“You are very beautiful,” he stated, in the same way that someone would say, “The sun is hot” or “The earth is round,” like it was simply a fact of life and nothing to get all hot and bothered about.
“Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze with her level one.
“You must get told that a lot, I’m sure. It must get extremely . . . ennuyeux . . . uh, boring,” Philippe said.
“It is, actually,” Jacqui said seriously.
“Then maybe I should just say you are very ugly,” he teased.
Jacqui threw a snorkel at him. He was cute, but he was also quick and she liked that. She hugged her legs to her chest and reluctantly cracked open her SAT book. Her first class was tomorrow night, and as much as she just wanted to spend the day flirting with Philippe, she couldn’t afford to be distracted.
Philippe’s cell rang again, which it seemed to do constantly. Jacqui wondered how someone who’d never been to the Hamptons could have made so many friends so quickly.
“ ’Allo?” he asked, snapping open his phone. He spoke in rapid French, then excused himself, hoisting his backpack on his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Jacqui called.
Philippe held up his finger to say, “Just a minute,” but he kept walking away toward the boardwalk. Jacqui noticed several girls watching him from behind their oversized Gucci and Chanel frames, as well as a few guys checking him out from under their striped umbrellas. Philippe was giving everyone, male and female, the same flirtatious smile. Jacqui sighed and dropped her head to look at her book. She would never understand the French.
that’s why it’s called page six six six
LATER THAT SAME MORNING, MARA WOKE UP TO FIND herself alone in the au pairs’ room. It was almost eleven-thirty, and Philippe and Jacqui were nowhere to be found. Mara was surprised she’d slept so late and that neither of them had woken her up. Last night was a hazy blur. She remembered dancing wildly when the old rock song “Livin’ on a Prayer” came on, crashing into Eliza, and trading shopping stories with Chauncey Raven, the beleaguered pop star who’d recently had her second quickie marriage in Vegas, who was sitting at the next table. She’d also spent a good part of the evening perched on Garrett’s lap, since a bunch of his friends had shown up and they’d had to squeeze into the banquette, but she’d fended off his good-night kiss when he’d dropped her off at four in the morning.
Mara shuffled into the main house, which was reverberating with the sound of the Reynolds Castle’s jackhammers. She shook her head—all that pounding was not what she needed right now—and walked into the kitchen, where antique French cabinetry covered every surface, even the Sub-Zero fridge. She realized that maybe the Reynolds Castle was just like every house in the Hamptons, just bigger and more obvious. The kitchen was empty save for Madison, who was weighing a boiled chicken breast on a kitchen scale. Mara watched as the girl carefully cut it in half, weighed it again, and then put it on a plate with several raw baby carrots.
“What are you doing?”
Madison glared. “Nothing.”
Mara pulled up a stool next to her and began to assemble breakfast, slicing a banana and pouring two-percent milk over a bowl of cereal. “You know, Madison, when I was younger, I was kind of chubby. But when I turned fourteen, my metabolism kicked in when I was playing a lot of soccer, and I lost a lot of weight.”
“I hate soccer,” Madison sulked, slamming the door behind her.
Mara sighed. She picked up a copy of the New York Post, which had been opened to the Page Six column. HAS THE REYNOLDS HEIR FOUND LOVE? screamed the headline, above a picture of Mara perched on Garrett’s lap from the night before.
She was leaning on Garrett’s arm, laughing at what he was saying. Garrett was smirking into the camera, holding a fizzing bottle of champagne in one hand, with the other clasped firmly around Mara’s waist. Aside from a few snide mentions about the hundred-thousand-square-foot “Frankenstein Castle” the Reynoldses were building in East Hampton, the accompanying article was nearly identical to one about her and Ryan from the summer before, detailing how the sexy young couple had been caught canoodling at the hottest club of the season. Canoodling? She’d only been sitting on his lap! Okay, so maybe he’d nuzzled her neck a little. . . .
A pit formed in her stomach. She wondered if Ryan had been the one to leave the paper on the table. She picked up and sniffed a half-empty cup sitting next to the paper. Green tea. Ryan was only one in the Perry household who drank green tea.
