Sun-kissed (Au Pairs, The) Read online

  14

  on the upper east side, jacqui finds that packing for the hamptons doesn't

  help a hangover

  THE DOORBELL RANG, AND THE SOUND OF BELL CHIMES

  reverberated loudly in the studio, but Jacqui Velasco ignored it. She was hurriedly throwing clothes, shoes, and straw tote bags into two open suitcases in the bedroom. It was just half an hour since she'd walked onto the stage with the rest of the St. Grace Academy class to collect her diploma, and she was still wearing the pretty floral Blumarine dress and round-toe Gucci heels she'd chosen for the event.

  Her grandmother had already left for the airport to catch her flight back to Sao Paulo. It had been great to see her avo, who had been positively bursting with pride in her lace mantilla. After all, Jacqui had graduated with a solid B-plus average and honors in Spanish (being fluent in Portuguese certainly helped). She'd kissed her grandmother good-bye outside the auditorium and had scrambled to return home to pack for the Hamptons as soon

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  as she could. The Perrys kept to a tight schedule and expected everyone to adhere to it.

  Why, oh why, had she put packing off for so long? Jacqui wondered, even if she knew the answer only too well. Senior Week. Instead of spending time getting ready for the Perrys' annual pilgrimage to East Hampton, Jacqui had chosen to celebrate with her friends. The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind-there'd been a boozy bash at the Maritime Hotel, mini-golf at the Chelsea Piers, and an overnight retreat to the Catskills (campfire hookups and roasted marshmallows). Between the festivities and schlepping the Perry kids to their after-school activities, there just hadn't been any time to pack.

  Her head hurt from a massive hangover, thanks to last night's tequila-soaked grad party. She opened drawers haphazardly, throwing and discarding items at random. Pucci scarf. Yes. Cashmere cardigan. No. (Too hot.) Duro Olowu caftan. Yes. Juicy cover-up. Too last year. Havaianas. Yes. White Levi's. Definitely.

  She ran a hand through her thick black hair--the short, spiky fauxhawk she'd weathered for a fashion show last summer just a memory. The pixie cut had been cute, but she felt more like herself with her long dark tresses.

  Her first year in New York had been nothing short of magical. The Perrys had installed her in a studio apartment formerly occupied by their ex-nanny. Jacqui had gasped when she saw the six-hundred-square-foot space--a charming, cozy room with

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  floor-to-ceiling windows, a pretty alcove bedroom, a full kitchen, and a working fireplace. Only a block away from the Perrys' massive town house, the apartment was close enough that Jacqui could come over and watch the kids easily but far enough that she had her privacy.

  Jacqui had enrolled for her senior year at St. Grace--a small, all-girls' parochial school on the west side that had accepted her after Stuyvesant, one of the most competitive public schools in the country, did not. The Perrys had covered her tuition as part of her compensation, and Jacqui's classmates quickly idolized the brash, beautiful Brazilian in their midst. Jacqui had studied hard through the year but had still managed to become very popular. After all, she was the only one at school with her own apartment, and she'd hosted a lot of parties. She found an empty beer bottle underneath the bed and chucked it in the garbage can.

  The doorbell chimed again, and this time Jacqui could definitely make out Anna and Kevin Perry's quarreling voices behind the door.

  "I'm talking to you--don't answer your phone when I'm talking to you!"

  "Anna, this is work. It's important. Give me a sec, all right?"

  "You never listen to me. Work always comes first!"

  "Babe, please shut up. I need to take this."

  "Oh, just go ahead, then! Where is she? Jacqui! Jacqui!"

  "Coming!" Jacqui yelled. She ran over and opened the door.

  Anna Perry, a vision in sparkling Chanel tennis whites, tapped

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  her French manicure impatiently in the doorway. "The limo's here. We need to get to the Thirty-fourth Street helipad pronto or we'll lose our departure time," she ordered briskly. Kevin Perry, who looked tense and rumpled in a gray wool suit, gave Jacqui a curt nod as he put a cell phone to his ear.

