by Bridie Clark
So on the day she turned twenty-six, with a hard-earned two thou in savings, she packed a bag, ignored her mother’s watery discouragement, said a few goodbyes, traveled across the country on a Greyhound, found via Craigslist a Murray Hill studio with a floor so sloping she constantly tripped over her feet, and lucked into an entry-level job at Nola Sinclair. The job was only marginally more inspiring than working for Annie Druitt—but at least she was in New York, epicenter of all things fashion, and working for an industry darling no less.
A year later, however, she hadn’t made any progress. A year wasn’t long, in the grand scheme of things, but it was too long for Lucy Jo. Her learning curve had grown flatter than Kate Moss, and Nola refused to consider anyone for a design position who wasn’t vetted by the hallowed halls of FIT or Parsons.
It didn’t matter. Nola was the gateway, and tonight was Lucy Jo’s opportunity to meet her real mentor—someone who would recognize that her talent and drive went far beyond assembly-line work.
Things are finally clicking into place, Lucy Jo thought. She unzipped her enormous blue parka as she hurried down Lexington Avenue with her design portfolio clutched in one arm, wishing again that she owned a nicer coat to go with her dress. Once she got her next job, she’d buy herself a cashmere overcoat suitable for evening events. And she’d walk right into Saks Fifth Avenue and buy a pair of strappy gold Louboutins, no matter how much they cost. She hoped that tonight nobody would notice the scuff marks on her Aldo heels.
Shoes and coat aside, Lucy Jo was ready. She’d read The Secret. Her handshake was strong. She’d practiced maintaining eye contact. And she knew exactly what she wanted—an opportunity with a designer who wouldn’t consign her to stitching zippers. Though she was slightly terrified to show her design portfolio to the design stars who’d be in attendance—not to mention the business cards she’d had printed up at Kinko’s and planned to distribute like party favors—she knew she had to get the word out that Lucy Jo Ellis would make Thakoon, or Brian Reyes, or Rachel Roy a fabulous assistant designer. (Only Nola would have the cojones to stock the crowd with competitors, and only Nola could inspire them to say yes—presumably because they knew how much press she’d draw.) Lucy had even jotted down some conversation starters on index cards, stashing them in her bag just in case. If she happened to find herself standing next to Margaux Irving, there’d be zero chance of dead air.
She’d put equal effort into her appearance. She’d bought her first-ever pair of Spanx, holding her breath hoping that the $40 charge would go through on her credit card. She’d fake-tanned, smearing toxic-smelling cream all over her body and face. Now it looked as if she’d spent Thanksgiving in St. Barts, not on her futon nursing pad thai every night. She’d curled her hair. Wonderbra-ed. Applied three coats of mascara to make her eyes really pop. Painted her nails and toes bright pink to match her dress. And then there was the dress itself—a walking advertisement, she hoped, for what she could do with a needle, thread, and twenty bucks.
You can do this, she repeated to herself, climbing the stairs toward the velvet rope at the Armory. The other arrivals swirled around her, the women’s bare legs goose-pimpling beneath the flourishes of designer frocks, the men looking sexy and severe in black jackets and skinny ties. Lucy Jo stopped briefly to reapply her lipstick, give her hair a quick flip-and-brush, and spritz herself with a Chanel perfume sample she’d been saving for a special occasion. Then she marched herself up to the velvet rope.
“Name?” said the PR flack with a clipboard, eyeing her.
“Lucy Jo Ellis,” she replied, flashing her brightest smile.
The girl scanned her list, then looked up. “Ellis, you said?”
“E-L-L-I-S. Yup, that’s right.”
“Sorry, I don’t have you on here.”
Lucy Jo’s first instinct was to scream. She fought it down. The PR girl’s empty eyes moved to the next person in line.
“Hang on!” Lucy Jo said loudly, diving into her tote bag and pulling out the now-creased invitation. “I have the invitation right here! Nola’s assistant Clarissa gave it to me. I work at the company—there’s just been some mistake!”
