She walked inside to the VIP room, where she saw Ryan Perry, who was sitting by himself at a corner table. She sat down next to him, noticing the bouquet of flowers he’d tried to give her earlier. This time, she would remember to accept them.
they shoot models, don’t they?
“WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” MARA ASKED, ARRIVING LATE TO meet Jacqui and Philippe and the kids for lunch at Jeff & Eddy’s. She’d spent the morning getting pedicures with Sugar and Poppy, and she felt slightly guilty that she’d ditched work again.
“That woman over there just asked us if we were models,” Jacqui explained, rolling her eyes and holding up a thick business card. Mara turned to see Mitzi Goober waving enthusiastically at their table. Mara blew kisses in her direction. “What did Mitzi want?” she asked.
“She wants us to work at this show,” Philippe explained, handing Mara an invitation.
Mara read the engraved lettering. It was an invitation to a charity fashion show at the Bridgehampton Polo Club next week. She’d received one the other day in the mail, with a front-row seat designation. Sugar and Poppy had been talking about the event nonstop since then—apparently, it was going to be one of the biggest events of the summer. “You guys should do it,” Mara said.
“Modeling is so silly,” Jacqui declared, cutting up Cody’s string beans.
Mitzi Goober rushed over, air-kissing Mara’s cheeks. “So, you guys are all set, right? Reinaldo is going to love you guys. Seriously, it would be such a huge favor, since a couple of the models couldn’t get their visas renewed in time.”
“So it’s a favor? What will you do for me in return?” Philippe asked, smiling wickedly.
“Oooh, you’re a bad boy,” Mitzi cooed. “I like that. What do I have to do?”
“We’ll do it,” Jacqui said flatly, cutting in. Did Philippe have to flirt with everybody in sight? Philippe was supposed to be hers—even if all they’d done was sneak a few kisses here and there since the tennis tourney. If agreeing to walk in the show was all it took to get rid of this annoying girl, she was happy to do it. Plus, Eliza and Mara were both going to be there, and Jacqui wished the three of them would get their asses together and be best friends again.
“Fabu!” Mitzi said, blowing air-kisses all around. “See you later, lover. I’ll get us a room,” she joked, growling at Philippe.
A room, huh?
Now there was an idea.
booty calls totally don’t count
IF ANYONE EVER ASKED, ELIZA WOULD TELL THEM SHE WAS totally not in love with Ryan Perry. Not at all. They both had their reasons for wanting to keep their relationship—if that was even a word for what they were doing—quiet.
After Jeremy flaked the night of the tennis tourney and Eliza found out Mara knew—and didn’t care—about her and Ryan, it just felt natural to do it again. He’d brought her flowers, for goodness’ sake. That night they’d gone back to the Perry estate and, well, the next thing she’d known, they were naked. That was the third time that year. Maybe it was a pattern?
The next morning, Eliza had sneaked out of Ryan’s room, taking care not to use the side stairway that led to the back of the house that the au pairs often used. Even though Sugar said Mara knew, she was paranoid about bumping into her. Eliza couldn’t totally shake the feeling that fooling around with Ryan was like playing with someone else’s toys.
Now, ten days later, Eliza was getting more comfortable with the idea. They’d hooked up a few more times, and it had been fun and casual. The other night, after 50 Cent celebrated his album release at Seventh Circle, Ryan had popped over to the club around closing, and they’d gone back to her place, ostensibly to watch a DVD again, but somehow things had gotten kind of friendly. A couple of days later, he’d called her on her night off and asked if she wanted to come over for Godfather III. She hadn’t really felt like it (Sofia Coppola might be a great director now but she was a bad actress, Eliza thought), but she’d found herself there anyway. Eliza decided that hooking up with Ryan was like eating standing up in front of the fridge. It didn’t count. Zero calories.
Except her parents were being so annoying about the two of them, treating Ryan like her boyfriend, which he was so not. One night, Ryan came over and the two of them microwaved a pizza and hung out by the pool instead of going to a party at the PlayStation2House like they’d planned. Her parents had gotten home early from some charity shindig, and her mom and dad hadn’t been able to stop making a big deal out of him being there. Of course, Ryan was an old family friend and all, but still. Her mom winked at the two of them, and then the next morning her dad said Ryan could come over to visit any time he liked, which was interesting, since after Jeremy had come over for dinner, her dad had said maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have people around the house since it wasn’t theirs. Eliza supposed that had to do with Ryan being the right sort of person to have around, and Jeremy the wrong sort—according to her parents’ logic, anyway.