  "Yes, yes, sorry--just--give me a minute." Jacqui nodded, closing the door in front of Anna's face. The Perrys might pay for the apartment, but it was still her own. Besides, she totally had to hide the keg that was standing in the middle of the living room.

  18

  mara achieves golden-girl status

  MARA STRODE CONFIDENTLY THROUGH THE AIRPORT, TAKING a little-known shortcut to the baggage claim area. She was so focused she didn't notice the many admiring stares in her direction. She cut a sharp figure in her tight white Michael Stars T-shirt, pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer clam diggers, and Tory Burch for TRB wedge sandals--recent purchases thanks to congratulatory checks from her grandparents. Her thick chestnut hair was expertly colored and styled, falling sexily just below her shoulders, and she was tan from spending a weekend on Block Island as part of graduation festivities.

  She retrieved the rest of her luggage, piled it on a cart, and walked out of the sliding glass doors to look for Ryan. She found him leaning against a flat red Ferrari Enzo illegally parked by the curb.

  He ran over toward her, taking long loping strides. "Hey, gorgeous," he said, plucking a garment bag from the top of the pile.

  "Hey, yourself," Mara replied, her heart skipping a beat--it always did whenever she saw his handsome face. She smiled at him over her matching butter-leather Coach

  suitcases--graduation

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  booty from her sister Megan, who had quit the beauty shop for a gig as a sales rep, meriting a deep discount.

  Ryan was wearing his hair longer, in a shaggy, college-boy cut, but otherwise he looked the same, the same burnished tan, the same slightly disheveled clothing--a worn Aboveground Records T-shirt over a pair of holey Rogan jeans, his usual rubber flip-flops, vintage Ray-Ban aviators perched on top of his forehead. Mara set the cart by the sidewalk and walked over to him, putting an arm around his waist as he fed the bag into his trunk.

  "New wheels?" she asked, admiring the Italian sports car.

  "Yeah." He shrugged apologetically. "My dad. I think it's some kind of guilt present. He forgot my birthday this year."

  In Mara's family, guilt presents meant homemade brownies and a trip to the mall, not to the Ferrari dealership. "What happened to your old car?"

  "Sugar's driving it around L.A."

  Mara thanked whatever gods were responsible that the twins, Ryan's eighteen-year-old hellion sisters, were going to be absent from the Hamptons scene this year. Sugar and Poppy had "gone Hollywood," and both were actively auditioning for movie roles. So far, they had made a total of one direct-to-video horror film but had managed to attend every red-carpet premiere in town. Sugar was currently recording an album (Melted Sugar), while Poppy was broadening her empire from a line of perfume--"Sniffers," by Poppy Perry--to include handbags ("Sniffers") and home fragrance ("Stinkers"). They were both famous for appearing inebriated and

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  half naked in public and, needless to say, had become very popular in Los Angeles.

  Mara shook her head at the memory of the twins' exploits-- she had almost forgiven them for their hand in what had happened last summer, but not quite.

  "Missed you," Ryan said, leaning down to give her a kiss. His lips pressed against hers, and Mara closed her eyes, opening her mouth to his. She felt him press against her body, and she tightened her embrace; soon the two of them were totally necking in front of the terminal. Ryan buried his face in Mara's neck, and she breathed in his familiar scent--Ivory soap underneath salt water and suntan lotion. Yummy.

  Several cars beeped in annoyance since Ryan's car was blocking traffic, and they reluctantly pulled away from each other.

  "Mmm," Ryan said, holding her arms to her sides and squeezing her shoulders. "I think we should go."

  "You think?" Mara winked, st
ill feeling happy and dazed from his hello kiss.

  Ryan raised an eyebrow at the sight of all the luggage. "I don't think it's all going to fit in the trunk." He shook his head.

  "I kind of over-packed."

  "I can see that." He nodded, attempting to stuff a particularly large suitcase into the Ferrari's tiny trunk. "If I'd known, I would have brought the Rover."

  "Sorry," Mara said sheepishly.

  Ryan cursed half seriously as the suitcase wheels became stuck

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  in the doorjamb. Mara stood back, not wanting to get in the way. "What's SGH?" she asked, noticing a small oval sticker on the left side of the convertible's bumper.

