Page 11 of Hotter in the Hamptons

On their walk back to the car, Lola noticed the Isabel Marant store was overflowing with people, crowding the sidewalk.

“Oh shit.” She pulled on Ryan’s hand as she began to drag him toward it. “They’re doing that French vintage pop-up again. Can we go?”

“I would never deny you vintage,” Ryan said, though by the weary way he said it, she knew he was running out of patience for the Lola Show and would soon need to recharge by the pool.

“We’ll go home after this, I swear.”

On the sidewalk, racks overflowing with beaded gowns, old T-shirts, and leather jackets called to her. She touched each piece gently, like a lover reuniting with their muse. There was so much to play with—so many different works of art that just needed a few stitches here or there to make them modern.

A younger, more innocent, version of herself wouldn’t have hesitated to buy it all, then hole up in her apartment for days creating custom pieces that would get her stopped on the street.

But what would the new version of her do? The anti-Aly version? Who was the new version of her anyway? Maybe it was time to revisit her old self. It was worth a try anyway. And she had nothing else to do, not for the whole summer. She could buy a sewing kit and see what happened next.

She left the pop-up with her arms loaded down with her haul, a tentative feeling fluttering in her chest.

“Okay, now we can go.” She grinned at Ryan.

***

Back at the house, Ryan immediately fell asleep by the pool, and Lola retreated upstairs to try on her secondhand finds.

She’d found a polka-dot Moschino shift dress, green Issey Miyake pants, and huge brown Dior sunglasses; she’d scored a few threadbare vintage T-shirts with various obscure logos on them from the dollar bin, plus an old silk floral scarf she was fairly certain was Gucci. She’d also grabbed some perfectly worn-in overalls with no label and a red leather trench coat with some rips at the hem. The final prize was a seventies maxi dress with long bell sleeves and orange flowers.

She had missed the smell of vintage, that musky giveaway that there had been previous owners, previous lives and stories. She tried to imagine the women who had worn these items before, what they’d been like, what they dreamed of.

She wondered, touching each soft piece, if she still had the knack for this or if she’d lost the gift over the years. It was entirely possible she’d just wasted a bunch of money for no reason. Her heart clenched, nerves racing through her. Maybe she wasn’t quite ready for this step. She’d give it time. She had all summer.

She glanced at her phone. She had a lot of texts, most of which she ignored, though she did remember to send a message on the family group chat: Hi, Mom and Dad, I’m okay and alive. I love you. I’m in the Hamptons for the summer. It’s for the best.

Her mom wrote back immediately: Have fun xx

Lola felt a little guilty that she hadn’t called them back, but she knew they understood.

She returned her attention to the pieces before her. By the time she was finished trying it all on, the afternoon sun spilled through the window, creating soft shadows, and she realized it was almost time to go to the pop-up with Ryan. Still wearing one of her new T-shirts, she pulled on the vintage overalls and floated downstairs to find him.

He was nowhere to be found.

That was when she realized it was almost 5:00 p.m., well past when they were supposed to leave. It was odd that he hadn’t waited for her or reminded her that they needed to go, but Ryan was always kind of passive-aggressive like that. Then she saw a note on the table. Go without me. Love you. She glanced out the front window and saw that the car wasn’t in the driveway.

How annoying.

She sent him a text: You’re not going?

I went already , he replied. I told you I was just stopping by. Emmett and I are going to dinner now.

She sighed. She didn’t want to go without him, but she also didn’t want to stay at home alone.

She could make an appearance. The party was just a bike ride from the house at least.

She checked herself in the downstairs bathroom mirror, dragging a bit of red lipstick over her lips. She didn’t have the energy to change into the Khaite dress, so she fluffed her hair with her fingers and decided she looked like the kind of girl someone might call “chill.” Hilarious, given that she’d never been chill about anything in her life.

It was breezy and a little cooler outside than it had been earlier, and on her ride over to the Mytheresa x Flamingo Estate party, she was thankful she’d worn pants. It was a beautiful ride, so different from her Manhattan adventures dodging pedestrians and taxis. With the ocean on one side and mansions on the other, the world became a blue-green blur as she pedaled, and she was grateful for the emptiness of the bike trail—it was calming. Despite her annoyance with Ryan and her mild dread about showing up alone, she felt a pleasant surge of dopamine. She should really get on the bike more, she realized.

