by Zoey Dean
I took a chance. “Yale?”
“How’d you know?” Will was astonished.
James rubbed his jaw. “You look so familiar . . .”
“Maybe you saw me on campus,” I managed, offering James my hand. “I’m Megan Smith.”
James pointed at me. “Wait. Weren’t you in the biology department?”
“Lit, actually. What brings you to Palm Beach, James?” I asked stiffly.
He smiled. “Oh, I’ve got some friends and family here. How about you, Regan?”
“It’s Megan,” I corrected, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Getting my name deliberately wrong was piling it on kind of thick.
For the next ten minutes or so, Will and James chatted while I tried to keep straight whom I was supposed to be and which version of my life was supposed to be true. The two things I had going in my favor were that James knew about Main Line Megan, and that I’d told him I was using my “single” status to get closer to some of the people on the island. When Will explained how we’d met through the twins and how he’d shown me around the island and some of South Florida, James nodded knowingly.
“You know, I have a confession,” James said after taking a Kir from a waiter and toasting his new friendship. “I saw you once at a coffeehouse near campus, Regan. I thought you were cute, and I wanted to say hello, but you left before I got the chance.”
I searched for something clever to say and came up with the scintillating “Wow.”
“Dance, Regan?” James asked. “You don’t mind, Will?”
“Go ahead.” Will nodded. “Just don’t fall in love. Megan, I’ll catch up with you later.”
“He likes you,” James observed as he led me back toward the dance room and took me into his arms. “He’s too damn good-looking to like you.”
“Don’t be jealous. He’s just another Palm Beach pretty boy,” I lied. I saw Pembroke dancing with Suzanne, who wore a green gown that hoisted her cleavage so far north, I worried that she might inhale her own nipples.
James pulled me closer. I took a deep breath and then let it out again. Okay. The worst thing had happened—James had met Will. And I had somehow survived the crash.
Moments later, I saw James’s father and mother near us. She wore a black jersey gown with a low-cut back—very New York—and raised her eyebrows, surprised to see me. Then she beckoned to her son: Come dance.
“It’s fine,” I murmured into his shoulder. “Go. You can explain how I ended up here.”
I found an empty bench next to a display case of two-thousand-year-old Han Dynasty jade pieces and started thinking that Jim Morrison was wrong: Some of us really do get out of here alive. I was proud of myself for pulling off the impossible.
Of course, as soon as Heather plopped down next to me, I realized that I’d begun celebrating too soon.
“Nice party,” she began.
“Uh-huh.” I waited for the other Manolo to drop.
“What’s up with you and your . . . date?”
“Will Phillips? He lives next door to the twins,” I replied. “And it’s not a date.”
“I saw you dancing.” She raised one expertly arched eyebrow at me.
So. There it was. The thud of the spike heel landing.
“Wishful thinking, Heather.” I tried to sound much tougher than I felt. “If I were cheating on James, I’m sure you’d love to kiss him and make it all better.”
She smiled thinly. “Believe me, Megan: I can get him back anytime I want.”
Oh my God, what was this? Middle school?
“He’s not a sweater you loaned me, Heather. Tell him whatever you want. Do whatever you want.” I got up and walked away. At least Heather knew what—and whom—she wanted, which was more than I could say for myself.
Choose the best antonym for the following word:
WELCOMING
(a)embracing
(b)thoughtful
(c)hostile
(d)disingenuous
(e)accessorizing
Chapter Twenty-five
My parents and Lily called me early on Christmas Day from Lily’s apartment. My sister couldn’t make it home to New Hampshire because of her show, so my folks had come to her. They’d gone to the theater and seen Lily perform, ice-skated at Rockefeller Center, and eaten at a restaurant where reservations would have been impossible but for the great Lily Langley offering the maître d’ house seats to her play. Speaking of which, Lily happily reported that Revolution Studios had picked up the movie rights, and Joe Roth himself had promised her an audition when the script was done.