“What can I tell you? You’re not on my list. The only Ellis we have is Bret Easton Ellis. Why don’t you call Clarissa?”
“I—I would, but I left my cell phone at home. Please.” Lucy Jo cursed herself for buying groceries instead of paying the phone bill. The service had been cut off last week.
“Sorry, but I can’t let you in if you’re not on—”
“Your list. I know. Could you call Clarissa, by any chance?” she pleaded, but the girl just shook her head.
Before Lucy Jo was reduced to plopping her knees down on the cold steps to beg, the front doors parted and a flash of red hair caught her eye.
“Clarissa!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, wild in her desperation. The red hair turned around—and sure enough, it was Nola’s assistant, looking as though the strands of black pearls around her neck were choking her. Relief surged through Lucy Jo’s body. “Thank God! For some reason my name’s not—”
“You’re the girl from the workshop, right? You’re totally late!” Clarissa hissed. She motioned for Lucy Jo to hustle through the doors and then grabbed her wrist. “Didn’t I tell you to get here at six?”
“What? No, I’m sure it said eight on the invitation—”
They were interrupted by the woman of the hour, Nola Sinclair, cutting through the crowd with her usual look of hell-bent determination. Lucy Jo shivered.
“Clarissa!” Nola called, jerking her head toward a vacant room off the main hallway. Clarissa, still gripping Lucy Jo’s arm, followed her boss with terror in her eyes. Lucy Jo could understand why. At five-two, with a thick shock of prematurely white hair, Nola commanded a presence far bigger than her actual size. Though her look hadn’t deviated in ten years—spiky hair, bleached skin, kohlrimmed eyes, black long-sleeved shift, and dominatrix platforms—there was something about her that never failed to startle. Nola was a mercurial personality who loved to take risks with her collections, and move in unexpected directions, and her unpredictability was sometimes hailed more than her actual talent. Lucy Jo, though she didn’t always “get” Nola’s style, knew she had something to learn from her moxie.
“The seating is a fucking train wreck,” Nola hissed once they were sequestered from overhearing ears. “You have Margaux Irving four seats away from Menon Whittemore! Fashion One-Oh-One: they loathe each other! I distinctly told you that they should be seated on opposite sides of the runway.” She noticed Lucy Jo and pulled a face. “Who is this?”
Clarissa’s face blanched. “One of the girls from the workshop—she came to help out—”
“She’s wearing color,” Nola said, revolted. Then she cast her eyes over Lucy Jo’s face, neck, and décolletage. “And why does she look like a human carrot?”
“I, um—” Lucy Jo felt her cheeks turn crimson.
“Whatever. One disaster at a time. You need to fix the seating immediately.” With that, she stormed off. Clarissa rushed after her, and Lucy Jo scurried after Clarissa, into the central hall that seemed to be filling up by the minute. She was winded from Nola’s harsh appraisal, and her face burned with embarrassment. Maybe the self-tanner wasn’t so St. Barts after all; maybe her dress wasn’t quite ready for its close-up in Vogue. Fortunately, the crowded hall was illuminated by long tallow candles that cast dramatic but shadowy light, so nobody could see her blush.
Beneath magnificent vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany, the who’s who of the fashion scene sipped cocktails and air-kissed each other hello. Lucy Jo watched Carla Bruni and Naomi Campbell gossip in one corner, Naomi stubbing out her cigarette in one of the abstract ice sculptures. There was Patrick Demarchelier, just five steps away; Gray-don Carter kissing Natalie Portman hello; Jennifer Lopez showing off pictures of her twins to Kelly Ripa; Caroline Kennedy waiting for a martini behind Ian Schrager. It wa
s like visiting some kind of fabulous zoo, where the exotic animals were very expensively dressed.
“Stop staring,” Clarissa whispered after Lucy Jo had whipped her head around to get a closer look at Sting, who was chatting with Julianne Moore at the martini bar. “And hurry up. You heard Nola—I have way too much to do right now.”
