Beach Lane

contrary to queer eye logic, not all gay men dress well





THAT NIGHT, WHEN ALL FOUR KIDS HAD FINALLY BEEN put to bed, the three au pairs hung out in their room and made plans.

“You coming out, Mara?” Eliza asked. “Don’t say no again!”

Mara was reluctant, but it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. She had already walked Zoë to the bathroom, so she didn’t have to stay home for that. And Jim was giving her the cold shoulder after she had told him she couldn’t take the weekend off to visit. She had even sent him a care package from Barefoot Contessa, complete with scones and muffins, as a guilt present, but it had done nothing to thaw his temper.

“Oh, okay. But we’re not going to stay long, right? The girls have ballet in the morning.”

“Yeah, we’ll stay for, like, a minute,” Eliza said, winking at Jacqui.

Mara pulled out her new red dress.

“WHAT are you doing?” Eliza asked, taking it from her and putting it back on the hanger.

“Um, wearing my new dress?”

“Sweetie. This is for the polo match. It’s all wrong for Jet East. This is a day dress. Also, you don’t want to show up at polo wearing something everyone’s already seen. Do I have to spell out everything?” Eliza sighed. “Here—put this on,” she said, handing Mara one of her own shirts—a clingy, black jersey halter with a plunging neckline. “You can wear it with your jeans; those are cool. And your new flip-flops.”

Jacqui came out of the bathroom wearing a black lace top and silk cargo pants that she had bought especially for her date with Luca that night. She stood in front of the cracked antique mirror with Mara.

“Don’t pull your hair back; wear it down,” Jacqui said. Pierre, Eliza’s hairdresser friend and self-proclaimed “Queen of Hair,” had come over that afternoon to give all the girls a haircut gratis in exchange for posing with their new styles for his portfolio. Jacqui started to brush Mara’s hair expertly. “See, you keep the flip—here, and kind of smooth it down here—but shake it out and make it all messy-messy.”

Jacqui brought out her twenty-pound, professional makeup artist’s trunk and began to apply foundation, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow, and lipstick on Mara.

When Jacqui was done, Mara looked at herself with the hand mirror Jacqui provided. “Don’t you think it’s too much?” She’d never worn this much makeup in her life, not even counting the spring formal she had gone to with Jim last year.

“You look almost better than me!” Eliza said, a little enviously. “Almost being the operative word,” she joked.

Mara laughed.

They said good-bye to Jacqui, and Eliza pumped her fist in the air when she saw the twins hadn’t left yet. Their Mercedes SUV was still parked in the driveway.

Eliza clambered into the front seat. “Get in,” she told Mara.

“What about the twins?”

“Anna and Kevin said we could take any car in the lot.” Eliza shrugged. “The Volvo’s still available.” She grinned wickedly.

A line of paparazzi stood in front of the red carpet, hollering at various people. Eliza walked slowly, hoping they would snap some shots, but they were distracted by blond pop starlet Chauncey Raven and her crew of bodyguards. The eighteen-year-old most famous for baring her toned midriff all the way down to her pelvis and declaring her virginity while sucking face with a crew of Hollywood hotheads was the latest tabloid phenomenon. “CHAUNCEY! CHAUNCEY! OVER HERE! CHAUNCEY!” the photographers screamed in desperation, but the star stayed completely hidden behind her seven-foot-tall army of former linebackers.

Eliza and Mara entered the club after her without any fanfare. Inside, Eliza began scanning the place for her friends and disappeared into a back room, losing Mara in the crowd. Mara stood by the wall, holding a martini glass and feeling a little out of place. She put down her drink and hit the ladies’ room, where she found a chubby Chinese guy stuck halfway through the back window, his arms dangling helplessly over the porcelain sink.

“Excuse me?”

“Help! You, there, in the two-hundred-dollar top and the Jennifer Aniston haircut! Help me!”

Mara took one of his hands—the one not holding an enormous Nikon camera—and pulled him inside.

“Oh, good Lord!” the guy said, wiping his brow. “I should really stay away from the buffet table next time. Too many free meals are not good for moi!”

