"You are amazing," Philippe said. "Ma tante said it wouldn't be easy, but I did not think it would be this hard. I just wanted to be near the beach."
Jacqui laughed. She really couldn't be that angry at Philippe. He sounded just like she had last summer. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the crickets chirping in the bushes and watching the fireflies dance around the bushes by the pool. Philippe's cell phone rang a couple of times, but he ignored it.
"Who's trying to get hold of you so bad?" Jacqui asked when he ignored it the third time.
Philippe was nonchalant. "Just a couple of friends," he replied, and left it at that.
A few minutes later, Mara walked out of the door, wearing one of Jacqui's designer dresses. It was a low-cut Zac Posen lavender chiffon number, with beaded rhinestones that formed a pretty pattern on the neck and waist. The back dipped so low Mara was sure it was indecent, but Jacqui had assured her that
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none of the clothes Mara had brought would be dressy enough for dinner at the American Hotel.
Philippe whistled.
"I don't know if I put this on right," she said to Jacqui. "Does it look okay?"
Jacqui handed Philippe the roach, then stood up to judge. She pulled down on the waist, so that the neckline sat a little lower. "There. Perfeito. I have a pair of Jimmy Choo heels in my bag. Those are cute, but they're not high enough," Jacqui advised, pointing to Mara's sandals.
"What are you smoking?" Mara asked them, sniffing the fragrant air suspiciously.
"Nothing."
"Rieti."
Mara knew they were lying, but she was too concerned about looking presentable and too grateful to Jacqui for loaning her the dress to criticize them. Besides, she was tired of being the Good Girl all the time. Jacqui and Philippe were old enough to know the risks of getting fired if they were caught smoking pot.
"Tell Eliza I'm sorry I didn't make it, okay?" Mara told them, slipping on Jacqui's sandals. She walked up to the main house to wait for Garrett in the foyer.
Not long after Mara left, a pair of heels clicked on the concrete walk. Jacqui figured it was just Mara--she'd probably forgotten something--but it was Anna Perry who emerged from the darkness, dressed in a silk robe pulled tightly across her waist,
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and high-heeled brocade bedroom slippers. "I thought I smelled something," she said.
Jacqui choked on an exhale and tried to wave away the smoke.
"There you are," Anna said, smiling warmly at Philippe. "I was looking for you everywhere," she said flirtatiously, as Jacqui quickly hid the incriminating evidence behind her back.
"What are the two of you up to?" Anna asked, taking a seat next to Philippe by the curb. "Jacqui, is something wrong?"
Jacqui shook her head and surreptitiously threw down the joint, crushing it beneath her heel. "Nothing--we were just--nothing." Jacqui attempted a smile, edging away from the two of them. "I'm sorry, I'm really tired. I need to hit the straw. Um, good night!" she said, turning the doorknob to the servants' cottage.
She slammed the door behind her, her heart beating quickly in her chest. Her boss had busted them smoking pot! How would Anna ever recommend her for a job in New York now? Jacqui wondered what was going on outside, since Anna was still talking to Philippe. She pressed an ear to the door and found she could overhear parts of their conversation.
"Do you have anything?" she heard Anna ask.
Philippe murmured a protest.
"Don't be silly. I'm not that clueless, you know," Anna said.
Jacqui heard rustling and then Anna's voice again. "God, have I been craving this. Kevin is so boring sometimes. We used to have a lot of fun together, but now it's all just work, work, work."
Philippe snorted.
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Jacqui couldn't believe it. Anna Perry! Smoking pot with one of the au pairs! Anna began to giggle at something Philippe said, and Jacqui suddenly felt abandoned, even though she was the one who'd left.
"How old do you think I am?" Anna asked Philippe.
Oh God, what an old line, Jacqui thought.
"Twenty-five," Philippe said graciously.
"Close, but no," Anna said. "I'm thirty-two. That's not too old, is it?"
Jacqui muffled a laugh. Thirty-two seemed kind of ancient to her.
"Sometimes I can't believe I'm thirty-two and the mother of seven children. Seven!" Anna shook her head. "I'm like Maria von Trapp or something."
