Overnight Socialite

by Bridie Clark

  “The book, of course,” she said to her son.

  The stern-faced ancestral portraits in Dottie’s gargantuan drawing room glared at Lucy, reminding her how many fathoms she was out of her depth. If this classy crew knew who she really was, she’d be relegated to passing out champagne glasses. It had happened before.

  She shivered and looked doubtfully at the other guests. It wasn’t just that the crowd was impeccably dressed, although that they were. The men looked straight off Savile Row, their suits precisely tailored around the shoulders but not cinched and show-offy around the body, their silk neckties subdued but gleaming. But the women were the main attraction, turned out in gorgeous cocktail frocks and one-of-a-kind bejeweled shoes. Given the heady aura of opulence, the five-carat diamonds flashing from most earlobes managed to seem understated. Lucy’s eyes fell on one older woman whose silvery hair and three strands of good pearls offset her dark velvet jacket as she stood next to a younger brunette with Maria Shriver cheekbones. The two of them looked vaguely familiar, but then the rich and powerful were New York’s particular genre of celebrity.

  These people have nothing to prove, Lucy thought. It struck her at that moment, after weeks of training, that she had finally grasped the essential difference between old and new money.

  Like a toddler clutching her mother’s skirt, Lucy stayed a cautious step behind Eloise as they hello-ed their way into Dottie’s drawing room. Thank God for Eloise—since their day at the spa, her no-nonsense sweetness had been a refuge for Lucy against the tempests and squalls of Wyatt’s demands. The two women had bonded quickly. Eloise had savvy and style, but was also more openhearted than Lucy had expected. Lucy had shared the true story of her life, from the discomforts of growing up the daughter of Rita the celebrity-addicted nail artist to her struggles to make it in Manhattan, and Eloise in turn had confided her frustrations with Trip, whom she adored but who seemed less likely to propose to her than was His Eminence the Cardinal of New York. If Eloise weren’t here tonight, Lucy knew she would collapse into a little pile of purple silk—especially now that she glimpsed Wyatt’s mother, so regal that she made Queen Elizabeth look like Sharon Osbourne. Lucy recognized her from the family photos Wyatt had on the walls of his study.

  “Try to relax,” Eloise whispered, giving Lucy a warm smile. “Everyone will love you, I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Wyatt’s mother came right up to greet them. “Eloise, your dress is marvelous.” She drew out her r’s. “You know exactly what works.”

  Eloise smiled at her. “Thanks, Dottie. This is our friend Lucy Ellis.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” said Dottie, extending her hand. Her spun-white hair was cut into an elegant, understated bob, reminding Lucy of a meringue. “I’m Wyatt’s mother.”

  “Thank you very much for including me, Mrs. Hayes,” Lucy said, shaking her hand stiffly. She desperately wished she could be as laid-back as Eloise; instead she sounded as if she were reading from a teleprompter. “Your home is, um, magnificent.” There was that um again. She was glad Wyatt wasn’t within earshot.

  “Call me Dottie, please. That’s very kind of you. It’s in the process of being redecorated, so, you know, it’s a bit of a mess at the moment.”

  Lucy scanned the room. Not so much as an Hermès ashtray out of place. “If this qualifies as a mess, I’d hate for you to see my closet!”

  Dottie laughed politely. “What will you have to drink, dear?”

  “Oh, whatever’s easy.”

  “Anything’s easy,” Dottie answered.

  Judging by the flanks of waitstaff poised to serve, Lucy guessed that was true. “Well, um, perhaps a Singapore sling?” She’d blurted out the first fancy, umbrella-adorned drink that came into her head, but judging by her hostess’s uncomfortable reaction, she’d blurted wrong.

  “A Singapore sling?” Dottie frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure—”

  “Or maybe some champagne?” Eloise suggested.

  “Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” Lucy said, relieved. “I’d love some champagne, if you have it.” She was so nervous she was making basic blunders. Champagne was the official drink of socialites, duh! Had Nola’s party taught her nothing? But Wyatt hadn’t told her what to order during the cocktail portion of the evening. What else had he neglected to mention?