Not that Jeremy even tried to see her anymore—she’d hardly heard from him since the night of the tournament. Of course, that didn’t stop her from checking her messages obsessively.
“Who’re you calling?” Ryan asked, shoving a handful of kettle corn in his mouth and spilling crumbs all over the carpet. He’d picked her up from work that night, and now they were just hanging out, watching TV.
“Just checking my messages,” Eliza said.
Ryan nodded. On the screen, a popular actress was explaining away her latest disastrous relationship to Oprah during the show’s 3 A.M. repeat.
The thing was, it was fun doing whatever it was she was doing with Ryan. It was fun when he picked her up from the club, since everyone knew him or knew of him, and all the waitresses and bartenders thought he was such a doll. It was fun not worrying about anything. Even the guilt over Mara was getting more distant every day. Sugar had said Mara knew and didn’t care, so it wasn’t like Eliza was doing anything wrong. Being with Ryan reminded her of her old life in New York, when she would kiss any boy she wanted to, just because she could.
“Hey, isn’t that Sugar?” Eliza asked, looking up at the screen from her list of text messages. It was the E! reality show. They were covering the tennis match.
Ryan grunted in a disapproving manner. He was about to change the channel when something caught his eye. Eliza saw it too—Mara, in the corner of the screen, staring longingly at something—or someone. And when the camera panned to where she was looking, there was Ryan, sitting in the stands, intently watching the game.
Huh.
the best things in life are (still) free
“TELL ME THOSE AREN’T REAL!” MEGAN PRACTICALLY screamed, lunging at Mara’s ears as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. “They’re the size of ice cubes!”
The day of the benefit fashion show, Mara had received two visitors: her sister Megan, toting a huge battered suitcase and a fifteen-pound bag of makeup, and a brown-uniformed messenger bearing a small black bag. Inside the bag was a velvet case with a pair of ten-carat diamond earrings worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, on loan from one of Mitzi’s new clients.
Now they were on their way to Jean-Luc East, where Mara was friendly with the owner. “Yup. Nicole Kidman wore them to the Oscars,” Mara responded. “I’m supposed to wear them tonight.”
After the two were seated at one of the best tables in the restaurant, Mara’s sister filled her in on the latest news from Sturbridge—trouble on Dad’s construction site, Mom’s work at the church rummage sale—but it all sounded so small-town and hokey to Mara’s ears that she found herself spacing out without meaning to.
“And the Infusium sales rep is so cute!” Megan squealed, getting Mara’s attention. Every week the salon got a delivery of beauty products, and the Infusium rep—a nice Irish guy named Bobby O’Donnell—was Megan’s current crush.
Mara looked at her sister from behind her oversized Chanel frames: Megan was taller than Mara, with red, curly hair and a loopy Julia-Roberts-like grin. She was
fearsomely pretty, whip-smart, and in love with a guy who delivered boxes of shampoo and conditioner for a living. What gave?
“You can do a lot better than Bobby O’Donnell,” Mara said, cutting short any more discussion on the beauty product sales rep. She’d forgotten how boring life was back home. Had it always been that way?
After lunch, Mara opened her handbag and left a few bills on the table, dismissing Megan’s charge card. “I got paid today,” she explained, patting a fat brown envelope.
They spent the rest of the day browsing among the East Hampton shops and then returned to the Perry house in time to get ready for the show. Mara looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a skinny Christian Dior evening dress with hand-beaded pearls and a feathered hemline. Scott Barnes, the famous makeup artist, and one of Mitzi’s clients, had arrived to do her makeup. He’d attached custom fox-fur lashes to hers, just like he did for J.Lo., and Edward Tricomi, who’d given half of Hollywood their shaggy cuts, had personally cut and styled her hair for the evening. On top of that, she was wearing ten carats’ worth of flawless ice on each of her earlobes.
