Beach Lane

the second-best thing anna ever said





ONCE AGAIN ANNA WAS SITTING AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE when the au pairs trooped in for the weekly progress report. Did miracles never cease?

The three au pairs took their seats across the table.

“Where’s Kevin?” Eliza whispered.

Jacqui shrugged.

Now that Jacqui had made it clear she wasn’t going to tolerate his advances, Kevin had found better things to do with his time.

The girls were all a little tense. They were supposed to get their final payment at the meeting—that is, if they didn’t get fired first. They still had no idea why the first batch of au pairs was let go—and Super Saturday was not their best moment.

But Anna was positively glowing at them.

“Well, I hope you had a wonderful summer,” she said. “I certainly did.” She had been asked to donate her tennis court for the annual Cartier tournament, putting her right up there with the Swids, Kravises, and Davises of the town. It sort of made up for the Super Saturday debacle. Sorta.

The girls nodded.

“I just can’t be more pleased with your obvious devotion to the kids,” Anna said. “In particular, Cody swimming this morning was amazing!” Anna held a hand to her chest. “To see him conquer his greatest fear—a mother couldn’t be more proud!”

Mara and Eliza nodded, trying to figure how the hell Jacqui had done it.

“And that Portuguese book you’re teaching Zoë, Jacqui! We were just hoping we could get her to read in English, but to have her bilingual to boot, it’s spectacular. Her admissions counselor thinks this will put her over the hump for next year. She said Zoë is Dalton material for sure.”

Again Eliza and Mara exchanged confused glances. When exactly did this happen?

“Better yet, Madison’s lost ten pounds!” Anna cheered.

The kid had been eating them out of house and home all summer, and the weight loss was just from shedding baby fat, but none of the girls would tell Anna that.

“Of course, William’s still a bit twitchy. But nothing’s perfect. At least he’s stopped biting people,” Anna continued. “It’s just so easy to get off track in the Hamptons. The social life here is just frenetic, what with the parties and nightclubs and all.”

The girls looked a little guilty at that.

“I never told you guys this, but we had to let our first au pairs go for that very reason! They were out every night!”

The girls all exchanged sidelong glances.

“So we just want to congratulate you on a job well done. Here’s the last of your payment, with a little bonus inside.” Anna winked.

Eliza sighed with relief. Those Visa bills had been piling up. She was going to make a dent on them this time instead of adding to the total. Seriously. As soon as she got her hand on the gorgeous tweed coat she saw at Scoop the other day. Hey, it was almost fall, and a girl needed back-to-school clothes.

Mara hugged herself. She had made almost ten thousand dollars this summer. Woo-hoo! College and a ten-year-old Camry. Life didn’t get better than this! Sure, she’d gotten a bit more fabulous this summer, but underneath it all, she was the same small-town girl she’d always been.

Jacqui put her envelope away. When she got home, she was going to buy her grandmother the biggest statue of the Virgin Mary the old lady had ever seen—it was the one gift that would tell her how much Jacqui loved her, and that’s exactly what she wanted to say.

But Anna wasn’t done.

“By the way, we’d love to have you girls with us this Christmas. We always do two weeks in Palm Beach, and our regular nanny goes to England at that time, so we’re strapped. Do you think you’d be interested? We’ll pay five thousand dollars. We can all meet in New York and we’ll go by our private jet.”

Palm Beach? Christmas? Five grand? A jet? Where did they sign?





p. diddy knows how to throw a party





IT WAS TIME FOR P. DIDDY’S ANNUAL LABOR DAY WHITE Party, the last big bash before the summer was over. Eliza had worked the phones for three days straight, trying to make sure they all got invitations. Kit had come through again, and Lucky Yap had sent over a couple, so they were all covered.

Mara hung out in Ryan’s room, watching him change into a white linen suit. He buttoned up his shirt in the mirror and caught her eye.

“What are you looking at?”

“My gorgeous boyfriend,” she answered, then caught herself. Did she just say THAT WORD? How could she do that? She didn’t even know what he thought they were doing. Maybe they were just fooling around. Certainly she didn’t want to label their relationship so early.

