Jacqui blushed. “That was more fun than I was expecting,” she admitted. When she’d realized that the staged shoot had ended and the real paparazzi had been making a fuss over her, the attention had made her head fizzle, like bubbles in a glass of expensive champagne.
“You’re just as much fun as I’d been expecting.” Marcus grinned wickedly, leaning forward in his chair. Jacqui held her breath as she saw him lean in toward her, wanting to freeze this moment in time. She was on top of the world, and the most handsome guy she’d met in ages was right there with her.
She giggled and closed her eyes and felt his soft lips press on hers. He caressed her hair as he kissed her gently, his hand finding its way down her back. She felt butterflies in her stomach at his touch.
When they pulled apart, he kept his hand firmly on the small curve of her hip, and she decided that she was going to stay within reach of him for the rest of that night.
Who cared if she had to get up at 6 a.m. the next morning to make the kids their organic breakfast?
is midas interested in
eliza’s designs, or does he
have designs on eliza?
WHEN THE SHOOT WAS OVER AND JACQUI HAD finished preening for the real paparazzi, Eliza tried not to feel too piqued that none of the photographers had bothered to take her picture. After all, wasn’t she someone too? Not too long ago, Eliza Thompson had ruled the glam-girl private school crowd, her photograph appearing everywhere from the Times social diary to Town & Country and Vanity Fair. But her high school days were over, and already a new crop of hot young heiresses ruled the society pages. The new girls even had websites and rankings and online fan clubs.
Midas saw the slightly distressed look on her face as he stowed away his gear. “You know the press—they’re rabid for a new face. It’s much better to stay in the background without all the fuss, don’t you think? Funny how so much is made of the models when they’d be nothing without the designers.”
“You’re right.” Eliza nodded, jollied out of her temporary irritation and silly jealousy. After all, Jacqui was promoting her line. She’d just been sort of touchy recently because all anyone seemed to be interested in when it came to Eliza Thompson was her “engagement” to the “Greyson heir.” The papers had been having a field day with the story. Not that she could complain—she’d started it. And at least the publicity had been paying off, since sales in her boutique were through the roof in just its first week. She smiled shyly at Midas, glad to have such a gentleman at her side.
“Let’s leave them to it, shall we?” He handed his camera and tripod to an assistant and escorted her into the party. The two of them giggled at the outlandish extravagance. “I didn’t realize Morocco was one of the fifty states,” Midas quipped. “But perhaps I need to catch up on my American history.”
Eliza laughed. “Nope, you’re just in the Hamptons—aka an alternate universe.” She was used to the quirks of the Hamptons high life. She’d once attended a black-tie square dance: the richest people in America line dancing among bales of hay, for the bargain price of five thousand dollars a plate.
While Marcus and Jacqui had been seated at a grand table at the center of the action, she and Midas opted for a booth in a quiet corner, sinking back into the plump cushions. Midas ordered a bottle of champagne from a passing waitress and they watched as a gyrating belly dancer approached their table, her finger cymbals clanking.
Eliza felt slightly awkward at the sight of the woman’s undulating stomach, but Midas looked completely at ease, clapping to the beat and smiling. At the end of the performance, he discreetly tucked a ten-dollar bill into the top of her skirt as the dancer indicated.
“Thank you, sir,” the dancer said, before bowing and leaving them to dance for another table.
“Very welcome,” he replied. He noticed Eliza staring and explained. “Audience participation is a big part of belly dancing. I learned that in Lebanon.”
“You’ve been to Lebanon?” Eliza asked, impressed.
Midas nodded. “We did a shoot for French Vogue in the city ruins. It’s a shame what’s happened to that country. They’ve rebuilt a lot since the war, but it’s a slow process, and the recent skirmishes obviously haven’t helped.” Midas shook his head, saddened. “Beirut was the Riviera of the Middle East. The most fantastic nightclubs, and the food was amazing. Try this, it’s delicious,” he added, passing Eliza a plate of merguez sausages.
