She began to wave, but Eliza tugged on her arm. “Oh. My. God. Do you know who those guys are?” Eliza whispered fiercely, pulling Jacqui close. “That’s Midas and Marcus Easton—they’re the hottest photographers in fashion right now!”
“Really?” Jacqui asked. So they hadn’t been lying or pretending to be something they weren’t. That was good to know. So many guys called themselves “photographers” when really all they did was run up-skirt websites. Not that Jacqui had ever been on one, thank you very much. But she’d seen the Chauncey Raven shots.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the ‘Saucy Aussies’?” Eliza asked, forever shocked that other people could be so ignorant of the fashion industry.
“The what?” Jacqui raised an eyebrow, amused.
“That’s what they’re called because they do these really cool, almost risqué fashion shoots. Vogue can’t get enough of them. Midas is known for his ‘touch of gold.’ He’s really the genius behind it all. A lot of people say Marcus is just along for the ride. That he doesn’t do anything but hold up a reflector. But you know, the ‘twin’ thing works to their advantage. I mean, they’re both great-looking, so why not have two beautiful guys on a shoot instead of one? Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t believe they’re here!” Eliza squealed, unable to conceal her excitement. She was speaking so loudly that several guests turned to look.
“Why? You’ve got almost everyone here,” Jacqui said, pointing to a famous actress who was leaving the party with four goody bags stuffed under her arm. “It looks pretty A-list to me.”
“You don’t understand—every year Midas and Marcus pick one model and one designer to follow—they do this thing called ‘reality fashion,’ where instead of doing formal shoots and stuff, they just follow a model wearing the designer’s clothes the way a normal person would—you know, everywhere from the bedroom to grocery shopping—and then they do a big spread in Vogue showing all the designs. If they pick my line, it could launch my career!” Eliza explained, anxiously smoothing the lapels on her satin tuxedo and giving her hair a good shake.
“That’s so funny, I bumped into them earlier with the—,” Jacqui began, but her words died as the two boys walked right up to them.
“There she is,” Marcus said, putting a friendly arm around Jacqui. “The girl of the moment.”
“Thanks for the invite,” Midas added, fiddling with the zoom lens on his camera and pointing it at the Marilyn mannequin. “This is a great store. Love the high-concept thing.”
Eliza looked confused and turned to Jacqui. “You know these guys?”
“Sure. We’re all best pals here. I’m Marcus. That’s Midas. Cheers, big ears,” Marcus said merrily, taking a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray, his hand still draped casually around Jacqui’s neck. “Brilliant! Pink and white! Like being in a big cotton candy machine.”
“That’s the idea,” Eliza replied smoothly, not quite sure if she’d just been complimented or insulted.
“Guys, this is my friend Eliza Thompson that I told you about,” Jacqui said, making introductions all around.
Midas shook Eliza’s hand with a firm grip while Marcus was content to wave lazily, still attached to Jacqui’s side.
Jacqui felt his hand trail from her neck to her waist, giving her a light squeeze. Maybe all the bubbles had gone to her head—she usually didn’t like a guy to be so forward—but she leaned comfortably into his embrace. After all, who could resist a Saucy Aussie?
supermodels are discovered,
not made
“THANKS FOR COMING TO MY PARTY,” ELIZA SAID SHYLY to Midas. She felt a little bit like a seventh grader throwing a birthday party, and she hoped he wouldn’t be able to detect her nervousness.
“No worries. You’re all this?” Midas asked, motioning to the store as a whole and closely inspecting the row of portraits of famous actresses from the thirties and forties that lined the wall leading to the dressing rooms. All of Eliza’s fashion icons were up there. Greta Garbo in a feathered nightgown. Bette Davis smoldering in a sequin bolero. Katharine Hepburn in her signature men’s-style trousers. Joan Crawford in her wasp-waisted suit—the only woman who could make shoulder pads look good.
Eliza nodded, glancing in Jacqui and Marcus’s direction as they drifted off on their own, Marcus’s hand brushing Jacqui’s hip in a possessive manner. That was fast. She turned back to Midas. He wasn’t as flashy or slick as his brother, but he was certainly very cute. His deep blue eyes focused on her with shining intensity.
