Eliza didn’t bother to point out that Saint-Tropez was on the beach.
“It’s a real demanding position. You’re like the quarterback driving up the lane,” Alan interjected, mangling his sports metaphors. “Every night in Seventh Circle is going to be the center of the freaking universe, you know what I mean? That’s the way we operate. Like a freaking constellation of stars!” He slammed his fist on the zinc-topped coffee table.
“Here’s the deal,” Kartik said pompously. “This place is all about celebs. Without celebs, we don’t get the mooks who pay the thirty-dollar entrance fee to gawk at ’em.”
Alan nodded wisely, adding, “Overpriced, watered-down, six-ounce cocktails taste that much sweeter if Chauncey Raven’s at the next table fondling her new husband. So, invite the Perry twins, give them a table, make sure it’s one up on the second level where they can see everybody and everybody can see them. Keep. The. Celebrities. Happy. Dig?”
“Anything they want, anything!” Kartik said, picking up the refrain, and it dawned on Eliza that she was watching a carefully choreographed song-and-dance routine. “Lindsey Lohan wants a pizza from Domino’s at 3 A.M.? Done! Avril Lavigne needs a private helicopter back to the city? Done! R. Kelly wants a stripper for his birthday party? Double-done!” He punched the air to emphasize his point.
Eliza nodded briskly. At the magazine, during a celebrity shoot, she’d once had to fill a toilet bowl with gardenias every time the diva went to the bathroom, so she was used to catering to a set of ridiculous demands.
“Of course, the rules change for civilians,” Alan said in a silky tone. “If it’s a group of guys, double the drink bill—they’ll never notice. Keep the tables turning, unless they’ve reserved it for the entire summer, and in that case, keep the five-hundred-dollar bottles moving, at least two per hour, ’cause that’s what’s going to pay the overhead.”
“Remember, you’ve got to dress sexy, look sexy, feel sexy, you know?” Kartik grinned. “Here’s a piece of advice: The shorter the skirt, the better the tips. I’m talking crotch-length, babe,” he said, making a cutting motion with his hand across his thigh to demonstrate.
Alan reached out to grab her elbow, making Eliza recoil. “Whatever you do, never, never, never, ever, ever, ever let anybody in if they’re not on the list. The list is God. It could be my mother out there, but if she’s not on the list, tough luck, Ma, no list, no entry. Unless it’s a celeb, but that goes without saying. I’m frigging serious. The only way we can keep the place hot is if absolutely no one can get in.”
A model in a baby T-shirt and ripped jeans slunk out of the bathroom and plopped herself on the armrest of Alan’s chair. “Baby, I’m hungry,” she pouted. Eliza recognized her from a recent Victoria’s Secret commercial. She’d been wearing a lace teddy and three-foot-long angel wings. The ad always irritated Eliza—what kind of lame sexual fantasy involved underwear and hokey feather-covered appendages?
“Get the chef to make you something,” Alan said irritably.
“I love your necklace,” the model said in a thick accent, flicking her eyes at Eliza.
Eliza nodded. “Thanks.” She fiddled with the leather string Ryan had given her in Palm Beach, feeling a pang of anxiety.
“What do you think? You up for it?” Kartik asked. “The best summer of your life?”
Eliza smiled, thinking she’d heard that line before. “When do I start?” she asked, elated that she’d landed the job so easily. She would be back on the A-list as fast as you could say, “By invitation only.”
“Saturday,” Alan and Kartik replied in unison.
“In two days?” Eliza blanched, looking around. Hello, the walls were still exposed Sheetrock, weren’t they?
“Relax. It’s only a soft opening, for a premiere party. You know that new movie that’s an update of Gone with the Wind with Jennifer Love Hewitt and Chad Michael Murray? Favor for a friend of ours. You know Mitzi Goober?” Kartik asked.