Jacqui coughed. Anna was actually only the mother of one kid, Cody, and was a stepmom to the rest of the brood. Jacqui couldn't hear Philippe's reply. Then Anna said something about her life passing her by, and Jacqui realized the poor thing was lonely. It must suck not to have any real friends to talk to and to have to resort to the company of an employee. Still, why did it have to be Philippe?
After what seemed like an eternity, Jacqui heard Anna stand up, and footsteps clacking away from the cottage. She opened the door tentatively. Now that Anna had gone, maybe she and Philippe could hit Seventh Circle. But when Jacqui stepped outside again, there was no sign of the French boy anywhere. There
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were only the remnants of a stubbed-out joint and some torn rolling papers on the curb.
Jacqui felt deflated. She could still go to the club, but somehow, the prospect wasn't as fun or exciting as it had been when she had assumed Philippe would be with her. Besides, now that she thought about it--she was tired. Running after three kids all day could do that to a girl. She trudged up the stairs, thinking that her SAT book could keep her company. Somehow, knowing she was doing the right thing wasn't as much consolation as she'd thought.
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there's nothing like a may bach to warm a girl's heart
MARA WAS MYSTIFIED TO FIND A FULL CAMERA CREW IN the foyer, setting up overhead lights and screens. One of the guys wearing a headset and carrying a boom almost crashed into Anna's collection of miniature crystal Lladro animal sculptures displayed on a lower shelf. Sugar Perry, wearing a shrunken pink velour hoodie that exposed her midriff, and matching pink velour hot pants, was talking animatedly into the camera. The director, a young guy in faded cords, was kneeling, checking Sugar's image on the monitor, when he noticed Mara hovering by the doorway. "Who's your friend?" he asked, motioning the cameraman to take shots of Mara.
"Oh, that's nobody," Sugar replied in a very bored voice. "She just works here."
But the director ignored Sugar and stared at Mara. "Hi, I'm Randy Braverman from E! Entertainment Network," he said, shaking her hand. "Did Laurie tell you about our show?"
Then Mara remembered. Sugar was starring in a reality show
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about rich kids in the Hamptons this summer. The show's premise was to capture the pampered class's day-to-day life, which meant following Sugar everywhere. Laurie had warned them that by working for the Perrys, their participation was mandatory. They'd all had to sign release forms earlier in the week.
"What's Garrett's car doing here?" Sugar asked, looking out the bay window, where a sleek Mercedes Maybach had pulled up to the driveway.
"That's my ride," Mara explained, inching toward the door and hoping to get out of there as quickly as possible.
'''You're going out with Garrett Reynolds?" Sugar asked, unable to keep the shock from her voice.
"Who's going out with Garrett Reynolds?" Poppy Perry demanded, walking down the stairs. Poppy was a little miffed she hadn't been chosen for the show. Earlier that year their publicist had released a memo to the press requesting that the Perry twins not be called "the Perry twins" in public anymore, but instead be known as "Sugar Perry" and "Poppy Perry" from now on--since they insisted they were two different girls with two different careers. But it had bit Poppy in the ass--apparently, she wasn't as famous as her taller, sexier, more toxic twin.
"I am," Mara said quietly. The Perry twins said Garrett's name in the same way that someone else would say "Prince William" or "Leonardo di Caprio," like he was some k
ind of god.
Poppy's eyes were like saucers. "No way."
"Funny, he didn't mention anything about it last night," Sugar
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said, looking at Mara as if Mara had done something wrong.
"What's it like, dating one of the richest guys in the Hamptons?" Randy Braverman asked, the boom suddenly over Mara's head and the cameras directed on her.
"We're not dating. I mean, it's our first--I mean, I don't know. He's really nice," Mara stammered. "Sorry. I really need to go," she said, scissoring through the crowd to the front door.
Garrett emerged from the backseat of the car, carrying one long-stemmed white rose for Mara. He had slicked his dark hair back from his forehead, and he looked handsome in a butter-cream-colored linen suit.
"Your chariot, milady," Garrett said. "What's going on over here?" he asked, waving to the crowd, who were huddled in the foyer, watching them. The camera was still focused on the two of them, and Sugar was looking dangerously impatient.