Just then, Sugar walked in, panther-skinny and sweaty from a morning yoga session. The same two-man camera crew from last night followed her.
“Oh, hi,” Sugar said. “Is that Page Six?” She walked over to read over Mara’s shoulder. Sugar looked up from the picture and regarded Mara thoughtfully. “You guys should hang out with me and Charlie some time.”
One of the Perry twins being nice to her? Mara couldn’t believe it. Last summer Sugar hadn’t even been able to remember her name. She’d called her Marta or Maria or Mary.
“We’re having a party on his yacht next weekend. Close friends only. Bring Gar. It’ll rock.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Mara mumbled as Sugar shrugged and smiled into the cameras, tossing her hair back and puffing out her chest.
“C’mon, guys,” Sugar told the crew. “Meet me in the outdoor shower.”
Mara stared at Page Six, wondering if there was any way Ryan would want to talk to her after seeing that picture. That was the thing about pictures—they were worth a thousand words, but sometimes they weren’t the right ones.
nothing spells love like a car full of goody bags
AT END OF THE FOLLOWING WEEK, MARA MADE HER way to the screening room for the first weekly progress meeting. Jacqui and Philippe were supposed to join her as soon as they returned from taking the boys to some kind of boot camp for the day. The two of them were obviously getting friendly and liked to do chores together if they could.
Mara planned to complain about Dr. Abraham at the meeting. He’d lectured her when she’d given Cody a hug after he’d stubbed his toe, telling her direly, “Positive reinforcement after a painful experience is unlikely to build character,” and then asked her if she knew how he could get a VIP table at Seventh Circle a few minutes later. There was something off about the guy.
After sitting in the dark for fifteen minutes, it became clear to Mara that neither Anna nor Kevin would materialize. No surprise there. The meetings were something Anna had insisted upon last summer as well, even though neither she nor Kevin ever attended. Mara shrugged and walked out of the room. Madison and Zoë were waiting for her to take them to yoga.
They walked out the front door to see a large delivery truck parked in the Perrys’ driveway. Several uniformed workers were unloading racks of clothing as well as dozens of black shopping bags with pink tissue paper sticking out of the top. An overly tanned, clothes-hanger-skinny woman in a white tank top that read YOUR BOYFRIEND WANTS ME and low-riding blue jeans was directing the action.
“What’s going on?” Mara asked Laurie, who was surveying the spectacle with a caustic eye.
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s for you,” Laurie said.
“Hi! Mara Waters? Mitzi Goober!” the woman in the white tank top said, saying her last name with a Frenchified lilt, so it sounded like “Giubaire” rather than the name of a popular candy. She thrust a muscular and bony arm in Mara’s direction. “Wow! I would never have recognized you. You are so much prettier than your pictures!”
“Thanks, I think . . .” Mara said, her forehead descending.
She’d thought things would die down after the photo of her and Garrett was published in the Post, but the following week it had popped up in Hamptons, Hamptons Life, Hamptons Living, Hamptons Country, and Hamptons Luxury magazines. She never had a chance to explain the photo to Ryan, since whenever they ran into each other—just that morning they’d bumped into each other in the pool—he basically ignored her. It was heartbreaking
how aloof he was, but it did help that Garrett was being so persistent about a second date. He’d already sent her so many flowers, the au pairs’ room looked like a funeral parlor.
A shot of Mara alone, in the lavender Zac Posen dress, had ultimately ended up on the party page of Vogue, under the heading Lilac Ladies, between a photo of Jennifer Connelly in a bow-tied lavender Chloé dress and one of Aerin Lauder in a purple Valentino shift. Mara had been back in the Hamptons for two weeks, but already she was eliciting stares of barely concealed jealousy, or just plain curiosity, everywhere she went. She felt like a freak and a fraud: There she was, in the pages of a glossy magazine posing in Jacqui’s designer dress, while in reality, she was schlepping the kids to the dentist, wiping Cody’s bottom, and trying to coerce Madison into eating something more than clear chicken broth and nonfat string cheese.
* * *
“Anyway, dollink, as I was just explaining to your assistant here . . .” Mitzi was saying.
Doll rink? Mara was confused. Doll tint? What the hell was Mitzi saying? Dog fink? It was hard to follow her rat-a-tat delivery.