Seeing the distress on her face and knowing what put it there, Ryan turned and climbed up on the bed, then crawled up to kiss her on the cheek.

“I’d rather look at my gorgeous girlfriend,” he whispered.

Mara leaned back, pulling him closer, tugging on the rawhide necklace he always wore around his neck. The pillows were still warm from their earlier activities.

Ryan kissed her closed eyelids, her nose, her cheeks. “Maybe we shouldn’t get dressed yet,” he murmured.

“Maybe not,” she agreed.

* * *

Eliza looked at her closet askance. How could this be? Everything white that she owned was dirty, or yellowed, or stained. She had absolutely nothing to wear to the biggest party of the season.

Or did she . . .

She walked furtively to the main house. The diaphanous white Versace dress Sugar had asked her to send to the cleaners earlier that week was still hanging in her walk-in closet, waiting to be worn. But Sugar wasn’t going to get back from her bikini wax for a while yet.

Sugar would just look washed out in it, Eliza thought. Really, I’m doing her a favor.

Eliza grabbed the dress. It was her last night in town. And didn’t she deserve to wear it? She was the one who had taken such good care of it all summer.

* * *

Jacqui yawned as she put on her white shirt and a calf-length skirt. The most conservative outfit she owned. For once she didn’t feel like attracting any attention to herself. Guys were just too much trouble these days. She was enjoying being single.

* * *

The group met at the driveway. Mara and Ryan walked out of the main house, holding hands, apple cheeked and glowing in their matching white pantsuits.

Eliza met them at the door in the borrowed (fine, stolen) Versace.

“Isn’t that . . .,” Ryan asked, thinking the dress looked familiar.

“It’s mine,” Eliza declared. At least for the night. If she couldn’t have Jeremy, she could at least have a Versace dress.

Jacqui walked up from the garden pathway, looking devastating in her “conservative” outfit. “Everybody ready?” she asked.

Mara and Ryan took the Aston Martin, and Eliza and Jacqui thought it would fun to ride in on the Vespas. It beat having to worry about parking.

* * *

They drove to an imposing modern mansion on Settlers Landing with P. Diddy’s initials carved into the wrought iron gates. Several billowing white tents were set up near the entrance to facilitate the guest check-in.

Eliza told them that she’d heard the entire city of East Hampton had to be insured for up to five million dollars against any incident related to the party and that Puffy had paid for an eleven-thousand-square-foot tent with a ten-inch plastic foam wall on one side to keep the dulcet tones of Funkmaster Flex from reaching a nearby neighbor.

“I heard he even had a whole orchard planted the week before to make it look more countrylike!” Eliza said.

At the receiving line they spotted Leonardo di Caprio getting patted down by several hulking bodyguards. Leo was a vision in white, from his cream-colored baseball cap to his snow white shoes. There was Topher Grace hanging out with Ali Hilfigger, Gavin Rossdale walking in with Gwen Stefani, and Eve, Li’l Kim, and Busta Rhymes mingling with Zac Posen, Paz de la Huerta, and Claire Danes.

The three girls held their collective breath as one of the huge bouncers waved their invitations underneath a laser. It seemed an eternity before it pinged as authentic.

“Go right in.” The doorman in the pristine three-piece suit waved them inside.

A cocktail waitress in a white lace dress brought over a tray of champagne flutes. “Cristal?”

They each took a glass and toasted each other.

“To all of us,” Mara said. Sure, it was a little cheesy, but she was allowed—she was a Hamptons It girl.





it pays to tip the valet well





THEY FOUND AN UNOCCUPIED TABLE NOT FAR FROM where Amanda Hearst was in deep conversation with Andre 3000. Puffy’s annual barbecue was the perfect mix of old money and mo’ money. Waspy blue bloods traded tall tales with gold-toothed gangbangers. New York’s fanciest socialites boogied down with Hollywood hotshots and hip-hop stars. A white Moroccan-style tent was set up on the grounds, and belly dancers in ivory-and-pearl-embossed ensembles were clacking their finger cymbals as they gyrated through the crowd.

“Check it out! His logo is, like, everywhere!” Mara said. Their host’s monogram was engraved into the bottom of the pool, on the napkins, even on the towels that hung in the bathrooms. In fact, on every beach, bath, and dish towel on the premises.

