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Jacqui flushed. She turned on her heel and began to pose, causing the paparazzi to shower her with attention. The popping of flashbulbs was intense, but she focused on Midas's voice, which she heard distinctly above the fray.
"Over to your left, look over your shoulder. That's it. Beautiful. Now chin up, like you've spotted someone you know. Give them a wave. Yes, yes, beautiful."
She noticed Eliza standing next to Midas, pointing and giving
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suggestions. She gave Jacqui the thumbs-up sign when she caught her eye.
"This is crazy," Jacqui muttered to herself when two photographers began shoving each other for a better vantage point. How much of it was real? How much of it fake? Like most things in the Hamptons, she couldn't tell.
Midas's steady voice helped her focus. "Keep your feet facing forward, but swivel your hips to me; that's it. Gorgeous. Now laugh. As if someone has just told you the funniest joke in the world. That's it. Good girl."
Jacqui felt herself begin to relax. Modeling was all about acting, which required more brain cells than she'd previously assumed. But with Midas's coaching, she began to let herself loose and enjoy herself. She caught Marcus's eye and naughtily hooked a thumb underneath the opening of her dress and pulled it to the side, showing even more skin--a taunting, tempting sight that drove the paparazzi wild for more.
Marcus gave a loud wolf whistle, quickly echoed by the fifty other male photographers who were now shooting in earnest. Several partygoers stopped and stared at Jacqui, and the crowd around her began to grow.
Jacqui laughed. This was way more fun than it should be. Did she say she hated modeling? Maybe she hadn't given it enough of a chance before. Besides, it was just a bit of harmless fun since it was only for the summer anyway. Jacqui blew several kisses and the photographers cheered.
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"That's enough, boys," Marcus said, holding up his hands to signal that the photo shoot was over, but the press pack wouldn't let her leave. Even when the famous actress finally left her limo, they still trained their cameras on Jacqui.
"One more!"
"This one is for the New York Post ! "
"Over here for People !''
Lucky Yap came up to Jacqui and asked her to spell her name, carefully writing it down on his notepad.
Jacqui looked over at Midas for guidance. Should she continue to pose? But he was already packing up his camera. He gave her a wordless, amused shrug. Apparently their "staged" paparazzi scene had evolved into a real one. It was all up to her. Jacqui sucked in her stomach and stood with her hand on her hip and a confident smile on her face, looking every inch the nascent supermodel.
Finally, the photographers put down their cameras. To Jacqui's complete surprise, they began applauding her performance. She gave them a courtly curtsy.
"You were perfect," Marcus said, gliding up to her and gently steering her into the party. "But work is over, and you're all mine tonight," he added in a low voice as they made their way from the red carpet to the house's magnificent entryway.
"That's it?" she asked. This modeling gig was all play and no work.
"That's it, love." He nodded.
A voluptuous girl in a revealing belly dancer's outfit greeted
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them at the door, and they discovered that the house and the two-hundred-foot tent in the backyard had been transformed into a sultan's palace. It was the Fourth of July, Moroccan style. The bombastic magazine publisher was known for his love of theme parties, but even for him, this was over the top.
"What the bloody ... ," Marcus said as they took in the billowing silk draperies, the lavish Oriental rugs, the ceiling-tall hookah pipes, and the dizzying array of grilled meats, fruit, yogurt, twenty different kinds of hummus, stuffed grape leaves, and whole roasted lamb and goat, all sitting in authentic tagines on the buffet table. Low tables were set up with fat, overstuffed silk pillows, and Casablanca was projected on a fifty-foot screen.
"Welcome!" Christopher Swan, the genial host and owner of Hamptons magazine, greeted them personally. Jacqui had only met him once before, when Mara was writing for the publication. Mara had told her he was a bit of an eccentric. "Happy Fourth of July!" he boomed. He was dressed for the occasion in a fez, a short vest, and balloon trousers.
"What's the big idea?" Marcus asked, obviously amused by the decidedly unpatriotic flair of the event.
"Ssshh, don't tell a soul, but I got a great deal from this new Moroccan restaurant. They charged me a quarter of the cost to cater the party in exchange for publicity in the magazine." Christopher shrugged. Like a good mogul, he knew a good deal when he saw one. "Besides, who wants hot dogs and beer when you could have veiled dancing girls and camel rides?"
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Jacqui nodded as she looked around, agape at the fantastic spectacle. There were ornately costumed drummers, acrobats, and dancers everywhere. Fire-breathers were stationed every couple of feet on the beachfront, and an African drum circle was set up around a bonfire.
