Rich Girls Read online

  Confessions of a Teen Nanny

  Rich Girls

  A Novel by Victoria Ashton

  To the doyenne of style—

  long may she reign!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Lifestyles of the Rich and Heinous

  Chapter Two

  The Texas dip

  Chapter Three

  Grumpus the Great

  Chapter Four

  Those People are Twisted

  Chapter Five

  There is no Mrs. Fine

  Chapter Six

  The Perfect Pink

  Chapter Seven

  Totally Cinderella

  Chapter Eight

  Snow Job

  Chapter Nine

  Viva Valentino!

  Chapter Ten

  Cameron’s Latest Boy Toy

  Chapter Eleven

  Will the Real Parker Please Stand Up?

  Chapter Twelve

  Putting the Plan in Motion

  Chapter Thirteen

  Out of the Closet

  Chapter Fourteen

  You Should See the Place in Vienna

  Chapter Fifteen

  Grumpus Calls

  Chapter Sixteen

  Payback Time!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kicking Debutante Butt

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the Plaza

  About the Author

  Other Books by Victoria Ashton

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  lifestyles of the rich and heinous

  Liz Braun scanned the sea of perfectly highlighted blond heads, searching for Jane Tremont and Belinda Martin, her two closest friends at school. She had once thought there was nothing more frightening than a horror movie. Now, as a junior at the Pheasant-Berkeley School for Girls, she realized there was nothing more terrifying than the cafeteria.

  Even after three years at the exclusive private school, Liz could still feel herself plunged into anxiety when faced with the prospect of sitting alone at lunch. Liz figured this was “scholarship insecurity.” The richest and most prominent families in New York City sent their daughters to P-B, with a smattering of scholarship spots given out to those students with the grades but without the bucks or social connections. Girls like Liz.

  Liz finally spotted her friends at a table by the window, and her eyes widened when she noticed the girls sitting at the table next to them: Isabelle Schuyler, Princess Mimi von Fallschirm, and Cameron Warner.

  Ugh, Liz thought. Isabelle and Mimi are irritating enough, but Cameron?

  Cameron Warner. Totally gorgeous, totally loaded, the totally lethal subject of society columns and of most Pheasant-Berkeley gossip. A billionaire heiress, Cameron was not only a spoiled-brat wild child, she was also Liz’s sworn enemy. Last week Cameron had done the unforgivable: She had stolen Adrienne Lewis’s boyfriend, Brian Grady. And Adrienne was Liz’s truly best best friend.

  What are Jane and Belinda doing sitting near the Billionaire Bitches? Liz wondered as she crossed the crowded lunch room. And more to the point—why would Cameron and her crew allow the merely well-off to mingle with the mega-rich?

  “Hey, there,” Jane greeted Liz. “The glitterati snagged our usual spot.” Liz loved Jane’s deadpan delivery, which made even a simple statement sound like a wry observation. A hank of her thick, dark blond hair fell across her face, adding to her sophisticated quality. “However, we managed to score ringside seats for the Cameron Warner versus Mimi von Fallschirm fight.” She dragged a French fry through a pile of ketchup, looking languidly at the girls at the nearby table.

  “Fight?” Liz said with interest as she sat down. Is there trouble in Cameron’s paradise? Today is looking up. “What about?”

  “Fashion,” Belinda replied. Belinda was a tiny bundle of energy, and where Liz’s dark hair framed her pale skin with soft curls, Belinda’s springy strawberry-blond waves cascaded halfway down her back. Belinda was always on a diet; probably, Liz guessed, because she was totally and thoroughly obsessed with fashion. Belinda joked that she was friends with Liz despite Liz’s height, long legs, and big dark eyes.

  “It appears there is a conflict of interest over who is going to wear what where,” Jane explained.

  Liz shrugged. “Big deal.”

  Jane grinned. “Oh, I see. You’re less than fascinated by the lifestyles of the rich and heinous because your new boyfriend is one of them.”

  “I don’t know if Parker is exactly my boyfriend…,” Liz said as she unloaded her tray.

