by Bridie Clark
Champagne?” Lucy Jo asked a Posh Spice doppelgänger in current-season couture. The woman accepted the flute and continued her conversation without pausing for a comma, never mind a thank-you.
At first Lucy Jo had been shocked by how invisible she felt. Considering that she looked like an overweight Jetson in her ridiculous outfit, she felt it was bizarre to walk around the crowded room and have guests notice only the marinated sea scallops or risotto balls on her tray. It wasn’t the triumphant night she had dreamed about, that was for sure. Hustling back and forth to the kitchen whenever her tray felt light, bussing empty glasses and used napkins from guests—working instead of networking. But she was somehow managing to smile despite the raw ache of her disappointment. When she had changed into her catering costume, she’d even tucked a few business cards in her Wonderbra, refusing to give up hope. And at least she could soak up the scene.
And what a scene it was. The models—all looking recently exhumed from their crypts, clad in Nola’s inky palette and sporting androgynous buzz cuts—charged down the runway to the primal beat of a bass drum. Edge before beauty—that was Nola’s style. Her dresses looked like geometric configurations created by Mondrian on acid. One model looked as if she had a badly deformed left hip, but it was just the strange lines of her suit. It was the type of fashion that critics ate up and real women hated, thought Lucy Jo, and she agreed with the real women (or the unenlightened masses, if you were on the critics’ side).
The audience watched with rapt attention. Lucy Jo could feel the undeniable electricity in the air. Some jotted notes; some just followed the models with their eyes as though they were watching a slow match at Wimbledon. The phalanx of photographers at the end of the runway flashed so many shots that the room seemed to dance in a Studio 54-esque strobe light.
Lucy Jo rebalanced her tray and pushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead. One day I’ll be in Nola’s shoes, she thought. Figuratively speaking—those S&M-inspired platforms looked as crippling as the boots into which Lucy had been forced to wedge her feet.
A model in a long charcoal-gray dress paused for effect at the end of the runway, its glassy surface reflecting her image. Lucy Jo’s breath caught in her throat. That dress had been her baby at the workshop—the only remotely “pretty” piece in the collection, it had struck her as both a fluke and a gift. Tonight Nola had strung full rounds of bullets around the ferocious-looking model’s neck, but the dress was still pretty. Lucy Jo had made the pattern with painstaking precision, staying late for days to get it just right. And now the brightest stars of the fashion universe were admiring it.
“Are you doing your job or watching the show?” Clarissa was suddenly at Lucy Jo’s elbow. Before Lucy Jo could defend herself, the room exploded into thunderous applause and the two girls looked up to see the last model exit the runway. A beat later, a single spotlight illuminated a beaming Nola Sinclair.
“Oh God,” she heard Clarissa pant next to her. “Champagne. She asked me to get it for her, but she asked me to do ten other things at the same time—”
Nola held up both hands to stop the applause. It wasn’t exactly typical for a designer to make a postshow speech—but Nola, thought Lucy Jo, liked to grab as much attention as she could. “Thank you. Thank you all for coming tonight to toast the season and my collection.” Nola took a step or two out on the runway, smiling into the darkness around her.
“She’s going to kill me,” Clarissa hissed.
And so began the worst two minutes of Lucy Jo’s life. It started with a shove from Clarissa, along with an order: “Champagne. Nola. Now!”
It was hard to see her way in the dark toward the spotlight, let alone to balance a tray, but Lucy Jo hurried to the edge of the runway—Nola was squinting impatiently in her direction—and then some demonic person pointed Lucy Jo toward an empty chair to climb onto, and then—
She was standing at the end of the runway, blinded by the blaring spotlight, which seemed to be shining directly into her eyes, walking the few feet toward Nola as fast as she could to deliver the champagne—all too aware of her tiny skirt, her sweaty face—
Lucy Jo felt the sole of her left boot slide too quickly on the shiny, slippery plastic—
And then she was tray over heels over head, all limbs flailing—
Falling is one thing. Models slip all the time, and they rebound to their feet before anyone has time to gasp. But when Lucy Jo’s ample butt hit the runway full force, she felt the plastic split beneath her with a shriek, like thin ice giving way—an earsplitting sound that echoed throughout the cavernous room. The last thing she saw before she plunged through the runway were Nola’s platform shoes, and then came the crash of a dozen champagne flutes shattering around her ears.