Eliza took a little bite. He was right—they were yummy. Tonight was purely business, but she couldn’t help feeling that the circumstances were rather enjoyable. As an intern with Sydney Minx, she’d helped out on fashion shoots before, but those had been drawn-out affairs, with teams of stylists arguing with the photographer and Sydney about how the clothes should look. The Easton boys worked “light,” with just a handful of assistants, and Midas had been so confident in her vision that he’d let her style the shoot without any help from outside professionals.
She felt a tiny bit guilty about enjoying the party when she’d left Jeremy alone for the night, but they had made plans to catch the fireworks from his dock later. Besides, as she’d told herself a dozen times, he wouldn’t have fun at a party like this, especially not with her and Midas wrapped up in fashion talk.
In the short time they’d been working together, Eliza had quickly divined that Midas made all the decisions for team Easton, while Marcus seemed to be content to go with the flow. As far as she could see, Marcus’s main task consisted of talking up the project to anyone who would listen—he was the mouth of the operation, Midas the brain. But when she’d hinted as much, Midas explained that while he usually took the bulk of the photographs with his professional Canon, Marcus tended to capture great candid moments with his little Canon Elph that added texture to the shoot as a whole.
“So, where else have you been?” Eliza asked, reaching for the crock of couscous on the table and spooning some onto her plate.
“Oh my, everywhere,” Midas said. “Let’s see, last month we were in Hanoi for Visionnaire,” he said, naming a very avant-garde fashion magazine. “We had snake for dinner.”
“Snake?” Eliza shuddered.
“It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac. You eat the heart and the blood,” Marcus explained, smiling as Eliza looked askance. “We couldn’t offend our hosts, so we did it.”
“What did it taste like?” she asked, happy to be chewing on a baked fig and not some uncooked reptile’s guts.
“Chicken.” Midas laughed. “Ever had fugu?” he asked, naming the rare Japanese blowfish.
“Isn’t that poisonous?” Eliza asked, dipping a falafel ball into the cup of yogurt. She usually skipped the food offerings at a party, but the spread was too tantalizing to resist.
“Not if it’s cooked correctly. Besides, I like to live dangerously,” he said, raising an eyebrow James Bond style. “Easton. Midas Easton,” he added for effect.
She laughed and took a bite of the falafel ball, careful not to let the yogurt drip onto her dress. “So what’s the scariest thing you’ve ever seen?”
“When we went scuba diving in Palau with Quentin Tarantino, we came face-to-face with a great white. Thought that was it, that was the end. But he just bumped us, scared the shit out of me—and went on his merry way.”
Eliza raised an eyebrow, impressed. “I went running with the bulls in Pamplona one year when I was little. With my parents. We didn’t know they didn’t let kids do it. I got separated from them and cried my eyes out.”
Midas whistled in sympathy. “Bet you gave the bulls a good run, though,” he teased.
She smiled at Midas. For all his celebrity-studded stories and global travels, he was so down-to-earth and easy to talk to. He leaned back in his chair and studied Eliza thoughtfully, his shaggy bangs falling into his eyes. “By the way, I looked at the fall portfolio you sent over. It’s really quite fantastic.”
“Thanks.” Eliza smiled, coloring with pleasure.
“I worked for a sea
son with Phoebe Philo, of Chloé. Your work reminds me of hers. It’s incredibly modern and fresh,” he continued.
Eliza gaped. Phoebe Philo was pretty much her hero. “Go on,” Eliza said demurely.
Marcus chuckled. “You’re going to get a lot of attention because you’re so young and beautiful, you know. But you’ve also got the chops to back it up. I won’t be surprised if you start getting backers. Or if the Vuitton group snatches you up, launches you like they did Stella McCartney. Of course, you can look like a troll and still be successful in this business—I won’t name names.” He grinned wickedly. “But if you have the looks as well as the brains and the savvy, nothing can stop you.”
Eliza lowered her lashes and blushed. It was so flattering to have someone—especially someone who knew the fashion industry—understand and appreciate her work. Plus, he’d said she was beautiful, hadn’t he?
“So who’s the lucky guy?” Midas asked, nodding toward the rock on her finger.