The man in front of Mara was a pint-sized Chinese guy with an enormous belly and a double chin. He wore a leopard-print jacket over a paisley shirt and shiny, polyester pants. Everything was too small and too tight—as if he had been caught off guard by some sudden expansion of his girth.

“Lucky Yap!” he said, holding out a hand for Mara to shake.

“Mara Waters.”

“My savior! I need to get a shot of Chauncey Raven or my boss is going to have my ass. The little tart didn’t even stop for photos outside the club. And they wouldn’t let me in even though I’m on the list.”

“Wow, they can do that?”

“Honey, they specialize in that! Her PR guy is a total prick. But then, they weren’t too happy with the shot we got of her last week.” Lucky sniggered. “Girlfriend passed out at Tavern and had to be carried off the dance floor. Star magazine paid a hundred grand for the exclusive.”

Mara snickered. “C’mon, I think I saw an alternate entrance to the room back there.” They headed to the hole between the curtains that separated the VIP tables from the rest of the riffraff. Inside, Chauncey was straddling her latest paramour with great gusto. “Keep it sexy!” Lucky said, angling his camera for a shot. “That’s right, baby, grind it! Woo-hoo! Show me the money!” His flashbulbs barely made a dent in the laser strobe light that shone to the beat of the music.

“Thank God her thong was showing. They always pay more for undie shots,” Lucky said, putting his camera away. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No worries.” Mara smiled. Meeting Lucky was the most fun she’d had so far that evening.

“I’m going to do a lap to check if there’s anyone else worthy of being plastered all over the party pages with spinach on their teeth. Do you know if the Perry twins are here? Sugar and Poppy?” he asked.

“Um . . . not sure.” Mara giggled, wondering if the twins would hazard the Hamptons nightlife in the crappy Volvo. Crappy? Apparently the Hamptons really were getting to Mara.

She said a warm good-bye to the prickly paparazzo. But now that their little adventure was over, she didn’t know whether to go or stay. She was still deciding when she felt someone brush by her.

“Hey, you,” Ryan said, bumping her shoulder with his fist lightly.

“Ryan! Hi!” she said, so happy to see a familiar face that she impulsively gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Ryan was suddenly glad it was so dark in there since he was blushing to the roots of his blond hair. “Wow, you look great!” he said, stepping back to take a good look.

“Because for once I’m not covered in baby drool?” Mara teased.

“No, no, I mean, you always—er, look good. I mean, I . . .,” he said, uncharacteristically fumbling for the right words. “So, uh, I thought you said you were staying in tonight,” Ryan finished lamely, trying to change the subject.

“Can’t a girl change her mind?”

“I’m glad she did,” Ryan said, a little more seriously than was necessary. “Anyway, Eliza said you were here. Come on back and meet some of my friends.”

“Sure.”

He took her hand and led her to the far corner of the room, where a bunch of guys were lounging on velvet couches, smoking stogies, their girlfriends perched daintily on their laps.

“Hey, everybody, meet my friend Mara,” Ryan said. “Mara, that’s pretty much everybody.”

His friend! Mara thought, elated at the introduction. He didn’t say meet the au pair! Or meet the girl who’s working for us this summer! His friend!

The tall guy with the shaved head sitting nearest to Mara made as if to kiss her hand. Mara laughed as Ryan swatted his pal’s hand away. “Enough of that,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked her.

“Sure, why not?”

As they turned to the direction of the bar, Lucky Yap walked by. “Hey! Mr. Perry!” he said, blowing Ryan a kiss.

“What’s going on, Lucky?” Ryan said, laughing. “How’s Frederic?” Like everyone in the Hamptons, Ryan knew Lucky Yap as über-party-photographer Frederic O’Malley’s right-hand man.

“He’s all right. In Cannes for the festival. Leaving me with the B-listers! There’s no one here! I haven’t even seen your sisters all night. Let me get a photo of the two of you instead!” Lucky ordered.

Ryan and Mara looked at each other questioningly, then Ryan put his arm around Mara’s shoulders and they both turned to the camera.