The party was already spilling over into the parking lot when she arrived. Women were wearing silky gowns and strappy sandals; the men wore linen suits. Her stomach sank to the ground, a wave of dread washing over her.

She was completely out of step with the pace of the Hamptons—too dressy for brunch, too casual for the fashion party. She swallowed, trying to psyche herself up to turn on Professional Influencer Mode, or at least to prove that she still belonged to this world. Though who she was still trying to prove it to, she wasn’t sure.

Herself, maybe.

She leaned the bike against the building just as a scruffy BFA photographer she recognized from some fashion week event or other materialized in front of her. “Hey, Lola,” he said, raising his camera.

She posed for him—one leg slightly in front of the other, a hand on her hip, jaw relaxed, easy smile—falling into one of her tried and true angles. As the shutter clicked, she saw Monica Mollsbury, a beauty influencer she used to grab coffee with from time to time. She waved, trying to get Monica’s attention. Their eyes met, and Lola smiled, willing Monica to come talk to her. But Monica only tilted her head to the side, as though considering whether to say hi. Then she turned on her heel and walked in the other direction.

So it’s going to be like that , Lola thought, bracing herself for more awkwardness.

“Thanks, Lola,” the photographer said and said, nodding at her.

He was cute, she noticed idly, though he wasn’t really doing anything for her. She appreciated his tight T-shirt and his curly mop of hair but otherwise felt nothing. Not a jolt of interest. She sighed, suddenly missing the surety of Justin at her side.

“Honey lavender lemonade?” a server with a tray of drinks offered. She grabbed one, sipping it as she surveyed the scene and wondered who here would actually want to talk to her.

And then Brett Jennings, a guy she always tried to avoid, appeared before her and grabbed her by the arms. “Lola likes East Hampton!” he screeched in her face. “Girl, I haven’t seen you since that messy Chanel party at Soho House. Rough summer, huh?”

Brett’s brown hair was slicked back, and he wore an all-white linen suit. Lola couldn’t really keep track of what he’d been up to recently; sometimes he had a magazine column, other times he worked in tech, but mostly he seemed to just be a hanger-on, following models around and stealing their clout. It was working; he had a million followers and the brand deals to match.

And he was still holding her by the arms. She hated when gay men thought they could get away with grabbing her like this.

“Don’t worry, doll,” Brett said, his smug smile making her want to scream. “You’re no one until you get canceled. Welcome to the big leagues.”

She wondered if he was going to ask to take a selfie with her—that was kind of his thing—but he didn’t. Instead, he kept peering into her face, waiting for her to say something. Panic set in. She did not want to be associated with someone who thought getting canceled was a sign of success.

She needed to get herself out of this conversation, but she didn’t know how.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to.

Brett looked over her shoulder and then released her arms with a squeal.

“Aly Ray Carter, live from the Hamptons! Take a selfie with me, doll.”

Lola’s breath caught in her throat. Not Aly. Not here. Not now.

Can I live? It seemed like the answer was no.

Lola forced herself to breathe normally, clearing her airway before she turned around slowly, her arms folded over her chest, trying hard not to look as shook as she felt.

Aly was wearing a white ribbed tank top, no bra. Sunglasses. Beige linen pants. Subtle adjustments to her Brooklyn vibe made her fit effortlessly into the Hamptons, like she was just slightly too cool to be here but participating in it all the same. Lola couldn’t stop her jealousy from flaring. Of course, Aly didn’t look underdressed. No, Aly made everyone else seem overly done up.

Aly grimaced through a selfie with Lola’s new nemesis, who winked as he walked away.

She’d needed a lifeline, sure. There were few things worse than being faced with a judgmental cling-on. But did she really need Aly Ray Carter to save her? She resented it even while she appreciated the timing.

“Hi,” Aly said, her expression unreadable behind her sunglasses. “I fucking hate that guy.”

“Honestly, same,” Lola said and then tensed as she remembered that she was supposed to hate Aly too. She searched for that swell of anger from yesterday, mentally giving herself a pep talk. You hate her. You do. Maybe it was the overalls making her soft, but she came up empty.

“How’s the foot?”

“Like new,” Lola said, which was a lie. It had been hurting her all day, though she’d been trying her best to ignore it.

“You look nice,” Aly said, taking her sunglasses off. “Dressed down is a good vibe on you.”