Eliza nodded. Mitzi was only the most feared publicist in the tristate area. At twenty-seven Mitzi had achieved immortality by landing on the cover of New York magazine as a “party grrrrl.” Two years ago she’d spent a month in jail after her teacup Chihuahua attacked an unsuspecting waitress’s fur-trimmed uniform vest, landing the waitress in the hospital and Mitzi on the cover of the tabloids. It was widely reported that Mitzi had laughed off the incident and called the waitress a “fashion victim,” setting off a class war that resulted in aggressive and diminutive canines being banned from certain Hamptons eateries. But now she was back, a bestselling prison memoir under her belt, and more popular than ever. It was the Paris Hilton effect—there was no such thing as bad publicity in the Hamptons.
“But . . .” Eliza wordlessly motioned to the surrounding mess. It was hard to believe that in less than forty-eight hours the place would be turned into something resembling a decent watering hole.
“They’ll be done by then, I promise you. By the way, how old are you?”
“I just turned seventeen . . .” she said tentatively, wondering if she should have lied.
Kartik waved a hand dismissively. “You’re not bartending, so it’s cool.”
Eliza realized she didn’t know what exactly she would be doing, or even how much she would be making. It seemed a little rude to ask, especially since the interview was obviously over. She figured they would straighten out those details later.
“You guys fans of Dante?” she asked, on her way out the door.
“Huh?” Kartik looked at her blankly. Alan was already nuzzling the underage panty model, his hands disappearing up the back of her shirt.
“The club. Seventh Circle. It’s about the seventh circle of hell, right?” she asked, wondering if she sounded like an idiot, because that was how her new boss was looking at her. She remembered from English class that in Dante’s Inferno, the seventh circle of hell was where Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, and a bunch of other boldface names in history had ended up, due to sins of violence and pride.
“Sure, whatever.” He shrugged. “Dante’s cool. He’s that new DJ from Paris, right?”
Eliza made a note that being literate was something that her new job—whatever it was—would not entail. Just wear the short skirt and keep the celebrities happy. She could do that.
is there such a thing as an accidental lap dance?
“I’M MARA, BY THE WAY,” MARA SAID TO THE DARK-HAIRED boy who was uncorking a champagne bottle. She wondered why he was paying so much attention to her—there were several girls on board who made their living off their cheekbones, and yet he’d barely looked at them. The two of them were sitting opposite each other in cushy caramel leather wing chairs in a cozy alcove behind the cockpit.
“I know who you are,” he said smoothly. “You work for the Perrys, right? I’m Garrett Reynolds,” he introduced himself, offering a hand. Mara had already put two and two together. It was his parents’ jet. They were that Reynolds family. The one Forbes magazine had just minted America’s newest billionaires. His father, Ezra Reynolds, was responsible for littering the Manhattan skyline with R logos on all of his buildings.
Garrett pulled down a cantilevered metal table hidden in a side panel and began placing champagne glasses in two rows on top of it, taking the glasses out of an adjoining cabinet. The flight attendants secured the doors and the plane began to roll down the runway. Mara noticed there was no standard spiel concerning safety procedures, the nearest exits, or about using one’s seat cushion as a floatation device (although she bet mink didn’t float). She and Garrett were two of the few people even sitting down.
“It looks pretty bad out there,” Mara noted, as the storm rattled the plane.
“We’re only a half-point over the minimums to fly,” Garrett agreed, explaining that unlike commercial airlines, which were legally required to adhere to FAA regulations that restricted flying under certain weather conditions—like, say, the violent downpour they were caught in—private jets had no such lim
itations. As long as wind velocity met a minimum standard, they were good to go. “But apparently Mother has a hair appointment she can’t miss.” Garrett smirked.
Mara didn’t know if he was kidding or not. That Chelsea Reynolds would risk death for a blowout was totally plausible, considering everything Mara knew about the Hamptons high life.
“Brace yourself,” Garrett warned, cupping the magnum of champagne under his chin.
The plane took off like a bumper car on a trampoline, and Mara heard the crowd shriek with laughter as they bounced around like pinballs. Miraculously, none of the glassware on their table moved an inch.
“Magnetized bottoms.” Garrett smiled, pouring champagne into each flute as the plane zigzagged off the ground.
Mara gripped her armrest worriedly, but Garrett seemed completely oblivious to the booming thunder and taut drumbeat of the raindrops against the windowpanes.
