Skinny Dipping, Page 2

  Jacqui sighed and accepted the plastic bag reluctantly, tossing it into her patent leather carryall. She walked into the bright early-summer afternoon and crossed the street to sit on a park bench to wait for Eliza. It was another glorious day in East Hampton. The early-morning rainfall had given way to sparkling sunshine, and the tiny, jewel-box boutiques on Main Street trilled with the chatter of what to wear to another season of beachfront barbecues and white-tent benefits. Jacqui was oblivious to the stares from the preening slicksters in their 911 Carreras or the head-to-toe scrutiny from the Botox brigade. She sat and immediately immersed herself in her book, The U.S. News & World Report's guide to Americas best colleges.

  It was amazing what a little studying could do for her grades and how gratifying it was to bring home a decent report card for a change. Her grandmother couldn't believe it--during the past year, Jacqui had spent more time at the library than the mall and was even talking about going to college. In the past, the only thing Jacqui had been passionate about was whether or not she'd be able to score the latest fox-fur Prada shrug before anyone else. Before, she'd had only a vague idea of what she wanted for the future. She'd always assumed she'd end up marrying some rich guy twice her age and spend the rest of her life flitting between

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  spa treatments and couture fittings while ignoring her husband's infidelities. It was the life that Jacqui had been groomed for.

  Her mother, a former beauty queen who had won third runner-up in a Miss Universe pageant, once had her pick of suitors-- from the son of the owner of the largest electric company in the country, to the son of a landed cattle rancher. Instead, she'd settled on a handsome civil engineer with beautiful black eyes and no family money whatsoever. Roberto Velasco was resolutely middle-class in a country of extreme wealth and extreme poverty. The Velascos lived happily enough in Campinas, and her mother contented herself with ruling over the small provincial society, but she wanted more for her daughter, which was why she'd sent Jacqui to live with her grandmother in Sao Paulo to attend a private school in the city where Jacqui would rub shoulders with the daughters of the ruling branco class.

  But Jacqui's beautiful face and Coke-bottle curves had only made the rich girls envious, and Jacqui had made few friends there. For a while, she'd dutifully dated the arrogant scions of landowners and the sugarcane gentry, but that soon bored her, and she'd found that true adventure lay in the arms of their married, older fathers.

  Then Luke van Varick--her Luca--had come into her life. A cool American boy with a lazy grin and a huge backpack, she'd met him while he was traveling over spring break and had fallen hard for him. After their two-week spring fling, he'd told her he loved her and then disappeared. She'd tracked him down all the

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  way to the Hamptons, but it turned out her Luca had actually belonged to someone else the whole time.

  So now Jacqui had a better plan: She would do a great job for the Perrys this summer so they would recommend her as a live-in nanny for one of their rich friends. That way she could move to New York City for her senior year of high school and go to Stuyvesant, an elite public school in the city, through their foreign-exchange program. If she did well there, she'd have a chance to attend NYU and make something of her life. She had Eliza's friend Kit to thank for putting the idea in her head when they'd hung out together in Palm Beach over winter break. He'd told her about his older sister, who hadn't done a lick of work at school until senior year and was now a freshman at NYU.

  In order to make her dreams happen, Jacqui had made a bunch of new rules for herself, the most important being No More Boys. They were just distractions, and if Jacqui had been able to resist the temptations of the cutest guys in Brazil, she could definitely do the same in the Hamptons. She was going to keep her head down, take care of those kids, and attend an SAT prep class on her nights off. God help her, she was going to show the world she was more than just an empty-headed Gisele clone.

  She perused the pages of the guidebook: There were photographs of sweater-wearing coeds sitting on green lawns, and an endless array of statistics concerning minority enrollment, merit scholarships, and alumni testimonials. Okay, so it was just a

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  teensy bit boring. Surely there was something else she could do while waiting. She slammed the book shut and looked at her watch. Eliza was due to pick her up in a half hour, and Scoop looked awfully inviting across the street. Just because she was getting serious about school didn't mean she couldn't indulge in her favorite extracurricular activity, did it?