Lola bristled. She didn’t want Aly to be sweet to her. It was so much easier when they were yelling at each other.

So she decided to be mean. It was safer.

“You look…comfortable,” she said. “As always.”

Aly laughed, surprised. “What?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… Have you ever put any effort into your appearance at all, or do nepo babies not need to get dressed up?”

“Oh my god, Lola,” Aly said, a scowl gracing her face as she looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Can you just chill out for once?”

“Oh, I’m chill,” Lola shot back.

“Did you bike here?” Aly asked, clearly trying to steer them into more neutral territory.

Lola nodded. “What, are you watching me?”

She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but she felt pretty sure she saw a hint of pink in Aly’s cheeks.

“I literally saw you ride up on your bike,” Aly said. “We all did.”

So maybe she wasn’t blushing. Maybe she wasn’t watching Lola as closely as Lola was watching her.

Unless…

No. Lola shook the thought off.

“What are you doing here?” Lola demanded.

Aly laughed. “What am I doing at a fashion party in the neighborhood where I, a fashion writer, am staying for the summer?”

Lola rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, I feel like you should be drinking an Earl Grey somewhere, thinking about existentialism in Russian literature.”

“I’m covering the event for Nylon ,” Aly replied tersely. “And you? Why are you here?”

“I’m canceled, not dead ,” Lola said. “I am allowed in public still.”

What she wanted to say was that she was afraid if she stopped going to events, she’d be worse than canceled; she’d be forgotten. Showing up was a kind of self-preservation, a floatation device for her social status. But there was no reason to be that honest with Aly, not after everything.

“Oh, were you invited to this?” Aly asked, feigning innocence.

“Well, I…” Lola trailed off. She hadn’t been. She was Ryan’s plus one, and Ryan wasn’t here anymore. How mean of Aly to call it out like that.

“I didn’t think so,” Aly said curtly. “I know the person who did the list. She’s still mad about the lesbian chic thing, my article aside.”

“I guess I will be apologizing for the rest of my life,” Lola said, trying to sound more droll than she felt. Aly didn’t need to know all the ways in which she was still beating herself up. It was more convenient to lay all the blame at Aly’s feet.

“I think we are going to have to get used to running into each other,” Aly said. “Otherwise, it’s going to be a very long summer.”

“I’m used to it,” Lola said, giving her nothing. “This is not a big deal.”

“If you say so,” Aly said. A half smile played across her face. “Nice overalls by the way.”

Any guilt Lola had felt for being too cruel last night was gone. Why did Aly have to be so fucking smug?

Her hands tightened into fists.

But then, as Aly walked away, Lola found herself wishing she’d gotten close enough to smell her.

***

After that, the seal had been broken. For the next three weeks, Lola saw Aly everywhere.

They bumped into each other at the wine store, reaching for the same bottle of rosé. They sat at nearby tables at the Crow’s Nest for dinner, Aly with a mezze plate while Lola glared across the way until Ryan ordered her a steak, medium rare. In the mornings while she drank coffee in the kitchen, she often saw Aly going on walks along the beach. They sidestepped each other in line for the bathroom at Surf Lodge. They passed each other on Main as Lola went shopping. She saw Aly in her dreams too, but that was another story.

Aly was definitely a thorn in her side. But a rose was not its thorns, and Lola couldn’t decide what was worse: seeing her or not seeing her.

At night, Lola retreated to the guest bedroom and indulged in increasingly raunchy fantasies—Aly tying her up, Aly fucking her in public, Aly teaching her how to squirt—all fueled by the running thrum of tension between them.

She wished she had brought her vibrator. She had a perpetual hand cramp.

In person, though, their interactions were less than desirable.

“What’s up, Lola?” Aly said to her one afternoon as they passed each other in the produce aisle of Citarella.

Lola had a peach in one hand and an heirloom tomato in the other. She briefly considered chucking them both at Aly’s head. Instead, trying to sound cool and aloof, she simply said, “Oh, you know.”

“Those aren’t really in season yet,” Aly said, gesturing to the peach.

“I didn’t realize you were the peach queen of Long Island,” Lola snapped. “Any other hot grocery tips?”

Aly rolled her eyes. “Okay. Have a good day,” she said, walking away.

Hot grocery tips? Lola spent the rest of the day trying to think of better comebacks.

Another time, Lola came out of the bathroom at Cowfish, a restaurant on the bay, to find Aly first in line.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Aly said as though it was funny.