“I’m Anna Perry’s assistant,” Laurie cut in.
“Sure. Whatever,” Mitzi said as she motioned the delivery men to grab the rest of the bags from the truck.
“Mara is an au pair,” Laurie said indignantly.
“An au pair! How cute! Groovy!” Mitzi said. “Listen, Mara, I’ve got a hot new designer who wants to dress you—several, in fact—and these are all gifts for you to wear around town.”
“For me?” Mara said, watching the guys set down bag after bag on the grass next to the driveway.
“Sure, sure, sure! Just make sure to mention their names when people ask you what you’re wearing. Shoshanna sent her whole summer collection. She loved the photos of you in her dress last year, and she thinks you might like a few pieces. Okay to just leave them here?”
“This is really nice, Mitzi, but uh, I don’t know.”
“Wait! Wait! Best part. Almost forgot.” Mitzi grabbed a black velvet case from her oversized Birkin bag. “A gift. Open.”
Mara opened the case. Inside was a strand of luminescent pearls nestled on a velvet pillow.
“Mikimotos. They’re only the cultured ones, sorry. But if you could remember to mention them if you can . . .” Mitzi smiled.
“I don’t know if I can accept these,” Mara said nervously.
“What are you talking about? Please! You deserve it! You’re so fabulous! God, why can’t I get my hair to do that?” Mitzi said, sticking out her tongue and pulling at her hair. Mara had never met anyone as full of energy and enthusiasm as Mitzi Goober. She was like your new best friend, cheerleader, and guru all in one. She was giving Mara a headache.
As the messengers began to unload a second rolling rack, Mara tried to get them to put it back on the truck, with Madison and Zoë, wide-eyed at all the loot, at her heels. “Mitzi! Wait! Really, I can’t!”
“Nonsense! Do you know how hard it is to find someone who fits into a sample size? Please. It would be such a great favor to my designers. They are your biggest fans.”
Fans? She was an au pair who’d posed for a few pictures, and now she had a following?
Mitzi rattled a key chain in front of Mara’s nose. “What are you driving? That Range Rover over there? It’s so bulky, don’t you think?”
“It’s the Perrys’, actually.”
“I’d really love it if you could test-drive this new BMW convertible,” Mitzi said, thrusting the keys into Mara’s hands and motioning to a shiny black car on the driveway.
“A car?” Mara said, her mouth hanging open.
“For the whole summer. Every day we’ll get someone to fill the gas tank and put some treats in there for you. Fun-fun-fun! So you won’t have to worry.”
Mara stared at the BMW keys. This was crazy. And exciting. She could actually keep all this stuff?
Zoë and Madison had begun rifling through the racks. “Oooh, look at this!” Madison said, holding up a black jersey Gucci halter top. “Pretty!” Zoë said as she wrapped herself in a lacy shawl.
“Wait! Mitzi!” Mara said, running to catch up with the publicist, who had hopped into a vintage Citroën and was pulling out of the driveway. “I just—I don’t know if this is right,” Mara said, leaning in the window.
Mitzi put a hand to Mara’s mouth, smushing her lipstick. “Dollink!”
Doe wink? Door blink? Mara wondered.
“Don’t be boring! Just remember, mention my clients when you talk to the press. Deal? Have a great summer! And I hope you come to my party at Seventh Circle next week! Toodles!”
Mitzi pulled out of the driveway and the Toyota Prius pulled in.
“Who was that?” Jacqui asked, getting out of the car with Philippe and the boys.
Mara looked around at what Mitzi had left her—two rolling racks full of designer clothes, several bags of shoes and accessories, a velvet case of pearls, and a shiny black BMW convertible.
“Um, I’m not really sure,” Mara said, amazed at her good fortune. “My fairy godmother?”
guess who’s coming to dinner?
TWO WEEKS AFTER ELIZA AND JEREMY WERE REUNITED at Seventh Circle, Eliza opened the door to find him standing on her doorstep with a bouquet of flowers. They had seen each other only once since then—Jeremy’s brutal work schedule kept him in the city more often than not, and they’d already had to reschedule dinner twice. Her parents were totally harassing her to let them meet her “young man.” They were old-fashioned that way, and Eliza hoped that the dinner would go well, or at least go quickly, so she and Jeremy could get out of there and finally be alone.
