by Bridie Clark
“I’m not interested in other men,” Cornelia said, her intensity startling Dottie. “I know that Wyatt and I are meant to be together. We want the same things out of life. We’re both so committed to our work—Wyatt with his study of primates and people and I with my philanthropy and my . . . business efforts. We share the same values.”
Dottie, trying not to show just how insulted she was by that suggestion, was reduced to fiddling with her napkin. Imagine, she’d once urged her son to give this girl a second chance!
“Maybe if you were to talk to him, he’d reconsider. He holds you in such high esteem, Dottie—I’m sure he’d listen to you.”
“Wyatt can be very stubborn,” Dottie said. Selling her son short was the only diplomatic way she could think of to handle the situation. “And difficult. He always needs to get his own way. He’s incorrigibly rude. Nothing like his father, I have to say, when it comes to temperament. His father was a true gentleman, through and through.”
“Wyatt’s a gentleman, too,” Cornelia insisted. “His manners are flawless—he just chooses not to use them.”
“And then there’s his constant travel,” Dottie continued. “I never know where in the world my son is. How that works in a serious relationship, I couldn’t begin to imagine.”
A chilling look passed over Cornelia’s face when she grasped that Dottie would not be getting in her corner. Dottie, unnerved, changed the subject. “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve decided to get involved with the museum, dear. We need more young people to take on civic responsibilities.”
“Oh, I’m very civic-minded.” Cornelia sat back in her wrought-iron chair, arms now folded across her chest. “I’m on thirty-seven committees.”
Dottie was flabbergasted. “Thirty-seven, did you say? But how could you possibly find time for all of them?”
“Mostly they want my name for the invitation. You know, so people will show up for the events. I’m just glad to do my part.”
“I see,” Dottie said. The girl’s arrogance was downright frightening. This was the future of the Flagler’s board? “Well, it’s certainly a different world than when I was your age. You girls have much more . . . energy.” She glanced at her watch. “I should be going. Tennis at three. Good to see you, Cornelia. Please give my best to your parents.”
“I will,” Cornelia said, no longer bothering to hide her annoyance. “Will Wyatt be in town anytime soon?”
“Sadly, it doesn’t look likely. Work is keeping him in New York.” Dottie watched Cornelia digest the information. The two women, standing, parted ways with a hostile kiss.
Lucy dropped her Birkin—on loan from Bag Borrow or Steal—on the floor and locked the door of Eloise’s apartment behind her. Funny how the place already felt like home. It was the kind of home she’d always hoped to have someday, with its softly feminine colors and warm, eclectic furniture.
She fished out her ringing BlackBerry—an upgrade provided by Wyatt—and flopped onto the couch. Every muscle in her body ached, thanks to Derrick, especially her throbbing brain, thanks to Wyatt. Caller Unknown. “Hello?” she said, picking up.
“You were going to tell your mother you moved, right?”
Damn. Rita. Lucy could hear the too-familiar din of O’Shaughnessy’s in the background.
“I’ve left you five voice mails this week,” Rita continued. “My nails got returned! Your landlord tacked on a note saying that you hadn’t picked up packages in weeks, and he didn’t know where to find you. Nice guy. Single?”
“Married,” muttered Lucy. She’d been avoiding giving her mother the update on her life, because she wasn’t sure just how to describe her new circumstances. Nor did she need Rita, sniffing money, pawing at her door. “I’m house-sitting for a friend. Just a temporary thing.” Not a complete lie, relatively speaking.
“Well, you better give me that address, then. I’ll remail the nails. They came out super, by the way. You’ll love the one of Oprah Winfrey at her various weights. And your boss will flip for them.”
“Uh-huh.” Lucy gave Rita the address at Eloise’s.
“So you’ll pitch them to Nola Sinclair? They’re a gold mine, I’m telling you—”
“To Nola? I don’t think that’s the best idea.” A blushing understatement, considering she despises me and canned me a month ago. Why did her mother have to be so pushy? “Nola’s a nail biter.”
Rita gasped. Nail biting, to her, was an offense on par with book burning. Worse, actually. But she quickly recovered. “Well, the city must be full of potential investors. Maybe I should come stay with you and we can pound the pavement together. I’ll cut you in for fifteen percent. Or maybe ten. What do you say, kid? Ten percent of a million dollar business is still . . . um, a lot of money.”
Lucy bit her cheek. Just what she’d been afraid of—Rita barreling in and taking over the best opportunity she’d ever had. If she knew about Wyatt, she’d maul him. “I’ll talk to some people,” she said. That wasn’t a lie. She just wouldn’t talk about Rita’s nails. “See what I can put together. Stay put for now.” Much to her relief, her mother seemed to accept that. Now she just had to stay Rita-free for the next two and a half months until the Forum Ball. After that, she’d get her break working for a fabulous designer, start paying her own way again, and be able to give Rita more of a boost. It was just a matter of time.
