Sun-kissed (Au Pairs, The) Page 5

  "Excuse me, Anna," Mara said, taking her leave and turning to her friend.

  Lucky was wearing a voluminous velvet frock coat over a T-shirt that read Fashion Victim! (Edwardian irony was in, and last year's African muumuus were out this summer), with his trusty digital Nikon around his neck. He was scanning the crowd with a raised eyebrow.

  "It's just exes, siblings, and stepkids tonight," he lamented, meaning the crowd was made up of those with tenuous connections to the famous rather than real celebrities themselves.

  "What should I do?" Mara asked eagerly.

  "What we always do: lie, lie, lie! All these parties are so mothaeffing boring, but no one has to know that or we'll be out of work."

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  Mara laughed. She knew Lucky was joking. Or at least, she hoped he was. She gave him a rundown of what she'd observed. She thought she'd spotted a famous socialite--one of the Bush nieces--but she wasn't sure. And she had caught a glimpse of a married polo player kissing a newlywed television starlet near the coat check.

  "Do you think that's enough for the column?"

  "Honey, of course it is. You can put the canoodling adulterers in the "blind item" category. But I'll run the starlet's photo above it so everyone will know it was him," Lucky said wickedly.

  "Oh, good," Mara said, relieved.

  "Miss Mara Waters," a sexy yet familiar voice growled behind her.

  She turned around. "Mister Garrett Reynolds," she cooed back, folding her arms under her chest.

  Garrett brushed a saucy flop of dark hair out of his eye. He was tan and wearing a white linen shirt and cream-colored trousers. He kissed her on the cheek and acted like they were old friends and like nothing had ever happened between them--as though he hadn't dumped her unceremoniously once she'd been the victim of bad press.

  "Working hard?"

  She shrugged.

  "Good luck with it," he said, shaking his whiskey glass. "It's my last night here."

  "Oh? You're not staying in the Hamptons this summer?"

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  Garrett laughed as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Oh no, of course not. The Hamptons are so over. We're renting out the house. I'll be in Cape Town, where the real action is." He smirked. "But you have fun--I know you'll find some way to get into trouble."

  His condescending and dismissive attitude did little to dampen Mara's spirits. Garrett was an ass, and she was glad to see the back of him. She wondered how on earth she'd ever found him attractive.

  She suddenly missed Ryan, who was sure to be asleep with the TV turned to Aqua Teen Hunger Force. She thought about heading home and crawling into bed next to him, but Lucky Yap called her over to introduce her to Jill Klompenhower, the only real A-list celeb in the joint--an Oscar-winning actress who was rumored to have recently annulled her two-week marriage to a Christian rocker. Suddenly Mara was too busy trying to remember every detail of Jill's story to pine for her sleeping boyfriend.

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  as heidi klum would say, eliza is "in" and paige is "out"

  ELIZA HELPED ANOTHER MODEL WITH HER OUTFIT, TWEAKING it so that the girl wore the newsboy cap at a rakish angle and the lacy camisole over the dress instead of vice versa. Then she moved on to the next one and the next, making little adjustments, adding earrings here, a pair of fishnet stockings there--and before she knew it, she'd changed the entire look and feel of the collection.

  There! Eliza thought. Now, that's more like it. The clothes all displayed an overall theme, with a sexy, beachy, jet-set vibe. More like the Sydney Minx collection of old. She had to say so herself--she was a genius!

  "What do you think you're doing?" Paige demanded. She had walked out of Sydney's office and only just noticed that almost all of the models were wearing their outfits ever-so-slightly differently.

  "Oh, Paige!" Eliza pouted. "You scared me."

  "Sydney, look what she's done!" Paige called out ominously. "Everything is different!"

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  The designer emerged from his office. He frowned and cupped his chin in the palm of his hand. "Let me see."

  Eliza froze. She held her breath. All her bravado momentarily left her. It was easy to feel confident and inspired when the models cooed and aahed over her changes, but they were just models--what did they know? Most of them couldn't even spell their own fake names.