Mara accepted the rose and slid inside. "Sugar's taping something for E! You know, the socialite show."
"Ah yes." Garrett grinned. "Rich and Stupid in the Hamptons."
Mara blinked. She'd thought Sugar and Poppy were Garrett's friends--that was the impression she'd gotten from the twins just now--but here he was making fun of them. Maybe he was smarter than he let on.
"Champagne?" he asked, taking a bottle from a cleverly concealed refrigeration unit in the armrest. The May bach was a cocoon of luxury, with two plasma television screens, wireless headsets, and bucket seats outfitted with full-body massagers.
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"They recline all the way down," Garrett smiled naughtily. "But maybe we'll save that for later."
Mara pretended not to hear. She was beginning to worry she'd made a mistake in saying yes to the date, when all she'd wanted to do was find a way to make Ryan see that they were meant to be together. She didn't want to lead Garrett on, especially since he was going to all this trouble.
"You are absolutely gorgeous," Garrett said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. He looked at her admiringly, complimenting her on her dress, her hair, her smile, her perfume, her legs, her shoes. It was nice to feel appreciated, especially since in Sturbridge, she always felt average, and yesterday, in front of Allison and Ryan, she'd felt practically invisible.
The restaurant was a hushed, formal establishment with tuxedoed waiters and silver candelabras. Mara felt clumsy and out of place, even though she didn't look it. As the haughty maitre d'led them to their table, Garrett whispered, "I bet he's wearing women's underwear." Mara stifled a guffaw and stopped feeling intimidated, even if they were by far the youngest people there.
At dinner, Garrett ordered for her, which would have annoyed her if the dishes he'd chosen hadn't been perfectly delicious. Mara never had "torchons of foie gras" or "gently poached langoustines smothered in caviar" before. The most exotic restaurant in Sturbridge was the Baja Fresh. This was by far the best and most interesting meal she'd ever had. Between the fish course and the meat course, the waiter brought out a martini glass filled with
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cold cucumber sorbet. "A palate cleanser," Garrett explained. Mara gulped it down, relishing the juicy tartness.
She had to admit she was having fun. For sure, Garrett was a tiny bit self-centered--Mara got a little tired of hearing about his opinion on everything from the electoral process, to stem-cell research, to the new Wes Anderson film, to his idea for a great movie (a remake of Casablanca in space!)--but since he was so passionate about it, she didn't hold it against him. Aside from his suggestive asides, he was a riot. He had a childish enthusiasm and irreverence that was catching, and against her better instincts, Mara found herself warming to him.
"I'm never eating again," she declared, after putting away a luscious dessert and patting her full stomach. "That was amazing."
Garrett poured the last of the Sauternes into her dessert wine glass. "Cheers," he said. They polished off the bottle of wine-- he'd palmed a hundred-dollar bill so the sommelier wouldn't check IDs, and Mara was definitely feeling tipsy. She staggered out of her chair, and Garrett offered her his arm. He steered her gently back to the sedan.
"Where to?" the chauffeur asked, tipping his cap.
Mara shrugged, smiling impishly at Garrett. He really was hot. She could understand why Poppy and Sugar were jealous. Sugar's boyfriend Charlie was attractive, but Eliza said it was thanks to major plastic surgery, and Poppy had recently been dumped by her on-again, off-again boyfriend Leo, who was slightly cross-eyed.
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"Seventh Circle?" Garrett suggested.
Mara nodded. Dinner had been so pleasant. It seemed rude to cut the evening short, especially since Garrett was being conscientious.
"My friend works there," she said, smiling as the Maybach accelerated into the night.
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celebrities are like two-year-olds: demanding and prone to tantrums
ELIZA HAD FOLLOWED KARTIK AND ALAN'S INSTRUCTIONS to the letter and was dressed in a silver-sequined Sass & Bide minidress that brushed the tops of her thighs--Jessica Simpson owned the only other one that had ever been made--and a pair of four-inch metallic Pierre Hardy heels.