“Perfect! Marvelous! Sexy!” Lucky enthused. Afterward he let them take a peek at the results on his digital viewfinder. Lucky whipped out his notebook. “Ryan Perry and Mara Waters, right?” he said, scribbling their names.

Ryan raised his eyebrows at Mara, impressed that the town’s most social shutterbug already knew her name.

Mara only smiled mysteriously.





somewhere in the sticks (aka hampton bays), jacqui is getting in touch with her feelings





JACQUI VELASCO WAS . . . WHAT WAS THAT WORD that Mara used? Bummed? Yes, bummed. Really, truly bummed.

She should be really, truly, totally, completely happy at being reunited with Luca. In fact, she had spent the last month telling herself how perfectly happy she was, how glad she was that everything was working out just like in her wildest dreams. But that was the problem—Jacqui knew that if she really felt happy, she wouldn’t have to keep reminding herself how happy she was. As the weeks dragged on, miserable seemed like a more accurate description of her feelings. Yes, miserable, Jacqui decided.

Luca had negged on the romantic dinner again. Instead of taking her to the Farmhouse, he’d suggested a “romantic” clambake on the beach. They had driven an hour to a small, rundown restaurant where Luke had bought two soggy oyster po’boys and picked up a six-pack of beer. They weren’t even alone. His friend Leo had met them on the beach.

At least the boys had made a roaring campfire, or else Jacqui would have frozen in her silk and lace. She shivered under her thin cotton sweater and wondered when she would be able to go home.

The other thing that was making her miserable: Luca wasn’t even paying her the least bit of attention. That was the heart of the problem. She wouldn’t have minded at all—they could eat at Burger King every night and she wouldn’t care, but she was beginning to realize that maybe he wasn’t quite the guy she had met in Sao Paolo. In fact, all he’d done all night was roll a couple of fat stogies filled with tobacco and pot and smoke them by himself. He’d offered Jacqui and Leo a few puffs, but pot made Jacqui’s head ache, and Leo had declared himself fine with the beer.

“I’m out of rolling papiere!. Nobody panic!” he said, laughing hysterically at his own joke.

Jacqui watched him silently. He was the love of her life, but when he was like this, she had to face it, he was kind of a jackass.

Luke got up from the blanket and ran down the beach to where he’d parked the car behind some sand dunes.

“You having a good time this summer?” Leo asked, propping himself up with his right arm and looking up at her. He didn’t have Luke’s startling blue eyes or fine, Roman nose, but he had a kind face.

“Yes. Is been nice,” Jacqui said politely, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Don’t mind Van Varick. He can cut up kind of rough sometimes,” he said gently.

Jacqui nodded, not really sure what he’d said.

“So what’s Brazil like?”

Jacqui thought about it. What a question. But soon enough she was telling Leo all about her life back home—her two younger brothers, who still lived at home in Campinas, her life in the big city with her grandmother, who was sending her to the prestigious Santa Anita convent, where the president’s daughters were educated, how her family wasn’t rich, so she had gotten a job at Daslu to help pay her tuition.

Leo was an avid and interested listener, asking her all the right questions and prodding her for more details. Jacqui found herself feeling so much better just to have someone who was actually interested in what she had to say.

The two of them were laughing at some particularly funny soccer play-by-plays she was recounting when Luke rounded up the hill.

“What’s so funny?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing—nothing,” Jacqui said, still chuckling at the David Beckham fumble.

Luke looked pointedly at his friend, who shrugged and turned away. Jacqui knew that look. It said: Easy, man.

Luke crouched next to Jacqui and whispered in her ear, “Hey, babe, you wanna go for a walk? So we can get a chance to talk without this clown around?” he asked, winking lasciviously.

Jacqui nodded and let Luke help her up.

“Just going to take Jacqui for a moonlight stroll,” he said to Leo.

Luke led her to a secluded spot near the bushes. “Come down here with me,” he said, patting the sand.

“Look at the moon,” Jacqui said as she sat down beside him. “Remember how you told me that poem about the stars?” she mused.

“Mmm,” Luke said, not having any idea what she was talking about.

“Walt Whitman. You read it to me when we were camping outdoors. ‘The Astronomer’ . . . ‘the Astronomer’ something?”