  "Good, good," Sydney said. "Continue," he told Eliza. "And Paige, give her a hand."

  It was a moment of triumph Eliza found bittersweet. Because while she took it upon herself to feverishly spray-paint, shred, and accessorize each outfit, Paige stood to the side, bored, unhelpful, and seething with barely controlled passive-aggressive rage.

  "Can I get a glue gun, please?" Eliza called to her as she pulled on a model's skirt and began pinching the fabric in a ruched pattern.

  "Here," Paige said, throwing it down.

  The clatter made Eliza jump, causing her to cut into the fabric with her scissors.

  "Jesus!" the model yelped.

  "Oh, fuck!" Eliza said, noticing the hole. She looked over at Paige, who looked the picture of innocence. She knew Paige had done it on purpose, but there was nothing Eliza could do about it.

  Eliza had a thought. "Hold still," she told the model, cutting

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  another hole in the skirt and another and another, creating a sexy peekaboo design.

  A few minutes later, there was a ruckus in the back of the room. "It's too small!" the model complained. The coffee-colored leather dress she was wearing was so short it barely covered her bottom.

  "What's happened now? I warn you girls, I cannot have another crisis! I'm already out of Xanax!" Sydney shouted, storming over to assess the situation.

  "Eliza told me to put it in the dryer--and look," Paige said smugly. "The outfit's ruined. It'll never be ready for the show."

  "I was going for a distressed leather thing," Eliza explained, examining the destroyed fabric with a critical eye. She had asked Paige to set the machine on delicate, but obviously the malicious assistant had made sure the machine was set on high.

  The leather was nubby and indeed shrunken.

  "Here," Eliza, decided, handing the model a pair of denim cutoffs. She pulled the dress higher on the waist. "It's a top!"

  "Naturally," Sydney agreed, fanning away.

  "Naturally," Eliza repeated, beaming her million-dollar smile Paige's way. No matter how badly Paige tried to sabotage her efforts, Eliza could do no wrong.

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  if only all nerf football games ended this way

  JACQUI ARRIVED IN THE HAMPTONS AT SUNSET. THE PERRY

  estate, Creek Head Manor, was just as immaculate and photo-shoot-ready as ever, as if waiting for its close-up in Metropolitan Home. Laurie, Anna's jovial assistant, had arrived a week earlier to make the proper preparations, and there were long-stemmed white calla lilies blooming in all the vases and fresh Italian linens on each bed. Anna had ordered yet another renovation over the winter, and the house now boasted a solarium and a fully equipped wet bar in the master closet. The master bath also housed Jackie Onassis's former bidet (purchased at an exorbitant price at auction) to match the existing Marie Antoinette bath tiles.

  Jacqui made the kids dinner and gave the little ones baths, and after she'd tucked them into bed, reminding William and Madison not to stay up too late, she was finally free to unpack and set up her own room. She trudged up the rickety steps to the highest floor and opened the door, tearing through a cobweb.

  After living in high style in the city for a year, going back to the au pair cottage was a bit of letdown for Jacqui. The room was dark and musty and smelled like mildew. Jacqui threw open the

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  windows and immediately wished she were back in her apartment's central-air-conditioned comfort. She found wrinkled percale sheets in the drawers and halfheartedly tossed them on the stained and lumpy mattress on the single bed. It just wasn't the same without Eliza whining about the tiny bathroom or Mara admonishing e
veryone to prepare for work the next day.

  She sat moodily at the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, tossing the ashes haphazardly into the nearby planter that contained a dry ficus tree.

  Jacqui scratched her cheek and took a long puff. Eliza was still in the city, and Mara was on the boat with Ryan--best to let them alone on their first night back. In the middle of unpacking, she spotted the lights from the pool illuminating the garden pathway. Now, there was an idea. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and walked quickly out of the cottage.

