by Bridie Clark
Wyatt groaned, mainly for Trip’s benefit. “Cornelia! She’s relentless. Phone calls, e-mails—and now she’s taken to just ‘dropping by’ the building.”
“So? Are you thinking about taking her back?” Trip asked.
“Why should I? Nothing’s changed.”
“It isn’t Cornelia,” Margaret interrupted. “It’s a young woman named Lucy Jo Ellis.”
Wyatt frowned, trying to place the name. Trip found it faster. “Hey, isn’t that the girl we met during that downpour? The one who walloped you? You don’t think she’s here to take you up on that crazy proposition—”
“That horrible girl?” Wyatt shot up from his chair. “So she shows up here with her tail between her legs! Well, maybe she’s smarter than she seemed.”
“She slapped you?” Margaret didn’t ask why. “And what proposition did you make, Wyatt? Are you sure you want her—”
“Yes! By all means, have Harold send her up,” Wyatt said. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt genuinely curious about what would happen next.
Wyatt watched intently as Margaret ushered the nervous, flush-faced girl into the dining room and then reluctantly excused herself. The only eye contact this Lucy Jo Ellis person could make was with the Alex Katz portrait hanging in the corner. Wyatt stepped closer. Even in the generous cast of the chandelier, she was more of a fixer-upper than he’d initially realized. Maybe he’d been overconfident. At the bar that night he had been overserved, and the two were famously correlated.
“So what brings you here?” he asked, after Trip had risen from his seat to shake the girl’s hand.
The simple question seemed to heighten her terror. Lucy Jo stood tensed in the doorway, as if bracing for an earthquake. He could see beads of sweat crystallize above her upper lip. “You said you could transform my life,” she managed to say. “I—I’m just here to find out more.”
Wyatt couldn’t help feeling flattered by both her interest and her nervousness. It almost made him forgive her initial rudeness on that rainy night two weeks earlier, but not quite. If she was here to appeal for the same opportunity she’d previously found insulting, he saw no reason to make it any easier. “Sit down,” he told her, gesturing toward an empty chair.
Lucy Jo did as he instructed, hurdling her way across the long dining room. She moved with a complete absence of grace, Wyatt noticed, her hips swiveling and arms pumping more vigorously than was necessary. Fixable. He’d dated enough models to know that walking gracefully was more of learned skill than one might think. When she did plop down in the chair, the girl still looked ill at ease. A three-tiered silver tray of chocolates and Ladurée macaroons rested in front of her on the table, classical music tinkled softly in the background—but judging by the expression on her face, you would’ve guessed she was facing an interrogation lamp and a hostile cop.
“So you want to be a socialite?” Wyatt began, breaking the silence.
“Well . . . not exactly.”
Wyatt stopping pacing. “I don’t understand, then. Why’d you come?”
“I want to work in fashion. That’s why I moved to New York in the first place—”
“Fashion?” Wyatt looked at her incredulously. Half the girls he knew worked in fashion, and he couldn’t imagine any of them being caught dead in Lucy Jo’s outfit. Her pearls were the size of golf balls and looked less valuable. Her dress wasn’t awful—a basic shirt-dress in oxford stripes, cinched with a thick leather belt—but she wore penny loafers, a Shetland sweater around her shoulders, and screaming pink polish on her nubby fingernails. It looked like she’d gotten her hands on The Official Preppy Handbook, circa 1980, and imitated the look as inexpensively as possible. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Dude, cut it out!” Trip shot Wyatt a warning look.
Lucy frowned but moved on. “It’s hard to get a job on the creative side. You need more than talent. You need to know the right people.”
“Ah,” Wyatt said. This young woman had her own agenda. “So you think you have the talent? And you think we know the right people.”
“Yeah, well, I googled you—”
“She googled me, Trip. And?” But he knew exactly what she’d turned up. Photos from parties. Mentions from his graduate years at Harvard. Ancestral records dating back to the Battle of Hastings. Wyatt googled himself biweekly.
Lucy Jo looked newly flustered. “And, well, clearly you’re a well-connected guy. I want a career. And to get that career, I need connections. Visibility.”
“You know, she even sounds like a socialite. Opportunistic! Ambitious! Very promising.” Maybe there really is a Cornelia Rockman trapped beneath that frumpy exterior, he thought, frowning at her, trying to assess her bone structure. Could it be he’d stumbled onto the perfect case study on that rainy night, and that this really was the book he was meant to write? He thought about his last conversation with Kipling, in which they’d discussed how the publisher wanted to publish more books with not only academic, but commercial, appeal. If Wyatt could document Lucy’s rise from obscurity to alpha status, it might be right up Kipling’s alley.
“If you could turn me into a socialite,” she said, “then all’s I have to do is—”
“ ‘All I’d have to do,’ ” he corrected. See? It wasn’t so hard.
“It’d be much easier to get the job I want. I mean, look at all the socialites who’ve become major players in fashion. I’m not saying I could be the next Tory Burch—but I thought maybe I could find a job working for a great designer, you know, if I was on the inside of the social world.”