“My boyfriend, Jeremy,” Eliza replied. “We’ve been dating for three years,” she added, almost apologetically.
“What’s he like? What does he do? Describe Mr. Right to me.” Midas settled back into the plush cushions behind him, as if waiting for Eliza to unveil all the secrets of womankind.
Eliza tucked a lock of hair behind her ear before answering. “He’s really nice. Sweet. He’s from here. The Hamptons. But not “The Hamptons,” she added quickly, making air quotes with her fingers. She explained about Jeremy’s modest background and how he’d overcome it.
“So why him?” Midas asked, reaching over and lighting the gold hookah pipe that sat in the middle of the table. He took a puff and the sweet smell of fruit-scented smoke filled the air.
“That’s a personal question, don’t you think?” she asked tartly, lightly slapping him on the knee. “Why are you so interested?”
Midas didn’t answer her and instead blew out a smoke ring, passing her the pipe.
“I don’t know—because he’s the nicest guy I ever met,” Eliza said before inhaling the sweet tobacco.
“And that’s enough for you?”
Of course it was enough … wasn’t it? Eliza felt her brow furrow. What were Jeremy’s goals? What did he want to do with his life? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember anything he wanted to do except renovate a big old house and have a soccer team of kids. But surely that wasn’t all…. Jeremy had big plans, didn’t he? Eliza racked her brain. Something to do with building his landscaping business? Maybe?
“Nice guys finish first, huh?” Midas smiled, a slight sadness in his deep blue eyes.
“I guess.” Eliza shrugged. She’d never really questioned the reasons why she and Jeremy were together before. He was cute and loving and he made her laugh, so why was she feeling so defensive suddenly?
“And where’s Mr. Right tonight? He doesn’t like parties?”
“No, he does …,” Eliza protested. He came with her to events like this when she asked him to, but she knew all the air-kissing and talk of fabulousness just wasn’t his thing. Jeremy was completely supportive, but she knew all the fashion stuff bored him—bored most guys, really—to tears.
“Not his thing, got it.” Midas nodded, seemingly glad to have figured out “Mr. Right.”
Eliza shrugged uncomfortably. She didn’t want to say anything to Midas about Jeremy that was disloyal. Especially since it suddenly occurred to her that Midas was the type of guy she’d always thought she would end up with—sophisticated, well traveled, culturally savvy. Until she’d ended up with Jeremy, who thought a trip to Connecticut was exotic.
Just then her cell phone rang. The display read J STONE, and oops, 10 p.m. She’d promised she’d meet him at the dock for fireworks a half hour ago. “I’m almost there!” she sang into the phone, even though she knew she couldn’t make it there for another half hour at least. She started to get up from the table just as the waitress finally returned with their champagne.
“Sure you can’t stay for one drink?” Midas asked, taking the bottle from the bucket with a flourish and preparing to pop the cork.
Eliza glanced at the label. Cristal. And this was about business, after all…. She eased back down onto the cushions.
“To Eliza Thompson, this generation’s Coco Chanel!” Midas proposed as the champagne bubbled over their glasses. “To the best spread ever,” he added as he handed her a flute of bubbly, his blue eyes shining.
Eliza accepted the glass. How could she leave when she was being toasted as the next big thing? She’d go meet Jeremy after this one drink. After all, it was the Hamptons. Nobody was ever on time.
www.blogspot/hamptonsaupair1
galloping gourmands
The other day we had to prepare five different lunches for the kids, who are encouraged to “explore their personal palates” and “discover new tastes and new experiences” according to their gifted programs and therefore demand individually crafted meals with stringent specifications. Violet wanted a soy burger cooked extra-crunchy, Jackson wanted quinoa-and-tofu teriyaki, Logan a Provencal pot-au-feu, and Cassidy spit out the mashed organic zucchini I prepared for him until I got the texture just right (not too lumpy!). Thank God for Wyatt, who was happy with PB and J. My kind of guy.
miss crankypants in the hamptons
J. is a supermodel! Her photos from the Fourth of July party appeared everywhere. E. can’t stock enough of that dress…. J. is also now dating that handsome photog, who’s a bit too slick for my taste but is definitely a cutie. J. is over the moon, singing while she changes diapers; she’s in such a good mood she didn’t even blink when S. called us in for an emergency meeting after Wyatt failed his KRTs. Poor kid’s gotta go in for remedial kinder-tutoring.