Fernanda Fairchild’s ankles began to wobble in her ugly brown rental skates the moment she shoved off from the wall. (She’d begged for some white ones to better match her ruched-sleeve parka and cashmere chapeau, but was told that brown was it.) “Parker!” she yelped, forgetting to act cool as her arms shot out and she struggled to catch her balance. Parker, sporty in a down puffer vest and earmuffs, flew to her rescue. “Hey, thanks,” she said, once her equilibrium was restored. “You’re pretty good on those things.” As surprised as she’d been when Parker had suggested the Wollman skating rink, tourist trap, as the site of their third date, Fernanda was downright shocked to find that she was enjoying herself. Parker had packed a huge thermos of hot cocoa with plenty of marshmallows, and he was getting a kick out of seeing Fernanda out of her element.
“Do you think I would’ve asked you to go skating with me if I didn’t have skills? Played hockey in high school,” Parker said, not letting go of her arm. They moved smoothly around a corner, avoiding a close call with the eight-year-old show-off who cut in front of them. “Granted, that was three decades ago.” When he laughed, his eyes crinkled at each corner. Fernanda would have been terrified to see such deep crow’s-feet on her own face, but she found Parker’s to be strangely endearing.
“The last time I went skating was when I was five years old,” she found herself reminiscing. “Our old country house in Bedford had a pond in the backyard, and Dad let Max and me skate on it one weekend when Mom wasn’t around. I loved it, actually. I didn’t want to stop. My feet got so cold he had to carry me back up to the house.”
“You had your very own rink?”
“Yeah, well, a lot of fun we had with it. Mom was very overprotective.”
“Can’t blame her,” Parker said, giving her a squeeze as they rounded another corner. “But now you can make up for lost time. Live on the edge!” Parker released Fernanda’s arm and skated around her in a little circle.
Then the same eight-year-old speed demon veered right into her path, sending her into another violent wobble. “Hey!” she shouted. Parker grabbed her arm again.
Fernanda had come to think of dates as work, the way an actress would think of auditions. But the afternoon with Parker hadn’t felt like work. “Have dinner plans tonight?” he asked as they cruised the rink.
“With Mom”—normally she would have fabricated something more glamorous, but Parker made her feel honest—“but I can reschedule.”
“Or the three of us could have dinner?”
Fernanda fought the urge to pinch herself. “Really? I’m sure she’d love that!”
“Great,” Par
ker said, clapping his gloved hands together once in what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm. “How about my place? I’ll cook.”
“You cook, too?”
He smiled. “I studied at La Varenne for the year after college, before the high-stakes world of international finance lured me with its siren call.”
She stopped skating. “Okay, Parker, what’s the catch?”
“What do you mean?”
“No man is this perfect. Do you go to Hannah Montana concerts? Make sculptures with your toenail clippings?”
“The catch?” Parker stroked his chin as though deep in thought. “I don’t know. Well, there is Mr. Fursnickety—”
Oh God.
“Sounds worse than it is. He’s a ferret.”
It’s worse than it sounds, she thought. Fernanda disliked furry creatures. Unless they’d already been made into yummy fur coats, they weren’t of much interest to her. She was only mildly fond of her own dachshunds, George and Barbara.
“Mr. Fursnickety belonged to my ex-wife, originally—she’s responsible for the terrible name. But she left him behind. So I adopted him. He’s actually a cute little guy, once you get used to him.”
Fernanda nodded politely, but in her mind she’d already packed her step-ferret off to boarding school. No skinny rodent could mar her happiness. Parker was everything she’d been looking for. She could envision their lives together—two adorable children, an ample spread on Park Avenue, and a home in Hobe Sound so she no longer had to stay with her mother. She’d quit her job to focus full-time on perfecting her body, decorating their homes, getting the kiddies into the right schools. She was enjoying these reveries when the front edge of her skate caught on a thick groove; Fernanda’s body pitched forward and then, overcompensating to find balance, wobbled backward. Mere nanoseconds before she connected with the ice, Parker caught her with both arms. If you were watching from the sidelines, it appeared that Fernanda Fairchild had swooned.
Eloise had no idea what to make of the attractive young woman sitting next to her in the backseat of the Mercedes. Trip had badgered her into spending “girl time” with Lucy Ellis, so now Raoul was driving the two of them to a rose-scented Fifth Avenue spa. Not that she would expect sympathy, but it wasn’t the way Eloise would have chosen to spend her afternoon.
“You probably have a strange impression of me,” Lucy said, breaking the silence. She played with the cuff of her buttery cashmere sweater and then smoothed her trousers, a dove gray. She seemed stiff and uncomfortable in her clothes, like a little girl in a starchy Christmas dress.
“What? Of course not! You seem, um, very nice.” Eloise glanced out the window as Bergdorf Goodman flew past, not knowing what else to say. How could she not have doubts about the kind of girl who would submit to Wyatt’s weird social experiment? Or skepticism about someone who would strive to be a socialite, lamest of all ambitions? Fashion styling wasn’t exactly Doctors Without Borders, but Eloise took pride in her independence.