“And you did that,” Midas was saying, gesturing to the hot number that Jacqui was wearing. The dress was covered in white acrylic beading that made it shimmer in the light.
“Uh-huh.” She nodded stupidly. The Easton brothers were total career launchers, and first impressions were everything. Her palms were practically sweating. Why was it so warm in here? Who was in charge? Oh, right, she was.
“It’s very sixties, isn’t it?” Midas asked.
“I was inspired by Twiggy,” Eliza admitted. “But I wanted to update the shape and the fabric. Not make it feel so retro. I like to put my own twist on things. The fabric is actually washable, so it’s practical too.” As the words spilled out of her mouth, Eliza felt herself begin to relax. Talking about her designs had always come naturally.
“This is lovely as well,” Midas said, taking a modern-looking kimono jacket from the nearest rack and studying it intently, as if he were going to be tested on its details. “What’s the theme of your whole collection?”
Eliza smiled, flattered to be the object of such concentrated scrutiny. Finally—finally—someone was asking about the idea behind the line. “Well, as you can see, it’s all white because I wanted to keep it really simple and monastic but still sexy.” She gestured around the room at the various outfitted mannequins, as most of the other clothing had been snatched off the racks. “Along with the beachy basics, I also did ten standout pieces that are unique and one-of-a-kind, each with a story behind it. Like this mermaid gown,” she added, finding one last copy of the dress Mara had worn earlier. “I call it Venus Rising. Jacqui’s dress is Carnaby Street, and the kimono is called Monet, partly because the impressionist painters were obsessed with Japanoiserie and partly because it kind of looks like a painter’s smock.”
“Nice.” Midas put the kimono back on the rack and inspected the one-piece halter jumpsuit next to it. “And this?”
“It’s called Angel’s Flight. It’s very Farrah Fawcett from the seventies.” Eliza laughed guiltily. “I was having a little fun.”
“You’ve really thought all this through.” Midas raised an eyebrow, his dark blue eyes scrutinizing her as closely as they’d studied the clothes.
Eliza nodded. “Of course. I think it’s so boring just to wear clothes. Fashion is all about fantasy. I want women to be able to feel transformed—and transported—by my clothing.”
“I get it,” Midas proclaimed. “I like it.” He put a hand on his stubbly chin and looked at her, deep in thought. Eliza smiled, feeling a bit awkward just standing there in silence. She wondered what he was thinking behind those intense dark eyes. Finally, Midas spoke.
“I think we might have a proposition for you,” he said slowly. “Let me just have a quick chat with Marcus.” He glanced around for his brother, who was deep in conversation with Jacqui on the white velvet couch in the middle of the store, their two perfect forms posed like living mannequins. “Hey, mate, could you come over here a second?” Midas called.
Marcus shrugged and stood, giving Jacqui a quick goodbye kiss on the hand that made her giggle. It was obvious they’d both drunk a lot of champagne in a very short time.
“What shakes?” Marcus asked as he approached, hands jauntily in his pockets as if he were out for a stroll.
Midas whispered in Marcus’s ear, and Marcus began nodding, then started shaking his head. Midas looked stymied, but Marcus only shrugged. Then they stepped away from each other. Eliza expected Midas to say somethi
ng, but it was Marcus who cleared his throat.
“Congratulations … uh … Eliza Thompson?” he said, reading her name from the logo on one of the shopping bags. “You’ve just won Project Runway.”
“He’s being a goof,” Midas said with a fond but dismissive shake of the head. He turned to Eliza with a serious look on his face. “But I’m glad he agrees with me. Listen, we’d like to do a shoot based on your line. It’s just what we’re looking for. I like the stories behind the clothes, I like your ideas, and I think we’ll have fun working together.”
Eliza was flabbergasted. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as a lawsuit,” Marcus interjected cheekily.
“You’re going to do a shoot—on my line—wow,” Eliza breathed. She was so excited she almost tottered on her high heels. Sure, she’d had orders from Barneys and Bergdorf’s, but the Easton brothers choosing her clothes to photograph brought her to a different level entirely. They only shot the best. It was like being picked for the major leagues.