  “Of course. The server will be right back with it. Excuse me a moment—I see the mayor and his fiancée.” Dottie swept away.

  “I don’t belong here.” Lucy suddenly felt overwhelmed. “Everyone keeps looking at me. They all look so perfect. So expensive. So—”

  “And you don’t?” Eloise subtly directed her attention to the large antique mirror on the wall next to them. “People are looking at you because you’re beautiful. But listen, I do know how you feel. As a crowd, they can be a bit imposing. There are good people mixed in. Oh, like Mimi Rutherford-Shaw. You’ll like her, I promise.” She waved at a mammiferous blonde in pink Pucci. Everyone seemed to adore Mimi, Lucy immediately noticed, and not just because her proximity made them seem thinner. Even in this stuffy environment, she appeared to be having the time of her life.

  “El!” Mimi came barreling over.

  “Mimi, you’ve got to meet my friend Lucy.”

  “Aren’t you the most gorgeous thing?” said Mimi, kissing Lucy hello. Wyatt had given Lucy the rundown on Mimi, as he had on many of the usual suspects. She was a proud southern belle whose down-home drawl had grown more pronounced the longer she lived in New York City. By now most people could hardly make out what she was saying. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Where’re you from, doll?”

  “Chicago,” said Lucy, cringing. She hated lying, especially to someone who seemed so friendly, but she had to stick to the script. It was part of the deal. “And I’m guessing you’re from the South?”

  “Atlanta, born and bred. But I married a Yankee, and he gets the bends if we go below Virginia.”

  “Lucky for us,” Eloise said. “Lucy, Mimi founded an amazing nonprofit called Baby Love. Maybe you’d be interested in getting involved—”

  Before Lucy could form a response, Wyatt descended upon her. He was dressed in an oxford gray suit she’d never seen him wear, and it fit perfectly. “I’ve been trying to get your attention!” he said.

  “Wyatt, hi. You know Mimi?” Lucy asked politely.

  Wyatt glanced over. “Hey, Mims. Is Jack here?”

  “No, he’s got another work dinner. Second one this week! Honestly, I hope that man is having an affair. Otherwise, he works too damn much.” Mimi paused, as though feeling a sudden shift in the room’s energy. Lucy felt it too, and turned around.

  Cornelia Rockman, never one to downplay an entrance, had swept into the drawing room. Finding an opening in the crowd, she paused, smiling lightly as though her photograph might be taken at any moment. Which, given her ubiquity on the party pages that Wyatt had assigned Lucy to read daily, seemed entirely possible.

  “Cornelia Rockman, right?” she whispered to Eloise. She recognized the girl from her rainy Nola Sinclair night, when she’d so brazenly swiped Lucy’s cab. And of course, Wyatt had given her a full debriefing on the reigning Queen Bee.

  “Yeah. Wyatt broke up with her last month. I’m surprised Dottie invited her tonight.”

  Wyatt’s ex? Wyatt had left out that little detail! Lucy looked at Cornelia with a mixture of curiosity, envy, and professional interest. She was stunning, of course. She was channeling a 1950s housewife—a very expensive 1950s housewife—in a cocktail dress that seemed to hug every curve of her body. It was as if Christian Dior had arisen from the grave long enough to dress her, just to remind the world what feminine beauty really was. As a designer, Lucy had to admire how well Cornelia wore her clothes, and how she clearly knew what cuts flattered her slim but ample body. She made no eye contact with the other guests, even though half the eyes in the room were now on her. Judging by Cornelia’s carriage, you’d have guessed the dinner was being held in her h
onor.

  Meanwhile, Wyatt’s face had taken on a pink tinge. Lucy could feel him tense as Cornelia, after deigning to greet a few of the other guests, approached their little group. “Wyatt!” she said, pressing both his cheeks gently with her own. Lucy watched the reunion with unblinking attention. She’d never seen a more gorgeous pair of people. Wyatt had actually dumped this woman? She wasn’t the sweetest soul in the world—but then, was he? Cornelia seemed to possess all the physical perfection and poise that he was trying to drum into Lucy. “I’m glad to see you,” she said.