Not the big break she’d been praying for.
She looked up and saw her legs sticking out of the hole, silhouetted in the spotlight. She couldn’t move.
“She’s stuck!” a familiar Australian accent gasped from a few feet away.
Nicole Kidman. Lucy Jo hoped for a fast death.
It was too terrible. Not only had she broken through the runway, but she’d somehow wedged herself in, her body folded up like a clam, and she couldn’t seem to wiggle out no matter how feverishly she tried. Her hair was sticky with champagne. She could hear the crowd tittering, and in the glare she could glimpse photographers leaning in, snapping pictures. Lucy Jo covered her face with her arms, perp-walk style.
“Grab my hand!” commanded one of the beefier backstage workers, crouching above her. After much heaving and grunting, he managed to yank her out and heft her onto terra firma. The audience applauded—even louder than they had for Nola. As he stopped to catch his breath, Lucy Jo, still covering her face with both hands, vaulted off the runway and raced toward the kitchen.
“What happened?” she heard Nola ask, trying to sound concerned and not livid.
“Runway’s not built to support that much impact,” the guy muttered. Nola’s microphone somehow picked up his reply and amplified it across the whole room.
Lucy Jo pushed her way through the kitchen door, past the other waiters looking on in sympathetic horror. Her backside throbbed, but in that moment the pain didn’t even register. Ducking behind some cabinets, she squeezed out of her uniform and back into the pink dress that now struck her as the most hideously bright monstrosity she’d ever seen. Then she threw up in a nearby trash can.
She was just wiping her face with the back of her hand when Nola rounded the corner, her face blood-blister maroon. Clarissa was on her heels, looking petrified.
“How could you?” Nola bellowed.
“It was an accident!” Lucy Jo felt hot tears spring to her eyes. No! No crying. She had already just humiliated herself enough for three lifetimes. “You think I meant to—”
“Don’t you dare cry! Do you realize that you single-handedly destroyed my entire show? Do you know how much effort went into this night? How much money? And time? And now all anybody will be talking about is how some fat-assed cater-waiter broke the fucking runway and flashed her Spanx to the entire crowd!”
Oh God. Lucy Jo was going to be sick again.
“Don’t even think about coming into work tomorrow, or ever again,” Nola raged on. “You’re fired! You’re over!”
Lucy Jo grabbed her parka, and her bag, heavy with portfolio and business cards, and dashed for the exit.
5
My dear, descended from apes! Let us hope it is not true. But if it is, let us pray that it will not become generally known.
—Attributed to the wife of the Bishop of Worcester, upon hearing Darwin’s theory of evolution
Cornelia, devastated though she was by Wyatt’s abrupt departure, was not about to let his blowup ruin a perfectly good party—especially one that starred her as its prime attraction. She’d spent three hours getting her hair and makeup done, and her outfit—a one-shouldered green mini by Zac Posen, not available to the public for months—demanded an audience. An
d so did she. She swallowed her hurt at how Wyatt had treated her. He just didn’t understand the immense effort it took to be a prominent social, and she had to forgive him for that. Wyatt was old school; if he had his way, they’d hang out with the same dozen couples all year long, living exactly the way their parents all lived. He’d come around, once she opened his eyes to how much fun the spotlight could be.
“Ta, Cornelia!” Binkie Howe, one of the old crusties (her parents’ friends), blew a kiss in her direction. “Divine cover photo of you.”
Cornelia smiled. Now that she had made the rounds with the Manhattan media types, and done kiss-kiss with her friends and frenemies, she needed to find Theo Galt.
