“Why haven’t you said anything?” Mara demanded, swiping the brush away from Eliza and putting a hand on her hip like an angry schoolteacher. The three of them had met up every night for dinner or a nightcap that week, and Eliza had kept absolutely mum on her romantic situation.
“Uh . . .” Eliza didn’t know what to say. Jeremy hadn’t exactly gotten down on his knees, and she hadn’t said yes or anything. Eliza had decided it was more of a “promise” ring than anything, like one of those rings the Bachelor gave when he didn’t want to commit to marriage but the producers still wanted to finagle a happy ending. Because really, how could you get engaged to someone you’d met on reality television? Or in Eliza’s case, how could you get engaged when you were only nineteen years old? She wasn’t barefoot, pregnant, or Paris Hilton. Be serious!
Before Eliza could explain, Mara pulled her in for a tight hug, almost tripping over the thick June issue of Vogue splayed out on the carpet between them. “Congratulations! This is sooo exciting! You and Jeremy! Hooray!”
“O que está acontecendo?” Jacqui called from the doorway. “What’s happening?” She made her way to her gleefully hugging friends, who broke apart and smiled when they saw her. “Is it too late for me to shower? I’m all covered in ice cream.” She was exhausted from dealing with Jackson’s tummy troubles. Passion fruit ice cream might be fat free, but it was too acidic for the little boy’s stomach. She’d spent the last hour in a cramped gas station bathroom, dealing with the consequences.
“No, it’s not too late, but here, let me show you what you’re wear—” Eliza reached for the white dress hanging on the closet door, but Mara cut her off with a whoop.
“Eliza’s engaged!” Mara cried, grabbing Eliza’s outstretched hand and thrusting it toward Jacqui to show off the ring.
“Que beleza!” Jacqui breathed, blinded by the flash of the diamond. “Congratulations! He proposed?”
“We’re totally going wedding gown shopping!” Mara cheered before Eliza could answer, hopping up and down—or at least as much as she could in the tight dress.
“Of course!” Jacqui agreed, squeezing Eliza’s hand excitedly, still gazing at the ring. “It’s huge!”
Eliza shrugged, her mouth slowly turning into a smile. She looked at her two friends’ beaming faces. She wished she could explain about the ring’s true meaning, but she wanted everyone to be excited for tonight. Compared to an engagement ring, explaining that it was only a promise ring just didn’t sound as, well, promising. Why ruin the moment?
it’s the same old hamptons, but an all-new mara. . . .
MARA COULDN’T HELP BUT SUPPRESS a smile as she circulated about Eliza’s boutique, watching the sleek blond socialites wage silent wars against each other in their efforts to secure a bikini or silk pareo. Mara gasped as the handbag tug-of-war unfolding in front of her suddenly escalated into violence. A towering figure in a multicolored Missoni caftan with billowing sleeves wrenched the prized white straw-and-leather tote away from her rival’s grasp. The loser of the battle, an overly tanned woman in a transparent Gucci sarong, promptly flew backward onto the shoe display.
Needless to say, Eliza’s store opening was a tremendous success.
It was all-bets-off shopping mayhem as the affluent customers—who were used to getting exactly what they wanted—found they had to fight tooth and manicured nail for the precious and dwindling selection of must-have pieces. Salesgirls rushed to keep up with the customers’ demands, and the line to the furiously ringing registers snaked through the store, nearly reaching the sidewalk.
Mara’s job was to walk slowly around the store—to “swan,” as Eliza had instructed—showing off the evening gown and answering questions about it, while Jacqui did the same on the other side. The two of them had completed several laps of the place already, and the party was in full swing. An army of cater-waiters in white pants and white T-shirts emblazoned with the pink eliza thompson logo brought out a tempting array of dishes, bartenders were pouring pink champagne into crystal flutes, and the store was filled with the buzz of partygoers happily drinking, eating, and shopping.
It wasn’t as flashy or insane as the Sydney Minx opening last summer, where Eliza herself had arrived in a helicopter and walked the runway. But that was a good thing, since Sydney Minx was kaput and in the boutique’s former place was another yoga studio. Hopefully Eliza’s label wouldn’t suffer a similar fate.
