During the course of the lesson, Madame returned to Madison’s place several times to correct her posture, her arm movements, her awkward rond de jambes.
“Toes in, ankles out! What do you not comprendez?” Madame asked, as she forced Madison’s feet into fourth position. Several girls snickered. Madison’s cheeks burned.
“Isn’t that your sister?” someone asked Zoë.
After the grueling hour, the studio assistant set out milk and cookies as treats for the students, and Madame handed out performance grades on embossed note cards.
“Madison, you must melhorez. Improve. This is an art. A practice. You are not cut out for ballet. Perhaps you should take the jazz dance.” Madison lowered her head and reached for a cookie.
Madame clucked her tongue. “No cookies for you. You have not the ballet shape.”
* * *
When Mara, Eliza and Jacqui came to pick up the girls, they found Madison crying softly and Zoë trying to hold back tears. “What happened?” Mara asked, immediately coming around to give Madison a hug.
Madison shook her head.
A few of the other students walked out of the studio to meet their parents and nannies. “Madeeezon! No cookies! You no have ballet shape!” one pretty little girl jeered. The other girls laughed.
“Excuse me?” Eliza snapped. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.” A nanny gave Eliza an apologetic look and gathered the little girl into a Mercedes.
Jacqui began wiping Madison’s wet face. “Ignore them.”
“What’s this?” Mara asked, after Zoë handed her the report cards. Mara read them, appalled at the notes.
“Check this out. I strongly recommend Madison try another dance form. She is not cut out for ballet and is wasting her time.” Mara read aloud.
Eliza nodded. “Madame Suzette’s pretty harsh.” She too, had endured summers in the upstairs studio, and remembered the ballet mistress’s baleful glare.
“This is totally unacceptable,” Mara said. “She’s only ten years old!”
Jacqui noticed that Zoë was munching on madeliene cookies, but Madison didn’t have any. “Did you eat yours already?” she asked.
“Maddy didn’t get any,” Zoë replied.
“Shut up, Zoë.” Madison snapped, humiliated.
“What do you mean she didn’t get any?” Mara asked. “Why not?”
“Madame Suzette said she was too fat,” Zoë said matter-of-factly.
Mara was so infuriated she couldn’t believe her ears. Madison was a healthy child, and so what if she still had a little baby fat around her middle. What kind of person—what kind of teacher—would talk to her students that way?
“I’m going to give that witch a piece of my mind!” Mara said wrathfully.
“Don’t –she’s like, French.” Eliza said. “She’s mean. That’s why they send us to her.”
“You went here?”
“Yeah. Everyone does. She’s famous. She used to date Onassis or something.”
“I don’t care. You don’t treat a kid like that! Look at her!”
Madison was sitting on the floor, hunched over her ballet bag. Mara knew that slouch. It said: No one notice me, please. I’m not worth looking at. Mara had been a little chubby as a kid. She knew what this was like.
“It’s not right, Eliza.” Jacqui agreed. “Ballet should be fun.”
“And Madison loves ballet, don’t you?” Mara asked.
“Uh-huh,” Madison nodded. She did like it. Other than Madame Suzette, everything else about it was great. The music, the pianos, and every year they put on a recital and got to wear make-up and tutus and everyone came to the show to see them.
* * *
“Excuse me? Madame Suzette?” Mara asked.
“Oui?” The sixty year old former ballerina appraised Mara from behind pince-nez glasses.
“I’m Madison’s, uh . . . guardian,” Mara decided. “And I don’t appreciate you talking to her like that.”
“Excusez-moi?” Madame asked. In all her years teaching spoiled brats how to plie, this was a first. Usually the mothers were so intimidated by her resume and background, no one ever uttered a squeak of protest. But Mara didn’t care if the New York Times had once called Madame “the most exquisite Gisele this side of Pavlova.”
“She might not be very graceful, but she’s trying very hard. Doesn’t effort count for anything?”
“Non,” Madame replied. “This is about performance. If you cannot perform, you cannot be part of my class.”
“C’mon Mara,” Eliza said, pulling her away.
“This is such bull!” Mara cried.
“Let’s go,” Jacqui said.