  A girl's got to have a new bikini, after all.

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  eliza learns that hell is made for famous people

  "YOU GOT ANY EXPERIENCE WITH NIGHTCLUBS?" ALAN

  Whitman asked, once the three of them were seated on plastic-wrapped leather club chairs in the back of the room. He had barely glanced at the resume Eliza had handed him. To Eliza's chagrin, her chair made a squishy, sticky sound like an embarrassing bodily function whenever she moved. Thankfully, neither of the guys seemed to notice.

  "Not specifically," she replied. "But I'm really eager to learn. I read in the Times that you guys are looking to expand into publicity, marketing, and upscale lifestyle branding, and that's really where I see myself making a--"

  "Do you know any celebrities? High-profile people?" Kartik interrupted with an intense look on his face as he put the tops of his fingers together in an upside-down V-shape without his palms touching.

  "Uh ..." Eliza said warily.

  "Like Jessica and Ashlee? Or the Perry twins?"

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  "Of course, we went--I mean, we go to school together," she said, relieved.

  "Who doesn't? But that's good. Because we really need that kind of crowd here," Kartik said, frowning. "There are five new nightclubs opening this summer, and we need to have the hottest people here. I don't want to see has-beens, nobodies, fuglies. I want to see Mary-Kate Olsen puking in the bathroom, if you know what I mean."

  Eliza nodded.

  Alan hooted. "Damn, Kartik, don't be so hard on her just because she blew you off!"

  His partner ignored him, boring his eyes into Eliza. "I can't tell you how important it is to get someone in here who recognizes everyone from Tara Reid to Page Six reporters. You've got to know the scene." He paused meaningfully. "We had a kid at Vice who didn't let JC Chasez in! I mean, I know it's hard to recognize those 'N Sync guys without Justin, but man, did I hear about it then. You know, when it's kicking, this place is going to be like Beverly Hills, SoHo, and Saint-Tropez combined, but on the beach to boot!"

  Eliza didn't bother to point out that Saint-Tropez was on the beach.

  "It's a real demanding position. You're like the quarterback driving up the lane," Alan interjected, mangling his sports metaphors. "Every night in Seventh Circle is going to be the center of the freaking universe, you know what I mean? That's the

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  way we operate. Like a freaking constellation of stars!" He slammed his fist on the zinc-topped coffee table.

  "Here's the deal," Kartik said pompously. "This place is all about celebs. Without celebs, we don't get the mooks who pay the thirty-dollar entrance fee to gawk at 'em."

  Alan nodded wisely, adding, "Overpriced, watered-down, six-ounce cocktails taste that much sweeter if Chauncey Raven's at the next table fondling her new husband. So, invite the Perry twins, give them a table, make sure it's one up on the second level where they can see everybody and everybody can see them. Keep. The. Celebrities. Happy. Dig?"

  "Anything they want, anything!" Kartik said, picking up the refrain, and it dawned on Eliza that she was watching a carefully choreographed song-and-dance routine. "Lindsey Lohan wants a pizza from Domino's at 3 A.M.? Done! Avril Lavigne needs a private helicopter back to the city? Done! R. Kelly wants a stripper for his birthday party? Double-done!" He punched the air to emphasize his point.

  Eliza nodded briskly. At the magazine, during a celebrity shoot, she'd once had
to fill a toilet bowl with gardenias every time the diva went to the bathroom, so she was used to catering to a set of ridiculous demands.

  "Of course, the rules change for civilians," Alan said in a silky tone. "If it's a group of guys, double the drink bill--they'll never notice. Keep the tables turning, unless they've reserved it for the entire summer, and in that case, keep the five-hundred-dollar

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  bottles moving, at least two per hour, 'cause that's what's going to pay the overhead."

  "Remember, you've got to dress sexy, look sexy, feel sexy, you know?" Kartik grinned. "Here's a piece of advice: The shorter the skirt, the better the tips. I'm talking crotch-length, babe," he said, making a cutting motion with his hand across his thigh to demonstrate.