Wyatt clapped his hands together and then began to pace the dining room once more. “So you’d be willing to do as I say for the next few months? Live by my rules?” He saw Lucy Jo visibly squirm. “Trust me, nothing untoward will be asked of you. Just a lot of hard work.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work—”
“What are you talking about?” Margaret poked her head back in from the kitchen, apparently not getting quite the information she needed by listening through the door.
“Wyatt’s got some crazy idea in his head, Margaret,” Trip answered. “He wants to take this nice girl and turn her into a socialite. Talk some sense into him, will you?”
Wyatt was glad his friend hadn’t mentioned the prospective book in front of Lucy Jo. Knowing she was being studied for that purpose might make her self-conscious—besides, she’d likely be less eager to pass herself off as an heiress if she knew his plans to publish an exposé of her ordinary beginnings. Wyatt felt a stab of conscience, which he quickly dismissed. The girl wanted to work for a designer. He could make that happen today, if he wanted to, just by picking up the phone—but she didn’t need to know that. The point was, at the end of their time together, she would be better off than she was at the moment. And so would he.
“You can’t just take over a stranger’s life, Wyatt,” Margaret was saying.
“If she’s game, why can’t I? Lucy Jo, I want to turn you into the most glamorous socialite New York has ever seen.” He stopped, experiencing yet another flash of genius. “All in time for the Fashion Forum Ball this March! That’s the perfect finish line—it’s the biggest event of the year. Only leaves us three months, but we can do it.”
“Did you just say the Fashion Forum Ball?” He could see Lucy start to salivate, her eyes big as plates.
“Back up,” said Margaret, setting a hand on each of her significant hips. “Did you just say ‘we’?”
Wyatt resumed his pacing. “I’ll need your help, Margaret. And the help of the best trainer, nutritionist, makeup artist, and so on. We already have the best stylist in the business, if Eloise will take the job—”
“Wait!” Lucy Jo interjected, looking more nervous than ever. “Um, time out. Maybe we should talk about the cost of all this—”
“I’ll cover all your expenses. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Mr. Hayes.” Lucy Jo straightened in her chair. �
�I’ve taken care of myself my whole life, and I’m not looking for a handout. I was thinking, if I gave you a percentage of my future earnings—a stake in Lucy Jo Ellis Designs—you’d be making an investment.”
“An investment!” Wyatt gave Trip an amused look across the table, but he didn’t get one in return. Actually, his friend appeared to be glowering at him. “I think that’s a great idea. I’ll take a small stake in your future empire. Now, as for a place to live—you could live here, I suppose—” Both Lucy Jo and Margaret showed their clear dislike of that idea. “What about Eloise’s place on Seventy-Third? She’d jump at the chance to move in with you, Trip, even if it’s only temporary.”
“Eloise is your girlfriend?” Lucy Jo, horrified, glanced at Trip. “I can’t take over her apartment!”
“A word in the kitchen, Wyatt?” Trip asked, standing up and walking briskly out of the room. Wyatt, with a shrug, followed behind him, leaving Margaret and Lucy Jo alone in silence. Once he got to the kitchen, he found Trip rummaging through the pantry for sweets. “What the hell are you thinking?” Trip asked, ripping off the wrapper of a Toblerone. He’d always been a comfort eater. “First of all, this poor girl thinks you can magically deliver the life she’s always dreamed of . . . what’s going to happen if you can’t?”
In truth, the thought hadn’t crossed Wyatt’s mind. “It’s her choice. She came here today because she wanted something more for herself. I’m going to do my best to help her.”
“And you honestly believe she could be the next Cornelia? She’s a real person with feelings. You can’t get her hopes up like this. I mean, let’s face it, looks play a big part in this whole socialite business—”
“Her looks are just fine.” Trip’s doubt had strengthened Wyatt’s conviction. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing and have every confidence in our success.”
“You’re a crazy man. You truly are.” Trip exhaled deeply, popping another triangle of Toblerone into his mouth. He frowned up into Wyatt’s face. “If you’re expecting this girl to hand over her life to you, maybe you should have skin in the game, too.”
“You’re proposing a bet?”
“Why not? If you fail, your watch—the 1927 platinum minute repeater that Henry Graves Jr. commissioned from Patek Philippe, your grandfather bought at auction, and you inherited, you lucky s.o.b.—is mine.”
“How the hell do you know that much about my wristwatch?”
“I’ve been eyeing it for years. If you win, I’ll pick up the tab for the whole thing.”
“And?” Wyatt had a vague understanding of how much his timepiece was worth.
“Your choice of five bottles from my wine cellar.”
“Deal,” Wyatt grinned, shaking Trip’s hand. The two of them headed back to the dining room, where Margaret and Lucy Jo were waiting. “Now, Lucy Jo, if we’re to undertake this, you’ll need to approach our work with a great deal of seriousness. You’ll need to be tough, work hard. The schedule will be grueling.”
She nodded. “I always work hard.”