“Yeah.” Eliza sighed. Somehow the fact that she had scored a legitimate invitation to the best party of the season didn’t do anything to improve her mood.

“Don’t be so down,” Mara said. “It’s our last night together!”

Eliza managed a weak smile. “I know. I’ll try.”

Jeremy had never bothered to call. He said he needed time to think about it, but for Eliza time had run out. Kit, the only friend who still talked to her after she was “outed” as poor, had offered to drive her back to the city next day, and she had a ticket on the Greyhound back to Buffalo.

“Who knows, he might surprise you,” Mara said.

“I know. I felt like it might still work out,” she said a little hopelessly. “I gave him my number at home. Who knows, maybe he’ll call me still.”

“If he doesn’t, there are a million other guys who would die to go out with you,” Mara said loyally. She would never have thought she could be best friends with someone like Eliza—but there you had it.

“Maybe,” Eliza said. The summer had been spectacular—but humbling as hell. Before this summer the thought that she would lose her heart to the gardener was laughable, even ludicrous. She was Eliza Thompson; she could have anyone she wanted.

But Eliza Thompson didn’t get everything she ever wanted anymore. She was starting to learn that.

* * *

Lindsay and Taylor walked by. They did a double take when they saw Eliza. What was she doing here? Nevertheless, they decided to stop by Eliza’s table and say hi. They could show her how bighearted and generous they could be. Besides, it wasn’t like they were going to have to hang out with her in the city anyway. They knew all about Buffalo.

But when they walked up to the table, Eliza looked the other way. Eliza knew it wasn’t their fault they were the way they were, but that didn’t mean she had to pretend to like them anymore. The truth was that she never really liked them. Not really. Not in the way she liked Mara and Jacqui.

“Um, hi?” Lindsay said.

Taylor cleared her throat.

Eliza pretended to be extremely fascinated by the contents of her cocktail glass as she purposefully ignored them.

The two girls stood there as Ryan, Mara, and Jacqui smirked without saying anything.

And with that, they flipped their perfectly Sahag-layered hair and walked away in their four-hundred-dollar shoes, and for the first time Eliza was really, truly happy to see them go. She went back to staring at the bubbles in her glass, thinking about how none of this really mattered to her anymore. How much money she could have saved on bags alone if she’d realized that a few years ago. How she’d give up her Marc Jacobs Stella bag, her orange Tod’s purse, her black Prada bag that was the same as Gwyneth’s just to have another shot with Jeremy.

And then, as if she’d finally thought the magic words, Jeremy appeared.

“Hey, Eliza,” Jeremy said. He was wearing a white valet uniform. He had his hands in his pockets and he looked utterly miserable.

“Jeremy! What are you doing here?”

“I got a job parking cars,” he said.

“Why?”

“I knew you would be here. I wanted to see you,” he told her.

“You did?” She seemed so small and vulnerable just then, and for once she wasn’t trying to be like anything but who she was.

The rest of the table took that as their cue to make a graceful exit.

Eliza stood up. She looked into his eyes and saw how much she’d hurt him.

“I didn’t want you to leave thinking that I didn’t care,” he said.

Her eyes misted with tears. Real tears this time. She wanted to jump into his arms, wipe that awful, wretched look off his face, and tell him that nothing mattered—it didn’t matter that they had been apart for so long—what was important was that he was here now.

So that’s exactly what she did.

In front of Puffy, Demi, Leo, and her two ex-friends, Eliza leapt from her seat and threw herself in his arms.

Caught off guard, Jeremy fell backward, and the two of them tumbled on the grass, hugging and kissing and smiling at each other. Screw the Versace dress—she was with Jeremy.

“Oh my God . . . what the hell! Is that Eliza kissing the valet?” Lindsay asked, an eyebrow raised.

“You know what, he is kind of cute,” Taylor allowed.

And finally they started to see: Eliza knew something they didn’t.





it’s called karma





JACQUI SMILED AT ELIZA AND JEREMY. MARA AND RYAN were cuddling by the pool, and Jacqui thought she would just slip away. All her friends looked pretty busy. She was thrilled for them but a little sad for herself, too. She certainly hadn’t bargained for the kind of summer she had ended up having.

