The Beach Lane 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 something, 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 sai
d 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 10PM—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.
“Seriously, what are you getting at?” Mara prodded.
“Nothing. Just have fun, okay?” Jacqui said gently. Mara would never admit to it, but Jacqui understood what Mara was doing. She wanted to let Ryan know what he was missing. And her bikini-clad body would certainly remind him.
Jacqui decided to hold her tongue—she’d been around long enough to know that the saga of Mara and Ryan never ended. Those two were either always on the verge of making up or breaking up. Mara couldn’t live with Ryan, but apparently she couldn’t live without him either. But you could never tell that to someone. They had to find out on their own, especially concerning matters of the heart.
Besides, she was in a good mood. She was going to see Marcus again tonight. The two of them had been flirting ever since the store opening, meeting with Midas and Eliza to brainstorm the shots for the “reality fashion” spread. It turned out that “reality fashion” was just as scripted as reality television. Although the photographs were meant to look like they were documenting a “day in the life” of a normal person, everything was carefully thought out and planned beforehand. Midas had suggested they start by shooting her at a fabulous party to create a glamorous, jet-setting image, and what better venue than the annual Hamptons magazine Independence Day bash? The party at the publisher’s waterfront estate was the hottest ticket in town—the biggest, most exclusive, and most extravagant party of the season.
“I’ll be back by five,” Mara promised, deciding to drop it. They had agreed to switch off on the kids for the day so that she could attend Ryan’s beach party early and Jacqui would be free to fulfill her modeling duties at the magazine party later.
She hugged Jacqui goodbye and walked out the back door toward the beach path that led to the Perry estate. She began the trek with a light step, but by the time she arrived at the right hedges ten minutes later, the heat had caused her hair to frizz and her floaty top, which had been so airy and breezy in her air-conditioned bedroom, was wet with perspiration and stuck to her body in a most unflattering manner, bunching up in her underarms and against her butt. She huffed from exertion and cursed a little bit at the sand that had stuck to the soles of her feet.
The smell of grilled meat and the soft sound of reggae greeted her as she approached the Perry house. She felt a wave of nostalgia as she opened the terrace’s low gate. There was the patio where she’d played poker with Ryan and his buddies that first summer, and that was the pool where her then-boyfriend Jim Mizekowski had caught her and Ryan skinny-dipping that same night. Too many memories. Mara sucked in her breath, wiped the sweat from her brow, and walked toward the crowd gathered by the Weber grill.
Ryan’s surfer friends were scattered about the pool area, some bobbing in the water on floaties and a few seated by the edge, their tanned legs dangling in the water. Like he’d said, it was a casual event—although this being the Hamptons, the girls were decked out in their Eres bikinis and matching Gaultier sarongs. Mara was glad she’d dressed up, even if the peasant top had left her drenched in sweat.
She said hello to a few familiar faces as she made her way to the cooler, placing the six-pack of Corona she’d brought inside. She straightened, looking around for Ryan. She took off her cover-up—dear God, it was hot!—and stretched, making sure she wasn’t popping out of the bikini. She’d never worn a two-piece that small before, although Jacqui had assured her tangas were more comfortable since they were cut close to the body and better for swimming. A few of the assembled guys did double takes when they saw her, although she was too busy retying the strings on her left hip to notice.
> Now where was Ryan?
She was determined to prove to him that they could be friends—real friends—just like he and Eliza were friends. She could live with being called “dude” so long as he remembered how totally hot she was. Really, though, there was no reason they had to be estranged from each other just because they’d once been so close they could finish each other’s sentences and knew each other’s deepest secrets. (Mara’s was that she’d once cheated on a math test, Ryan’s that he’d actually attended an American Idol tour concert—with his little sister, of course). The two of them should be able to hang out, do everything they used to do—well, not everything, but she wanted him back in her life in some capacity at least. She could really use a guy friend, especially now that David, still silent after her vindictive e-mail, seemed to be out of the picture.
She was on her tiptoes looking around the party, the tiny strings on her bikini dangling sexily down her back and from her hips, when she saw him.
Sitting in the middle of the circle by the grill, holding hands with a head-turning blonde. A girl who looked all too familiar, and who was wearing an all-too-familiar teensy turquoise bikini.
Tinker!
The chick from Ryan’s frat at Dartmouth who had lived in the yacht next to theirs last summer.
Mara felt a stab of—what? Shock? Jealousy? She couldn’t be sure. But she was determined—there was that word again—to ignore it. So what if Ryan and Tinker were now an item? Wasn’t that just natural? After all, they shared so many things in common—they were both great surfers, they lived for the outdoors, they both looked great in pastel polo tops, and their families both had truckloads of money.
It was almost sickening how absolutely perfect they were for each other. Mara had always suspected that Ryan would be a lot happier with a girlfriend who shared his interests. Now it looked like he’d found her.