  "Sag Harbor, where we're spending the summer," Ryan explained, blushing a bit. "Anna got them for all the cars--theirs say, 'EH', for East Hampton. I couldn't stop her from sticking one on mine. It's kind of cheesy, I know."

  Mara smirked. A sticker proclaiming their summer destination-- trust Anna Perry, Ryan's status-conscious stepmother, never to pass up a chance to flaunt their wealth. In the end, Ryan was able to cram most of the luggage in the trunk and squish the rest in the sports car's tiny backseat. Mara balanced her brand-new Mulberry handbag on her lap and stuffed the matching tote bag underneath her feet. She felt slightly embarrassed to have packed so much--but as an intern at the Hamptons' most high-profile magazine, she was determined to look the part of a glamorous journalist, even if she would just be running to the Starbucks. She'd been in the Hamptons long enough to understand the meaning of "fake it till you make it."

  Ryan climbed into the driver's seat, and the Ferrari roared out to the lane. Mara beamed as her handsome boyfriend zoomed ahead of all the cars on the highway.

  Anyone who saw Mara would think she had always been one half of a golden couple. That she took for granted the kind of life most people only dreamed about. That she had been born beautiful, rich, blessed, and confident--but anyone who thought that couldn't have been more wrong.

  22

  eliza blings it on

  "HEY, VIDALIA," ELIZA SAID, WALKING OVER TO A RAIL-THIN, six-foot-tall model who was half in and half out of her Sydney Minx original. "Paige said you needed help?"

  "I can't seem to get this to work," the model complained in the flat, nasal tones of her native Cincinnati.

  Eliza wondered if Vidalia (one name only) had changed her name to project a more exotic image and in doing so had unwittingly styled herself after a very common onion.

  "Let's see, I think that's the armhole that you've got on your head, and this actually goes over here, and this one buttons to that part, and then this is loose," Eliza said, helping Vidalia out of the dress, then gliding it back over her shoulders and deftly snapping buttons and pulling the intricately shredded chiffon frock to its rightful position.

  Vidalia and Eliza stared at Vidalia's reflection.

  "That's it?" Vidalia asked skeptically.

  Eliza nodded, but she understood why the model looked doubtful. The dress, on its own, was supposed to be a show-stopper, but it still looked a little plain. It needed something. . . .

  Eliza spied several gold chain belts lying on a cutting table.

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  "Here," she said, draping the gold chains around the model's neck. "Put these on." Eliza layered gold-link necklace after gold-link necklace. Then she switched Vidalia's strappy sandals for a pair of brown crocodile leather thigh-high boots. It was supposed to be a spring/summer collection, but everyone was going to want a pair of boots this summer--cowboy boots, motorcycle boots, why not skyscraper croc? Sandals were so over. Feeling inspired, Eliza also spray-painted the edges of the dress for a dramatic finish.

  The model grinned at her reflection. It was sexy, street, and luxe at the same time, hitting just the right note of savvy and super-expensive. It was the way everyone wanted to look right now, and somehow Eliza had articulated the desire with just the right accessories.

  "Better, no?" Eliza asked.

  "Perfecto," Vidalia agreed, now sounding for all the world like a European heiress.

  They hugged each other, feeling an adrenaline high from a job well done, an outfit well planned. Eliza smiled, dropping to her knees to pin up the skirt hem to the right length.

  But when her high faded, Eliza felt nervous. It was a risky move, styling the dress and switching the sandals for boots. Only the head stylists--seasoned Seventh Avenue veterans with years of magazine experience and fashion show production under their braided Marni belts--were supposed to style the clothes for presentation.

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  Who knew how Sydney would react once he saw how Vidalia was wearing the dress? He might hate it. He might throw Eliza out of the studio for what she'd done. Eliza had seen it happen-- she'd been backstage at a fashion show last summer when the designer had thrown a glass of champagne at a makeup artist who'd had the audacity to lend a model his wraparound sunglasses for the show. The sunglasses hadn't been on the style sheet for that particular outfit. The designer had ripped the sunglasses off the model's head so violently, he'd pulled off her hair weave. The model had had to walk the runway bald as a newborn.