  Parker Devlin was the devastatingly gorgeous boy Liz had met through Cameron. He went to Dudley Academy, the same high school Cameron’s obnoxious half brother, Graydon, had attended. Cameron was close with Parker through Graydon but, then again, it seemed as if every girl in the Manhattan private-school social circuit was close with Parker. He was that kind of guy.

  Liz still had trouble believing that such a hot guy could actually be interested in her. According to society columns and high school gossip, Parker usually dated socialites and baby celebs. But he seemed truly interested in Liz.

  Jane raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, studying Liz’s necklace. “So, Liz, is that little bit of bling new? Did you get a raise?”

  Liz touched the Tiffany diamond that was hanging around her neck on a thin platinum chain and flushed with pleasure. “Isn’t it pretty? Parker gave it to me last night. It was the first time we’ve been alone since he came back from Palm Beach.”

  Belinda let out a low whistle. “That,” she said, “is an awfully good starter set. I’d say he’s your boyfriend.”

  “Watch out for men who give expensive presents in the beginning,” Jane warned. “They make you pay for them in the end.”

  “Jane, what a thing to say!” Belinda protested. “Pay no attention to her, Liz.”

  “Who told you that?” Liz asked Jane.

  “My mother.” Jane picked up another French fry. “After divorce settlement number two.”

  “Forget her,” Belinda urged. “You know how cynical Jane is about romance. Now tell us why you’re not sure of Parker.”

  Liz was about to confess what Adrienne had told her about Cameron’s wild party in Palm Beach—the one where Parker and everyone else wound up naked in the pool—when loud giggles erupted at the next table.

  “And so then,” Cameron said, tossing her perfectly straight blond hair and flashing her perfectly white teeth, “he says, ‘No, Miss Warner, I assure you, you will see it on no one else. This is the very dress Miss Scarlett Johansson wore to her latest premiere.’ So I said, ‘Kevyn, I don’t wear used clothes!’”

  “Who is Kevyn?” Isabelle asked, taking a sip of her tea.

  “Our boy at Valentino,” Mimi replied, studying herself in a small mirror. She smoothed her already stick-straight black hair and powdered her already ghostly white face.

  “Is he hot?” Isabelle asked. Her angelic face, surrounded by golden curls, was a complete contrast to the suggestive tone in her voice.

  “Honestly, Isabelle,” Mimi said putting her mirror back into her Louis Vuitton bag. “You would pay attention to help.”

  “To answer your question, Isabelle, yes, he is gorgeous,” Cameron said.

  “And Cameron would notice,” Mimi said, “as she seems to be particularly interested in the working class these days. Honestly, Cam, when are you going to dump that peasant boy toy of yours?”

  Liz sat up straighter. They were talking about Brian! Adrienne’s Brian.

  “When do you—” Belinda began.

  “Shh.” Liz cut her off and leaned across the table. “I need to hear this,” she whispered. The three girls played with their food
while they carefully listened to the conversation at the next table.

  “You have to admit,” Cameron said, “he is cute.”

  “He’s a bore,” Mimi said. “Oh, Isabelle, we all went to Town for dinner last night, and he ate”—Mimi shuddered—“with his hands.”

  “It wasn’t that bad, Meems,” Cam protested with a giggle. “Though he did look like an idiot wrestling with the artichoke.”

  The three girls laughed meanly together.

  “If Brian knew that Cameron sits around making fun of him, he’d be totally humiliated,” Belinda said quietly. Liz had filled in Belinda and Jane on how she and Adrienne had discovered Cam and Brian making out at a party last week. Brian and Adrienne had been together for two years, and all the girls agreed that Brian had always seemed like a down-to-Earth kind of guy. Until Cameron came along.

  “Serves him right, for dropping Adrienne for Cameron,” Jane said.

  “True,” Liz agreed. “Though I can’t help feeling sorry for him a little.”

  Belinda’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you’re saying that.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Liz said quickly. “What he did is unforgivable. But Cameron has a way of twisting things around. When she wants something, she can make you believe almost anything.”

