She looked toward where Paige and Sydney were standing in the corner. She couldn’t see that well because the flashbulbs blinded her, but she was certain they were going to congratulate her on a job well done. She’d pulled it off all by herself—this was surely a spectacle that the Hamptons would be talking about for the rest of the summer.
mayday! mayday!
“WE DID IT!” ELIZA CROWED, stepping off the runway and holding out her arms to envelop Paige and Sydney in a hug. “Isn’t this amazing?” she cried as the photographers continued to snap her picture.
Only when the flashbulbs died down did Eliza realize that Sydney and Paige did not share in her happiness one bit. She’d expected Paige to be a little jealous, sure, but wasn’t she the one who’d told Eliza she had to “fix” it or else? Why couldn’t she at least look a tiny bit happy that she’d pulled it off? Instead, Paige looked like she was going to vomit, and Sydney’s eyes were murderous. Hello, had she missed something here?
The smile evaporated from Eliza’s face. “What’s wrong? Did you guys not like the helicopter? Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. I have a Marquis Jet Card. I won’t charge it to the company—my treat.”
“Paige, you know what you have to do,” Sydney said ominously before turning his back without even acknowledging Eliza’s presence.
“Eliza, can I have a word?” Paige asked coldly.
What now? She’d managed to save the evening—and they were acting like she’d done something terrible. As if she’d failed to deliver the goods instead of coming through with a bang. This was so not what she expected. She followed Paige to the back room.
“What’s going on?” she asked. Her face glistened from the heat of the photographer’s lights.
“You’re fired,” Paige said flatly. Eliza noticed Paige couldn’t quite conceal a note of glee in her voice. Paige had wanted this all along. The little brownnoser, who couldn’t style an outfit if you put a Bedazzler to her head, had just been waiting for Eliza to trip up. Eliza just wasn’t sure how she’d managed to make such a mess of things. Something didn’t compute.
“But I don’t understand. . . .”
“This night was about Sydney. Sydney Minx. And you know what’s going on out there? What people are talking about?”
“What?” Eliza asked, still confused.
“You. That’s who. Who’s the girl from the helicopter? Who’s the model who flew down? Who’s the girl in the dress? Who’s the girl. It’s all about you. I had to teach a couple of reporters from the New York Post how to spell your name!”
Eliza almost said, “They know exactly how to spell my name at the Post!” She wisely kept her mouth shut. “C’mon, Paige, cut me some slack,” Eliza pleaded. “Talk to Sydney. He listens to you. I mean, I got the dress back, didn’t I?”
“You got the dress, but you took the press,” Paige replied.
As if on cue, a tall reporter from the East Hampton Star gossip column tapped on the side door. “Hey—chopper girl. Can I get a quote?”
Paige rolled her eyes.
“Sure—be with you in a bit.” Eliza smiled. When the reporter left, she grabbed Paige’s arm. “You can’t be serious. You guys can’t do this to me. This is my internship for the summer. My parents will freak if they find out!”
Eliza was devastated. She had just found her passion, found that there was more to life than a MasterCard. She was really looking forward to learning more about the fashion industry. How could they take it away from her now?
“You’re fired, Eliza. Please remove that dress and vacate the premises immediately.”
And just like that, chopper girl went down in flames.
in celebrity journalism, noncooperation is never a problem
THE PARTY WAS OVER, AND Jacqui and the three guys from the web site had departed to continue the hoopla at the Reynolds castle. Mara caught a ride with them and asked them to drop her off at the Starbucks a few blocks from the harbor. She could grab a double latte to fuel up, and the coffee counter was close enough to the dock that she could walk home.
She was totally screwed. She had no story. Sydney Minx had completely ignored her the whole evening and refused to give her an interview. And she had four pages to fill! Dozens of column inches! The story had already been laid out by the art department; they were just waiting for her text to arrive.