“Good,” said Wyatt, clearing his throat. “We have to remake you from the ground up, giving you an entirely fresh identity. Jane Gatsby, if you will. You’ll be at several parties a night—twenty, thirty a week. Lunches, too. We’ll get you invited to the best shows during fashion week. And launch you onto some important committees. We’ll start first thing tomorrow. The Fashion Forum Ball will be at our throats before we know it. There’s not a minute to lose.”
A little laugh escaped from Lucy Jo’s pursed lips. “All that partying sure sounds grueling.”
“Laugh now,” he said. “You underestimate just how much work is involved in being social.”
11
The foremost requirement to be possessed by a young lady preparing to enter society is a wise and judicious mother, herself schooled in the mores and morals of civilization, who can shepherd her innocent child through its perilous wilderness. Failing the presence of such a maternal figure, it is to be hoped that the novice will find some other firm hand on her shoulder to steer her, and resolute voice to guide her.
—Sarah Birmingham Astor, The Navigation of Society: A Guide for Young Ladies and Others Who Wish to Establish Themselves in Good Company, 1889.
Day One, 7:12 AM
As dawn’s first light began to stream through the large window in his study, Wyatt consulted the long to-do list he’d compiled. To his enormous satisfaction, he’d managed to immediately check off the first item yesterday: pitching his book concept to Kipling, who’d responded with even greater enthusiasm than Wyatt had hoped, calling back just an hour later to offer a (needless to say, minimal) advance. Wyatt had immediately accepted. Harvard University Press was the right home for his first book. Kipling said he’d send contracts right away.
Now the only thing separating him from successful publication and Trip’s finest vintages was . . . the girl stifling a yawn and resting her uncombed head against the armrest of his couch. It was no small thing, he realized, looking at her. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” he said, feeling energized if a little daunted.
“I should warn you, I’m not much of a morning person,” Lucy Jo mumbled.
He ignored her. “First, there’s the matter of your name.”
“What’s the matter with my name?” she asked, speaking the last three words through a wide-mouthed yawn.
“Lucy Jo?” Wyatt grimaced. “Screams Middle America. You might as well get a tattoo of a Disney character, or an anklet.”
“Are you usually this rude?” She pulled down the hem of her dress, which only drew his eye to notice the tiny Tweety Bird on her thigh. “And what’s wrong with Middle America? I’ll have you know—”
“We can go one of three ways,” he interrupted. “Initials, like C. Z. Guest—”
“L.J.? I don’t know . . .”
“Or we could invent a nickname. Like Happy, or Fizzy—”
“Fizzy?” She snorted. “Seriously, you think Fizzy is an improvement on Lucy Jo?”
“For our purposes, yes. Or we could simply drop the Jo. Your full name will be Lucia. That’s pretty. Now we just need a middle name, to round it out a bit. What’s your mother’s maiden name?”
“Ellis.”
“What’s your father’s last name, then—maybe we can use that.”
“No clue,” she said flatly. “And don’t ask me his first name, because I don’t know that either.”
Wyatt frowned, and then picked up the black Social Register. “Let’s see.” He flipped it open at random. “Would you prefer to be Lucia Montgomery Ellis? Lucia Haverford Ellis? Lucia Bancroft Ellis?”
“Lucia, um, Haverford has a nice ring to it, I guess,” Lucy said.
“Settled. And everyone simply calls you Lucy.”
And just like that, a new identity was born. Well, more or less.
Day Two, 2:54 PM
“Help!” Lucy yelled when she saw Wyatt walk past the doorway to his home gym, where she was currently imprisoned with Derrick, her ex-Navy SEAL trainer. Wyatt poked his head in. She’d never sweat so profusely in her life. It felt more like melting. As if the predawn run in Central Park with Derrick wasn’t a big enough insult to the system, now the guy was whipping her through a weight-lifting circuit. “How long is this torture going to last?” Lucy panted, expending what little oxygen she had left.
“Just until you’re a sample size,” Wyatt answered. He had his finger in a book—Social Dominance in Primates, she read on the spine. Nerd.
Derrick pushed a three-foot box toward her. “Jump-ups,” he said with a twisted smile. “Go!”
“Isn’t it enough that I froze my ass off doing wind sprints this morning?” Lucy jumped, narrowly clearing the box’s edge, arms flapping to help her keep her balance.
Wyatt, crossing the room, made a big show of checking out her backside. “No, it’s definitely still there.” He and Derrick laughed.
“That’s not funny!” she shouted indignantly, almost fallin
g off the box for a second time. “And you want to teach me manners?”
Wyatt scowled. “Maybe I picked the wrong girl,” he said brusquely. “You can quit today, no hard feelings.”
Lucy Jo jumped back to earth. “I never said I wanted to quit. I just don’t want to be exercised to death.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m telling you, if I hear one more complaint—one more ‘do I have to?’—you’re out for good, and there will be hard feelings. Got that?”
She caught her breath, reminding herself that her dream was on the line. Wyatt was just her means to an end. If she could put up with him for just a few months, he’d help her find a job with a designer, and her career could accelerate toward producing a line of her own someday. “Fine,” she said, feeling a fresh determination.