“And we want your friend Jacqui to be the model for the shoot.”
“Jacqui? Fabulous!” Eliza trilled. “I think that’s a great idea!” She looked over to where Jacqui was artfully draped on the couch. The girl looked poised even when she was sitting down.
“I know. She’s a natural.” Midas nodded. “She’s exactly what editors are looking for right now. You know the super-skinny skeletal look is out. Models dying from starvation and all that. Out, out, out. They want healthy. They want exotic. They want a girl with curves. She can be the new Gisele. You said your clothes are about telling a story, about transforming a woman. I think she can convey that—with her looks, she can read as Caucasian, Hispanic, even part African or Asian, like Jessica Alba. She’s unique and universal at the same time.”
Eliza nodded, her enthusiasm building.
“There’s just one catch,” Midas added, a preemptive note in his voice.
“What’s that?” Eliza’s brow furrowed. There was always a catch.
“Marcus already asked her to do it, and she turned him down flat.”
Eliza frowned. How could she have forgotten about Jacqui’s distaste for modeling? Whenever Eliza invited her out with her and her fashion buddies in the city, she always declined, saying she knew how models partied. Not that Eliza could really blame her—Jacqui’s sole venture into professional modeling had resulted in a disastrous fauxhawk haircut. “Jacqui doesn’t want to be a model, and I don’t think we can change her mind.” Eliza sighed. “But surely we can find someone else?”
“Oh.” Midas looked troubled. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. We always look for the right combination—model and designer—and if one doesn’t work out, we’ll have to find another label. I’m sorry. So unless you can convince her otherwise …” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.
“I’ll talk to her,” Eliza said, trying to make her voice more optimistic than she felt. There would be no convincing Jacqui. Talking to her, you’d think modeling was akin to clubbing baby seals, for God’s sake. She walked over to the couch, where Marcus had reinstated himself. They certainly looked cozy enough. “Jac? Can I borrow you for a second?”
Jacqui blinked, looking a bit dazed and a little drunk. “Sure. What’s up?”
Eliza helped her friend to her feet and walked her over to a shadowy alcove by the cash registers, out of earshot. Eliza noticed Jeremy trying to signal her from across the room, but she ignored him for now. This was more important.
“Those guys want to shoot my line, but only if you’ll model it!” Eliza whispered fiercely.
“I know. They asked me.” Jacqui smiled, wondering what the fuss was all about. “I told them no.”
Eliza looked pained. “You don’t understand. If you don’t do it, they won’t shoot my clothes.”
“Really?” Jacqui asked, shocked momentarily into sobriety. “But that’s so silly.”
“I know, but that’s what they said. C’mon, will you do it? For me?” Eliza pleaded. “I promise I’ll be there every step of the way.”
“Model?” Jacqui asked, making a face. Her brief brush with modeling had totally turned her off from the profession. Everyone she’d met in the industry—designers, makeup artists, stylists, editors—treated models like cattle: dumb, barely sentient beings who needed everything done for them. They even had a name for them: “clothes hangers.” No thanks. “You know I can’t stand it.” She shook her head.
“I know.” Eliza bit her lip. “I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean a lot. If it didn’t mean everything to me.”
Jacqui exhaled. She looked at Eliza’s nervous, hopeful face. Maybe she could do just one shoot, as a favor to Eliza. Like the beach fashion show, or even tonight’s task to walk the room. Come to think of it, she’d done a lot of modeling assignments as favors for Eliza in the past, so just one more couldn’t really hurt. And the way Marcus was grinning at her from across the room … this would mean she would get to see more of him, a prospect that was starting to look very appealing.
“Oh, all right,” she relented.
“Hooray!” Eliza cheered, pulling Jacqui in for a close hug. She dragged her back to where the boys were waiting for their answer. “She’ll do it!”
“Brilliant!” Marcus cried, grabbing four flutes of champagne from the nearest waiter while Midas got his camera out again to capture the moment.