What was she going to do . . . ? This time, she was going to get canned for sure. Sam Davis had handed her a plum assignment—but Mara had ended up with egg in her face. It wasn’t even as if she were trying to nail an interview with the president, for God’s sake. Sydney Minx was a fashion designer! Fashion designers lived for press! Yet somehow she had bungled it again. At this rate, Mara decided she should forget about becoming a serious journalist, since she couldn’t even hack it as a celebrity reporter.
A few people were idling by the coffee shop, and after Mara collected her double-shot no-fat venti cup, she took a seat by the window, BlackBerry in her clammy hand. Better to do it now than later . . .
“Hi, Sam? It’s Mara.”
“Hey, there.” The noise of a squalling infant filled the background.
“I’m so sorry to call so late. . . .”
“Not a worry at all. What’s up?” Sam asked, sounding chipper and professional.
“It’s just, about the Sydney Minx cover,” Mara hedged.
“Uh-huh? Heathcliff, put down the baby, put down baby Kathy right now! Mommy says!” Sam ordered.
“I didn’t get—” Mara said hesitantly.
“I said listen to Mommy! Bad Heathcliff! Bad boy!” Sam screeched.
“I didn’t—”
“What did you say?” Sam asked, a little breathlessly. “Sorry, it’s a madhouse around here. Three kids under the age of five, and the nanny’s gone for the day.”
Mara made a sympathetic noise. “Sydney wouldn’t do the interview—I don’t have anything for the piece. I’m so sorry,” Mara confessed, gripping her coffee cup tightly.
“The old diva is still holding that Them piece against me, huh?” Sam asked, a trace of amusement in her voice.
Mara was surprised to hear her boss laugh as if nothing was wrong.
“Well . . . that’s okay. We’ll just do a write-around.”
“What’s that?”
“You call people close to Sydney to give you quotes—people who knew him back then, people who know him now, people who know how his mind works and what he’s like in private. We need at least two to go on the record, and everyone else can be “a close source” or an “insider.” You did some research today, right? Go back to LexisNexis, use our account—and we’ll just write the story around him without his input.”
“We can do that?”
“We do it all the time,” Sam assured her. “Standard practice.”
“Oh.”
“So, three thousand words by tomorrow morning?”
“Right,” Mara promised, grateful to have been saved from a future of arranging canapés on a platter. She was so glad not to have been fired she didn’t realize she still didn’t know exactly where to begin. But that was okay. She’d just realized she had a friend who was very close to the story indeed.
playing designer deep throat
FIRED.
Given the boot.
Voted off the island.
Torch extinguished.
Like a failed contender on one of those reality shows wherein the steely-eyed, pompadoured billionaire or the former super-model or the convicted lifestyle guru or the flak-jacketed adventure guide somberly handed you your butt on a platter and ushered you to the nearest exit and confessional cam.
She stood alone in the cramped quarters of the staff bathroom in the back of the store and tried not to cry. Instead, she took off the gold chains one by one and hung them on the door hook. She unzipped the crocodile boots and unbuttoned the chiffon dress, then hung it carefully on a padded hanger. Paige had barked her orders without even pausing to wonder what Eliza would
wear once she took it off. Thankfully, Eliza had been able to grab a goodie bag before they were all gone. She put on one of the complimentary Sydney Minx T-shirts. It was a size large, so it fell all the way down her thighs, as big as a dress. It would do.
She walked out of the bathroom barefoot, wearing only the T-shirt. In her handbag, her Treo rang. What now?
This-shit-is-bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S . . . her Treo chirped.
Mara.
“ ’Lo?” Eliza greeted.
She listened while her friend told her tale. Mara was having some problem with her article since Sydney wouldn’t give the interview.
“So I need some names, people who will talk about him, what he’s like to work with, where he gets his ideas, that sort of thing,” Mara said. “And anyone who can give us any juicy insider stuff. Do you think you can help?”
Even through her cloud of humiliation, Eliza spotted clearly an opportunity for revenge.