After wishing everyone a merry Christmas, I congratulated her, of course, but what I was thinking was that the real actress in the family had to be me, starring in The Two Faces of Megan. She’s a tutor—no—she’s a journalist! She’s Megan Smith, an egalitarian intellectual. No, she’s Main Line Megan, an elitist bitch! She loves her boyfriend, James. No, she blows him off to be with another guy! Let the madcap high jinks commence.
I said goodbye, made myself some coffee, and then called Charma at her parents’. She was thrilled to hear from me, demanded the full report on what was going on with the twins, and gave me the happy news that she would be moving back into our apartment right after the first of the year. Yes, she was still working for the children’s theater, and yes, she was still seeing Wolfmother. In fact, he was going to help her move back in. When would I be home? On the fifteenth of January, I told her. Okay for him to hang around until then? she asked. Fine with me, I told her. I was just sorry I wouldn’t be around to help. What were we going to do for furniture? She told me not to worry. Her grandmother in Levittown was about to enter an assisted-living facility and had a houseful of furniture to dispose of. “I know you’re going to miss that futon from Avenue B,” she told me. “But you’ll have to adjust.”
Once I hung up, both my personas and my thighs managed to fit in the shower, after which we—I—got dressed in Ralph Lauren black velvet trousers and a black cowl-neck cashmere sweater. It was almost nine, which was when I was due in the main mansion’s Christmas room. I mean this literally. There was a room in Laurel’s house that was used but once a year and for this occasion only. It was organized entirely by Laurel’s social secretary, a mousy girl named Jillian whom I rarely saw and whose job description focused on gift giving, gift receiving, and thank-you-note writing. Her claim to fame was her ability to forge Laurel’s signature so well that that no one knew Madame Limoges hadn’t written the card herself.
Work on the Christmas room had begun weeks before the event and was overseen this season by the famous New York interior designer Harry Schnaper. This year Schnaper had chosen a silver-and-mauve theme, a shocking departure from Laurel’s normal pink, but his creds were so good that Laurel let him do whatever he wanted, right down to a blue spruce topped with a silver-haired angel that looked remarkably like Laurel herself. Under that tree went the presents, but only if they’d been wrapped in colors complementary to the color scheme. Others ended up in the closet.
When I arrived, Laurel and the twins were already exchanging gifts. Laurel was dressed for another day at the home office—straight black skirt, white silk blouse, and black suede pumps. The twins wore bikini tops and plaid shorts trimmed in lace (Sage) and pink rolled-waist cotton capris (Rose).
It was odd to be celebrating Christmas in air-conditioning.
Laurel had given the girls pearls from Tiffany. They looked less than thrilled. They’d given their grandmother a new coffee-table book about Palm Beach architecture. She thanked them politely. There wasn’t one ounce of honest emotion in the room.
I hadn’t a clue what would be appropriate to get for the twins, and it wasn’t like I had any serious money to spend. For Rose, I burned a CD of my favorite songs that she could transfer to her iPod. For Sage, I bought a gift certificate for skydiving—I’d seen an advertisement in the The Shiny Sheet and thought she might like it. Both girls looked surprised that I’d given them anything. To my
surprise, Rose handed me the same thing I’d given her—a CD of her favorite alt bands. From Sage, I got a certificate for a spa day at the Breakers.
Then there was Laurel. What do you give an employer who already has everything? I knew that I couldn’t go wide, so I decided to go deep. On Craigslist, I’d found a signed first edition of Simone de Beauvoir’s Le Sang des Autres, her existential novel of the French resistance. It merited a nearly inscrutable “Thank you. This is lovely.” Laurel wasn’t the warmest person I’d ever met, but if I wasn’t mistaken, she did seem touched.
That was Christmas at Les Anges. No carols, no chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and the only thing Jack Frost could nip would be the dimples of Venus on the twins’ asses when they dropped trou and headed for the pool. I did extract a promise from them to be ready to work at five, which got an approving look from Laurel.