  Just what she needed-a little skinny-dip to make her feel better. Anna was out at the benefit, and it was past midnight, so the kids were asleep. ... It wasn't like there was anyone else in the house. . . . The water was warm and refreshing--the Perrys had it especially irrigated with the finest fresh water pumped in from a stream in the North Fork. She did a couple of lazy strokes, then floated on her back for a while. She swam to the side of the pool, where an icy tumbler was waiting. Thankfully, she knew where the keys to the liquor cabinet were kept.

  After a few minutes, she decided she'd had enough and swam to the opposite edge nearer the path back to the cottage. She

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  emerged from the water, dripping and naked, just as the bushes that lined the perimeter of the pool exploded with a crash.

  Jacqui screamed.

  Three boys wrestling over a foam football tumbled through the hedge that separated the Perrys' home from the Reynolds property.

  "Twelve--twelve--twelve o'clock!" Duffy choked, still holding on to the Nerf. "It's her!"

  "Sweet Mother of Mercy," Ben exclaimed, craning his neck. "Swear to God, I'm never going back to Harvard."

  "Senorita, please excuse my stupid friends," Grant said in his slow southern drawl, which would have been charming had he not been lying on the ground, his face smashed up in the grass.

  They stared round-eyed at Jacqui in all her naked glory, wearing nothing but her Brazilian--bikini wax, that is.

  "Merda!" she cursed, wrapping a towel around herself and running back to the au pair cottage, leaving three very love-struck boys in her wake.

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  mara has king-size

  doubts about her new position

  A LITTLE AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING, MARA CREPT BACK

  onboard the Catalina. She slowly unlocked the cabin door and softly tiptoed inside the dark stateroom. Moonlight spilled through the porthole, and Mara could see Ryan's long form huddled underneath the white goose-down comforter.

  She eased out of her heels, pulling down the straps, and massaged the balls of her feet. Jill had invited them over to her Bridgehampton rental, and after a couple of vodka shots and a drunken game of "Celebrity" (the star herself winning on her Nicole Richie impersonation alone), they'd finally called it an evening.

  Mara filed the story of Jill's annulment and all the details of the day-care benefit party from her BlackBerry, hoping against hope that the story would make it into the magazine's next issue. Lucky had assured her the piece was fine, but she wasn't so sure. What if her boss didn't like any of the jokes about the Walkers? Or the remark about how in the current celebrity math, two

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  assistants of the famous now equaled one C-list star? For example, CaCee Cobb (Jessica Simpson's personal assistant and best friend) + Trace Ayala (Justin Timberlake's personal assistant and best friend) = Brooke Burke.

  Her feet made a squishy noise on the thick carpet, and she locked herself in the bathroom to wash her face, shower, and change. She slipped into one of Ryan's old T-shirts, feeling the softness of the cotton against her skin.

  She slid underneath the covers and quietly snuggled into his chest, angling her body so that her arms ducked underneath his armpits and held him close while her legs curved under his legs.

  "Mmmmppf," Ryan murmured, patting her arm absentmind-edly. He sighed.

  "Ry, are you awake? Ryan?" she whispered. "I think they made a big mistake sending me to cover the party. I don't know anything about writing a society column. I'm not even in society."

  She was hopped up from the vodka and anxious about her story. If only he would wake up so she could talk to him about it. She could really use his support right now.

  "Mmmppff. . . huh?" Ryan said sleepily. "Don't worry about it. Everything'll be fine," he mumbled.

  Mara wrung her hands. What if her boss totally hated her copy? She'd be stuck with penning nothing but photo captions all summer. L-R, Ketchup Heir, Trophy Wife, Prominent Plastic Surgeon . . .

  "Ryan, are you listening? Honey, I'm so nervous," she said.

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  Ryan snored loudly in response. He turned over to his other side and hugged his pillow, leaving Mara feeling abandoned on the other side of the king-size bed.

  Oh, well ... so much for that. Standing in heels for three hours was an exercise in torture anyway, so she could use the rest. She gave Ryan one final kiss on the cheek and turned away from him to face the wall, hugging the covers to her chest.