Mara reached for a shrimp puff and chewed on it slowly, surveying the room with an experienced reporter’s eye, taking care not to get oil on her white silk dress. She spotted Garrett Reynolds, her former flame, holding a woman’s purse under his arm as his girlfriend, a pouty condiment heiress famous for her public tantrums, disappeared into the dressing room underneath a huge pile of clothing.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Garrett smirked when he saw Mara and strolled over toward her.
“Hi, yourself.” Mara smiled politely, steeling herself for one of Garrett’s digs. “What are you doing here? Don’t you summer in South Africa these days?” she asked with a hint of derision, referring to his comment last summer about how the Hamptons scene was as “over and out” as a Clay Aiken record.
“Got shot in the ass while on safari,” Garrett growled. “I thought it best to stay in safer waters.”
Mara tried not to laugh and failed. “I’m sorry.” She chuckled.
“Go ahead, have your fun,” Garrett allowed with a debonair wave of the hand. “It’s not every day you get mistaken for a white rhino. Thankfully, the settlement was enough to buy me my own place out here,” he added, craning his neck and preening at his reflection in the mirror. “It’s south of the highway, with a view of the ocean. I’m renovating—you should come visit when it’s done.”
Building his own place? Was his family’s totally ostentatious, five-hundred-million-square-foot castle not enough? “Sure, when it’s done.” Mara nodded, forcing a smile. She knew the visit would never happen.
It was just like Garrett to suffer a humiliation but come out even richer from it, Mara thought as she walked away. Two women already loaded down with shopping bags stopped and asked where to find the dress she was wearing, and after pointing them in the right direction, Mara decided she had to do a little shopping of her own. She grabbed one of the white string bikinis from the racks before they were all gone and bumped into another familiar face.
“Sexy, aren’t they?” Mitzi Goober appeared beside her, her one-year-old daughter strapped to her chest in a Gucci baby carrier. The über-publicist dragged her daughter to every event, no matter how late or how inappropriate. Little Soleil had been to everything, including a party for the launch of a new line of vibrators. Knowing Mitzi, she probably thought it was never too early to get her daughter started socializing with the crème de la crème.
“They’re cut Brazilian style,” Mara explained, knowing Eliza had patterned the swimsuits after the tiny tangas Jacqui was so fond of.
Mitzi clucked approvingly. “Brazil is hot again. I’ll make sure I mention that to Vogue.”
“You’re Eliza’s publicist?” Mara asked, momentarily shocked, although she shouldn’t have been. Eliza never let anything like notoriety get in the way of hiring “the best,” and vituperative personality aside, Mitzi got the job done. The place was teeming with dozens of reporters getting drunk and fat off the free booze and eats.
Mitzi nodded, craning over Mara’s shoulder to see if there was anyone more important she should be talking to. Now that Mara was no longer a reporter for Hamptons or on staff for Metropolitan Circus, the fact that Mitzi had said hello to her at all was a big concession to courtesy.
Thankfully, Mara was rescued from Mitzi’s indifference by Lucky Yap, the friendly paparazzo who had been Mara’s mentor in the past.
“There’s my girl!” Lucky gushed when he saw her. “You look deeevine!” he enthused, taking a few shots of Mara for old times’ sake.
Lucky was dressed in the latest Hampton obsessi
on—orange robes and shawls modeled after the ones worn by the Dalai Lama. His Holiness was making a pilgrimage to the Hamptons that summer, and his devoted followers showed their dedication by donning colorful togas similar to those worn by his Tibetan monks over their Lilly Pulitzer capris. Wooden prayer beads had even replaced wooden Marni necklaces as the season’s hottest accessory.
“Thanks, Lucky. And you look very . . . orange!” Mara said, once again at a loss for words at the sight of Lucky’s outrageous outfit. “Like a sunset!”
“It’s tangerine, my dear, tangerine,” Lucky corrected. “Feel this,” he ordered, taking Mara’s hand and placing it on the shawl. “It’s made from Mongolian antelope hair. Softer than a baby’s butt!”