I’d told James I’d be at his place by eleven, but I arrived fifteen minutes late due to a stuck drawbridge across the Intracoastal. He didn’t meet me outside this time, which meant I rang the doorbell with some trepidation, figuring that Her Heatherosity was probably still there. Good fortune fell upon me, though. James explained that Heather and her family had just departed to South Beach, where they’d visit other friends, stay in the Abbey, and then head off to T&C.
It was the best Christmas present I could imagine.
James’s parents were in the living room reading The New York Times. In keeping with the Clockwork Orange interior, their tree was artificial, more an abstract arboreal sculpture than an homage to the season. There wasn’t an ornament on it. Perish the thought of strung popcorn.
We sat down on the back patio for Christmas brunch: smoked salmon on toast points, mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat, cucumbers in dill sauce, and fresh fruit salad. Mrs. Ladeen, who prided herself on being an iconoclast, called it an “anti-Christmas” dinner. At least I could say “Thank you, Marisol” this time.
“So, Megan,” Mrs. Ladeen said, taking a seat at the head of the patio table. “Last night James filled us in on the real reason you’re living with the Baker twins. Why didn’t you tell us you were there to write an exposé? At least that makes sense!”
My eyes cut to James across the table. “I had to explain why you were there,” he told me quietly.
“And we hate Palm Beach. Everything about it,” his mother chimed in. “So we’re thrilled that you’re writing this story. Really.”
“I second that,” Dr. Ladeen added, serving himself another crab-stuffed portobello.
I was just about to point out that they’d attended one of the premier events of The Season the night before when Mrs. Ladeen held out her glass of chardonnay. “Marisol, a refill? Anyway, we met the twins at the ball. Did James mention that?”
Gee, he certainly had not.
“Overdressed and undereducated and empty as the day is long.” Mrs. Ladeen sipped at her wine.
“There’s actually more to them than you might think,” I told her.
“Really? The contents of their Prada bags?” Mrs. Ladeen smiled at her own witticism.
“To be honest, they’re not stupid. It’s just that growing up, they were supposed to be beautiful and rich and dumb, so they lived down to every expectation.” This made me think of one of my favorite quotes. “‘If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.’”
“W. I. Thomas, The Unadjusted Girl, and I think the publisher was Little, Brown.” Mrs. Ladeen sneered at me. “He was overrated even when I was at Yale. They still teach him?”
James cleared his throat, but I went on. “They do. I’m sure they teach him at Duke as well, which is where the twins will be next year.”
What can I say? I’ve never been someone to back down.
Mrs. Ladeen laughed. “Come on, Megan. The tutoring is only a ploy, isn’t it? I don’t think less of you for it, dear. On the contrary, I admire your game plan. It’s fiendishly clever. And if you can make it work, your article will be the better for it. You’re surely not counting on it, though. Are you?”
James knew me well enough to understand that a departure would be wise; he asked if I wanted to go for a walk on the beach. Believe me, we had no lack of things to talk about, but I couldn’t stay. I had to get back to Les Anges and the girls.
But as I drove north on the Florida Turnpike toward Palm Beach, I couldn’t get the things Mrs. Ladeen had said about the twins out of my mind. A month earlier, I probably would have been laughing with her. Instead, I’d defended them. In fact, I’d promised that they’d get in to Duke.
Yes, I badly wanted the seventy-five-thousand-dollar bonus if they succeeded. But it was more than that. Somewhere along the way, little by little, I really had become their teacher . . . and maybe even more.
Models may have to resort to _________ measures to maintain their figures for fashion shows.
(a)drastic
(b)bulimic
(c)acceptable
(d)reasonable
(e)appalling
Chapter Twenty-six
Give a turn, Megan,” Daniel Dennison said in his musical Australian accent. “Just a bit to the left, please.”
I stood on a wooden platform not much larger than the top of a chair and shuffled my feet to the left. It felt very odd to have a guy whose rugged good looks had recently graced the cover of Time magazine with the headline “The Savior of Fashion?” looking up my dress. Actually, his dress, one of the two he had designed for me to wear in the charity fashion show for the Heavenly New Year’s Eve ball at Les Anges.