“Incredible,” Lola said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

“Right.” Aly nodded. “Because that’s what I want to do with my summer.”

“How else are you going to get your next headline?” Lola flashed her best fake smile as she squeezed by Aly to return to her table.

Each run-in, Aly tried to say something , as though she was enjoying watching Lola squirm, as though she liked constantly coming across as the bigger person. Sometimes Lola engaged. Other times she just laughed. It was getting ridiculous.

She was pretty sure she was losing her mind. How else to explain this complicated dance of one-upmanship she was engaged in?

She felt like she was seeing Aly more than she even saw Ryan, who was hardly even sleeping at Giancarlo’s house anymore, always off to meet his new guy, whose name Lola had trouble remembering. She wanted to be happy for him that he seemed caught up in something romantic, but she was too resentful. Ryan gone meant she had no one to talk to, no one to bring her back down to earth.

***

The big Goop event was on a Tuesday evening at the Parrish Art Museum, a charming, double A-frame building in a large, grassy field in Southampton. Precancellation, Goop had been one of Lola’s biggest clients, and she assumed this was a pity invite. Still, she was determined to go. Perhaps by showing up, she could reclaim some of what she’d lost.

By now, Lola had figured out how the Hamptons worked: despite the relaxed beach atmosphere, you showed up on time and you wore nice clothes.

So she arrived at 7:00 p.m. on the dot wearing the yellow Khaite dress. And begrudgingly, she took an Uber instead of riding her bike.

It was a gorgeous, humid summer evening, the sky lavender with fluffy, pink clouds. The entrance to the museum was lined with candles, and PR people in all black were checking names at the door. Walking up, it was one of those moments when Lola—despite everything—was able to feel grateful for the things she had access to, for the beauty of it all.

Inside, women she recognized from the internet huddled in small packs, gossiping and taking photos. She beelined for the bar, ordering a spicy margarita that she sipped as she did a lap, pretending to be looking for someone. In reality, she was scouring the crowd, searching for just one friendly smile, one soft place to land.

A PR person materialized to usher the guests into another room, where a long table was lit with candles and decorated with dried flowers and herbs. String lights twinkled overhead. It was incredible Instagram bait, but Lola had deleted the app from her phone. There was still nothing she could post that wouldn’t be met with the evil cries of delight from the trolls.

Pieces from the summer collection of G. Label were displayed around the room. Lola made a show of looking at some tunics before taking her seat. She always felt obligated to feign an interest in the product at a launch party, though for whose benefit, she wasn’t sure.

A small card bore her name in calligraphy at a seat toward the end of the table, and she sat down, eyeballing the name cards next to her. On her left would be a fitness influencer named Rachel. On her right would be…

Of fucking course.

Aly Ray Carter.

Lola had accepted the fact that they were going to see each other everywhere, but that didn’t mean she wanted to eat dinner next to the girl. She felt her pulse quicken as Aly appeared at her side, sitting down. She looked too pretty in the candlelight. Her pale skin had acquired the most subtle hint of tan. Her hair was down, hanging loosely around her face. The Hamptons looked good on her.

“Hello, Lola,” Aly said. She sounded annoyingly professional. Lola had to remind herself that they were literally at work, and Aly was a professional. In many ways, Lola was the one who had turned this into a personal mess.

“Hi.” She didn’t want to be rude in front of all these people, but she also didn’t care to be nice.

The rest of the table filled up quickly. She turned her back on Aly to say hello to Rachel, who immediately launched into a monologue about the weight she was trying to lose before September. “Have you tried the new all-natural GLP-1 supplements?” Rachel gushed.

Lola was nodding along at moments that seemed appropriate, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she strained to hear the conversation Aly was having with the people sitting across from them, who Lola gathered were other journalists.

“Yeah, I mean,” she heard Aly say. “Sometimes I really don’t think influencers should even be at press events.”

Rachel was still midsentence, but Lola turned back to Aly. “What was that?”

Aly and the two well-dressed women across from them all stared at her.

She should be an adult. She should let this go. She should not make a scene in front of these notable writers and Goop; it was like she was spitting on Gwyneth herself. But lately, Lola hadn’t been that great at doing what she should, Hamptons Zen be damned.

