Overnight Socialite

by Bridie Clark

  Lucy wished there was a runway she could fall into. The room was silent as a mortuary as all eyes turned from Lucy to Cornelia.

  “You’re okay now,” said Max, proud of himself.

  “Am I?” She glanced at Wyatt, who seemed to be avoiding her eyes, disclaiming ownership, and then looked apologetically toward the head of the table. Dottie was doing a poor job at hiding her horror. “I am so, so sorry, Dottie—Mrs. Hayes. Dottie. And Cornelia! Here, let me get that off you—” She rushed around the table, napkin outstretched, but Cornelia held up both hands to ward her off.

  “That couldn’t have been more disgusting,” Cornelia hissed, and Lucy, not sure what else to do, slunk back to her seat.

  When she sat down, Max laid a hand on her shoulder. “You tried. I’m witness to the fact that you really tried to eat that fish.”

  She glanced across the table fearfully, but Wyatt kept his eyes on his tartare. Only Trip and Eloise flashed her their sympathetic smiles.

  “Binkie,” Dottie asked, when the two women retreated for a moment to her bedroom to smooth their hair and share a secret cigarette, just before the main course was to be served. “What on earth is a Singapore sling?”

  As the roast pheasant plates were cleared away, Wyatt monitored Lucy as she talked with Morgan Ware and nodded in profound interest as he held forth on why young ladies as lovely as herself should consider inflation-indexed or municipal bonds for their portfolio. Seeing as she couldn’t get in much trouble with Ware, who never let anyone get a word in edgewise, Wyatt slipped down the long hallway that led to his old bedroom. Going into the room still decorated with his adolescent collection of poisonous stuffed frogs, a taxidermied rhesus monkey with glowing red eyes, and a genuine Native American talking stick that his father had brought back from Alaska after buying oil leases from the Eskimos, Wyatt sat down on the king-size bed where he had slept his first eighteen years and lit a cigarette—the first of the evening. He might smoke illegally in public places, but he dare not light up in front of his mother.

  He exhaled and sighed. This Lucy-training was hard work. And, on a night like this, nerve-racking. Not only had he introduced his protégée to the crème de la crème of society, but he’d inadvertently inflicted Cornelia upon her, which was like introducing a bunny rabbit to a fox. They’d been lucky to escape with only the regurgitated tuna.

  Overall, Lucy had acquitted herself well. Even his mother had been impressed, Wyatt suspected. That clod Max Fairchild had mooned over her; Morgan Ware had practically offered her a government-guaranteed loan.

  Of course, Wyatt still had work to do. When Lucy got nervous she moved too fast, used her hands to talk, and ate actual food off her plate. And she laughed too easily. Max Fairchild had never said anything remotely clever or funny in his life, as far as Wyatt knew, and yet Lucy had been in stitches for the better part of dinner. He would have to remind her to curb her friendliness in social situations.

  Still, he thought, as he blew smoke toward the moose head above his bed, she had what it took. Which meant he’d have what he needed for his book. He extinguished his cigarette on an old Snapple cap he’d kept in the top drawer since boarding school, then pulled out the ziplock bag he’d remembered to bring and dumped in the butt and the ashes. His book. Contrary to what his mother might think, that was what he cared about.

  “Remember Camp Wokonoba?”

  “Of course.” Fernanda grinned. As a girl she’d lived for camp. She and Cornelia had first bonded there, despite their age difference. “We snuck out of our cabin every single night—”

  “Do you remember the little trick we played on that heifer Penelope?”

  Fernanda tapped a finger to her lips, trying to pull up the memory. They’d terrorized a lot of girls that summer. “We gave her a mullet while she was sleeping?”

  “No, no, no. Remember you stuck your apple pie à la mode under Penelope before she plopped down in the mess hall?”

  “Ah, right.” Fernanda grinned. “A classic.”

  Cornelia squeezed her arm. “Look—Dottie’s serving crème brûlée for dessert.”

  “Delicious.” Fernanda glanced across the dining room. Lucy must have gone to the powder room, leaving her chair open for attack. Fernanda hustled wordlessly toward her brother and took a seat, first swiping a large blob of brûlée off the plate. “Having fun, Max? You seem rather taken with your dinner partner.” Carefully, silently, she deposited the eggy custard on the chair behind her. Fernanda felt the familiar rush she got whenever Cornelia pushed her into mischief.

  “Oh, hi there!” Lucy had returned, smiling widely. “You’re Max’s sister, right?”

  Fernanda stood. “Sorry, sorry, I stole your seat!” she said with false cheeriness, guiding Lucy to sit down without looking. “Fernanda, right. Nice to meet you.”

  Heading back to her seat, Fernanda flashed Cornelia a triumphant smirk. Dottie had wedged her in between two female guests, instead of one of the eligible men, which made Fernanda feel slightly better about destroying one of her Scalamandré-upholstered dining room chairs.