She shook her head at the passed tray of canapés.

But she did help herself to a goody bag at the exit. A crisp white shopping bag emblazoned with the ubiquitous logo contained a white terry cloth robe, terry cloth slippers, and a bottle of Absolut (the party’s corporate sponsor that year).

“Leaving so soon?” A very handsome and very familiar-looking guy stopped her on the way to the gates.

“You look even more beautiful when you aren’t crying.” He smiled. “So I guess your summer ended up getting a lot better?”

It was Nacho Figueroa—the hot Argentinean polo player from the big match!

“Hey! Jacqui, right?” She turned, and standing by the Mister Softee truck parked in the driveway (you never know what the guests will want if they get the munchies) was Eliza’s friend Kit—the nice guy who had given them their party invitations.

“Hi, Kit,” she said, kissing him hello.

Kit beamed. Nacho took a step back, a quizzical look on his face.

She smiled at both of them, but just then her cell phone rang. “Espere um momento,” she told Nacho. “Excuse me,” she told Kit.

* * *

“Pronto?”

“Jacqui, it’s Luke. Your Luca.” He was obviously drunk, but Jacqui wanted to know what this was all about.

“Sí?”

“Someone called my house at three in the morning and my girlfriend—I mean, my ex-girlfriend—she flipped. We broke up, and, well, I miss you, Jac, I really do.”

“Oh, pobre babê,” Jacqui said scathingly.

“And she’s with Leo now, can you believe it?” He was slurring a little. “What is it about that guy? One eye isn’t even quite straight.”

“So what do you say? Me and you? I know you don’t like to be alone,” Luke breathed. “And I’m so lonely.”

Jacqui laughed to herself. So there was justice in this world after all. “That’s a shame, Luca. But nien. Ciao.”

She turned the phone off and turned back to Kit and Nacho. Hmm . . . the rakish polo player or Eliza’s childhood friend?

Jacqui paused for a moment. Isn’t “polo player” just a long way of saying “player”? Nacho seemed nice, but Jacqui was tired of men who played games.

“Drive me home?” she asked, linking an arm around Kit’s. “Ciao ciao, Nacho.”

Kit grinned. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe nice guys did finish first.





it’s the last night of summer, but it’s the first night for other things





A FEW MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT MARA CREPT UP THE stairs to their attic bedroom. She found Jacqui asleep in the top bunk.

“Jac? Are you awake?” she asked.

Jacqui raised her head. “Now I am.”

Mara sat on the bed and took off her shoes. When she looked up, Eliza was walking through the door. “Hey.”

She was glad all three of them were together on their last night.

Eliza sparkled in her white dress when she kicked off her shoes. “Help me with this, Mar,” she said as she began pushing her single bed up against Mara’s bottom bunk. “Get down here, Jac,” she whispered.

The three of them snuggled on the one makeshift king-size bed, feeling comfort in the warmth of each other’s bodies.

Eliza told them about how she and Jeremy got back together. “I just love him so much,” she said, burying her face in the pillow at her own cheesiness. “But Buffalo is so far.”

“I’m sure you’ll see each other,” Mara said. She could have slept in Ryan’s bed, but she didn’t want to for some reason. Their last week in the Hamptons had been something out of the middle part of Titanic—before the ship sank and everything was perfect and hot and steamy. But on the last night there, she wanted to be in the au pairs’ room. It was the only thing that felt right.

Jacqui told them how Kit had offered all three of them a ride back to the city in his car. That was good. At least they wouldn’t have to take the Jitney. So why were they all so bummed?

“We’ll see each other at Christmas,” Eliza said, voicing the emotion they were all feeling. They were going to miss each other. They had gone through a lot this summer. “Just think, we’ll need winter bikinis!”

“In Palm Beach,” Mara said dreamily. Another chance to get out of Sturbridge.

“What’s it like?” Jacqui asked.

“Awesome,” Eliza yawned. “Parties and galas and we’ll all need new clothes!” Her eyelids dropped. Mara was falling asleep, too. Jacqui turned on her side, grabbing for the covers.