“‘When I heard the learn’d astronomer,’ ” Luke said impatiently.

In São Paolo, Luke had recited this poem to her when they were looking up at the night sky.

Yeah, Dalton had taught him something, but he wasn’t about to repeat that poem—or that moment with her now. He had other things on his mind, and before she could ask him another question, he was on top of her, slipping a hand up her shirt. She flinched as he stuck his wet tongue in her ear. He smelled like shellfish.

“You know how pot makes me so horny . . . and you look on fire tonight, babe. God, you don’t know what you do to me,” he said, slobbering all over her neck and shoulders.

Jacqui blinked up at the fat, white moon and the perfectly silent stars. It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t making her happy, but somehow, she wanted her Luca all the same.





ryan finds out mara is full of surprises





THE PARTY WAS OVER. CHAUNCEY RAVEN AND HER thirty-person entourage were long gone. The only people left at the club were desperate single people who were still hoping to go home lucky, hard-core alcoholics, and a stray cocktail waitress or two. Even the publicists and the gossip columnists had gone to bed. Eliza had taken the Mercedes SUV, though, so Mara was still there, sitting alone in the back room with Ryan.

“I guess we should go,” Mara said as the overhead lights blinked on and off.

“You think?” Ryan grinned.

They walked out to where he had parked the Aston Martin convertible, one of the few cars left in the lot. Even the valet guys had punched out. Ryan opened the door and Mara stepped inside. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said.

She rubbed her eyes, smearing her eye makeup all over her face.

“God, I look like a mess!” she said, pulling down the visor to check out the damage in the mirror.

Ryan turned. “You make a pretty cute raccoon.”

She wiped her face with tissues, amazed at how much makeup came off. Jacqui had really outdone herself.

They drove back to the house in comfortable silence. The night air smelled fresh and a little wet, and in the quiet of the night Mara could feel what made this place so special. Yes, all that posturing all the time was a little much, but it was beautiful.

“Well, good night . . .,” Ryan said, helping Mara up the steps.

“Good night.” She smiled at him sleepily. She walked down the garden path toward the servants’ cottage.

Ryan lingered at the doorway, his forehead knit in a frown. “Hey, are you going to bed?” he called.

“I was . . .,” Mara said tentatively.

“I thought maybe I’d build a bonfire on the beach. It’s a nice night, and, well, I’ve got some sleeping bags.”

Mara smiled into the dark. “That sounds great. Just let me change.”

* * *

A few minutes later Mara watched as Ryan dug a hole in the sand and filled it with firewood and kindling. She was wearing a T-shirt and pajamas and had scrubbed off all the makeup.

He struck a match. The newspapers flared up, but the firewood didn’t catch.

“I think they’re a little damp.”

“Here, let me help,” Mara said. She was an expert at building fires. Her parents liked to heat their house with their woodstove through the harsh New England winters; they thought it was quaint, even though Mara knew there wasn’t much quaint about their single-story ranch. “You just need a little more kindling . . . and blow on the smoke. . . .” She arranged the sticks into a teepee over the newspaper, and when the initial blaze died down, a few red embers remained.

“Blow, blow!” she told Ryan, and the two of them huffed and puffed on the small sparks. The sparks became larger and finally the wood caught fire. Mara and Ryan cheered.

“I found some marshmallows in the pantry,” Ryan said, opening a bag. He grabbed a long stick from the cattail bushes and stuck one on. He handed it to Mara. She held it over the fire, watching the sugar melt into a brown glaze.

“When I was little, I always left the marshmallows in too long and they would burn and fall off,” Mara said, taking a bite.

“But you have to leave them on for a long time! That’s when they taste best!” Ryan argued.

He left his stick in the fire, and the marshmallow sizzled and fell into the flames.

“See, I told you!” Mara laughed at his dismayed expression.

Ryan speared another marshmallow. “This time you’re not getting away!” he said sternly to his food.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Mara dug her bare toes into the cold sand until it started to feel wet a few inches down. She could see the smallest orange reflection of their fire as the waves rolled in again and again. Behind them were the biggest houses she’d ever seen, but it was the beach that impressed her the most.