“Thank you again for letting me stay at your place,” Lucy said as they said goodbye to Raoul and headed toward the spa’s golden doors. “I still feel bad, kicking you out of your own—”
“Don’t! Seriously, it was about time that Trip and I moved in together. It’s been great.” She smiled, hiding her irritation at Lucy’s need for reassurance. Truthfully, she didn’t love having a total stranger set up camp in her guest bedroom and bathe in her antique claw-foot tub. But since Lucy’s arrival had finally pushed Trip into co-habitation, Eloise wasn’t complaining. And Lucy would be there for only three months, anyway. After that, according to Trip, she’d be rereleased into the wild—and Eloise would probably put her apartment on the market.
“Well, thanks.” Lucy seemed to sense that the subject should be dropped. “So Wyatt said you’re a stylist?”
Eloise nodded. “Yup, I’ve been doing it since college. The travel can get exhausting, but I really love the work.” They approached the stern-looking receptionist. “I think the reservation is under Peters. Facials and massages.”
“Did Wyatt mention that I want to be a designer?” Lucy asked as the woman led them back into the luxe changing room, where two adjacent lockers bore their names.
Eloise couldn’t help crooking an eyebrow. If there was one thing that irked her more than vapid socialites, it was vapid socialites who thought they could just throw out a shingle and be the next Diane von Furstenberg. Like it was a snap, or something. They didn’t realize it took talent, vision, the capacity for endless hard work. “Good for you!” she said with false enthusiasm, hoping she wouldn’t be asked to open up her Rolodex. Ugh.
“Well, we’ll see. It’s my crazy dream. I’ve been making clothes since I could walk, practically, and I’ve got a portfolio full of my more ambitious sketches—the couture stuff I’ve never been able to afford to make. I know I’m just a random girl from Minnesota and the odds of my ‘making it’ are next to nil, but I can’t seem to give it up.”
Eloise slipped into the fluffy white robe that had been hanging on the hook in her locker. She decided to speak her mind. “So Wyatt is supposed to be your golden ticket? It takes more than social status to make it in the fashion business.”
Lucy blushed, but nodded vigorously. “You’re right. But I couldn’t seem to get beyond factory work with Nola Sinclair on my own.”
“You worked for Nola?”
Lucy hesitated. “Yeah, actually . . . do you remember the cater-waiter who crashed through her runway last month?”
“Who could forget?”
“That was, um . . .” Lucy finished her sentence by pointing at herself.
Eloise’s heart flew out to the girl. “That was you? You poor thing! I felt so bad after that happened—it looked like it really hurt. And I’m sure Nola wasn’t easy on you—”
“She fired me. I felt stuck before it happened, and after, of course, I felt even more stuck. So I started to consider Wyatt’s idea about becoming a socialite. When the experiment’s over, I’m hoping I can get a job working for an emerging designer, you know, like Thakoon or Isabel Toledo—someone I can really learn from. It just seems like those jobs come more easily when you have social connections. My ultimate goal is to become a designer myself—someday.”
Not totally illogical, Eloise had to admit. “If you want to be a designer, you need to know your stuff. You need the talent, the skill, the vision.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “It’s overwhelming, but I want it so badly.”
They were ushered into the facial salon, where the air was laced with eucalyptus and a waterfall trickled down a pebbled wall. Eloise found herself liking Lucy more than she’d expected to. They reclined on terry-cloth chaises for the facials. “Wanna play a game? Match the following fashion adage to the icon who first said it. ‘I always wear my sweater back-to-front. It is much more flattering.’ ”
“Diana Vreeland. Next!” Lucy grinned.
“ ‘A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future.’ ”
“Coco Chanel.”
“ ‘In difficult times, fashion is always outrageous.’ ”
Lucy looked momentarily stumped. “Okay, I’m going to need a hint on this one.”
“Italian, collaborated with Dalí, mother of Marisa Berenson—”
“Elsa Schiaparelli, of course. I knew that—”
“Who’s credited with inventing the miniskirt?”
“Um, Mary Quant? At least, she brought it mainstream from the streets of London.”
Eloise was impressed. “So what’s your style? As a designer, I mean?”
Lucy sighed as the facialist smeared her face with thick cream. “I guess it depends. I’m inspired to work in a new direction all the time. One day I’m trying a new take on the Hervé Léger bandage dress, the next day I’m reenvisioning a Chanel vintage flapper dress. You know, unpredictable.”
First wrong answer she’s given me, Eloise thought, and the most important one by a long shot. She’d never known a successful des
igner who flitted between styles. There could be shifts, sometimes dramatic ones, but not a whole new set of rules. No, that wouldn’t work. Lucy Ellis would either figure that out, or she’d fail. But Eloise held her tongue. She’d just met the girl, and she’d already given her a lot.
“He wasn’t at the Townsends’, either?” asked Cornelia, swerving her silver Jaguar to narrowly avoid hitting a woman crossing Worth Avenue with a Bugaboo stroller. She tucked her phone under her chin and leaned on her horn.
“No show,” Fernanda reported. “Nobody’s seen him for two weeks. It is the most bizarre thing. You’re sure his mother said he was in New York?”
“Positive. She was practically crying about how he’d ‘abandoned her for Christmas.’ Not that anybody could blame him for not wanting to spend time with that old bag of bones.”