They hustled the little girls down the rickety steps. Mara was still so annoyed. “That woman should not be allowed near children!”
“There’s a great Pilates studio that just opened up. I met one of the teachers at Scoop the other day. Really sweet. Anyway, they have a kids’ class.” Eliza suggested. “I’ll tell Anna about it.”
“I used to do pilates, it’s so much better than ballet,” Jacqui told the little girls. “More fun and more relaxed.”
* * *
The next day, it was settled. Zoe and Madison were enrolled in Pilates, and the au pairs took them shopping for cute new outfits, to make up for the loss of the black leotards. They all agreed pink tights were for babies anyway.
at the mercedes-benz polo match, not all the cute boys are loaded
ON THE FIELD THE HORSES’ HOOVES SOUNDED LIKE roaring thunder. A loud, sharp THAWK filled the air as the red-shirted team whacked the ball with mallets and sent it flying to the opposite end, tying the score 1–1. The star center, a dashing nineteen-year-old Argentine, raised his hand in victory.
“How hot is he?” Eliza marveled.
“Who’s that?” Mara asked.
“Nacho Figueroa. Charlie’s dad stole him from Peter Brant’s team this year.”
“He’s gorgeous,” Mara said, admiring Nacho like a fine oil painting.
“Saw him first!” Eliza teased.
The girls giggled. Having a crush on Nacho was like having a crush on Orlando Bloom. Giselle and that other Brazilian model from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue were cheering for him on the sidelines. He wasn’t someone Mara or Eliza could really take seriously as a romantic possibility. Still, it was nice to look.
Nacho scored another goal, and crowd—especially the girls—went wild.
In the VIP tents no one paid much attention. The guests filled their plates with beluga, guzzled magnums of champagne, and gossiped about each other’s new outfits. Mara and Eliza turned back to where Jacqui was trying to find a table for all four kids. Ryan pulled an empty char toward the table. He’d been hanging out with them all morning trying to help.
“Mr. Perry! The Hamptons’ answer to Brad Pitt! And Miss Waters! In a four-hundred-dollar dress bought on sale for two hundred dollars at Scoop!” Lucky Yap said, giving Mara two air kisses on each cheek and shaking Ryan’s hand vigorously. “Let’s get a shot!”
Mara posed prettily in her new red dress. She felt a little awkward in it, and every once in a while she would grab the end of the too-short hemline and yank it down over her butt, but only when she was certain Ryan wasn’t looking. She felt a little self-conscious, but looking around, she could see that her tiny dress and high heels were perfectly appropriate for the Hamptons.
Ryan excused himself to rustle up two more flutes of champagne. Every once in a while he would look back just to sneak a peek at Mara’s legs in that dress. When she had walked out to the car wearing it earlier, he had almost fallen out of the driver’s seat. She was such a babe, and the best thing was, she didn’t even realize it.
“Hey, Lucky. Good to see you again,” Mara said.
“Oh, you’ll be sick of seeing me soon. I’m everywhere. Honey, did you see your picture in the Post?” he asked.
“No! I didn’t!” Mara said, shocked.
Lucky nodded. “Check it out. It
’s still online. Gotta run, I see Lara Flynn Boyle with a huge ice cream cone!” he said, bouncing off toward his prey.
Ryan returned with the goods, clinking glasses with Mara. He was about to tell her how pretty she looked when her phone began to chirp.
“Oh, sorry,” she said nervously, balancing her glass and flipping open her cell phone. “Hello? Jim! Hi! How are you?”
Ryan backed off. Jim? Who the hell is Jim?
“Who’s Jim?” Ryan mouthed. He couldn’t help himself.
“My boyfriend,” Mara replied, holding the phone to her ear and turning away.
Boyfriend? What? She’d never mentioned that before. Not even the night when they had fallen asleep on the beach together. He watched her walk away.
“Ryan?” a voice called behind him.
He turned around.
“Hey, remember me?” asked a pretty redhead in curvy black Lycra. She smiled at him disarmingly.
“Camille Molloy!” He smiled. “How could I forget?”
He wandered over to her side, and they were soon in animated conversation.