Their summer was over. They had done everything they wanted to do and some things they shouldn’t have. Tomorrow they would drive out on the Montauk Highway for the last time. They would return home older, wiser, and certainly more glamorous.

In the end, it had been best summer of their lives. Maybe there was truth in advertising after all.





acknowledgments





Many heartfelt thanks to the wonderful folks at 17th Street—my absolutely fabulous editor, Sara Shandler, the inspiring Josh Bank, and the encouraging Ben Shrank. Thanks to Les Morgenstein for invaluable insight. Immense gratitude to Emily Thomas for all her brilliant ideas. Thanks to Claudia Gabel and Jennifer Unter for thinking of me for this project. As always, I’m very grateful to Deborah “superagent” Schneider, a guardian angel in high-heeled shoes.

Thanks to Jason Oliver Nixon, Andrew Stone, Paige Herman, and Juliet McCall Dyall at Hamptons magazine for giving me a reason to write off my summer rental. Thanks to Karen Robinovitz, my partner in crime, an invaluable resource and a true friend.

Thanks to the de la Cruz and Johnston families for all their support. Thanks to my dad for letting me hog his computer to write this book when mine broke. Thanks to my mom for asking if the naughty parts would be “normal or perverted” (I’ve never laughed so hard, Mom!) Thanks to “Hotel Chit” in New York. Thanks to Aina and Steve for sharing their stories about the Hamptons. Thanks to Kim, David, and Diva for a fantastic summer. Thanks to Jennie for coming out to visit. Thanks to Tristan, Gabriel, Tyler, Peter, Andy, and the rest of The Gang for being The Gang.

Thanks to my husband, Mike, for getting out of the city every Friday night, no matter how late it got.

Thanks dpgroup forum.





Spend another summer with the girls!

eliza discovers fire & brimstone is a new cosmo flavor


IT DIDN’T LOOK LIKE MUCH, BUT THEN THAT WAS PROBABLY because it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Seventh Circle, the newest, soon-to-be-hottest club in the Hamptons, wouldn’t get going until after midnight. A potato barn in its former life, Seventh Circle was a large, brown-shingled, rambling wood building set back in the Southampton woods. Only a discreet sign off the highway (seven circles posted to a tree, natch) let the initiated know they had arrived at their destination.

Eliza Thompson steered her black Jetta into the parking lot, feeling at once pleased and apprehensive. She examined her makeup in the rearview mirror, applied a thick layer of lip gloss, stuck two fingers inside her mouth, and pulled them out slowly, just like Allure suggested, in order0 to avoid a grandmotheresque lipstick-on-teeth situation.

She checked for detritus of Chanel Glossimer. Nothing. Perfect.

Eliza grabbed her bag—the season’s covetable metallic leather Balenciaga motorcycle clutch. Eliza had bought it in Palm Beach, during the week she’d spent as a vacation au pair for the Perrys last winter. Inside was a rolled-up resume that listed her sparkling attributes: a Spence education (up until her parents’ bankruptcy last year and their subsequent move to Buffalo, that is), an internship at Jane (which had entailed fetching nonfat soy lattes and alphabetizing glitter nail polish), and a reference from her longtime friend and Manhattan boy-about-town, Kit Ashleigh.

Life was almost great again for Eliza. Okay, sure, the Thompsons were still living in Buffalo—a far, far cry from the posh life they’d left behind in New York City—but they had moved from a sordid little rental to a proper three-bedroom condominium in the only luxury high-rise in the city. With a little help from some old friends and loyal clients, her dad was slowly getting back on his feet, and there was money for such things as thousand-dollar handbags again. (Well, there was credit at least.) With her grades and SAT scores (top 99th percentile—Eliza was no dummy), there was a good chance she would be able to wing financial aid and get into Princeton after all. This summer her parents were even renting a little Cape Cod in Westhampton. It had the smallest pool Eliza had ever seen—it was practically a bathtub!—but still, it was a house, it was theirs (for the summer), and it was in the Hamptons.