I’m just being a good friend, Jacqui thought as she glanced at Eliza’s beaming face. She couldn’t very well have said no. And besides, a little modeling here and there shouldn’t interfere with her au pair duties at all. How hard could it be to mix kids and couture?
www.blogspot/hamptonsaupair1
it’s 10 PM—do you know where your children are?
This week flew by crazy fast. Time flies when the kids have jam-packed schedules. Thought it would be hard to get back in caregiver groove, but the job’s turning out to be nothing but a glorified chauffeur gig. Kids are either in class, a seminar, or a tutorial every second of every minute of the day. Their mother, S., says it’s good for them. But is it good for them never to see their mom? S. is up at 4 a.m., when the London stock market opens, and works till 10 p.m. each night. Every time she sees me and J., she grills us on the children, but I’m not so sure her hands-off managerial style is the best way to raise your kids. Then again, she’s the one with millions of dollars and an enormous empire, so what do I know about management?
On the plus side, the kids are v. independent. Logan and Jackson are self-contained and have amazing imaginations. The other day they asked if they could have a referendum on a later bedtime. They explained that they wanted the nursery run as a democracy. Unfortunately, they lost their bid in appeals court. J. and I voted 2-0 on the eight o’clock statute. Took Violet to a birthday party for a friend at her mom’s insistence yesterday. Twenty-four twelve-year-olds sipping mocktails and having makeovers at the Burberry store in Bridgehampton. There were mani-pedi stations, massages, blowouts, and a DJ blasting hip-hop. Those twelve-year-olds know how to party! But Violet spent the afternoon standing in one corner talking to no one. Sad.
love is in the air….
J. has a massive crush on a cute Aussie photog named M. Poor Pete from Indiana is of course long forgotten. Every time J.’s phone rings, she runs to get it and is disappointed when it’s just our boss, S., reminding us to make sure the kids are doing their Mensa quizzes. As far as I can tell, J. and M., who she’ll be working with a lot this summer, have a strictly business relationship—so far. Which, I’m sure, means lots of subtle eyelash-batting and coquetry on the part of my Brazilian friend. Will be sure to update on the status of this “business partnership.”
In other news, E. is engaged!!!! Engaged!!!!! Insane. So excited for the first wedding! Wonder if she’s having bridesmaids? Must remember to ask her next time I see her—she hasn’t said a word about the wedding, and I haven’t seen her much since the store opening. These days, the papers seem to have more info on
the blushing bride than I do. The media’s been in a frenzy with E.’s engagement, which is great for her career, if not for her love life, since the publicity’s done wonders for her super-busy store. Will have to grill her during our next weekly catch-up meal.
except i’m out of oxygen
I tried. I really did. Every time D. sent a sweet text or e-mail—mind you, never a call—I told myself that was the most he could do. But frankly, a girl’s got needs. And this girl needed to spill the beans. The day before yesterday, I sent him a sort of nasty e-mail telling him the total truth: that part of me wishes he was here, but the other part wishes he’d drown in a Venetian canal for ditching me at the airport. Okay, so maybe the overly harsh wording was fueled by a glass of red wine. And maybe honesty is not the best policy, as I haven’t heard from him since. Should I grovel for forgiveness, or be smugly satisfied that his silence proves my point exactly?
Till next time,
HamptonsAuPair1
mara feels roasted
over the coals
THE FOURTH OF JULY WAS BLAZING HOT, THE SUN SHINING and the skies a cloudless blue. Perfect weather for an afternoon barbecue. Outside, the pool was sparkling and hummingbirds were chirping in the imported dwarf cherry trees.
Mara turned from the window and took one last look in the mirror, fluffing her hair and putting on one more layer of lip gloss. She was wearing the white string bikini with a gauzy embroidered peasant top and a pair of simple tan leather flip-flops. Jacqui had loaned her a pair of vintage Ray-Ban aviators, and she was all set.
“How do I look?” she asked, walking out of the bathroom and striking a pose for Jacqui, who had wandered into their room.
Jacqui grinned. “Like you’re armed for battle.” “What does that mean?” Mara asked, puzzled.
But Jacqui just shook her head and continued overturning the pillows and rugs as she looked for Cassidy’s pacifier.