  “Why did you insist on coming tonight?” Wyatt demanded, jaw tightly clenched.

  “Your mother included me, of course,” Cornelia answered smoothly. She twisted a mammoth emerald that she wore on a long gold chain. “But if it makes you too uncomfortable, I can leave.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m perfectly fine.” He seemed to collect himself. “Lucy, this is Cornelia Rockman. Cornelia, Lucy Ellis.”

  “Pleasure,” Cornelia said, sizing up Lucy the way a cheetah sizes up a gazelle. If she recognized Lucy from that night in the rain, she didn’t show it.

  “So good to meet you!” Lucy said, sticking out her hand. “I love your dress.”

  Cornelia looked down at Lucy’s hand as if she were offering her a dead pigeon. Then she leaned over and kissed Lucy twice, off the coast of each cheek.

  “Shall we see what my mother wants?” Wyatt asked, seizing Lucy by the elbow and propelling her across the room.

  15

  Wyatt’s Book Notes:

  In the early twentieth century, the Norwegian zoologist Thorleif Schjelderup-Ebbe described a system of social dominance among flocks of poultry, known as the “pecking order.” He observed that subordinate birds refused to feed until the more dominant birds had finished. Similarly, in our modern society, good manners dictate that guests wait until their host takes the first bite before starting to eat. Unfortunately, I had neglected to tell L. that bit of information

  Cornelia had to agree that Dottie’s dining room had never looked more elegant, the table gently illuminated by towering silver candelabras and draped in vermilion linens. The visual feast was topped off by an heirloom china collection that was making Martin Matheson of Christie’s—Fernanda’s boss—drool. All in all, it was the perfect backdrop for her overdue reunion with Wyatt.

  “Your mother must be up to something,” Cornelia said flirtatiously as she and Wyatt found their seats next to each other. Of course, she’d switched the seat cards herself just moments before, stealing into the dining room before anybody else came in. Now that Lucy person was next to the duke of dull, Max Fairchild, and Cornelia could have Wyatt all to herself. No random interloper was going to thwart her efforts to win him back.

  “You switched the cards,” Wyatt said. He didn’t look amused.

  “What if I did?” Cornelia cooed, a bit unnerved by how easily he saw through her. “We need to talk. This is ridiculous, don’t you think? People don’t break up over one minor misunderstanding.”

  “This isn’t the time or place,” Wyatt said. He turned toward Esther Michaels on his right, an old family friend who’d been among those responsible for the restoration of Central Park in the 1970s. That left Cornelia with nobody to talk to but the drearily intellectual Morgan Ware, who was an ex-vice chairman of the Federal Reserve. As Morgan droned on with his doom-and-gloom economic forecast—apparently nobody had clarified that this was a dinner party—Cornelia felt the warmth of Wyatt’s body next to hers. A thrill ran all the way down to her pewter-colored stilettos. She couldn’t deny it—he was hot when he played hard to get. She crossed her leg and moved her foot so it would gently—seemingly accidentally—brush his leg. More electric current. He moved his leg away.

  So he wants me to work for it, Cornelia thought with a sly smile. She turned back to Morgan, pretending to listen.

  Stranded on the table’s opposite bank, Lucy looked helplessly across at Wyatt, wishing he were beside her, guiding the conversation, giving her the little verbal and facial cues they had rehearsed in preparation for this night. She felt as if she had been abandoned in a foreign country where everyone but her spoke Lockjaw.

  “You look so familiar to me!” Martha Fairchild, seated on the other side of her son, declared. She tilted her head, then pushed Max back in his chair so she could have an unobstructed view of the new girl. “I feel sure we’ve met before, but I can’t think where.”

  “You look familiar to me. And Max—you do, too.” She’d seen him before, she was sure of it. Maybe on the party pages. That was probably it.