  Eliza panicked. "You know, Vidalia, maybe we should have you take off these chains," she suggested. "Sydney might not like it."

  But Vidalia only swatted Eliza's hand away. "It's great. Don't worry."

  In any case, it was too late, since all the models were being called for a final run-through. Eliza took a deep breath and walked to the middle of room, hoping her first day at Sydney's studio wouldn't be her last.

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  jacqui babysits a thirty-three-year-old

  BEHIND THE CLOSED DOOR, JACQUI COULD HEAR ANNA AND

  Kevin continue to quarrel about his inability to listen to his wife and her inability to let him do his job. She knew Anna and Kevin weren't mad at her. They were just using her tardiness as an excuse to yell at each other---something they did much too often these days. Jacqui knew that some of it stemmed from Anna's growing insecurity about growing older--she'd almost shot her hairstylist when he pointed out a few gray strands of hair at her last appointment.

  Jacqui didn't know how two people could drive each other so crazy. Anna nagged Kevin about everything from his table manners to his golf drive. Kevin squabbled with Anna over the credit card bills and the maid's housekeeping. Anna had a penchant for hurling the closest object at hand, and so far, several of her prized Lladro animal figurines had shattered in the heat of battle.

  Last week before a dinner party they were hosting in their apartment, Kevin had broken Anna's treasured Mason Pearson hairbrush in two in a fit of temper. "That's a six-hundred-dollar hairbrush!" Anna had wailed in agony, and in retaliation had

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  flicked his ear so hard during the ensuing battle that she'd broken cartilage. Enraged, Kevin had called Anna "abusive" and threatened to call 911. Things only calmed down when their guests arrived, wondering why Kevin's head was in a bandage.

  Jacqui had quickly learned to usher the children away from witnessing the battles of World War III. She was an even-tempered, sunny-side-of-the-street kind of girl. She liked things to be amicable. Even her breakup with Kit Ashleigh couldn't have been more civil.

  The two of them had dated soon after Jacqui had moved to New York. At first, things were great, but it soon became evident that they didn't work as a couple--Kit lost his cool every time another guy even looked at Jacqui (which was often) and Jacqui got tired of having to assure him 24/7 of her love. The last straw was when Kit didn't even want to take her to the newest club he was promoting because if they stayed home, then she was safe from the competition. Part of the reason she was drawn to him was because Kit always had a lot of fun. But somehow the two of them together only stressed him out. She could tell he'd almost been relieved when she broke it off--almost as if he'd been expecting it. Still, she was grateful they had been able to part as friends.

  After Kit, she had dated a few boys--no one special, no one who made her breath catch
in her throat and her skin tingle just at the sight of him. But Jacqui was an optimistic person. She would be open to love, and she would listen when it came knocking. After all, she had time to wait.

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  Like the way she could wait for NYU. They'd sent her an e-mail explaining that their decision hinged on one tiny, minuscule, nagging little detail. A problem with translating credits from her school back in Brazil. Some bureaucratic mess. Once it was cleared up, she would be sharing notes with some underage supermodel and a lone Olsen twin before she knew it.

  Nothing really bothered Jacqui. After all, when you're five-ten, built like Gisele Bundchen, with a smile as blinding as the sun, what was there to worry about? Plus, she was looking forward to another summer in the Hamptons--hanging out with Mara and Eliza again--and she wouldn't have any more pesky SAT classes to keep her from partying up a storm. It was going to rock! She deserved a break after working so hard all year.

  Jacqui went back to her packing, took one last look at the closet--sundresses? Espadrilles? Thongs? Check, check, check-- and zipped up both suitcases. She lugged them out to the door, where now only Anna was waiting.

  "Where's Kevin?" Jacqui asked. Over the year, her relationship with her famously demanding employer had become almost sisterly. Anna wasn't as terrifying or insane once you got to know her better, and they had become so friendly that Anna had even begun to confide in Jacqui.

  "He's not coming. He got called for a meeting. So now I don't have a date for the East Hampton Day-Care benefit tonight. Men!"

  Jacqui followed Anna into the elevator. "It's probably important."