“For your mom,” Jeremy said, handing her the white Astor lilies. Their clean fragrance filled the room.
“That’s so sweet. Come on in,” Eliza said. She’d worn her hair back in a demure chignon and had tied a black satin ribbon with an antique locket around her neck. She knew Jeremy liked it when she looked pretty and girlish, and so she’d chosen her clothes carefully—a white Chloé eyelet cotton dress and pink Delman ballet flats. She was pleased that he looked so professional in his tan linen suit and sky blue dress shirt. He’d loosened his conservatively striped tie just a bit, and he looked the perfect picture of a young, successful banker.
“Dad, this is Jeremy. Jeremy, this is my dad, Ryder Thompson,” Eliza said, leading Jeremy into the living room. Her father, a tall, large man with a gleaming crown of silver hair, stood up to shake Jeremy’s hand.
Ryder had worked on Wall Street, too, before he’d been caught dipping a little too often into the bank’s coffers. Eliza still couldn’t believe it had been such a big deal: It was his company, wasn’t it? Didn’t that count for something? Sure, she remembered how they used the company jet for weekend trips to Paris, but so what? The papers had said that even Eliza’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar Sweet Sixteen party at the Rainbow Room was paid for by the company’s dime, but plenty of her dad’s associates were there, so it was sort of like a business function. In any case, that hadn’t stopped the subsequent investigation, lawsuit, and humiliation. The Thompson family had weathered it as best they could, keeping their chins up and finally hightailing it to Buffalo when Manhattan became unbearable and unaffordable.
Her parents had made it clear that it was very important that Eliza date a suitable boy, someone appropriate to her background and breeding, despite everything that had happened in the last couple of years. Eliza hoped Jeremy would pass her parents’ litmus test. They could be a little strict when they chose to be, and for the first time Eliza missed the freedom she’d experienced last summer, when she’d lived on her own and hadn’t had to answer to anyone except the Perrys, who were away or indifferent most of the time.
“Gin?” Ryder asked Jeremy, holding up a silver cocktail shaker.
“Whatever Eliza is drinking is fine, thanks, Mr. Thompson,” Jeremy replied.
Eliza’s dad frowned as he poured Jeremy a glass of white wine but ma
de no comment. The four of them sank into the linen couch.
“I must apologize—this is not to our standard,” Eliza’s mother, Billie, said, her hands nervously fluttering about her throat as she looked at the collection of porcelain dolls in a china cabinet with distaste. “But Eliza did so want to be back in the Hamptons this year, and we thought . . .”
“It’s very nice,” Jeremy assured her. “I like these old houses. They have a feeling of security to them, don’t you think?”
Eliza’s mother smiled warmly at him. “I like older architecture as well.”
“Jeremy grew up in the Hamptons,” Eliza offered, unwittingly trying to make it sound like Jeremy was more like them. Not that she really cared what her parents thought—she didn’t think like they did anymore, not really, anyway. If she did, she would have been after Garrett Reynolds, not Jeremy Stone. But it would just be so much easier if they liked him.
“Oh, where?” Billie asked, brightening.
“Southampton,” Jeremy said.
There was a murmur of approval from the Thompsons. “Do you know the Rosses? Courtney started that lovely school. We almost moved out here too, so that Eliza could go there.”
“I know Mrs. Ross,” Jeremy allowed. He didn’t add that he was their gardener, to Eliza’s relief.
“Where in Southampton?” Eliza’s father inquired.
Jeremy told him.
“Ah, is that in the township?” Ryder asked, referring to the considerably more modest section of single-family homes in Southampton called the township.
Jeremy nodded.
“How quaint,” Billie nodded with a strained smile.
“What does your father do?” Ryder inquired.
“Jeremy’s dad runs his own business.” Eliza interjected. She could see where this was going.
“What kind of enterprise?” her dad asked.
“He owns a fish and bait shop on Route 27,” Jeremy replied, before Eliza could fudge some other euphemism like, “He’s in the shipping industry.”