  Jane nodded. “We’ve all seen her go into her sweetiepie routine.”

  “At least I know her well enough not to trust her,” Liz said. “But Adrienne was seriously taken in by her. She really believed Cameron wanted to be her friend.” Liz stabbed a tomato with her fork.

  “It’s a good thing Adrienne goes to Van Rensselaer High,” Belinda said. “It’s bad enough she works for Cameron’s family. She shouldn’t have to see that boy-stealer every day at school, too.”

  Liz and Adrienne worked as nannies for two different families at 841 Fifth Avenue. Liz took care of nine-year-old Heather and five-year-old David, the offspring of famed child psychologist Dr. Mayra Markham-Collins. Adrienne was in charge of Cameron’s eight-year-old half sister, Emma.

  “Maybe I never should have set Adrienne up with that job,” Liz said. “Then Cameron never would have met Brian.”

  “But then you might not have met Parker,” Belinda pointed out. “And that would have been tragic.”

  Liz smiled. “True…”

  Another high-pitched squeal came from the next table. “Can you believe it?” Mimi shrieked. “Her father offered to pay to get her a place at the dance!”

  “Can you do that?” Isabelle asked.

  “Of course not!” Mimi huffed. “You are either asked, or you are not asked.”

  To what dance? Liz wondered, her attention diverted again. Is it something Parker might invite me to?

  “Okay,” Jane said, standing up and brushing crumbs from her blue-and-white kilt—the P-B uniform they all hated. “I’m late for study hall. Belinda, are you coming?”

  “I guess,” Belinda said. “Though I am so not enjoying the idea of trig right now. See you, Liz.” The girls left.

  Liz took a last swallow of her water and got up.

  “Leaving so soon?” came a familiar voice from behind her. “The bell hasn’t rung yet.”

  Liz turned to see Cameron’s always camera-ready face.

  “Why don’t you join us?” Cam said, smiling sweetly.

  Liz’s eyes narrowed. She must want something. But what? She knew she should just walk away, but curiosity took over, and she sat down.

  “So,” Mimi said, “back to the cotillion.”

  “The what?” Liz asked.

  “The Manhattan Cotillion,” Isabelle said. “It’s a debutante ball.”

  “It is the debutante ball,” Cameron corrected.

  “You see, every year for, like, the last hundred years,” Isabelle said, speaking slowly as if Liz were in kindergarten, “the Manhattan Cotillion committee gets together and they invite ten girls—five from New York, and five from other cities.”

  “Five socially acceptable cities,” said Mimi. “Boston, Philadelphia, Charleston…” She blinked. “I can’t remember the other two.” She turned to Cameron. “Are there two other acceptable American cities?”

  “Anyway,” Isabelle continued, “the ball is held at the Plaza Hotel at the end of January—”

  “Giving us plenty of time to recover from all the holiday cheer,” Cameron interrupted with a laugh.

  “And the ten girls make their bow to society,” Isabelle finished.

  “Aka, everyone we know and adore,” Cameron added.

  “You’re presented, you curtsy and, voilà, you are introduced to society,” concluded Mimi.

  “But if you’ve all known one another since you were kids, why do you need to be introduced?” Liz asked. The rituals of the rich are so weird.

  “That’s not the point,” Cameron said, obviously amused by Liz’s lack of training in these Byzantine social customs. “What matters is that only the girls from the best and oldest families get invited.”

  Liz nodded. Now she got it. This was all just an excuse to create yet another clique—another set of “in” girls and “out” girls.

  “You know, Cam, I’d be a little worried if I were you. It’s not as if your family is old money,” Mimi said with a smirk. “Your father made all his own money recently, and moved from Texas to New York, like, ten years ago.”

  “Sometimes money just speaks for itself, if you have enough of it,” Cameron said airily. “Besides, I’ve got it all. My stepmother Christine’s family sent their servants over on the Mayflower to get things ready, and they’re so totally old money. Besides, she’s a ball chairwoman.”