Theo, only son of a private-equity king, had his own record label in L.A. She’d met him several times, but they’d never exchanged more than a few words—perhaps because of the supporting role Cornelia had played in his father’s last divorce, four years ago. During cocktails at their Park Avenue triplex before the season’s opening night at the Met, Wife Number Three had caught Cornelia, then twenty-three, and Howard Galt, then fifty-two, in the master bathroom, engaged in the kind of clinch that was undeniably what it looked like. Theirs wasn’t much as far as affairs went—they’d never gotten past the initial grope—but it was enough. At first Number Three had been surprisingly cool—stepping around them to freshen up her lipstick, then sharing the same box at the opera without any visible sign of distress. She’d even kissed Cornelia goodnight. But the next day she hired a team of bulldog lawyers to take Howard for close to half his net worth. Cornelia’s mother had made a few calls to keep the Rockman name out of the gossip columns, but Theo knew the truth—and whether it was because of his fondness for that particular stepmother or, as sole heir, for the lost half of his father’s megafortune, he’d seemed a bit aloof afterward.
Before she set her sights on making an album, Cornelia had never given Theo Galt or his cold shoulder much thought. But in the past year, Cornelia had realized that she deserved a fate greater than marriage, children, and the Junior League. Watching her peers settle into that life made her itch. Who said adulthood had to be so boring? Why shouldn’t it resemble one long debutante ball, only with just one debutante and much more interesting dresses? She could have it all, just like that old lady who used to run Cosmo had said. She could be a brand, pulling the Rockman legacy into the twenty-first century. She could be big in Japan.
A music career was a key part of Cornelia’s five-year plan to build a major multimedia empire: hit albums, book deals, a television series, maybe one day her own magazine. When the Stevens— Spielberg and Soderbergh—came calling, she wouldn’t say no. She didn’t believe celebrities who said they felt hunted by the paparazzi; she herself would feel duly appreciated by constant coverage. Frankly, she had the cheekbones for it. At Brearley and Groton she’d always been Most Popular, and now achieving fame beyond her own ZIP code seemed like manifest destiny.
Not that Wyatt approved. Of course he wouldn’t; not yet. When Cornelia divulged her ambitions to him in Monaco last summer, he’d just scowled and said, “Why add another layer of detritus to the cultural trash heap?” But she knew he would come around. If her mother had taught her one thing—which seemed about the accurate number, given her absentee approach to parenting—it was how to manipulate a man into believing that he wanted whatever she wanted. She’d marry Wyatt, and have her cake, too.
When Daphne tipped her off that Theo Galt was flying in to support Mallory Keeler, his old friend and the brains behind Townhouse, Cornelia knew she had to seize the opportunity. (Daphne, Cornelia’s forty-something publicist, had studied semiotics at Brown and now spent her days hawking $500 facial moisturizer, $300 tracksuits, rapper-size bling, and the clients who licensed it all.)
Maybe it’s better that Wyatt stormed off, Cornelia thought, watching Theo make his way over to the bar. She followed him. Easier to corner a man when you don’t have another one looking over your shoulder. Wyatt’s reaction to one stupid photo had certainly proved that.
“Just in town for the night, Theo?” She tapped her glass with a slender finger, sliding it over the counter to the bartender for a refill.
Theo looked mildly surprised to see her next to him. “Not even. I’m flying back right after the party. I have a few meetings in L.A. tomorrow morning that I couldn’t miss, but I wanted to be here for Mal.”
“That is so sweet. I’m sure she appreciates it.” Cornelia wondered why he’d really made the effort. He seemed too much like his father—street-smart, driven, self-serving—to waste his NetJets miles on the frumpy editor-in-chief. “You’re sure you didn’t decide to come when you saw I was on the cover?” she asked playfully.
“Dad wanted me to meet the latest wife,” he said, ignoring her question. “I couldn’t make it to his annual wedding.” Theo smirked, and then revealed two rows of ultra-white teeth. “Plus Mallory promised a room full of hot women.”
