Jacqui, and Eliza pumped her fist in the air when she saw the twins hadn’t left yet. Their Mercedes SUV was still parked in the driveway.
Eliza clambered into the front seat. “Get in,” she told Mara.
“What about the twins?”
“Anna and Kevin said we could take any car in the lot.” Eliza shrugged. “The Volvo’s still available.” She grinned wickedly.
A line of paparazzi stood in front of the red carpet, hollering at various people. Eliza walked slowly, hoping they would snap some shots, but they were distracted by blond pop starlet Chauncey Raven and her crew of bodyguards. The eighteen-year-old most famous for baring her toned midriff all the way down to her pelvis and declaring her virginity while sucking face with a crew of Hollywood hotheads was the latest tabloid phenomenon. “CHAUNCEY! CHAUNCEY! OVER HERE! CHAUNCEY!” the photographers screamed in desperation, but the star stayed completely hidden behind her seven-foot-tall army of former linebackers.
Eliza and Mara entered the club after her without any fanfare. Inside, Eliza began scanning the place for her friends and disappeared into a back room, losing Mara in the crowd. Mara stood by the wall, holding a martini glass and feeling a little out of place. She put down her drink and hit the ladies’ room, where she found a chubby Chinese guy stuck halfway through the back window, his arms dangling helplessly over the porcelain sink.
“Excuse me?”
“Help! You, there, in the two-hundred-dollar top and the Jennifer Aniston haircut! Help me!”
Mara took one of his hands—the one not holding an enormous Nikon camera—and pulled him inside.
“Oh, good Lord!” the guy said, wiping his brow. “I should really stay away from the buffet table next time. Too many free meals are not good for moi!”
The man in front of Mara was a pint-sized Chinese guy with an enormous belly and a double chin. He wore a leopard-print jacket over a paisley shirt and shiny, polyester pants. Everything was too small and too tight—as if he had been caught off guard by some sudden expansion of his girth.
“Lucky Yap!” he said, holding out a hand for Mara to shake.
“Mara Waters.”
“My savior! I need to get a shot of Chauncey Raven or my boss is going to have my ass. The little tart didn’t even stop for photos outside the club. And they wouldn’t let me in even though I’m on the list.”
“Wow, they can do that?”
“Honey, they specialize in that! Her PR guy is a total prick. But then, they weren’t too happy with the shot we got of her last week.” Lucky sniggered. “Girlfriend passed out at Tavern and had to be carried off the dance floor. Star magazine paid a hundred grand for the exclusive.”
Mara snickered. “C’mon, I think I saw an alternate entrance to the room back there.” They headed to the hole between the curtains that separated the VIP tables from the rest of the riffraff. Inside, Chauncey was straddling her latest paramour with great gusto. “Keep it sexy!” Lucky said, angling his camera for a shot. “That’s right, baby, grind it! Woo-hoo! Show me the money!” His flashbulbs barely made a dent in the laser strobe light that shone to the beat of the music.
“Thank God her thong was showing. They always pay more for undie shots,” Lucky said, putting his camera away. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“No worries.” Mara smiled. Meeting Lucky was the most fun she’d had so far that evening.
“I’m going to do a lap to check if there’s anyone else worthy of being plastered all over the party pages with spinach on their teeth. Do you know if the Perry twins are here? Sugar and Poppy?” he asked.
“Um . . . not sure.” Mara giggled, wondering if the twins would hazard the Hamptons nightlife in the crappy Volvo. Crappy? Apparently the Hamptons really were getting to Mara.
She said a warm good-bye to the prickly paparazzo. But now that their little adventure was over, she didn’t know whether to go or stay. She was still deciding when she felt someone brush by her.
“Hey, you,” Ryan said, bumping her shoulder with his fist lightly.
“Ryan! Hi!” she said, so happy to see a familiar face that she impulsively gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Ryan was suddenly glad it was so dark in there since he was blushing to the roots of his blond hair. “Wow, you look great!” he said, stepping back to take a good look.
“Because for once I’m not covered in baby drool?” Mara teased.
“No, no, I mean, you always—er, look good. I mean, I . . .,” he said, uncharacteristically fumbling for the right words. “So, uh, I thought you said you were staying in tonight,” Ryan finished lamely, trying to change the subject.
“Can’t a girl change her mind?”
“I’m glad she did,” Ryan said, a little more seriously than was necessary. “Anyway, Eliza said you were here. Come on back and meet some of my friends.”
“Sure.”
He took her hand and led her to the far corner of the room, where a bunch of guys were lounging on velvet couches, smoking stogies, their girlfriends perched daintily on their laps.
“Hey, everybody, meet my friend Mara,” Ryan said. “Mara, that’s pretty much everybody.”
His friend! Mara thought, elated at the introduction. He didn’t say meet the au pair! Or meet the girl who’s working for us this summer! His friend!
The tall guy with the shaved head sitting nearest to Mara made as if to kiss her hand. Mara laughed as Ryan swatted his pal’s hand away. “Enough of that,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked her.
“Sure, why not?”
As they turned to the direction of the bar, Lucky Yap walked by. “Hey! Mr. Perry!” he said, blowing Ryan a kiss.
“What’s going on, Lucky?” Ryan said, laughing. “How’s Frederic?” Like everyone in the Hamptons, Ryan knew Lucky Yap as über-party-photographer Frederic O’Malley’s right-hand man.
“He’s all right. In Cannes for the festival. Leaving me with the B-listers! There’s no one here! I haven’t even seen your sisters all night. Let me get a photo of the two of you instead!” Lucky ordered.
Ryan and Mara looked at each other questioningly, then Ryan put his arm around Mara’s shoulders and they both turned to the camera.
“Perfect! Marvelous! Sexy!” Lucky enthused. Afterward he let them take a peek at the results on his digital viewfinder. Lucky whipped out his notebook. “Ryan Perry and Mara Waters, right?” he said, scribbling their names.
Ryan raised his eyebrows at Mara, impressed that the town’s most social shutterbug already knew her name.
Mara only smiled mysteriously.
somewhere in the sticks (aka hampton bays), jacqui is getting in touch with her feelings
JACQUI VELASCO WAS . . . WHAT WAS THAT WORD that Mara used? Bummed? Yes, bummed. Really, truly bummed.
She should be really, truly, totally, completely happy at being reunited with Luca. In fact, she had spent the last month telling herself how perfectly happy she was, how glad she was that everything was working out just like in her wildest dreams. But that was the problem—Jacqui knew that if she really felt happy, she wouldn’t have to keep reminding herself how happy she was. As the weeks dragged on, miserable seemed like a more accurate description of her feelings. Yes, miserable, Jacqui decided.
Luca had negged on the romantic dinner again. Instead of taking her to the Farmhouse, he’d suggested a “romantic” clambake on the beach. They had driven an hour to a small, rundown restaurant where Luke had bought two soggy oyster po’boys and picked up a six-pack of beer. They weren’t even alone. His friend Leo had met them on the beach.
At least the boys had made a roaring campfire, or else Jacqui would have frozen in her silk and lace. She shivered under her thin cotton sweater and wondered when she would be able to go home.
The other thing that was making her miserable: Luca wasn’t even paying her the least bit of attention. That was the heart of the problem. She wouldn’t have minded at all—they could eat at Burger King every night and she wouldn’t care, but she was beginning to realize that maybe he wasn’t quite the guy she had met in Sao Paolo. In fact, all he’d done all night was roll a couple of fat stogies filled with tobacco and pot and smoke them by himself. He’d offered Jacqui and Leo a few puffs, but pot made Jacqui’s head ache, and Leo had declared himself fine with the beer.
Beach Lane Page 10