  “Still,” Isabelle pointed out, “you’ll never make Deb of the Year.”

  “Deb of the Year?” Liz repeated, hoping she didn’t sound hopelessly clueless.

  “It’s fabulous,” Cam said. “If you get elected by the cotillion committee, you end up with your face on the cover of Town and Country and in the Social Register Journal. Also, every designer wants you for their spring runway show.”

  “Which is why I am going to be Deb of the Year,” Mimi declared.

  “Not on your life!” Cameron countered.

  “She is a real princess, Cam,” Isabelle said. “Even you can’t top that.”

  “Watch me,” Cameron said, her ice-gray eyes flashing.

  Interesting, Liz thought. Something that might actually be out of Cameron’s grasping reach.

  “I’ll be in Valentino whether you like it or not,” Cam told Mimi. “He’s making something especially for me.”

  “Well,” Mimi said, clearly trying to top Cameron, “my escort will be Archduke Ruprecht von Habsburg. If the monarchy were restored in Austria, he’d be emperor someday.”

  This competition is stupid, Liz thought, and wadded up her napkin. “I have to go,” she said, standing.

  “Ciao,” Cameron said.

  Leaving the cafeteria, Liz hit Adrienne’s cell phone number on autodial. She had to clue Adrienne in on this bizarre new piece of Cameron trivia.

  “Hi,” Adrienne answered. She sounded down. The way she had ever since Brian hooked up with Cameron.

  “Hey, you!” Liz said, hoping that dishing about the freaky rich set would cheer up Adrienne. “Guess who I had lunch with today?”

  “Anna Nicole Smith,” Adrienne quipped.

  “Just as blond, but half as interesting.”

  “Britney Spears?”

  “Still less interesting.”

  “You can’t mean it. You actually had lunch with Cameron?”

  “I did.”

  “On purpose?”

  Liz laughed. “Nah, it was more that we were stuck next to each other. Anyway, she and Mimi and Isabelle were talking about a dance they’re all going to. And you need an ancestor who came over on the Mayflower to get in.”

  “I know,” Adrienne said, and sighed. “Things are insane over at the Warners’ with all the preparations. Gotta run. French class.”

  “See you at
841 later?” Liz asked.

  “You bet. I have to see that trinket Parker gave you.”

  “Wait, Adrienne!” Liz said quickly. She lowered her voice. “At lunch today Jane made a comment that guys who give you presents expect to get paid for them. Do you think…” Liz’s voice trailed off.

  “What?” Adrienne asked. “Do I think what?”

  Liz let out a sigh. “Do you think that’s true? That Parker gave me the present just so I’ll sleep with him?”

  “Hello, paranoid!” Adrienne said. “Parker’s totally into you. Stop being crazy. Gotta go.” She hung up.

  Liz sighed and wrapped her earpiece around her phone. She was about to put it into her bag when it buzzed. She looked down at it. There was a text message from Parker:

  CALC SUX. MISS U.

  Liz grinned. Maybe Adrienne’s right. I have got to chill.

  Liz walked into the changing room for phys ed and caught Isabelle Schuyler practicing a deep curtsy in front of a mirror.

  And Adrienne says I’m crazy? Liz thought. She ducked into the row where her locker was and covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud.

  CHAPTER TWO

  the Texas dip

  Adrienne hung up her phone and tossed it into her Prada sling bag, a gift from Mrs. Warner. She was certainly the only girl at Van Rensselaer who had a real Prada bag, but every time she looked at it, it made her think of Cameron Warner and Brian.

  Brian. Adrienne’s stomach twisted as she recalled the horrible image of walking in on Brian, on the guest room bed, making out with Cameron. Hands groping. Panting and kissing…and then the humiliation and shock of watching him follow Cam out the door, leaving Adrienne behind.

  She hadn’t heard a word from him since. Oh, she saw him in school, but they didn’t speak.

  Well, he was the one in the wrong. It was up to him to apologize, wasn’t it? To explain, to beg her forgiveness.