  They slept like that, back to back, their bodies scarcely touching. The bed rocked softly as the boat bobbed up and down in the water, and when Mara closed her eyes, she dreamed she was floating alone through space.

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  there's nothing like a job

  well done to make a girl feel good

  THAT WAS THE LAST OF IT.ELIZA HELD THE BOX FLAPS

  together while the other intern taped them shut. It was officially six o'clock in the morning, and the entire staff had been working all through the night. Eliza felt slightly delirious, but she was exultant. The final choices for the show turned out incredibly-- she'd placed over-the-top jewelry on all the models, played with different textures and patterns, and succeeded in creating a super-glamorous spectacle. Sydney couldn't have been more pleased nor Paige more annoyed.

  Eliza was on cloud nine. She'd never worked so hard and felt so good in her life! The collection was amazing--even Paige had grudgingly remarked on how gorgeous everything looked. She was so proud of herself. This was even better than scoring a 5 on all of her AP tests.

  They'd packed each outfit in acid-free tissue and hung them inside plastic bags in a portable closet that was going in the truck to the Hamptons. The messengers were arriving in an hour, and

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  the clothes would be in the store by the next morning--the day of the party.

  Eliza planned to catch a few hours' sleep and then drive out to the Hamptons later that afternoon. She nodded good-bye to the rest of the team and went home for a well-deserved shower.

  In an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, Sydney had allowed everyone to take the company car service home, and a fleet of black Lincoln town cars were parked in front of the building. Eliza directed hers up to Park Avenue.

  It was wonderful to be home--truly home. The doorman tipped his hat and held the door open for her, and she felt an immeasurable amount of pleasure as she walked into the marble lobby, decorated with rococo-style pastel murals of nymphs and cherubs. She took the carpeted, mirrored elevator to the twenty-first floor. The Thompsons' homestead had been in Eliza's mother's family since the early part of the twentieth century. It was a "classic six," but a "luxury twelve" was more like it, since it was double the usual square footage, with a soaring, three-story entry space and a balcony that overlooked Central Park.

  Her parents were already in the Hamptons, back in their Amagansett "cottage"

  (their ten-bedroom country house could only be called rustic according to the standards of a Ralph Lauren ad), and Cheka, their maid, answered the door sleepily in her nightgown. Eliza was shocked to realize she'd probably been working harder than Cheka all evening and most likely getting paid less for it. It was strange--Eliza would never have thought of

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  herself as someone who enjoyed working, but a day in Sydney's studio had suddenly changed that.

  All of her friends from Spence did nothing more than make hair appointments, shop for clothes, and talk about boys. S
ure, there were those brilliant girls who went to Williamsburg for the summer for acting camp or interned at magazines or the White House, but Eliza had never been interested in being one of them.

  She never thought a hard night of work would actually make her feel more energized, not less. But having the opportunity to express herself creatively and using her innate talents to make something beautiful brought a level of satisfaction she'd never experienced before. Eliza felt inspired, and she was glad she'd taken the internship at Sydney's company. She couldn't wait until the show itself.

  A few hours later, refreshed from a nap and a much-needed shower, Eliza packed the last of her monogrammed Goyard bags and called downstairs for a taxi. She took the taxi to their garage across town, which housed her new ride--a sporty new Land Rover LR3, an upgrade from last summer's leased Jetta. Her parents had bought her the car as a prize for getting into Princeton, her father's alma mater. The SUV was polished to a shine, and Eliza threw her stuff in the back and hopped inside the driver's seat.

  A clipped British voice greeted her as soon as she gunned the engine. "Good morning, Eliza. Where would you like to go today?"

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  "Good morning, car!" Eliza chirped back. It always cracked her up to have a conversation with her automobile. Eliza punched their address in Amagansett into the automated GPS system.

  The car began giving her directions, and Eliza drove it out of the lot and pulled out into traffic. "Telephone," the car informed her as a flashing symbol on the dashboard lit up.

  "Answer," Eliza said.

  "Answering telephone. You are connected."