had drooled over during their last trip to Mykonos. Her favorite floppy straw hat. Vivier sunglasses.
"All your sisters are married," her mother reminded her.
"Lucky them!" chirped Eloise. Passport. Oversize makeup case, even though she rarely wore more than a hint of mascara and lip gloss. More than that weighed down her porcelain complexion. Her Jennifer Aniston look for travel: Miu Miu gold leather sandals, comfy but well-fitted Superfine jeans, and two white tops with barely-there straps. An H&M dress that she could throw on for lunch. Two slubbed-silk sarongs, light as air. Her white Genetic jeans, plus a slinky bronze-colored top she'd scored at a thrift shop and strappy Choos. Next month's Harper's Bazaar , not available to the public for another two weeks. These were the perks of being a stylist: free magazines, unbeatable swag.
"And your friends, sweetie. How many times have you been a bridesmaid?"
"Um . . . fourteen, I think?" Eloise refused to sound anything but delighted by this fact.
"You've hosted four baby showers in the past year alone," Ruth continued. "I hate to say it, sweetie, but it can be a bit harder to get pregnant at thirty-six--"
Eloise's neck tightened. She rubbed it with one hand, tossing a bottle of Bulgari perfume into her suitcase with the other. Not that she felt any need to correct her mother, but she'd actually thrown six baby showers that year. Eloise could fill an Olympic pool with all the pink and blue buttercream icing she'd ordered from Magnolia. She loved doing it, was always quick to offer--but sometimes those little baby things made her heart ache.
"And don't tell me you don't care about getting married, I will not buy it." Ruth Carlton could no longer keep the frustration out of her voice.
"I certainly don't care as much as you do," Eloise said quietly. "Trip and I aren't like you and Daddy."
Not being like her parents had been a selling point when she was thirty. She and Trip had lived for their benders at Marquee, their impulsive trips to Morocco or Ibiza or Tokyo or wherever Trip decided they had to fly next. They were constantly surrounded by friends--crowded into overflowing banquette tables, ordering one more bottle of Cristal just to keep the night going. Their nights ended at 4 AM and their mornings began with greasy egg-and-cheese sandwiches from the corner deli. They loved their life together. They always seemed to be on the same wavelength, best friends who happened to have great chemistry and identical taste in Turkish takeout. What could be better?
"Believe me, I know you're not like us," Ruth clucked. "I would've kicked Daddy out on his--"
"Mom, stop!" Eloise interrupted. "All I'm saying is that just because Trip planned a vacation doesn't mean he's going to propose."
"You never know," her mother insisted.
Jewelry! From her case Eloise pulled out a delicate gold necklace from Cartier and the pair of freshwater pearl earrings Trip had given her for her birthday last year.
"Can't you just ask him what he's thinking?" Ruth asked for the millionth time. "Just ask him when he sees himself getting married. Not an ultimatum, just a question."
"I've been busy, Mom," Eloise answered, evading the question. "Work's been nonstop. Last week I had a shoot in Palm Springs and Telluride. I had a shoot today. The week after next I'm in Rome for Italian Vogue . I'm not sitting around obsessing about this."
"I'm not suggesting that you obsess about it. All I'm saying is that it shouldn't be this difficult. If he cared about your feelings, he wouldn't drag things out like this."
Eloise and Trip had met on a humid July evening in the backyard of a Bridgehampton house some mutual friends were renting. Trip was working the barbecue, but he dropped his tongs and zeroed in on Eloise the moment she arrived. Later, when one of their pals griped about his charred burger, Trip grinned sheepishly. "Blame whoever brought her ," he'd said, pointing his chin at Eloise.
"All your sisters are married," her mother reminded her.
"Lucky them!" chirped Eloise. Passport. Oversize makeup case, even though she rarely wore more than a hint of mascara and lip gloss. More than that weighed down her porcelain complexion. Her Jennifer Aniston look for travel: Miu Miu gold leather sandals, comfy but well-fitted Superfine jeans, and two white tops with barely-there straps. An H&M dress that she could throw on for lunch. Two slubbed-silk sarongs, light as air. Her white Genetic jeans, plus a slinky bronze-colored top she'd scored at a thrift shop and strappy Choos. Next month's Harper's Bazaar , not available to the public for another two weeks. These were the perks of being a stylist: free magazines, unbeatable swag.
"And your friends, sweetie. How many times have you been a bridesmaid?"
"Um . . . fourteen, I think?" Eloise refused to sound anything but delighted by this fact.
"You've hosted four baby showers in the past year alone," Ruth continued. "I hate to say it, sweetie, but it can be a bit harder to get pregnant at thirty-six--"
Eloise's neck tightened. She rubbed it with one hand, tossing a bottle of Bulgari perfume into her suitcase with the other. Not that she felt any need to correct her mother, but she'd actually thrown six baby showers that year. Eloise could fill an Olympic pool with all the pink and blue buttercream icing she'd ordered from Magnolia. She loved doing it, was always quick to offer--but sometimes those little baby things made her heart ache.
"And don't tell me you don't care about getting married, I will not buy it." Ruth Carlton could no longer keep the frustration out of her voice.
"I certainly don't care as much as you do," Eloise said quietly. "Trip and I aren't like you and Daddy."
Not being like her parents had been a selling point when she was thirty. She and Trip had lived for their benders at Marquee, their impulsive trips to Morocco or Ibiza or Tokyo or wherever Trip decided they had to fly next. They were constantly surrounded by friends--crowded into overflowing banquette tables, ordering one more bottle of Cristal just to keep the night going. Their nights ended at 4 AM and their mornings began with greasy egg-and-cheese sandwiches from the corner deli. They loved their life together. They always seemed to be on the same wavelength, best friends who happened to have great chemistry and identical taste in Turkish takeout. What could be better?
"Believe me, I know you're not like us," Ruth clucked. "I would've kicked Daddy out on his--"
"Mom, stop!" Eloise interrupted. "All I'm saying is that just because Trip planned a vacation doesn't mean he's going to propose."
"You never know," her mother insisted.
Jewelry! From her case Eloise pulled out a delicate gold necklace from Cartier and the pair of freshwater pearl earrings Trip had given her for her birthday last year.
"Can't you just ask him what he's thinking?" Ruth asked for the millionth time. "Just ask him when he sees himself getting married. Not an ultimatum, just a question."
"I've been busy, Mom," Eloise answered, evading the question. "Work's been nonstop. Last week I had a shoot in Palm Springs and Telluride. I had a shoot today. The week after next I'm in Rome for Italian Vogue . I'm not sitting around obsessing about this."
"I'm not suggesting that you obsess about it. All I'm saying is that it shouldn't be this difficult. If he cared about your feelings, he wouldn't drag things out like this."
Eloise and Trip had met on a humid July evening in the backyard of a Bridgehampton house some mutual friends were renting. Trip was working the barbecue, but he dropped his tongs and zeroed in on Eloise the moment she arrived. Later, when one of their pals griped about his charred burger, Trip grinned sheepishly. "Blame whoever brought her ," he'd said, pointing his chin at Eloise.
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