* * *
Meanwhile Mara was having trouble with the reception on the other side of the tent. “Can you hear me now?” she yelled.
Jim Mizekowski was cute like a bulldog, stubborn, with small-town boy written all over his John Deere hat and his rusted Nissan four-by-four pickup. In the background Mara could hear Dave Mathews playing—Mara knew that Jim liked to play Dave when he was feeling “deep.”
“Are you there? Is that better? God, I feel like I haven’t spoken to you in ages,” Mara was saying just as Madison began tugging at her skirt. “What, honey? No, not you, Jim. . . . I’m working. . . . It’s not really a good time right now.”
“Mara, I feel sick,” Madison complained, looking a little green around the edges.
“Hold on, sweetie . . . Jim, I’m sorry, but one of the kids is . . . No, please don’t hang up on me!”
“Gurrrgle,” Madison said, clutching her tummy. She had one too many cucumber sandwiches from the buffet table and started spewing green-and-white chunks all over the grassy floor.
Mara gave Eliza a pleading look. She didn’t want to hang up on Jim. Not when he hadn’t called her in so long. “Liza, please,” she mouthed.
Eliza sighed and took Madison by the arm. “I told you not to have that last one,” she scolded.
“I want my mommy,” Madison whimpered, white spittle flying from her chin.
Eliza knew Madison’s real mommy was probably a million miles away, so she chanced a look at Anna, who was greeting friends and looking untouchable in a new Valentino sheath and a massive ostrich-feathered hat. She guessed the last thing Anna wanted was to be bothered by a vomit-covered stepchild, so she carted Madison away to the parking lot to clean her up by the restrooms.
“Madison, if you have to go again, just make sure you don’t do it all over my new shoes, okay?” Eliza asked, kneeling down to wipe away the puke from Madison’s embroidered French blouse.
Eliza grimaced at the smell. “Ugh! I’m out of tissues!” she complained, and looked up to see the cute gardener from the Perry house who’d been giving her eye the other day, standing next to her, holding a towel.
“I thought you might need this,” he said, offering it to her. His dark curly hair fell over his eyes, and he was wearing a blue one-piece work suit with J. Stone scripted on the left-hand pocket.
“No thanks, I’ve got it under control.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged.
“Don’t you have, like, a tree to prune or something?” Eliza asked superciliously, still wiping the front of Madison’s shirt and rubbing the mess into the fabric instead of the other way around.
“I’m off today. I do the landscaping for the field; I thought I’d make sure they didn’t ruin my top seed,” he said. “I’m Jeremy.”
“I know who you are,” she snapped.
He put away the towel and began to walk off, and right then Madison blew chunks all over Eliza’s shoes. “Noooooo! I told you!” Eliza wailed, standing up in shock. “I just bought these!”
Jeremy ascertained the damage. “They’re leather. It’ll come off,” he said, kneeling down and taking a shoe off Eliza’s foot. “Let me.” He began to clean off the ick.
“Seriously, you can’t just leave a girl alone, can you?” Eliza said, softening a little. He really was cute.
“Not if I can help it.” He grinned.
“You know, it’s really okay. I’m totally fine. It’s not that I don’t appreciate all this . . .,” she said, hopping on the other foot as Jeremy cleaned the other shoe. “Could you get—er—that part?” she asked, pointing toward a smudge.
Jeremy gave her an are-you-kidding look, but Eliza only smiled sweetly. “I guess this means I can’t ignore you anymore.”
“In some cultures we’re practically married,” he joked, standing up. “See you around . . . Eliza.”
“How’d you know my name? And where do you think you’re going?” she demanded in mock annoyance.
“I’m off now. Getting beers with the guys,” he yelled back. “I didn’t know you cared so much!”
“I don’t!” she yelled back, but she was still smiling. “C’mon, Madison,” Eliza said, holding her hand. “Don’t sniffle. You’re okay, aren’t you? Will you be good now and listen to what I say?”
The two headed back inside the tents. Mara was still engrossed in an intense cell phone conversation with Jim, and Jacqui was still MIA. Zoë, Cody, and William were seated at the table, scarfing down platters of raw clams, which they recognized from their high-protein-low-carb-diet. Eliza spotted Taylor and Lindsay smoking in the roped-off section and shooed Madison toward the other kids under the tent. She walked over to them so they could admire her outfit.