The club glittered under the strobe lights, and the double-height glass liquor cabinet that ran the length of the club along the back wall was an architectural marvel. The bartenders were hooked to mountain-climbing lines, and when a customer ordered a certain drink, they scaled the shelves like trapeze artists and deftly retrieved the requested bottle. It was an entertaining diversion and a cool gimmick. Already, customers were angling for the most-out-of-reach liquor choices, just to look up the sexy bartenders' skirts. Eliza still couldn't believe the transformation from construction site to hot club that had happened practically overnight. She had to hand it to those guys--they knew what they were doing.
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But she hadn't figured that working at a nightclub would be quite so demanding. She'd barely had time to hang out with Mara or even ask her what she was doing with Garrett Reynolds, since it had been total chaos at the velvet rope when they'd arrived. Eliza had put them at the best table in the house; Mara was her best friend, and Garrett was a big deal because of his name alone, so it made sense. She only wished that, like them, she could sit down. Between making sure the celebrities were entertained and indulged, keeping the no-names at bay, feeding the press juicy tidbits, and ducking the airborne bartenders scaling the liquor cabinet, Eliza was exhausted. Her nerves were frazzled, and if one more bodyguard demanded that another photographer be tossed out of the club, she would scream.
Already, she was agitated because Ondine Sylvester, a sitcom star who had once dated pop singer Chauncey Raven's husband, was reportedly on her way. This was bad news, because Chauncey and her hubby, Daryl Wolf, a failed backup singer, were front and center in the VIP room. Chauncey's handler demanded that they not let Ondine inside, lest her client become upset. Ondine had two children by Daryl and had been pregnant with a third when Chauncey had come on the scene. Eliza patiently explained to Chauncey's pompous publicist that they couldn't deny Ondine entrance but that she could promise to seat Ondine on the opposite side of the room. It was important to keep Chauncey happy, since she was the bigger celebrity at the club, but Eliza also understood that they couldn't afford
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to alienate Ondine either, since they needed as many famous people in the house as possible.
"Eliza--someone at the front for you--says he knows you," Eliza's headset crackled.
"Got it. On my way," she replied, straightening her headset. God, it was probably some old friend from high school trying to get inside, Eliza thought. She'd already let Taylor and Lindsay in, just to show that there were no hard feelings from last summer. Plus, how much fun was it to be the one who held their evening in her hands?
She walked to the front door and saw Jeremy--all six-four of him, looking a bit rumpled in a gray pinstriped suit an
d a loosened necktie. She'd forgotten how gorgeous he was. His chestnut hair was combed back high from his forehead and curled underneath his ears. He'd told her he would stop by the club that night, but a part of her hadn't believed that he would actually show up. He looked so handsome and businesslike in his suit, and the sight of his red tie askew made her love him even more.
"I told them you asked me to meet you here, but they wouldn't let me in." He grinned.
"It's good, Rudolph," Eliza said to the burly bouncer, smiling at Jeremy.
"Lotsa people say they know Eliza tonight," Rudolph said menacingly to Jeremy, even as he unhooked the velvet rope.
"Rudolph--I'm taking a five-minute break. If Ondine arrives, beep me on the headset."
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Eliza led Jeremy by the hand to the back garden, where patrons who'd had enough of the pounding techno beat and relentless posing went for a smoke.
"What's with the suit?" she asked playfully. She didn't want to appear overly excited to see him, even though she was bursting with happiness.
"I'm interning at Morgan Stanley. I-banking," he said.
"Wow. That's awesome!" she said, impressed. Only last summer, Eliza had hated twenty something investment banker types who rented share-houses in the Hamptons and thought they were entitled to everything. But looking at Jeremy in his suit, I-banking suddenly seemed a lot sexier.
"Yeah, it is. They work me like a dog, though. I'm there until three, four A.M. every night. I didn't think I could get away this weekend, but thankfully we closed on the RFP," he said, talking in financial jargon.
Eliza smiled admiringly at him. This was so not the Jeremy from last summer, who had worked as a gardener on the Perry estate. Last year all Jeremy had cared about were dwarf Japanese elm trees and American Beauty roses.