The charity fashion show was a centerpiece of the event. A stable of famous designers who just happened to be friends of Laurel—Vera Wang, Donatella Versace, Anna Sui, and more—were pleased to participate, as were famous actresses, models, and Palm Beach princesses. After the show, there would be a silent auction for these one-of-a-kind gowns, all proceeds benefiting the Heavenly Foundation. As a rule, the auction netted upward of two million dollars.
It was two days after Christmas, and I was with the twins on Grand Bahama Island at the vacation home of this Australian couturier Daniel Dennison, once the youngest designer in Chanel’s history and the current darling of the fashion world. Daniel was Laurel’s must-get for this year. She had succeeded, which was why we were being fitted for gowns in his basketball court–sized studio with one glass wall facing the beach. There were six small platforms for pinning dresses on models, bolts of fabric everywhere, a huge table used for cutting, and a wall of fashion sketches pinned to an enormous corkboard.
The twins and I had flown in from the mainland on Laurel’s jet, a puddle hop that had taken all of twenty minutes. After clearing customs, we were met by one of Daniel’s flunkies, an overly solicitous young woman named Nance. She drove us in Daniel’s Land Rover to his “cottage”—that’s what she called it—for our fitting.
To give the girls credit, they’d worked all morning on math and science. Their first-semester report cards had arrived from Palm Beach Country Day in the morning mail. Sage received several C+’s and one B–, which might not sound like much, but it was a quantum leap from her previous semesters. Rose did even better, earning near-straight B’s, save a C in Bio. Admittedly, these were not “We’d like to welcome you to the freshman class of Duke University” grades, but they did demonstrate significant improvement. Almost as encouraging was that there’d been no bickering, sniping, or cattiness in days, especially from Sage. I had them right where I wanted them. All I needed to do now was keep listening and taking notes for my exposé. I tried to crush the feeling that my note-taking felt more and more like a betrayal of a sacred trust, but every so often the guilt would bubble up again.
Daniel instructed a young woman, lips full of pins, to do his bidding: “Right here, Marie.”
Sage was to my right and Rose to my left, each being fitted by other assistants. Daniel bounced back and forth among us, guiding and instructing, cajoling and reprimanding, even occasionally redraping fabric to hi
s exacting standards. The twins looked a little bored. This fashion-show thing was old hat to them, unlike me—when I was asked to participate, my initial reaction had been a horrified and succinct “Hell, no!” I’d instantly pictured all those size twos and fours stalking gazelle-like down a catwalk followed by yours truly, queen of I-want-to-observe-and-not-be-observed, rattling the floorboards at size eight. On the top. On the bottom, after my time enjoying Marco’s cuisine, I was having a serious flirtation with a double-digit experience where both of those digits were real numbers. There was only one person in my family born to grace a catwalk, and it definitely wasn’t me. In family photos, Lily was always out front, smiling into the camera. I was the one edging my hips behind another family member or a well-placed pillow.
Yet here I was, on a foot-high block with a world-famous designer working his magic on me.
“Hold still, Megs,” Daniel cautioned as Marie inserted a straight pin into the material just under my breasts. “You don’t want to be impaled.”
The gossamer fabric being pinned to me was white, and the neckline was so sheer that it appeared as if I wore nothing but a veil until it reached where skin ended and nipple began. The bust was heavily beaded in white and silver, which then faded into the skirt, draping in long, elegant folds to the floor.
“Turn again,” Daniel commanded. “Toward me. Now bend forward.” I did, feeling like I was in a bad exercise video. “Hold.” He was gazing straight into my cleavage, wrinkling his nose. Either he wasn’t impressed, or he was playing for Marco’s team. Probably both.
In went a few more pins. “Okay, we’re done with this one. Rose, it looks like you’re finished, too. Sage, I’m going to intervene personally with you. I don’t like the way the zipper is falling, and I know just how to fix it. Marie, get robes for Megan and Rose. You’ll find refreshments out on the deck. Sage, do not move, under penalty of death.”
“No worries,” Sage told him. “Rose, Megan, I’ll be out in a few. Do not drink all the champagne!”