Cornelia felt a prick of annoyance; she disliked when other women were praised in her presence. Not that she cared about Theo’s opinion. He was good-looking enough in his perma-tan, black-button-down shirt kind of way, but her grandmother had warned her, “Never trust a man who spends too much time on his hair,” and Theo’s artfully tousled highlights and boy bangs gave him a syndicated-television look. Still, she lowered her eyelashes. Her opinion of Theo was irrelevant; she needed to win him over. “I’m sure you don’t have to leave Los Angeles for that.”
“New York girls are worth the trip.” Theo wasn’t tall, barely reaching her eye level, but his direct stare was oddly imposing. “So you’re Mallory’s first cover.”
“I was flattered that she asked me.” Actually, Daphne had hounded Mallory for weeks to win Cornelia the spot—but Theo didn’t need to know that. “And I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to call you. I’d love to have your professional advice.”
“Let me guess, you want to record an album.” He snorted lightly. “A woman of many talents.”
“Yes,” said Cornelia. Theo was clearly enjoying his position of power. Men always did. “So would you recommend I start by making a demo? Maybe I could sing something for you, a private performance, and you could tell me what you think.”
Theo tipped back the remaining sip of his martini. “You’re something else. Didn’t your great-great-grandfather get in on the ground floor of that whole ‘railroad’ idea?”
“You know your history,” Cornelia said, secretly delighted. “Why?”
“A music career can be grueling. Besides requiring talent, it can exhaust even the hungriest girls. You know, girls whose plan B involves a hairnet or a stripper pole. Where’d you go to college?”
She didn’t like the direction he was heading. “Yale.”
“Yale. Rich girls who go to Yale don’t become pop stars. Buy a house with twenty showers to sing in. That’s my professional advice, sweetheart.”
Theo made as though to leave, but Cornelia grabbed his arm. Enough was enough. “Sweetheart, your father’s company went public for five billion dollars.” She kept her voice calm, so as not to make a scene, but she was pissed. Nobody spoke so condescendingly to Cornelia, especially not some Armani-clad runt who’d once dated Jennifer Love Hewitt. “You of all people understand that ambition has nothing to do with what you have in the bank. I’m going to have a music career. I was asking for help, not permission.”
Theo didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a shiny black business card. “I can see why Dad was into you. You’re cut from the same cloth.”
“I’ll call you,” said Cornelia triumphantly as she slipped his card into her tiny beaded purse.
Mission accomplished, she thought, bestowing a few quick but effusive goodbyes to Mallory and other key people, and making her way upstairs to Fifth Avenue. She had two more events to hit: a book party uptown, zzzzz, and Parker Lewis’s holiday bash in Tribeca, which wouldn’t be much better. After the cocktail-
hour high of being the center of attention, everything else tonight would be a letdown—but at least most people she saw would know she was the toast of Townhouse. That gave the other parties more promise.
As she strode out onto the street, Cornelia felt two things: rain, steady and cold, and a spasm of wistfulness. It was too bad Wyatt wasn’t with her to enjoy her success. That would make it perfect.
But hell, it was still success. She’d call him first thing in the morning.
She scanned the street for her jet-black Town Car. Not seeing it, she phoned the driver. “Where are you?” she demanded when he picked up.
“Just ten blocks, but there’s traffic,” the driver answered.
Cornelia hung up immediately, fuming mad. She’d fire him tomorrow. It was her strict policy never to blow up at her staff in public; that just looked bad. Cornelia stepped out onto the street, raising her hand to snag a cab. She was nothing if not resourceful in the face of adversity.
Lucy Jo wouldn’t allow herself to cry until she got home. That was the deal. She ran toward 68th Street, chomping on her cheek to distract herself from the real pain. Her humiliation at Nola’s show was terrible enough—she didn’t need to follow it up by sobbing on the subway.