“Is it always this, uh, bouncy?” Mara asked, trying desperately to keep her balance on her seat as the plane hit a sharp air pocket. If there was a seat belt, she couldn’t find it.
“Smaller planes take the bumps harder on takeoff, although this weather certainly doesn’t help,” he mused. “This is nothing compared to landing,” he added.
When all the champagne flutes were filled to the brim with bubbly, Garrett looked up at her expectantly. Mara couldn’t help but be reminded of the way her cat Stinky always stared at Blue, her sister’s parakeet.
“There’s an old saying in the West . . .” Garrett drawled, leaning forward and staring into her eyes intently.
Mara smirked. So that explained why he’d chosen her. It was all a game called Let’s Get the New Girl Drunk. Did he really think she would be such an easy mark? In Sturbridge, they’d used beer mugs instead of champagne flutes, but she was sure the rules were the same.
“In Texas, it’s always high noon,” Mara replied somberly, gratified when Garrett nodded admiringly at her recognition of the game’s ritual introduction.
“And at high noon, we . . . draw!” Garrett exclaimed, reaching for his first flute.
Mara lunged for hers. She opened her throat and poured the sharp, crisp liquid inside.
“Draw again!” Garrett exclaimed gleefully when he’d emptied his glass before she was even halfway through hers.
Mara slammed her flute down, surprised she’d been beaten, and promptly reached for another. She won the next round, barely, but Garrett beat her on every other, until each glass on her side was empty. Damn, this guy was slick. In Sturbridge, Mara had wiped the floor with many a competitor, putting even the most funnel-happy football player to shame. Her ex-boyfriend Jim had taught her that the trick was not to breathe.
“Impressive,” she commended him.
“Thank you,” Garrett smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Mara relaxed against her seat, momentarily forgetting her nervousness about the turbulence, when a particularly sharp jolt threw her completely out of her chair and onto his lap.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, scrambling to get her balance.
“No need to apologize,” Garrett replied breezily, helping Mara steady herself against him when the plane bounced sharply again. She clung to him, bouncing up and down against his lap.
“So you’re that kind of girl,” Garrett joked, making her blush. He was obnoxious, but somehow charming all the same. She couldn’t help but notice how tightly he was holding her.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he growled, half-mockingly, but with a flirtatious edge. “Why don’t you have dinner with me this weekend? That way, we can actually get to know each other instead of just fooling around like this.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I have to work, I’m sorry.” She wondered what Ryan would think if he saw her now, sitting on some other boy’s lap.
“I’m making the reservation anyway.” He shrugged. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
A few minutes later, the plane stopped shaking and the pilot announced that they were above the storm clouds and had settled into a stable cruising altitude. Garrett helped Mara to her seat, bowing and kissing her hand in a gentlemanly fashion. She exhaled a sigh of relief when he excused himself to attend to his other guests. He was suave all right, but she had a feeling Garrett Reynolds always got—or bought—what he wanted, and Mara was definitely not for sale.
in girl-talk, “you look great!” means “i’m so happy to see you”
INSIDE SCOOP, JACQUI TREATED THE DRESSING ROOM as a revolving door, posing in each skimpy bathing suit in rapid succession, discarding those that were too tight across the chest and too small in back. (She’d gotten in trouble for her thongs on Georgica Beach last year, and she didn’t want to get hauled in again for violating the “morality” laws that kept the Hamptons beaches safe from the sight of exposed rear ends.) When Eliza found her, she was wearing a bandeau top and checking out the crucial crack-covering ability of a minuscule suit bottom by performing a series of squats in front of the three-way mirror (to the obvious consternation of an envious row of shoppers).
“Sorry, am I interrupting?” Eliza joked, as Jacqui performed deep knee bends in the tiny half-moon piece of fabric.
“ ’Liza!” Jacqui said happily, standing up for a hug. They embraced each other warmly, Eliza’s stack of gold bangle bracelets clanking against Jacqui’s bare shoulders.
“Look at you!” Eliza said, pulling Jacqui’s arms out and admiring how her friend filled out the Gaultier bikini.