Mara was just about to ask Lucky if his shawl was an illegal shahtoosh—she suspected that it was—when the portly photographer bolted to the front door. “Oh, oh, oh! Gotta dash—there’s Chauncey Raven stepping out of the limo! I hope she’s wearing underwear this time; I can’t sell hoochie shots to People magazine!” And with that he dashed off to snap the pop-star-turned-single-mother, whose every exit from a vehicle was akin to a gynecological exam.
Mara watched him leave with a fond eye. No one ever changed in the Hamptons. It was the same old moneyed crowd, the same old taut and tanned faces—even if some of the face-lifts were new. She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The party was fabulous and all, but her feet were starting to swell from the high-heeled sandals Eliza has picked out to match the dress. If only she could sit down. Or better yet, lie down. There was a comfortable bed with her name on it not too far away. Surely Eliza didn’t expect her to model the gown all evening? If she bade her goodbyes now, she could still catch a late-night rerun of Ugly Betty.
She found Eliza in a brightly lit corner of the store, flushed and happy, surrounded by clients and the fashion press. She wore a slim white satin tuxedo with nothing underneath, showing off her deep Flying Point beach tan. Mara made eye contact and Eliza broke away from the group with an apologetic bow to say hello to her friend.
“What’s up? Having fun?” Eliza asked, straightening a stack of T-shirts on a table next to Mara, ever the mindful hostess.
“For sure, but I’m pooped,” Mara said. “My feet are killing me. Will you be very angry if I bail?”
“You’re leaving?” Eliza hugged the T-shirts to her chest and then laid them down flat. “So early?”
“I’m sorry,” Mara said, feeling a little guilty. She wanted to be there for Eliza, but she’d been standing in the same stilettos for almost two hours now, and she was tired. It had been a long day, and she was ready for it to be over. “But see, the dress is already sold out,” she said, motioning to the empty rack. “You’re a hit! You don’t need me.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Eliza smiled. “But you’re really going?”
“Yeah.” Mara sighed. “I haven’t been to a party like this in ages, and I’d forgotten how exhausting they are. If another socialite asks me where I get waxed, I’m going to hurl. You know David’s idea of a good time is a New Yorker lecture.” Mara shook her head in a “what are you gonna do” gesture, shrugging.
Eliza put the shirts back down on the table with a slap. She knew Mara was just trying to be funny, but she felt a twinge of irritation nonetheless. Ever since Mara had started dating The Amazing David (which was what Eliza had begun to call him in her head, since Mara was prone to gush about him), there had been a lot of little comments like that. Mara, who’d once been so intimidated by snooty velvet-rope events when she was a Hamptons newbie, sometimes sounded like she now thought she was “above” the trivial social scene.
“Okay, go home.” Eliza nodded briskly, trying not to show how hurt she was. It was the opening of her first boutique, and Eliza had hoped that once the party wound down and all the celebrities and journalists left, she and Jeremy and her two best friends could celebrate privately—she’d even set aside a tray of caviar and a bottle of champagne for just that purpose. But if Mara wanted to leave, who was she to stop her?
Mara gave Eliza a kiss on the cheek. She held up the bikini. “And I’ll totally pay you for this when I get paid next week, okay?” She waved goodbye to Jacqui across the room and made her way toward the clipboard squad guarding the entrance. After a night of run-ins with her Hamptons past, she was relieved to be finally leaving. The second she got in the door at the Finnemores’, she was going to take off her shoes and massage her aching feet.
There was a huge crowd of people still waiting to get inside the party, but she saw a familiar dark honey blond head walk to the front of the velvet ropes, cutting through the mass of hopeful partygoers like a hot knife through butter.
Because Ryan Perry was always on the VIP list.
He caught her eye and her heart stopped at the sight of him. And just like that, Mara completely forgot about her tired, pained feet.
brangelina’s got nothing on jereliza
BEFORE ELIZA COULD FEEL TOO upset about Mara abandoning her, she was pulled away by Mitzi Goober, who was hyperventilating in excitement.
“The ‘Tawker’ writer’s here! And she wants you now,” Mitzi said, her manicured nails digging into Eliza’s arm. “Tawker” was a must-read Manhattan-based gossip column that appeared daily in one of the major papers.