Why was Clarissa cattle-prodding her through the hall? The question flew out of Lucy Jo’s head when they stepped into the enormous Drill Room, the main chamber of the old Armory. It was like stepping inside a dazzling glacier that had cracked to form a hidden cave of ice. Cocktail tables, covered in virgin linens and crystal votives, dotted each side of the sleek runway. Enormous white imported peonies that looked like giant snowballs were piled up haphazardly around the runway, and art deco chandeliers hung low, casting a glittery cabaret light. All that was missing were the models, the clothes, the audience—and Lucy Jo striding down the runway, the designer modestly accepting her end-of-show accolades.
“This is amazing!” Lucy Jo was struck still with awe.
Clarissa glanced up at their surroundings. “Yeah, well, it better be. There’s a lot at stake. Nola’s super stressed.” She grabbed Lucy Jo’s down-coated elbow and hurried her along. They passed through the backstage area, where a dozen cadaverous models were wriggling into their clothes, and then through the swinging double doors of a . . .
Catering kitchen?
“Extra uniforms are back there, I think. Get ready fast, okay? Marco—over there—will give you your marching orders.”
“Marching orders? I don’t understand—”
“What’s to understand?” Clarissa’s eyes widened with annoyance. “You carry a tray with caviar blinis and champagne. Offer it to the guests. You’re not removing a brain tumor.”
Huh? The kitchen suddenly felt as small as a coffin. Lucy Jo just blinked. “I’m here to work?”
“Of course! I told you, half the catering staff came down with some nasty virus, and they’re super short-staffed. We got a few people from accounting to fill in, some interns, and you. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Lucy Jo was too stunned to speak, too embarrassed to protest. She was afraid if she tried to force words, a sob might come out instead.
Clarissa’s face suddenly opened up, as she realized the extent of Lucy Jo’s delusion. Then her face snapped shut again, as firmly as a Judith Leiber clutch. “Okay, well . . . see you later.” Clarissa spun on a five-inch heel and shoved through the doors into the party.
“This might be a little small.” Marco, the goateed head cater-waiter, eyed Lucy Jo up and down before tossing her a skimpy black patent-leather dress that she’d be lucky to squeeze over one thigh. It had an extra bunch of fabric on one shoulder, like an abscess—a sure sign that Nola had a hand in its design. “What size shoe do you wear? Hope it’s seven, cuz that’s all I got left.” He tossed her two dominatrix boots. They looked dangerous.
Reality hit her with a sickening thud. How ridiculous she’d been to assume that she’d been invited to rub elbows! She was the hired help, nothing more. Lucy Jo put down her portfolio, and held the size-two dress against her size-ten hips. “Do you have anything bigger?” she gulped.
There was a loud crash from the back of the kitchen. “Nah, but don’t sweat it,” Marco called over his shoulder as he headed to do damage control. “Nobody’s gonna be looking at you tonight.”
3
Yesterday’s sale of Important Watches at Sotheby’s in Geneva did not disappoint the packed room in attendance, most notably when a Patek Philippe chronograph wristwatch, selling for the first time in fifty years, was purchased for a historic $1.2 million dollars by an unknown U.S. collector.
—Hans Depardieu, www.antiquewatchwatch.com
My usual,” Wyatt told the bartender, an older man whose first name he should have mastered years ago. He had felt more at peace upon entering his favorite darkly lit watering hole, one of the last bastions of smoker tolerance in the city. When a cool tumbler of single-malt scotch materialized in front of him on the mahogany bar, Wyatt exhaled for the first time since leaving Cornelia.
“What happened to you, man? You look like hell!” Trip Peters clamped a hand down on Wyatt’s shoulder, and Wyatt turned around to greet his friend. Trip was short, balding, thirty pounds overweight, and seemingly unaware of any of these shortcomings. “Double martini, Saul.”