  Alan reached out to grab her elbow, making Eliza recoil. "Whatever you do, never, never, never, ever, ever, ever let anybody in if they're not on the list. The list is God. It could be my mother out there, but if she's not on the list, tough luck, Ma, no list, no entry. Unless it's a celeb, but that goes without saying. I'm frigging serious. The only way we can keep the place hot is if absolutely no one can get in."

  A model in a baby T-shirt and ripped jeans slunk out of the bathroom and plopped herself on the armrest of Alan's chair. "Baby, I'm hungry," she pouted. Eliza recognized her from a recent Victoria's Secret commercial. She'd been wearing a lace teddy and three-foot-long angel wings. The ad always irritated Eliza---what kind of lame sexual fantasy involved underwear and hokey feather-covered appendages?

  "Get the chef to make you something," Alan said irritably.

  "I love your necklace," the model said in a thick accent, flicking her eyes at Eliza.

  Eliza nodded. "Thanks." She fiddled with the leather string Ryan had given her in Palm Beach, feeling a pang of anxiety.

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  "What do you think? You up for it?" Kartik asked. "The best summer of your life?"

  Eliza smiled, thinking she'd heard that line before. "When do I start?" she asked, elated that she'd landed the job so easily. She would be back on the A-list as fast as you could say, "By invitation only."

  "Saturday," Alan and Kartik replied in unison.

  "In two days?" Eliza blanched, looking around. Hello, the walls were still exposed Sheetrock, weren't they?

  "Relax. It's only a soft opening, for a premiere party. You know that new movie that's an update of Gone with the Wind with Jennifer Love Hewitt and Chad Michael Murray? Favor for a friend of ours. You know Mitzi Goober?" Kartik asked.

  Eliza nodded. Mitzi was only the most feared publicist in the tristate area.

  At twenty-seven Mitzi had achieved immortality by landing on the cover of New York magazine as a "party grrrrl." Two years ago she'd spent a month in jail after her teacup Chihuahua attacked an unsuspecting waitress's fur-trimmed uniform vest, landing the waitress in the hospital and Mitzi on the cover of the tabloids. It was widely reported that Mitzi had laughed off the incident and called the waitress a "fashion victim," setting off a class war that resulted in aggressive and diminutive canines being banned from certain Hamptons eateries. But now she was back, a bestselling prison memoir under her belt, and more popular than ever. It was the Paris Hilton effect--there was no such thing as bad publicity in the Hamptons.

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  "But..." Eliza wordlessly motioned to the surrounding mess. It was hard to believe that in less than forty-eight hours the place would be turned into something resembling a decent watering hole.

  "They'll be done by then, I promise you. By the way, how old are you?"

  "I just turned seventeen . . ." she said tentatively, wondering if she should have lied.

  Kartik waved a hand dismissively. "You're not bartending, so its cool.

  Eliza realized she didn't know what exactly she would be doing, or even how much she would be making. It seemed a little rude to ask, especially since the interview was obviously over. She figured they would straighten out those details later.

  "You guys fans of Dante?" she asked, on her way out the door.

  "Huh?" Kartik looked at her blankly. Alan was already nuzzling the underage panty model, his hands disappearing up the back of her shirt.

  "The club. Seventh Circle. It's about the seventh circle of hell, right?" she asked, wondering if she sounded like an idiot, because that was how her new boss was looking at her. She remembered from English class that in Dante's Inferno, the seventh circle of hell was where Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, and a bunch of other boldface names in history had ended up, due to sins of violence and pride.

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  "Sure, whatever." He shrugged. "Dante's cool. He's that new DJ from Paris, right?"

  Eliza made a note that being literate was something that her new job--whatever it was--would not entail. Just wear the short skirt and keep the celebrities happy. She could do that.

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  is there such a thing as an accidental lap dance?

  "I'M MARA, BY THE WAY," MARA SAID TO THE DARK-HAIRED

  boy who was uncorking a champagne bottle. She wondered why he was paying so much attention to her--there were several girls on board who made their living off their cheekbones, and yet he'd barely looked at them. The two of them were sitting opposite each other in cushy caramel leather wing chairs in a cozy alcove behind the cockpit.