“Charlie was looking for you,” Taylor said accusingly.
“He was here?” Eliza asked. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone. He looked kind of mad,” Lindsay added dramatically.
Eliza’s shoulders slumped. All the time she was in the parking lot up to her ears in barf and flirting with the gardener, her ex-boyfriend was inside looking for her.
“I’m sure he’ll call me later,” Eliza said, trying to sound confident.
The minute they turned their backs, Eliza rushed over to the kids’ table for a quick head count. William, check. Madison, check. Cody, check. But where was the other little girl? Oh, there she was, underneath the table, picking up a scallop from the floor.
Thank God. They were a lot of work, but she was actually starting to warm up to the pukey little brats.
there is some pain even bacardi 151 can’t numb
MADISON HAD ASKED FOR ANOTHER HELPING OF shrimp, so Jacqui, thinking it was probably allowed on the little girl’s diet, had gone to fetch her some. It was seafood after all—how fattening could that be? As she spooned a few plump pink specimens on a porcelain plate, she glanced up across the lawn. It was divot-stomping time, and the game had stopped to let the spectators pound the clumps. Ladies in peu de soie and gentlemen in navy blazers and pressed khaki trousers paraded out to toe at the clumps of grass unearthed by the quick stops and starts of the ponies. They patted the earthy patties back into the ground, grass side up, of course.
Across the field a familiar mess of blond hair and glasses caught her eye. But Luca hadn’t mentioned anything about attending the match! She put down the plate, all thoughts of feeding the child promptly fading from her memory.
Wait—what? Luca—holding some girl’s hand? Someone who looked familiar? But why would he be holding her hand? Or—gulp—kissing her? On the lips? Like that? She stormed over, all the hurt and misunderstandings she’d been keeping in check for the last month boiling in her brain.
“Luca!” she shrieked.
But Luke had seen her clear across the way and was ready. “Jacqui!” he said smoothly, kissing her on the cheek. “Good to see you!” He put an arm around her. “I want you to meet my girl
friend, Karin. Karin, this is Jacqui. We met in São Paolo last spring break. And now she’s working for the Perrys! Small world, huh?” He glared at Jacqui, warning her not to give him away.
“Hi, Jacqui,” Karin said pleasantly. She was a mild-faced blonde with soft, rounded features and a small button nose. She was wearing a floral calf-length Laura Ashley dress that looked more like a sack.
Jacqui shook Karin’s hand automatically. “Please to meet you,” she mumbled.
It wasn’t this girl’s fault, Jacqui knew that. But just as she was trying to find the right English words to say, Luke turned and started to walk away, taking Karin along with him.
“Um, nice meeting you!” Karin called back.
Too hurt to run after him, Jacqui walked away, catching her high heels in the dense thick mud. Several South American polo players returning to the field walked by her, chattering to each other in Spanish and Portuguese.
“Preste atenção a sua etapa,” one said, catching her as she tottered.
“I know where I’m going!” Jacqui hissed. She brushed by them, completely oblivious to their appreciative stares.
“Bonita, mas olha miserável” Nacho Figueroa, the handsome team captain, shrugged. So what if she was gorgeous? She was miserable.
Jacqui walked off in a daze and found herself in front of a white linen table manned by a tuxedoed bartender.
“Bacardi. 151. Straight up. Double,” she ordered, and downed four shots in quick succession.
She returned to the Perry table, where Eliza and Mara were in the middle of arguing about whether it was time to take the kids home yet.
“I swear, they won’t mind!” Eliza pressed. She wanted to hightail it out of there before Taylor and Lindsay spotted her playing Mary Poppins. “Look how tired Zoë is.”
“But Anna and Kevin didn’t say anything about it,” Mara said doubtfully.
“Do you really think they care if the kids see the end of the game? Look around you, Mara, everyone’s leaving!”
It was true. Now that the TV cameras and the photographers from the society rags had departed, many of the guests decided they’d had quite enough themselves.