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  “It’s supposed to be tight,” Eliza replied, cinching it so that the dress showed off Mara’s lithe figure to spectacular effect. With its fishtail hem and crisscrossing straps in the back, it was one of her favorite pieces in her collection. “See?” She stepped back and turned Mara toward the mirror.

  Mara took in her reflection. She had to admit, the constriction of her breathing might actually be worth it. If there was one thing you could say about Eliza’s designs, it was that they flattered a woman’s figure. She smiled at herself in the mirror, sneaking a glance at Eliza’s beaming face and the messy bedroom behind them.

  In typical Eliza fashion, her room at the Finnemore mansion looked like a hurricane had hit it—clothes, papers, and trash were strewn about everywhere. Balled-up designer gowns littered the carpet, along with tangled bikinis, wet beach towels, empty Fiji water bottles, and various fashion magazines. The dresser was covered in cosmetic cases, hairbrushes, and jars of face cream and lotion. Eliza had only lived in the room for a week, and yet it already looked like she’d been there for years. It was a minor miracle that she emerged from her messy room looking immaculately groomed every day.

  Mara’s phone vibrated with a text message on the dresser beside her, and she grabbed it while Eliza knelt down to pin the hem on her gown. She flipped up the screen.

  VU FRM EIFFEL TWR GR8. BUT NOT SAME W/O U.

  David again. He’d e-mailed her from Europe a few days after he’d arrived, explaining that it was hard to get an Internet connection and that his cell phone charged astronomical fees for international calls. But he’d quickly discovered he could send text messages for the usual fee and had taken to texting her multiple times a day to let her know exactly where he was—and, inadvertently, what she was missing.

  Like Jacqui, Mara had found the kids to be a breeze, but being back to playing nanny was still quite a letdown after her glorious summer plans had gone awry. Mara had spent the afternoon chauffeuring Violet to her various tutors, baby Cassidy strapped in the backseat, while Jacqui took the boys to their lessons. She had given them both their dinner, and Violet had gone to bed early to get ready for her Mandarin exam the next day, and the baby was already asleep. While nannying the Finnemores wasn’t all that difficult, it also wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.

  Mara texted back. PARTY TONIGHT. AM BUSY.

  There. That should let him know she was preoccupied with her own glamorous life. Not that it was that much of a stretch—in the long, elegant white gown, she couldn’t help but feel glamorous, and she did have a fun night ahead of her with her friends.

  “That should do it,” Eliza said, knotting up the stitch and cutting the thread with her teeth. She brushed lint off her knees and stood up. “Where’s Jacqui?” she asked, glancing at the bedside clock, which was partially obscured by a pair of dangling bra cups. Whoops, maybe when she got a spare moment she should clean up a bit in here. Not that she ever had a spare moment. She was already past due at the store. The caterers should have arrived by now, as well as the army of publicists who were working the event. According to Eliza’s schedule, her staff would be assembling the gift bags right this moment. She’d only waited because she wanted to see how Jacqui looked in the outfit she’d chosen for her.

  “She called—she was running late with the boys. Jackson got sick in the car and they had to stop at a gas station, but she’ll be here,” Mara answered, examining her profile in the mirror. The dress was a bit ta-da! and she had been worried about being able to pull it off, but Eliza was right—it did look better tighter.

  “I hope she gets here soon. I want to make sure her dress fits perfectly—I’m worried it’s too low in the chest,” Eliza fretted.

  “When has that ever been a problem with Jac?” Mara laughed. The girl lived in low-cut outfits. “Décolletage is Jacqui’s middle name.”

  “I know.” Eliza nodded with a wry smile. “But I want to make sure it looks Mischa Barton sexy, not Jessica Simpson sexy.” She ran a hand nervously through her hair.

  “Oh my God. What is that?” Mara shrieked as an enormous diamond ring on Eliza’s hand caught the light.

  Eliza wondered what had gotten into Mara until she noticed the rock on her finger. She usually wore it stone-side down to deflect attention since she didn’t know what to make of it yet. She felt more comfortable showing the world she was wearing a plain platinum band, but the ring had turned around when she wasn’t looking, and the five-carat rock was now front and center.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Mara said, sticking her face a centimeter away from Eliza’s hand so she could see it better. “When did you get this?” She looked up at Eliza curiously.

  “Last Sunday,” Eliza admitted, chewing her bottom lip. She’d been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the news, having not breathed a word to her friends. She pulled away, picking up a powder brush from the vanity and dusting her nose, as if getting a six-figure diamond ring from her boyfriend happened every week. She just didn’t feel like getting into it.

  She and Jeremy still hadn’t had a proper conversation about what had happened that day at old lady Greyson’s. Every time she felt like bringing the subject up, she couldn’t find the right words. Asking him exactly what he’d meant by giving her the ring seemed so … rude. Especially since Jeremy was being so unbelievably sweet and supportive of her store opening. This week he’d sent her flowers out of the blue and offered to help set up at the party, even though he had a big deadline on one of his jobs. He was acting like something very important had now been settled between them. The problem was, Eliza couldn’t shake off a feeling that felt anything but settled. Did the ring mean what she—and now Mara—thought it meant?

  “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 w
ished 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 obsession—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.