“I always thought I’d stay here forever,” Ryan said, breaking Mara’s silent reverie.

“What do you mean?”

“Growing up, when we used to come out to the Hamptons, I never wanted to leave come September. I promised myself that when I was older, I would live here year-round.”

“It must get so cold, with the ocean right there.”

“Oh, it’s awful,” Ryan said cheerfully. “But there’s no one here. That’s what’s so great about it.”

“But now?”

“I don’t know. The house isn’t the same.”

“I’m sorry.” Eliza had told her once that the house used to be different—more comfortable, less like a big showpiece.

“Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. I mean, what would I do here anyway?” He shrugged. “What about you—what did you think you wanted to do when you were little?”

“I wanted to be a scientist,” Mara said. “When I was nine, I was sure that’s what I wanted to do. I thought that would be cool, wearing a lab coat, looking in microscopes.”

“And now?”

“Well, I kind of suck at science! And I hate math. So no, I don’t think I’m going to be a scientist.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

Mara thought about it. What she really wanted to do was become a writer. She wasn’t sure what kind, maybe a journalist. Or maybe the kind that wrote books. But it seemed like such an impossible thing. Like saying she wanted to win an Academy Award. It just wasn’t going to happen. Besides, her parents always said if she made it to college, she should be a lawyer or a banker, someone who made a lot of money. She couldn’t afford her dreams.

“I don’t know . . . maybe a writer,” she whispered. For some reason, she felt comfortable telling him. Maybe it was because he was so easy to talk to or maybe because she knew he wouldn’t ask her to explain herself.

“Cool.” He nodded.

They ate a few more marshmallows and kept talking on and off. Mara liked the silent time between the talking as much as she did their conversations. She never mentioned Jim because for once it was nice to not just be “Jim Mizekowski’s girlfriend.” To Ryan she was just Mara, and for once Mara felt pretty good about just being herself.

As the sky started to show signs of a new day, they zipped themselves into their sleeping bags like beach caterpillars. And then, in a quiet moment, while they listened to the waves crashing, Mara and Ryan fell asleep.

* * *

The next day Page Six ran two photos. One of Chauncey Raven straddling the current Wimbledon champ in the VIP room. The other was of Mara and Ryan, under the headline “Has the Perry Heir Found Love?”





eliza’s postmortem brunch of pancakes and page six





“OH. MY. GOD. I AM STILL SOOO WASTED,” LINDSAY rasped, chasing down a Bloody Mary with an unfiltered Camel. “I am, like, hoovering these,” she said, alternately blowing smoke and smashing her face with a handful of french fries.

“Jesus, you should have seen me last night,” Taylor said. “I totally threw up all over Kit’s mom’s bathroom.”

“Oh, man, at least you guys had people to drive you home. I basically woke up in a ditch!” Eliza hooted. “I was, like, excuse me, how did I get here exactly?”

The three were playing drunken one-upmanship, where whoever was suffering from the most severe case of hangover won. They were at their usual table at 75 Main Street, a cute corner café in Southampton, checking out the scene from behind dark sunglasses.

“Psst. Check it out.” Lindsay nudged her friends as a famous comedian’s comely wife passed by with a double stroller.

“And isn’t that . . .?” Taylor asked, looking over her shoulder at the bleary-eyed star of the latest romantic comedy flop.

“Uh-huh. Check out that face-lift. She can’t fool anybody. My mom said she’s, like, fifty-two.”

“No way!” Eliza hissed, loving every minute. “People magazine said she was thirty-eight!”

“The morning sun ain’t too kind,” Lindsay decided.

They attacked their pancake- and french-toast-stacked plates, feeling young and superior.

“I brought the paper,” Taylor said, digging into her bag for a rolled-up New York Post. She flipped straight to their favorite section: Page Six.

“Linds, there’s a photo from your party!” Taylor crowed, showing them.

HAS THE PERRY HEIR FOUND LOVE? the headline blared, over the picture of Ryan and Mara.

“Oh my God! Don’t tell me Ryan Perry has a girlfriend already!” Lindsay cried. “I’m so pissed! And at my party, too!”