As far as I know, E. and J. are on the road to the altar, although E. is so busy with the store she hasn’t begun to plan the wedding or even picked a date. Gotta get that girl on the ball. Doesn’t she know it takes a year to get everything together? Oh, well. From the way she waves the subject off every time I ask about it, she isn’t in any sort of rush.
Meanwhile, D. is officially out of the picture. Haven’t heard from him since the day before I sent my nasty e-mail, when he was in Rome. (Apparently, D.’s last words as my boyfriend will have been to convey that the pasta in Italy is beyond scrumptious. I’ll never know.) I really should have waited just a little while to get drunk and mean, since I’d asked him to pick me up a fake Hermès bag from this guy E. knows who has a table by the Trevi Fountain a while back. I can’t really hope he’ll still bring me one now that we no longer appear to be together, right? Is there such a thing as a breakup parting gift?
And not to keep whining, but I really, really don’t want to run into my ex R. and his new gal pal T. Thank God, I haven’t seen them anywhere, not even at the tea shop where R. gets all his super-antioxidant green tea that he’s addicted to. Phew. I don’t want to be a bitch (but I will be), but T. isn’t all that great. I know she’s gorgeous and athletic and good-spirited and all (at least that’s what R. always said about her—sans the gorgeous part, although that was obvious enough to everyone). But can I just point out that she has a slightly horse face and a hyena-like laugh. A veritable zoo in one package. Okay. That was so Mean Girls. But whatever. I’m allowed. No one reads this blog anyway, right?
Till next time,
HamptonsAuPair1
dalai lama says:
enlightenment means
making friends out of enemies
MARA WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF THE BABY CRYING from the monitor. As she eased her feet into her slippers, she shot a grumpy look in the direction of Jacqui’s empty bed. It was Jacqui’s turn to give Cassidy a bath and a bottle, but the Brazilian au pair was nowhere to be found. Since hooking up with Marcus on the Fourth of July, she’d spent almost all of her free time with him, even after the shoots. She was usually good about getting back to the mansion before the kids woke up, but this time, she was late.
Mara dialed her c
ell number. It rang and rang and then went to voice mail. Not willing to give up that easily, she tried again. Jacqui picked up on the last ring.
“Jac? Where are you?” Mara asked, trying to sound more concerned than irritated.
“Mmmpph?”
“It’s seven; we need to get the kids ready. It’s Dalai Lama day, remember?”
“Merda!” Mara heard the phone clatter as it fell to the floor and then Jacqui’s voice again. “I’m so sorry, I overslept. But I can get there and be ready to go in an hour.”
Mara sighed. The kids had to be in Southampton’s largest auditorium before then. Their father, before he’d gone on his walkabout and never returned, had raised his kids as Buddhists, the religion he was practicing at the time. Suzy, who wasn’t religious, made sure the kids kept to the noble eightfold path so that they’d feel close to him when he came back—whenever that was. The Dalai Lama was in town for a whole week of events, but the morning’s special lecture, “Making Peace,” was to be the highlight of his trip.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mara told Jacqui. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure?” Jacqui asked, although the relief in her voice was all too evident.
“I’m sure,” Mara said with a huff, keeping an eye on the clock. She had to get the kids dressed, fed, and out the door as soon as possible if they were going to make it.
“We were out last night with some friends of theirs from Auckland, and Deus, can those Kiwis drink! We didn’t get in until five in the morning. Marcus promised me he’d set the alarm, but—Marcus … what are you doing? Don’t, I’m not ready…. Oof! He just took my picture!” Mara heard the sound of Jacqui pummeling her boyfriend with a pillow. When Jacqui came back on the line, she was still giggling. “Seriously, though, if you need me, I can meet you there,” Jacqui offered.
“I told you, it’s okay. Do you know where the kids’ togas are?”