  Max fixed his sky-blue eyes on her. “Really? I feel sure that I would remember meeting you before.”

  Is this hottie actually flirting with me? She’d noticed Max glance her way several times during cocktail hour, and he seemed delighted to be seated next to her for dinner. Lucy didn’t know which was scarier: that Max might be on to her, or that he might be into her. Wyatt had warned her about talking too much to any unattached men she might meet tonight. “They’ll pretend to be interested in your life,” he’d cautioned, “and before you know it you’ll be giving them directions to downtown Dayville. Less is more.”

  “Ellis is your family name?” Martha asked, leaning past her son again. “Who are your parents, dear?”

  “My family’s from Chicago. You might know my father, Raymond Ellis.” Lucy repeated verbatim what Wyatt had told her to say. He knew nobody would recognize the name, but he also knew nobody would admit that. It was enough, Wyatt suggested, that Lucy convey the distinct impression that Raymond Ellis was a person that every person should know.

  “Of course,” Martha said. “How is he?”

  “Oh, same as ever,” Lucy said with feigned affection. Maybe Wyatt was on to something. “And where are you guys from?” Oops. You guys was Lucy-Jo-speak. But the Fairchilds didn’t seem to notice.

  “On the Fairchild side, New York. But my mother was an Edgell.” Lucy detected the pride in Martha’s voice. It must mean something to be an Edgell. Maybe some of these superrich folks had something to prove after all. “Most of my family is still in Boston, although there’s a subset living in Paris.”

  “Paris, how wonderful!” Lucy had long dreamed of visiting the fashion mecca. “Have you ever been over to visit them?”

  “Of course. Many times.”

  “Is the city as beautiful as it looks in movies? I’m dying to go.”

  “Paris?” Martha asked, seemingly confused by the question. “You’ve never been?”

  Stupid. Lucy felt her stomach drop. “Um, of course I’ve been to Paris. But not since I was a little girl, I’m afraid, and I barely remember it.” Martha seemed to accept the answer, and she drifted into conversation with Lars van Sever as their first course was placed in front of them.

  “Is that, um, raw fish?” Lucy whispered to Max, staring grimly at her plate. It looked as if it had been cut from the belly of some unidentifiable creature and rushed directly to the dining room without benefit of a saucepan. It glistened in the candlelight.

  “Yeah. Tuna tartare.” He smiled. “Not your thing?”

  “I’ve never had it,” Lucy admitted. “I don’t do raw. Not after my friend Doreen got such violent food poisoning from the sushi place on her corner that she lost thirty pounds.”

  “Thirty pounds?” Max repeated incredulously.

  “More, actually. That was just the first time.”

  “She got food poisoning more than once? Same place? Why’d she keep going back?”

  “Oh, Doreen. She wanted to lose ninety pounds in time for her sister’s wedding.”

  “You’re joking.” Max ventured a smile. “I mean, she didn’t really do that.”

  “She did!”

  He seemed at a loss for words, but then he nodded. “I can see why you’d hesitate.” As for Martha, she’d tuned in late and was gazing down at her plate with what looked like a brand-new, Lucy-supplied perspective on raw fish. “Here’s some
bread,” said Max to Lucy. “I think you’re safe with that.”

  “I should at least try a bite, don’t you think? I don’t want to insult our host.” Lucy bravely stuck her fork into the quivering tower of pink flesh. She brought it to her lips, held her breath, and slid a few of the slimy chunks to the back of her mouth.

  The fish seemed to return to life in her mouth. She struggled to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t allow it. It fought the fish with loud, guttural sounds.

  “Are you choking?” Max jumped up from his seat and pulled Lucy out of hers, quickly locking his arms around her rib cage for the Heimlich. “Stay calm!” he shouted. But now Lucy was actually choking a bit, thanks to his rescue efforts, and after two hoists from Max, two fish chunks came flying out of her mouth, across the beautifully set table, before landing squarely on the décolletage of Cornelia Rockman.