Technically, Ryan and his friends were just hanging out at the club. He hadn’t even known about the party. But Eliza and Taylor wisely didn’t correct their friend’s assumption.

“Give me that!” Lindsay said, grabbing the paper from Taylor’s manicured fingernails. “Who IS she?”

“She’s gorgeous, whoever she is,” Taylor observed.

“Lucky bitch!” Lindsay hissed.

“And she’s wearing the Chloë top I wanted last season, but they sold out!”

“Why does everyone have to be so much cuter than me?” Lindsay complained. “It’s so not fair. She’s like a total babe and, of course, she gets, like, the hottest guy.”

“Mara Waters . . . Waters . . . I wonder if that’s Tobin Easley’s cousin? You know, I think I’ve seen her around somewhere.”

Eliza said nothing, feeling a tiny twinge of realization at how superficial this all was. If only these girls knew Mara was an au pair, they would never talk about her like this. She wouldn’t even register on their radar. As she examined the picture, Eliza also felt a rush of pride. Mara did look awesome, and it was all because of her . . . and Jacqui, of course, but Eliza liked taking most of the credit.

“I dunno, guys. I mean, I think she’s a little high waisted, don’t you think? Her legs are, like, up to her chin!” Eliza said. As if that could be in any conceivable way a bad thing.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lindsay agreed all too eagerly.

Soon the three are dissecting all of Mara’s “flaws.” Her eyes were too big. Her nose was way too small. Her smile, too wide. She was practically Quasimodo when they were through with the virtual dissection.

“And I don’t think she’s Tobin’s cousin. I heard she’s working for the Perrys,” Eliza said, whispering the scandalous news. “She’s practically the help!”

“Oooh . . .” Lindsay and Taylor were breathless with excitement. This was called hitting pay dirt.

“I heard it from Sugar and Poppy, and they would know,” Eliza said. Sure, she was selling Mara out—but she also wanted to know what her friends thought of the whole deal.

“Ryan Perry’s dating—the maid?” Taylor asked, wide-eyed.

“No, she’s, like, the au pair or something,” Eliza explained, backtracking.

“Au pair!” Lindsay snorted. “Is that what they’re calling them now? Isn’t that just a euphemism for foreign sex slave?”

Eliza wanted to tell them that only one of them was foreign and that most of their duties were 100 percent real and dealt with four children under the age of twelve, but she bit her tongue.

“Ryan’s dating the housekeeper! That’s hilarious!” Taylor cackled loudly.

“So he’s, like, slumming,” Lindsay said smugly. “We should inform the Post! Tell Page Six we have a bigger scoop!”

Eliza had a difficult time keeping the smile plastered to her face.

After the girls were done, they threw down the newspaper. “So, like, what’s up with boarding school? Are you staying there next year, too?” Lindsay asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Hey, are you guys going to the polo match?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Of course,” Lindsay said. “You?”

“Charlie and I are sort of going together,” she confessed with a smug smile.

“So what’s up? You guys back together?”

“Not really,” Eliza said. “Not yet, anyway.” But he did ask her to be his date at the polo match, and she had told him she would meet him there. She was also supposed to be working at the event, taking care of the kids. But that was fine since Charlie was actually playing on one of the teams and wouldn’t be in the tents much. He hadn’t exactly said anything about getting back together, but she was hoping that was all about to change at the polo match. Thank God she had bought that hot little wrap dress. Charlie wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Anyway, ladies, this was hella fun. But I got to go.” A little of the California talk that was so big in Buffalo right now snuck in as she threw down a twenty on the table.

Lindsay waved it away. “I have my dad’s Visa. Why do you have to leave so early? I thought we were going to go shopping after brunch.”

“Nah, I told my aunt I’d go to some art exhibit in Water Mill with her today,” Eliza lied. In fact, she was due to pick up Mara, Jacqui, and the kids at Fifi Laroo, where Anna had booked the kids for massage treatments.

As she drove down the street, her friends’ words rang in her head. “Au pair is just another word for mistress on the payroll!” “He’s dating THE MAID?”

God help her if they ever found out the truth about her.