"Hi, Mitzi," Mara said, relieved to see someone she recognized. Where was Lucky? She hoped she would run into him soon so she could find out what exactly she was supposed to do at the party.
"How are you? What's new?" Mitzi jabbered in her singsong voice. "I heard you're on staff at Hamptons this summer--that's beyond! We need to get you to meet our clients--we have some awesome things coming up this season. We're doing Sydney's opening--I see six-page spread!"
"Um ..." Mara didn't know what to say. The idea that she would be making decisions on anything as important as a multi-page feature was absurd. She was a lowly intern.
"We'll talk, okay? I'll send you samples. Bye-yee!" Mitzi gushed, assaulting Mara with a brush of her lips on each cheek.
The minute Mitzi released her, several people whom Mara had met during the last two summers made their way to her side. They all knew she was working for Hamptons magazine. The same crowd who had shunned her at the end of last summer were now angling to get back in her good graces, reminding her of how they knew each other. Part of Mara was disgusted by their hypocrisy, but another part admired their tenacity. Some would
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call it fair-weather friendship, but such was life in the Hamptons. In their own way, they were paying Mara a compliment. It was obvious from all the attention they were lavishing on her that they considered Mara a real player. Even Alan Whitman and K
artik, the co-owners of Seventh Circle, last year's hot spot, came over to pay their respects.
Eliza's former bosses told Mara they were just back from Las Vegas, where they had opened Seventh Circle in the Desert, with an opening party that had included topless dancers re-creating the seminal dance scene from Showgirls.
"But I'm telling you." Alan nodded. "You've got to check out our new place, Volcano. We've got real lava coming out of the fountain. It's intense."
"Come over for dinner, on us," Kartik added, giving Mara a bear hug. "Mitzi'll call you. Hook us up!"
Mara smiled in a noncommittal fashion. "Hook us up!" was the rousing chorus of the evening, with everyone from desperate socialites and their scheming publicists to coat-check girls and valet attendants pitching Mara items for the magazine.
She spotted Anna Perry in the corner of the club, looking woefully overdressed and awkwardly out of place in a floor-length ball gown. While the benefit dinner had been attended by the A-list social crowd, the dessert-and-dancing after-hours catered to the younger set. Usually Anna left early with the other society wives, but there she was, perched on a tufted ottoman, balancing a drink on her knee.
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Mara noticed that she was accompanied by one of the more famous Hamptons "walkers"--gay men who acted as escorts to married women who couldn't persuade their husbands to join them in the social whirl. Where was Kevin? She stopped by to say hello, and Anna greeted her warmly. "Did you see all the pictures of the kids? Aren't they so cute?" her former employer asked wistfully. "Cody's gotten so big! I miss having a baby around the house."
"There you are!"
For the first time at the party, Mara felt genuine happiness at spotting someone. Lucky Yap, the tart-tongued party photographer, was making his way toward her.
"Excuse me, Anna," Mara said, taking her leave and turning to her friend.
Lucky was wearing a voluminous velvet frock coat over a T-shirt that read Fashion Victim! (Edwardian irony was in, and last year's African muumuus were out this summer), with his trusty digital Nikon around his neck. He was scanning the crowd with a raised eyebrow.
"It's just exes, siblings, and stepkids tonight," he lamented, meaning the crowd was made up of those with tenuous connections to the famous rather than real celebrities themselves.
"What should I do?" Mara asked eagerly.
"What we always do: lie, lie, lie! All these parties are so mothaeffing boring, but no one has to know that or we'll be out of work."
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Mara laughed. She knew Lucky was joking. Or at least, she hoped he was. She gave him a rundown of what she'd observed. She thought she'd spotted a famous socialite--one of the Bush nieces--but she wasn't sure. And she had caught a glimpse of a married polo player kissing a newlywed television starlet near the coat check.
"Do you think that's enough for the column?"
"Honey, of course it is. You can put the canoodling adulterers in the "blind item" category. But I'll run the starlet's photo above it so everyone will know it was him," Lucky said wickedly.
"Oh, good," Mara said, relieved.
"Miss Mara Waters," a sexy yet familiar voice growled behind her.
She turned around. "Mister Garrett Reynolds," she cooed back, folding her arms under her chest.
Garrett brushed a saucy flop of dark hair out of his eye. He was tan and wearing a white linen shirt and cream-colored trousers. He kissed her on the cheek and acted like they were old friends and like nothing had ever happened between them--as though he hadn't dumped her unceremoniously once she'd been the victim of bad press.