  "I know who you are," he said smoothly. "You work for the Perrys, right? I'm Garrett Reynolds," he introduced himself, offering a hand. Mara had already put two and two together. It was his parents' jet. They were that Reynolds family. The one Forbes magazine had just minted America's newest billionaires. His father, Ezra Reynolds, was responsible for littering the Manhattan skyline with R logos on all of his buildings.

  Garrett pulled down a cantilevered metal table hidden in a side panel and began placing champagne glasses in two rows on top of it, taking the glasses out of an adjoining cabinet. The flight

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  attendants secured the doors and the plane began to roll down the runway. Mara noticed there was no standard spiel concerning safety procedures, the nearest exits, or about using one's seat cushion as a floatation device (although she bet mink didn't float). She and Garrett were two of the few people even sitting down.

  "It looks pretty bad out there," Mara noted, as the storm rattled the plane.

  "We're only a half-point over the minimums to fly," Garrett agreed, explaining that unlike commercial airlines, which were legally required to adhere to FAA regulations that restricted flying under certain weather conditions--like, say, the violent downpour they were caught in--private jets had no such limitations. As long as wind velocity met a minimum standard, they were good to go. "But apparently Mother has a hair appointment she can't miss." Garrett smirked.

  Mara didn't know if he was kidding or not. That Chelsea Reynolds would risk death for a blowout was totally plausible, considering everything Mara knew about the Hamptons high life.

  "Brace yourself," Garrett warned, cupping the magnum of champagne under his chin.

  The plane took off like a bumper car on a trampoline, and Mara heard the crowd shriek with laughter as they bounced around like pin balls. Miraculously, none of the glassware on their table moved an inch.

  "Magnetized bottoms." Garrett smiled, pouring champagne into each flute as the plane zigzagged off the ground.

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  Mara gripped her armrest worriedly, but Garrett seemed completely oblivious to the booming thunder and taut drumbeat of the raindrops against the windowpanes.

  "Is it always this, uh, bouncy?" Mara asked, trying desperately to keep her balance on her seat as the plane hit a sharp air pocket. If there was a seat belt, she couldn't find it.

  "Smaller planes take the bumps harder on takeoff, although this weather certainly doesn't help," he mused. "This is nothing compared to landing," he added.

  When all the champagne flutes were filled to the brim with bubbly, Garrett looked up at her expectantly. Mara couldn't help but be reminded of the way her cat Stinky always stared at Bl
ue, her sister's parakeet.

  "There's an old saying in the West..." Garrett drawled, leaning forward and staring into her eyes intently.

  Mara smirked. So that explained why he'd chosen her. It was all a game called Let's Get the New Girl Drunk. Did he really think she would be such an easy mark? In Sturbridge, they'd used beer mugs instead of champagne flutes, but she was sure the rules were the same.

  "In Texas, it's always high noon," Mara replied somberly, gratified when Garrett nodded admiringly at her recognition of the game's ritual introduction.

  "And at high noon, we ... drawl" Garrett exclaimed, reaching for his first flute.

  Mara lunged for hers. She opened her throat and poured the sharp, crisp liquid inside.

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  "Draw again!" Garrett exclaimed gleefully when he'd emptied his glass before she was even halfway through hers.

  Mara slammed her flute down, surprised she'd been beaten, and promptly reached for another. She won the next round, barely, but Garrett beat her on every other, until each glass on her side was empty. Damn, this guy was slick. In Sturbridge, Mara had wiped the floor with many a competitor, putting even the most funnel-happy football player to shame. Her ex-boyfriend Jim had taught her that the trick was not to breathe.

  "Impressive," she commended him.

  "Thank you," Garrett smiled. "You're not so bad yourself."

  Mara relaxed against her seat, momentarily forgetting her nervousness about the turbulence, when a particularly sharp jolt threw her completely out of her chair and onto his lap.

  "Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, scrambling to get her balance.