Megan came out of the bathroom. “Isn’t this the best?” she said. “I got it from Loehmann’s!”
She was wearing a Marc Jacobs mod minidress with big plastic buttons and knee-high white go-go boots. It had been a huge hit . . . two seasons ago.
“Why don’t you borrow something from me?” Mara asked, motioning to the racks of clothes that were stuffed with the latest fashions. “Really, I don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding? I bought this especially for tonight!”
Mara groaned. Her outfit practically screamed, “Over,” which wasn’t exactly what you wanted your fashion show ensemble to say. Mara knew it was wrong, but for the first time, she felt a little embarrassed to be related to her sister.
don’t hate them because they’re beautiful
BACKSTAGE, THE DESIGNER’S ASSISTANT, WHOSE REAL name was Octavian, but who preferred to be addressed as “Miss O,” gathered the models around. “Listen, people!” he yelled. “Boys! Wear your willies down! Girls, you are ski bunnies on vacation! Hot, hot, hot! Got it? Okay? Okay!”
Jacqui stood in her first outfit, a skimpy thong–tank top combination and a pair of very low-cut bootleg jeans. The tank top stopped about halfway down the midriff, so that in the back was merely a thin line of fabric that tucked into the jeans’ waistband.
She nearly hadn’t made it to the show, and now she wasn’t all that pleased that she had. When she and Philippe had agreed to model, they had completely overlooked the fact that they would need to be there the whole day. The only thing that had saved them was an overnight retreat for the kabala camp that Anna had insisted the kids attend. She was determined to have the kids befriend Lourdes and Rocco, who were rumored to be in attendance as well.
At the show, Jacqui couldn’t believe how stupidly they were being treated. All the production assistants and wardrobe dressers talked to them very slowly, as if they were children, or mentally challenged, or mentally challenged children. Each model had a team of no fewer than three people to herd him or her from makeup to hair to dressing station.
Octavian ran over. “Jacqui! I’ve been looking for you. Reinaldo has a new vision for the finale.” He herded her over to the hair dock, where intrepid stylists were turning the girls’ manes into gravity-defying rats’ nests, and the lead designer, Reinaldo, was approving each model’s updo.
“So, I was thinking,” Reinaldo said, touching Jacqui’s silky black hair, “what about Sinéad, with a little Good Charlotte thrown in?”
“Divine!” Miss O agreed.
Jacqui sat on the chair, looking quizzically at the two of them.
The hair stylist held a razor in his hand. “Darling, how do you feel about a Mohawk?” he asked.
“You can’t be serious!” Jacqui said, reaching up protectively to cover her head. Her long, lustrous black hair!
“It is imperative!” Reinaldo declared, suddenly positive. “Punk-rock wedding, retro meets old-school. Have you seen the movie . . .” he said, frowning and snapping his fingers. “Star Wars: Attack of the Clones?”
“More like a fauxhawk, you know, spiky but messy,” Octavian nodded. “Richard Avedon meets Helmut Newton in a Baz Luhrmann fantasy!”
“Genius!” the hairstylist pronounced.
Before Jacqui could reply, he was shaving into the side of her scalp. It hurt, and a few minutes later, a broom was sweeping up Jacqui’s hair, and she was stricken, looking at herself in the mirror.
She’d always taken her looks for granted—but this? She reached up, feeling the downy duck’s back that her scalp had become.
“Perfecto! Beautiful!” Octavian gushed.
Jacqui had never felt uglier in her entire life.
that’s why they call it b-list, baby
THE BRIDGEHAMPTON POLO CLUB HAD SET UP A HUGE white tent for the fashion show in the middle of the polo field. A line of white tables greeted Mara and Megan at the entrance, and several guests were walking around drinking cocktails, their heels sinking into the grass. Mara spotted Eliza manning the first table and pulled Megan with her to the very front, pushing and murmuring “Excuse mes” while Megan apologized to everyone they jumped in front of. Alan and Kartik had “loaned” Eliza to Mitzi to help run the show, since half of Mitzi’s office had had an allergic reaction to a client’s new face cream. Apparently, unprocessed seaweed extracts were not for everybody.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Megan asked.