Maybe it was the tequila or the agonizing weeks of Aly run-ins, but she suddenly could not access Professional Influencer Mode. It was gone—it had evacuated due to the disaster of her career, running for higher ground. Which meant she was on her own.

She went full throttle. “You don’t think influencers should be at press events? Who do you think is responsible for driving sales these days? You think anyone is actually reading the press? You think your little articles have more impact than one Instagram story from any of the girls here? You think print still has value?”

“Print still has value,” Aly said in a voice that was frustratingly calm compared to Lola’s questions raining down like shrapnel.

The problem with making this argument was that Lola loved print magazines. She still subscribed to all the major glossies and felt devastated any time another one became digital only, which was happening more and more these days thanks to—she knew—influencers like her. It was a horrible position to be in. She was partially responsible for the destruction of an industry that she loved, one she’d wanted so badly to be in that she’d created her own way to get there.

But she was absolutely not going to let Aly Ray Carter know they were on the same page about it.

Instead, she imagined flipping the table over, Teresa Guidice style.

A PR person at the other end of the table was clinking her fork on her wineglass and starting a toast, thanking everyone for coming. At the same time, cater waiters appeared, carrying plates of beautifully arranged salads, the first course.

Lola stabbed at her lettuce and frowned.

“How do you two know each other?” one of the women—the one with long, blond hair—across the table asked, as if to break the obvious tension that now blanketed them.

“I profiled her,” Aly said, at the same time as Lola said, “She called me bland in The Cut and now my career is over.”

“Oh,” the other woman, a redhead, said, looking apologetic. “I did read that piece.”

“And what did you think of it?” Lola asked tartly.

“Lola,” Aly said. “We don’t have to do this.”

“No, really,” Lola said. “I’m curious.”

The two women glanced at each other. The blond one said, “I thought it was smart and largely harmless.”

The redhead nodded, adding, “You know the news cycle. People were on to the next thing within a day.”

“Well, this one seems to have had a longer tail,” Aly said, stepping in. “There were some unintended consequences for Lola that I do feel badly about.” She seemed to emphasize her words, her eyes drilling into the side of Lola’s face.

Lola shot her a glare. “I’m sure you do,” she said as sarcastically as she could manage.

“It was surprising to me that you even covered influencer drama,” the blond said. “Not your usual beat.”

The redhead was nodding. “Yes, that’s true. What made you want to write it? Usually you cover much more serious topics.”

“Yeah, Aly,” Lola said, turning her whole body toward Aly, who looked like she was folding in on herself. “What gives? What did I do to earn the pleasure of your ire?”

“It was a good assignment,” Aly said unconvincingly.

“Hear that, ladies?” Lola said. “Ruining my life was a good assignment.”

Aly scowled in response.

“Are you going to stay on the influencer beat?” the redhead asked. “I’m sure it’s lucrative, writing something so viral.”

“No.” Aly’s voice was clipped now. “It was a one-off.”

“Lucky me,” Lola said. “So happy that you toe-dipped into my life specifically. I’m your unfortunate muse, I guess. Your one-and-done influencer chum! I feel honored.”

There was a long, awkward silence. The women across the table stared at her. She was taking this too far, she knew.

“I think you and I need to have a conversation,” Aly said to her. “Somewhere…else.”

“Oh really?” Lola said before realizing Aly was serious—and was already standing. Lola’s anger faltered. “Wait, what?”

“You don’t really want to stay for dinner, right?”

“I mean, I guess not?” She had been looking forward to dinner, actually—steak was on the menu—but she’d lost her appetite the moment Aly had appeared.

She didn’t know what was happening. She had not expected this.

Aly stood up and waited for Lola. And then, to Lola’s complete shock, Aly placed a hand on Lola’s lower back and guided her toward the exit. There was something almost chivalrous about it, and Lola gritted her teeth, as though that would protect her from Aly’s charm.

“Do you want me to email you the one-sheet?” a publicist called to Aly as they walked out into the night.

“Yeah, thanks,” Aly called over her shoulder. And then to Lola, she muttered, “I never read those.”

“So rebellious,” Lola whispered.

Aly smirked.

It was drizzling, and they were quiet as they huddled under the valet’s umbrella, waiting for Aly’s car. Lola was thrilled and terrified at the same time.

Would Aly shame her for her behavior? Collect more info to ruin her further? And where were they going?

There was nothing to do but surrender. Whatever was going to happen next was, apparently, up to Aly.