“No problem,” she said. “You should talk to his former partner, Richard Mendelsohn—he financed the line until they parted ways last year. And a few of his design associates; some of them don’t work there anymore. His socialite friends. He used to hang out with my friend Taylor’s mom, Pringle. Oh, and Anna Perry too. She knows him from way back. They’ll have tons of scandalous stories, I’m sure.” A vindictive smile appeared on Eliza’s face.
“You are the best!” Mara said gratefully.
“Yeah, that’s me. The best.” Eliza sighed.
“Liza, is something wrong? You sound weird.”
“No—it’s nothing. I’m just tired,” Eliza dismissed. Revenge was sweet, but it offered little consolation. Getting Sydney crucified in print wouldn’t do much to get her job back. She suddenly wished she hadn’t been so backstabbing but justified her snarkiness by telling herself she was helping a friend.
“Okay,” Mara said doubtfully. “Insane entrance, by the way. It’s all everybody’s talking about.”
That’s the problem, Eliza thought, but she didn’t say anything to Mara. They said their good-byes and Eliza hung up. She walked out to the front of the store, looking for Jeremy. He had texted earlier to say he was running late because of a client meeting but that he would meet her outside as soon as it was over.
She found him standing in front of his truck, talking animatedly to Paige on the now-deserted red carpet. Come again? How and why did they know each other? She saw him give Paige a kiss on the cheek. Eliza hung back in the shadows, feeling like an intruder.
When Paige finally disappeared in a taxi, Eliza walked up to him, careful about where to step.
“Hey, babe.” Jeremy grinned, giving her a quick hug. “Is this what the beautiful people are wearing this summer? T-shirts? What happened to your shoes?”
“How do you know her?” Eliza asked, climbing up into the truck without bantering back.
“Who?” Jeremy asked, backing out from the curb and putting an arm around Eliza’s headrest.
“That girl you were just talking to. Paige McGinley.”
“Oh, Paige. We grew up on the island together,” he said. “Old friend of mine. She really climbed up the corporate ladder quick, huh? Pretty impressive. Do you work for her?”
Great, Eliza thought. Just what she needed to hear. Jeremy was fraternizing with the enemy. “It’s a long story.”
“Oh yeah? What’d I miss?” he asked, since he’d arrived at the party too late to witness her star-making entrance.
“Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head. She didn’t want to get into it just then.
mara’s sense of humor floats away with the tide
THE FOAMY LATTE WAS A welcome pick-me-up, and, armed with the data from Eliza’s e-mail, Mara felt pumped and ready to pull an all-nighter and write her article. She walked from the Starbucks back to the Sag Harbor dock. The boats were rocking gently, and Mara walked down the length of the pier until she realized she’d passed their spot—where was the Malpractice? She walked back and forth until she finally realized: it was just not there.
The boat—and, more importantly, her computer—were gone!
Stolen! was the first thing that came to mind. . . . Call 911! Ryan hadn’t made it to the event, so something terrible must have happened! She had to report a boat-jacking! Her imagination ran wild with Colombian drug dealers and illegal arms merchants hijacking the yacht for their dire purposes—for a moment, she was utterly convinced Ryan had been kidnapped!
A minute later, she realized she was being completely ridiculous. The boat hadn’t been pirated or stolen. Ryan had obviously gone for a midnight sail. She guessed he felt that was more important than meeting her at the party.
She punched his number frantically on her BlackBerry. Her computer was on that boat, and her article was due in a couple of hours. But there was no service in the bay, and the closest Mara got to reaching him was when an automated voice informed her, “The number you are trying to reach cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.”
Shit.
She looked around frantically and noticed a couple of kids from the boat across the way pulling out of their dock on two Seadoo jet skis. “You guys going out to the bay?” she asked.
“Yeah, someone’s throwing a huge bash on a yacht.”
That sounded like Ryan, all right.
“Can I get a ride?”
“Hop on.”