“Excuse me—sorry—excuse us. Sorry, could you move?” Mara asked, stepping forward without waiting for an answer.
Several Waspish socialites cast annoyed glances in their direction, which Mara ignored.
“ ’Liza!” Mara called.
Eliza, wearing her signature headset and a pretty black-and-white Temperley dress she’d bought with her tournament winnings, waved them over.
“See, I told you—she’s a friend of mine,” Mara said, not bothering to explain that Eliza had also been one of the au pairs the year before.
Mara pecked the air on either side of Eliza’s cheeks, while Eliza did the same to her. Things weren’t exactly normal between them, but on the other hand, they weren’t exactly estranged, either.
“Eliza, this is my sister Megan,” Mara said.
“Oh, hi!” Eliza smiled. “Wow, you guys look so much alike!”
“Really?” Mara asked, not sure if it was a compliment. Hanging around Sugar and Poppy had made her think everyone was always being sarcastic.
“You are gorgeous!” Eliza told Megan, and Mara felt relieved.
Eliza looked down at her clipboard, frowning. “I don’t see Megan on here,” she whispered to Mara.
“Um, you don’t?” Mara asked. She’d meant to ask Mitzi for a seat for her sister, but she’d completely forgotten.
Eliza glanced down. Several of the celebrities they’d been expecting still hadn’t shown up, and there was a very slim chance that they would even make it.
“Follow me,” Eliza said, pulling back the tent flap. The two Waters girls followed Eliza inside. A long white runway with plastic covering ran the length of the room, and on either side, white folding chairs were arranged in neat rows. Each chair held a small black bag filled with numerous beauty products and glossy magazines, but the bags in the front row were considerably larger than the others.
“Here you go,” Eliza said, finding a seat with Mara’s name on it. Eliza peeled off the name of a celebrity on the seat next to it. “Megan, you’re here too.”
“Thank you,” Mara mouthed.
Megan plopped down, her eyes agog over the commotion. At the end of the stage, photographers were setting up their tripods and cameras, and a roving band of paparazzi were snapping pictures of the people seated in the front rows. There were famous fashion editors hiding behind their signature sunglasses; a cadre of young, mostly blond women wearing pastel-colored cashmere sweaters around their necks; a
nd a smattering of famous actresses sitting in the best seats. Perky “news” correspondents from all the celebrity news shows and networks—Access Hollywood, Entertainment Tonight, The Insider, E!, VH1, the Style Network—were interviewing fashionistas, socialites, and celebrities.
Mara crossed her legs and angled her face for the best shot, knowing that they would soon make their way over to her and take her picture. She was pretending not to notice that her sister was already rooting in the goody bag and exclaiming over the items inside it.
“Look, Mar—free Kiehl’s lip balm!” Megan said excitedly, showing her the loot.
Mara nodded, smiling. “It’s the best,” she agreed. She didn’t mention that the company had sent her a carton of its products just the other day. Mara smiled at a tiny, curly-haired woman in enormous sunglasses who was sitting down next to Megan.
“Oh my God! I loved your show!” Megan said turning to look at the woman. “I’m totally a Carrie!”
“Thanks,” the star replied modestly.
“Can I get your autograph?” Megan asked.
Mara almost died. Even though Sarah Jessica Parker happily obliged, Mara was embarrassed—celebrities totally didn’t come to fashion shows to be hassled by fans. It didn’t help that once the photographers had stopped taking Jessica Simpson’s picture and started taking Sarah Jessica’s, none of them even stopped to take a photo of Mara Waters.
Contrary to what Mara had grown to believe, she wasn’t nearly as famous as she thought.
it’s getting hot in where?
JACQUI TRIED NOT TO LOOK INTO THE MIRRORS THAT WERE everywhere backstage. Her hair! Her glorious, beautiful, thick, black hair! Gone! Replaced by some trendy haircut—a fauxhawk, the stylist had called it—a halfway, wussy Mohawk that was long in the middle and gelled to a point, while the sides were short and cropped. She ran her fingers over the rough edges, shuddering at the buzz cut on the nape of her neck. It felt like it belonged on a boy. But there was no more time to think about it, because the lights went down in the front of the house and Octavian was in front, yelling at all the models to get in line.