the rain, the skin on her bare legs now rubbery-wet, her lips purple. Another cab pulled over to pick her up just minutes later, but the psychic damage had been done. As the red and yellow lights of the city melted down Lucy Jo's rain-streaked window, she slumped in the backseat, the night's events flashing through her mind like a torturous slide show. Her entire world had collapsed along with that runway. She'd been humiliated in front of a room full of her idols. She had been fired from a job she'd pretty much hated, but would now beg to have back. Then that rich bitch Cornelia What's-her-face had shamelessly stolen her cab. She'd been insulted and propositioned by a stranger, before losing another cab to another heartless preppy.
She leaned her head against the gray pleather seat. It was slimy from a previous passenger, but she didn't care. A dull backache had set in, along with a deep chill. And Lucy Jo felt a little dizzy, too--the way she had when she first moved to New York and the city made no sense at all.
"Nine dollars," said the cabdriver when they'd reached the white stucco walk-up building she called home. She handed him eleven, cringing to see how few dollars she had left in her wallet.
As she reached into her pocket for her keys, Lucy's hand grazed the business card Wyatt Hayes had given her. I'd have to be out of my mind , she thought, opening the door.
8
Marriage means commitment. Then again, so does insanity.
--Unknown
T urks and Caicos? Well, doesn't that sound awfully romantic!" "It's supposed to be beautiful," said Eloise Carlton into the telephone, not sure how else to respond to her mother's enthusiasm. She peered into her overstuffed closet, rising up on tiptoes to pull a suitcase off the top shelf. "Trip says we're right on the beach--"
"So? Do you think this could be it ?" Ruth Carlton, incurably hopeful, squealed into her daughter's ear.
Eloise held the phone away. You'd think by now her mother would have clued in that sometimes a fabulous island getaway was just a fabulous island getaway, no rings attached.
"Mom," she said in a warning tone, tossing a violet and indigo Allegra Hicks caftan into her suitcase.
Eloise Carlton had been dating Trip Peters for eight years, since she was twenty-eight, which was two years before he'd shown any hint of hedge-fund prowess. Back then he'd lived in his mother's pied-a-terre, conveniently located close to Dorrian's and Mimma's Pizza. Now Trip owned a six-bedroom townhouse inches from Madison Avenue, complete with wine cellar and indoor movie theater. "Well, you said he planned the whole thing as a surprise. As 'part' of your Christmas present. So your father and I thought, maybe--"
"Now Daddy's speculating on my love life, too?" Eloise blew her bangs, currently Titian red, off her forehead (she dyed her hair a new color every few weeks, during her rare nights at home). Focus . Trip had just sprung their pre-Christmas trip on her that afternoon, right in the middle of a chaotic and ill-conceived fashion shoot ("farmyard chic," which essentially meant models dressed in designer overalls and Galliano plaid, riding tractors and wrestling pigs). Now she had less than an hour to pack before heading over to his place and collapsing in an exhausted heap onto his bed. After dozens upon dozens of spontaneous Trip-engineered getaways,Eloise was starting to loathe the sight of her Goyard overnight bag. Sometimes all she wanted was to stay put, to sink into the couch and not move for a week. She loved her cute two-bedroom apartment on tree-lined 73rd Street, the best investment of her life, but she got to enjoy it so little.
"Your father and I just want you to be happy," said Ruth.
Pack , Eloise told herself. The trick to discussing her relationship with Trip with her mother--which lately was the only thing her mother wanted to discuss--was to multitask. SPF 30. Malo cashmere traveling mask and slippers. The turquoise Eres string bikini that Trip
She leaned her head against the gray pleather seat. It was slimy from a previous passenger, but she didn't care. A dull backache had set in, along with a deep chill. And Lucy Jo felt a little dizzy, too--the way she had when she first moved to New York and the city made no sense at all.
"Nine dollars," said the cabdriver when they'd reached the white stucco walk-up building she called home. She handed him eleven, cringing to see how few dollars she had left in her wallet.
As she reached into her pocket for her keys, Lucy's hand grazed the business card Wyatt Hayes had given her. I'd have to be out of my mind , she thought, opening the door.
8
Marriage means commitment. Then again, so does insanity.
--Unknown
T urks and Caicos? Well, doesn't that sound awfully romantic!" "It's supposed to be beautiful," said Eloise Carlton into the telephone, not sure how else to respond to her mother's enthusiasm. She peered into her overstuffed closet, rising up on tiptoes to pull a suitcase off the top shelf. "Trip says we're right on the beach--"
"So? Do you think this could be it ?" Ruth Carlton, incurably hopeful, squealed into her daughter's ear.
Eloise held the phone away. You'd think by now her mother would have clued in that sometimes a fabulous island getaway was just a fabulous island getaway, no rings attached.
"Mom," she said in a warning tone, tossing a violet and indigo Allegra Hicks caftan into her suitcase.
Eloise Carlton had been dating Trip Peters for eight years, since she was twenty-eight, which was two years before he'd shown any hint of hedge-fund prowess. Back then he'd lived in his mother's pied-a-terre, conveniently located close to Dorrian's and Mimma's Pizza. Now Trip owned a six-bedroom townhouse inches from Madison Avenue, complete with wine cellar and indoor movie theater. "Well, you said he planned the whole thing as a surprise. As 'part' of your Christmas present. So your father and I thought, maybe--"
"Now Daddy's speculating on my love life, too?" Eloise blew her bangs, currently Titian red, off her forehead (she dyed her hair a new color every few weeks, during her rare nights at home). Focus . Trip had just sprung their pre-Christmas trip on her that afternoon, right in the middle of a chaotic and ill-conceived fashion shoot ("farmyard chic," which essentially meant models dressed in designer overalls and Galliano plaid, riding tractors and wrestling pigs). Now she had less than an hour to pack before heading over to his place and collapsing in an exhausted heap onto his bed. After dozens upon dozens of spontaneous Trip-engineered getaways,Eloise was starting to loathe the sight of her Goyard overnight bag. Sometimes all she wanted was to stay put, to sink into the couch and not move for a week. She loved her cute two-bedroom apartment on tree-lined 73rd Street, the best investment of her life, but she got to enjoy it so little.
"Your father and I just want you to be happy," said Ruth.
Pack , Eloise told herself. The trick to discussing her relationship with Trip with her mother--which lately was the only thing her mother wanted to discuss--was to multitask. SPF 30. Malo cashmere traveling mask and slippers. The turquoise Eres string bikini that Trip
Similar Books