They cruised the water until they spotted the Malpractice. Its floodlights were on, a wild party in full swing, the boat’s speakers thumping out bass lines. Several people were bobbing by the side of the water in lifesaver vests, making use of the diving board off the port side. Another kid was scaling the masthead to run up a pirate flag.
The jet ski pulled up by the side of the boat, and Mara hoisted herself on deck, her blood boiling. When she found him, she swore she would . . . she would . . .
“Mara!”
Ryan scooped her up in his arms. “You made it! I left you all these messages.”
He had a big grin on his face and an even bigger beer stein in his hand. “I was worried you’d miss the first big bash of the summer.” He looked absolutely psyched to see her and planted a big smooch on her lips.
What messages? Mara wondered. She hadn’t received one call from him. “You didn’t come to the show,” she accused.
“I fell asleep,” he said sheepishly. “By the time I got up, I knew it would be over. And then Tinker and her sisters came by, and then we called some people . . . and we got some beer . . . and . . .”
And decided to have the party of the century, Mara thought. It did look pretty fun, but she didn’t have time for socializing. She was on deadline.
“C’mon, let’s get you a drink,” Ryan said.
“You left me,” Mara said, her anger not so easily assuaged.
“What are you talking about?”
“I got to the dock and it was gone—this boat is my home, Ryan, don’t you understand? For the summer. Where I live. My computer is here. And I have a job. And I got there and the boat was missing and—”
“Hold on—hold on—I left the number for a water taxi on your phone,” he said. “Didn’t you get my voice mails?”
“No,” she said.
“I kept calling,” he insisted, looking perplexed.
“Did you call my BlackBerry or my old number?” she asked. “Because I told you to only call me on the work phone. I’m not using the old one anymore.”
“Oh,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I forgot.”
She turned away from him. Didn’t he ever listen to her? And where did he get off hanging out with cute girls when she was at work? Did he even know how bad it sounded?
She stormed down to the main cabin without another word, leaving Ryan looking hurt and irritated on the deck. “Mara, c’mon, don’t be that way!”
A couple of guests were making out on the couch in the living room, but she hardly noticed them as she walked straight into the captain’s quarters. She slammed t
he door with a bang and walked over to her desk. She turned on her computer with a vengeance.
When she was done with the piece, she would kill him. But first, she had to make a few phone calls.
to whom much is given, much can be taken away. . . .
“C’MON, WHAT’S WRONG?” JEREMY RAN a hand through his curly chestnut hair and stuck his upper lip out at Eliza. “What did I do to get the silent treatment?” he asked, mystified by her actions. “I thought you were going to spend the night at my place,” he added, a little hurt at the change of plans.
Eliza remained silent, thinking, Paige McGinley. Just an old friend. We grew up here on the island. Terrific. The woman who’d just handed her the biggest humiliation of her life was an “old pal” of her boyfriend’s. Nothing could have made Eliza feel worse.
She’d planned to spend the night with Jeremy at his apartment in Montauk—she’d already told her parents she was going to sleep over at a friend’s house, and her ass was covered. She’d even stashed an overnight bag with her lingerie set in the back of his truck that morning.
She’d thought that after making such a triumphant splash at the fashion show, she would cap off the evening by handing over her V card. And she had wanted to—really wanted to—but after having her ego stomped on, she just didn’t feel like it tonight. All she wanted to do now was hoover a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and fall asleep watching Room Raiders.
Jeremy’s truck idled on her driveway with the lights off. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over?” He put a hand on her knee and began to massage it. His strong fingers worked their way down to her calf muscles, kneading them gently.
Eliza hesitated. She did want to—but she wanted their first time to be perfect, and the evening was already ruined for her.
“I wish I could, but I forgot, I told my parents I would go to some bird-watching thing with them tomorrow, and I need to get up early,” she said reluctantly. It was a white lie—her dad had invited her to join them, except she’d already said no.
Beach Lane Collection Page 50