“Wait! Can I go say hi to my boyfriend first?” Eliza asked, seeing Jeremy enter the store, looking handsome as ever in a nice linen suit. He had been at the store earlier to help but had left to change out of his overalls. He waved to Eliza and started to make his way toward her.
“No time for boyfriends!” Mitzi ordered, pushing Eliza toward the “Tawker” gossipeuse.
“All right.” Eliza sighed, gesturing apologetically in Jeremy’s direction. Given that Mitzi had strapped her baby to her chest, maybe there was no time for relationships when you were trying to make a living on the New York social circuit. Was she going to have to strap Jeremy to her chest to get to spend any time with him?
Eliza pasted on her most winning smile as she prepared herself to take on the reporter’s questions. She knew she had to ace the interview or else be subjected to enormous ridicule. “Tawker” was merciless in its coverage of Manhattan movers and shakers. It had even instituted a popular section called “Dumbass of the Day,” wherein various players on the Manhattan social scene were relentlessly savaged. Never appearing in that column was considered a great achievement among a certain set.
“Hey, nice meeting ya.” The gossip writer, a perky, twenty-something brunette quickly shook her hand before diving right in. “So, which stuff did Chauncey Raven buy? The underwear, I hope? God knows the girl needs it, huh?”
Eliza laughed and then provided all the lacy details. She knew that celebrities’ shopping habits were standard fodder for the gossip press.
The “Tawker” editor followed with a few softball questions about the launch party and who had been invited, and Eliza carefully answered every query, making sure not to use the word like in every sentence or say anything that could be used to humiliate her—with one careless answer, she could be painted as another rich blond socialite trying to buy her way into a career in fashion.
Eliza was proud of her own composure, but she could tell that after only a few minutes, the reporter could barely contain her boredom—she was already checking her watch. What was up with everyone tonight? Eliza thought, annoyed. First Mara bailing early, and now it was so obvious the “Tawker” writer was talking to her only because Mitzi had forced her to. Well, screw her. Eliza wasn’t going to embarrass herself just to give “Tawker” something to talk about. Though she was dying to get some press—the store wouldn’t survive without it.
“Well, thanks for your time,” the girl said, giving Eliza a fake smile. “I’ll let Mitzi know if we run an item.”
“Sure.” Eliza nodded, pushing her hair away from her face, knowing full well that a passing mention on Chauncey Raven’s lingerie purchase would be the only coverag
e her store would receive. Still, she’d take any press she could get.
“Hey, is that an engagement ring?” the reporter asked suddenly.
“Oh yeah, I guess,” Eliza said, looking at the ring again as if for the first time.
The writer whistled. “What is that, five carats? It’s a monster!”
Eliza nodded, blushing a little. It really was huge. But then, hadn’t she always insisted to whoever listened that she would never settle for anything less? “Five carats—anything less is a speck. An insult. A piece of dust!” “Five carats or don’t bother!” But now, it did seem absurdly large. It looked gigantic on her finger.
“So who’s the lucky guy?” the writer asked, taking a slug of champagne, her interest in Eliza apparently renewed.
“Jeremy Stone,” Eliza said with a warm smile.
“Jeremy Stone,” the girl repeated, furrowing her brow. “Why does his name sound so familiar?”
“He’s a really great landscape architect,” Eliza gushed, beaming. So maybe “landscape architect” was pushing it—Jeremy was just a glorified gardener when you came down to it. But whatever her ambivalence toward the ring, one thing was for sure—she was very proud of Jeremy.
“No, that’s not why,” the reporter said dismissively, waving her glass of champagne around as she furrowed her brow in thought. “Jeremy Stone. . . . Hey, I remember now. Isn’t he the guy who just inherited the Greyson pile?”
What a way to put it. “Um, well, yes . . . ,” Eliza said slowly.
“Damn, girl. You made a killing! You’re marrying the Greyson heir!” The “Tawker” writer immediately lit up and brought out her iPod recorder. “So when’s the wedding?”
Beach Lane Collection Page 69