“No, chica, look at you!” Jacqui squealed. The two of them clucked and cooed in the fawning, joyful way that girls greet each other, effusively complimenting each other on their hair, their shoes, their weight loss (real or imagined).
“I didn’t see you at the Jitney stop and figured you’d be here,” Eliza explained. “I’m sorry I’m late. The interview took a while.”
“How did it go?” Jacqui asked, disappearing into the dressing room to change.
“Awesome! I got the job!” Eliza said, admiring a canvas Kate Spade tote.
“Hooray!” Jacqui cheered, emerging in a bohemian-style empire-waist dress and high-heeled Gucci clogs. “Do you take AmEx?” she asked the salesgirl, handing her the bikini.
“Can I take a quick peek around before we get Mara?” Eliza asked, critically examining a crocheted poncho while Jacqui paid for her new purchase.
“I think her plane gets in right now, so no.”
“All riiiiight,” Eliza said, looking longingly at the brightly colored Matthew Williamson sarongs. “We’ll come back.”
“So, how’ve you been?” Jacqui asked, when they were in Eliza’s car on the way to the East Hampton airport. They rolled down all the windows to let in the fresh ocean breeze, even though Eliza had the AC cranking. The girls hadn’t seen each other since Palm Beach, where they’d shopped on Worth Avenue and hung out at the Four Seasons pool with all the kids in tow. There’d been an insane Christmas ball at the Colony Club and a lavish New Year’s party at the Breakers. Everything had been perfect—except for the fact that Mara hadn’t joined them. Jacqui couldn’t wait for all three of them to be back together again soon, but first she wanted to make sure Eliza had come clean about what exactly had happened when Mara wasn’t around.
“I’m good.” Eliza nodded, and told Jacqui about her plans for world (or at least Hamptons) domination that summer. She was going to be working at the coolest club and hanging out with the hottest people—in her mind, it wasn’t even a job, it was more like . . . a title, a position. She would be representing what Seventh Circle was all about. Her old crew would come around, and soon she’d be calling the shots again. She had nothing to be embarrassed about this summer, and she was counting on her connection with Kartik and Alan to facilitate her return to the high life.
“Have you seen Ryan yet?” Jacqui asked, steering the conversation back to where she wanted it to go.
“No, but we’ve e-mailed, and I spoke to him on the phone
the other night. I don’t think it’ll be awkward.” Eliza had tried to push the memory out of her mind, but the fact that she’d hooked up with Ryan Perry—the love of her best friend’s life—in Palm Beach was not easily forgotten. Especially when she had yet to tell that best friend. “I mean, it was just a stupid drunken thing, and we’ve been friends for, like, ever.”
After Sugar and Poppy Perry’s New Year’s party at the Breakers, Eliza and Ryan had gone back to the hotel so that Eliza could pick up some flip-flops, since her Louboutins were killing her. They were both completely smashed from the champagne, and for the first time on vacation they were both happy. Ryan had been sad because Mara had broken up with him and backed out of Palm Beach, and Eliza was depressed because Jeremy had told her they should take a break until next summer, since being away from each other was so hard. Ryan found The Godfather on pay-per-view and they snuggled next to each other on the bed, just like when they were kids and had memorized all the lines.
“Leave the gun, take the cannoli,” they said at the same time, and they both laughed. Then, all of a sudden, he was kissing her . . . or she was kissing him . . . and then they were totally fooling around. They hadn’t meant it to happen, and it didn’t mean anything, she swore.
“I’m going to tell Mara as soon as I see her,” Eliza said emphatically, clenching the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. “I can’t wait to get it off my chest, you know? I thought it would be too hard if I told her on the phone, or in an e-mail. I don’t want her to think it’s more than it is.”
“Definitely,” Jacqui agreed. She was relieved Eliza was finally going to come clean. Eliza had been adamant about keeping the Big Palm Beach Secret a secret, so Jacqui had reluctantly promised not to tell Mara, and as a result Jacqui hadn’t talked to Mara since before New Year’s. Jacqui didn’t want to lie to her, and with the studying and the time difference, it hadn’t been that hard to fall out of touch.
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