“Yeah, I know I do,” Wyatt lamented. Actually, he looked like a mildly disheveled aristocrat getting liquored up as quickly as possible, but hell is relative.
Drinks in hand, the two men snagged a table toward the back. “I like the watch,” Wyatt said, noticing the Count Trossi Patek on his friend’s wrist.
“I couldn’t resist,” said Trip, glancing at the timepiece, his infatuation obvious. “One of the first single button chronograph wrist-watches the company made. One of the earliest with horizontal registers, too. Paid seven figures for it at the Sotheby’s auction.” Trip was a watch guy. Also a car guy, a plane guy, and a wine guy.
It’s a law of New York City: no matter how much money you’re making, you’re surrounded by people making more. Trip, however, was a bit of an exception. Even when the seas of the international economy grew so rough that many financiers were puking over the railing, the SS Trip Peters had proved to be an ocean liner bigger, sturdier, and more secure than just about any other vessel it encountered. After using some of his considerable but not gargantuan inheritance to launch his own hedge fund at age thirty, Trip had made fuck-you money starting year one. Wyatt had to admire his friend’s indefinable knack for mining gold where others dug up lead. Nobody posted higher returns, and nobody played the game better. “I didn’t know he had it in him,” old friends of Trip confided to each other. Trip was smart enough, they said, but c’mon—his parents had donated a baseball diamond to get him into Pepperdine.
He and Wyatt had known each other since they were kids. They’d been a grade apart (Wyatt was older) at St. Bernard’s, and both families wintered in Palm Beach. From a very young age, their mothers had insisted that the boys were best friends. Three decades later, they’d shared so much history that it had become more or less true.
“So what happened to you?” Trip asked. “Where are you coming from?”
“A launch party at Doubles for a waste of paper called Townhouse. I left early. After breaking up with Cornelia, as a matter of fact.”
“Seriously?” Trip looked surprised.
“Long overdue, I know.”
“Actually, Eloise and I thought you guys were good together. You seemed—I don’t know, well matched. Why’d you end it?”
“Are you serious, man?” Wyatt didn’t feel like talking about the snub, even to his closest friend. “This whole socialite thing’s gone to Cornelia’s head. The girl preens in front of anything with a flash-bulb. She actually thinks she’s got a career to manage. Apparently nobody’s told her that landing on party pages isn’t a career.”
“So she’s a little caught up in the scene,” Trip said. “That seems pretty harmless.”
“Harmless? Gertrude Vanderbilt founded the Whitney. Jackie Onassis made Grand Central shine.” The muscles in Wyatt’s neck had grown taut. “Cornelia’s primary goal in life is to climb to the top of Parkavenueroyalty.com.”
“What’s Parkavenueroyalty.com?” Trip asked. He popped some peanuts into his mouth and then, checking the time, gazed at his watch with the kind of elation that would have done a new father proud. “Eloise is probably expecting me home soon.”
“It’s a completely inane website that ranks all the socialites and reports on their every move.” Wyatt took a gulp of his scotch. “They rank men, too. They’ve got you down as the number six most eligible bachelor in Manhattan. I’m number three myself. I was number two last week, until this kid Theo—”
“Sounds like Cornelia isn’t the only one obsessed with this thing,” Trip remarked. “Not that the kettle is black, or anything.”
Wyatt
glared at his friend. “She checks it constantly. I look once in a while to satisfy a morbid curiosity.”
“Whatever you say.”
“All those girls are just the same. I’m telling you, Peters, of all the wildlife I’ve observed—and my fieldwork has taken me to every continent—the most bizarre creatures on the planet are socialites on the Upper East Side.”
Outside, winter lightning split the sky.
4
“Many critics say my work—and particularly this collection—pushes the collective discourse about fashion in a revolutionary new direction. They say I don’t play by the rules. That I don’t aim for mere beauty—that I aim at something far less pedestrian. Perhaps this is so.”
—Nola Sinclair as quoted by The Daily Fashion