The only thing keeping Eliza off balance was the Big Palm Beach Secret from last winter. Something had happened while she was there that she’d rather forget, but news traveled fast in the Hamptons and Eliza knew she’d have to come clean soon enough. She brushed aside the thought for now—it was time to focus on the task at hand: getting a job in the hottest new club in the Hamptons and recapturing her title as the coolest girl in town.

Before Buffalo and bankruptcy, Eliza had been famous for being the prettiest, most popular girl on the New York private school circuit. Sugar Perry, who now ruled in her stead, had been a mere wannabe when Eliza was on the scene. Eliza was the one who set the trends (white-blond highlights), knew about all the best parties (Tuesdays at Butter), and dated the hottest guys (polo-playing Charlie Borshok, who was now Sugar’s boyfriend as well). Being “outed” as a poor au pair last summer had changed all that, but this was a new year, a new summer, and a new Eliza—who just happened to look a lot like the old Eliza, the girl everyone wanted to know and all the other girls wanted to be.

It was still drizzling, the end of a typical early June East End rainstorm, as Eliza slid quickly out of her Jetta, which she’d begged her parents to lease her for the summer, and checked her cell phone for any missed calls from Jeremy. Last summer, Eliza had fallen in love with Jeremy Stone, the Perrys’ hunky nineteen-year-old gardener, but they’d broken up over the winter since they lived so far away from each other. Now that summer was here, Eliza was dying to see him again. She wasn’t exactly sure where Jeremy would fit in with her plans for getting back on top of the social scene, since he wasn’t rich or famous (although he was very, very cute), but she did know her plans included him, and she hoped that would be good enough. With no missed calls or new texts, Eliza stuffed her phone back in her clutch and headed toward the club.

The door was hanging open, so she let herself inside. Seventh Circle was supposed to be the place to be this summer, but here it was, a week after Memorial Day, and it hadn’t even opened yet. There was a thick layer of fresh sawdust on the floor, and a full construction crew was barking orders at one another. The barn had been retrofitted to accommodate a U-shaped zinc bar, and against the back wall stood a built-in glass liquor cabinet almost twenty-five feet high. The guys looked up when they spied Eliza. Several whistled at the sight of her tanned legs underneath her pink smocked Juicy tube dress. It was the kind of dress that made everyone else who wore it look fat or pregnant, but on Eliza it looked cute and sexy.

“Hi, I’m here to see the owners—Alan or Kartik?” Eliza said, pulling her long blond hair into a high ponytail.

One of the hard hats grunted and pointed a finger toward the back of the club. Eliza stepped over a paint tray delicately, picking her way past the sawhorses and a couple of dusty potato sacks, toward two guys yammering into their cell phone headsets.

They were the self-styled kings of Manhattan nightlife, and while their press clippings might reach to the ceiling, neither was taller than five-five, and Eliza towered over both of them in her four-inch Louboutin platforms. Alan Whitman was balding and dough-faced, but he’d been legendary since ninth grade at Riverdale, when he’d begun his career selling pot at the Limelight. He’d oozed his way up a string of downtown hot spots until he’d raised enough money to open his trio of celebrity playgrounds—Vice, Circus, and Lowdown. He liked to say that before he’d gotten his hands on Paris Hilton, she was just a cute little Dwight sophomore in a rolled-up uniform skirt. He’d been the one who’d waived Paris past the ID check and had personally alerted gossip columnists when she was dancing on the tables—or falling off them—on any given night. His partner, Kartik (one name only), a Miami transplant, had been friends with Madonna back when he was still a teenager and she was still a dog-collar-wearing pop icon, not a dowdy children’s book author who answered to the name Esther.

“What do you mean the liquor license is delayed? Are you serious?” Alan whined into his receiver.

“Babycakes, of course we’ve got the permits in hand,” Kartik smoothly promised on his cell. “We’re ready to roll. We’re all set for the after-party, no problem!”

Eliza stood aside patiently, watching the guys tell two different stories on their phones. It was inspirational, really: If Alan Whitman could transform himself from some geeky kid who sold oregano dime bags out of his Eastman backpack into New York’s most sought-after nightclub promoter, then surely she, Eliza Thompson, could find a way to reinvent herself from fallen Manhattan It Girl into Hamptons royalty. After all, Eliza had always wanted to be a princess.