  Cornelia cast a cutting little smile in Lucy’s direction as the guests reclaimed their coats. Then her eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear! I think you might have sat in something,” she announced loudly enough for the other guests to turn and look.

  Lucy whipped around to check out her backside. Sure enough, a huge smear of crème brûlée now covered the seat of her beautiful silk dress. “My dress!” she shrieked, eyes wide with panic. “It cost, like, a thousand bucks! I’ve never even worn it before! I’m going to throw up, I swear to God.” She hopped around in a circle, a bit like a dog chasing his own tail.

  Wyatt bolted to her side. “Calm down,” he said. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Mother.” He helped Lucy with her coat, hustling her along toward the elevator.

  He hates me, she thought miserably. Lucy felt exhausted from nervousness. I’ll never fit into this world. I should just save us both the disappointment and back out now.

  Max caught her attention as they waited for the elevator doors to open. “Hey! I’m sorry about your dress.”

  “Thanks,” Lucy said quietly. “I know I shouldn’t mention how much things cost, but—”

  “Lucy—” Wyatt warned her over his shoulder.

  “No, it’s nice to meet someone who actually appreciates the value of a dollar. My sister and Cornelia, they practically toss their clothes after one wear.”

  “Seriously? I make a lot of my own clothes, so they mean something to me.” Wyatt suddenly had a grip on her elbow. She stopped herself short. She’d almost forgotten she was pretending to be someone else. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, as she and Wyatt wedged themselves into the elevator next to Eloise and Trip. Her eyes met Max’s briefly as the doors shut.

  “Someone’s got an admirer!” Eloise teased.

  Despite her many failures, not to mention Wyatt’s stony silence, Lucy couldn’t help but feel a tinge of happiness as the elevator plunged down to the lobby. At least she’d managed to make a favorable impression on one person that evening. And a handsome one person at that.

  16

  Bright, cultured, beautiful, and the heiress of a major timber fortune . . . have you met her yet? If not, you will soon—and you’re in for a delight. Lucia Haverford Ellis, graduate of Miss Dillard’s and old chum of Wyatt Hayes (they’re still just chums, if you believe them) has burst onto the New York social scene like a much-needed breath of fresh air.

  —Rex Newhouse, www.rexnewhouse.com

  I do not get it.” Cornelia speared a fork through a bite of veal and shoved it between her glossy lips. Then she grabbed a roll and tore off a significant piece, plunging it in olive oil. “Did you see him put his hand on the small of her back and sort of glide her around the room? Totally trying to get to me. It’s beyond obvious.”

  Uh-oh, Fernanda thought. Cornelia downing carbs is never a good sign. She looked around Fred’s to see if anyone was watching. Cornelia had become
a semi-celebrity, and Fernanda didn’t want rumors of her friend’s distress-eating spreading from Barneys to the rest of the civilized world.

  “Why aren’t you touching your food?” Cornelia stabbed at her veal so viciously her friend shuddered.

  “I didn’t notice any lower-back thing,” Fernanda said, cramming her mouth with a bite of chop-chop salad. She hoped the next table was out of earshot.

  “Whatever. He brought her to his mother’s house. What is that about?”

  “She told Max that they’re practically family. Old friends. Nothing romantic between them.”

  “Like family?” Cornelia took another bite of her roll and lowered her voice to a hiss. “Please. I lost my V to my ‘cousin’ Selden. Don’t be so naïve. This Lucy chick’s got her gold-digging hooks into him.”

  “Well, she doesn’t hold a Rigaud candle to you,” Fernanda said. “I’m sure he’ll come to his senses.” At least Cornelia didn’t read Rex Newhouse’s blog today, thought Fernanda, or she’d be flying off the handle. Her personal assistant must have wisely decided not to print it out with the rest of her morning reads (ever since a Parisian dermatologist had warned Cornelia that sitting in front of a computer could prematurely age her skin, she’d hired a girl to surf the Web for her). Rex had devoted an entire post to Lucia Haverford Ellis. Clearly, he was just as enamored with the newcomer as Max and Wyatt Hayes were. In the short time since Dottie’s dinner party, Lucy had shown up on Wyatt’s arm at three different events. To make matters worse, she’d been flawlessly beautiful and heavily photographed at each one. She called to mind a young Katharine Hepburn, thought Fernanda—the slightly boyish, strong beauty that only good genes could account for.

  “Uh, waiter?” Cornelia heaved an irritated sigh, holding up the bread basket for a refill. “I know he will, but when? It’s been six weeks already.”

  Fernanda made neutral noises and took another bite of salad. She was running out of comforting words. As usual, Cornelia hadn’t asked about her budding romance with Parker Lewis, and bringing it up would have been insensitive to her friend’s current heartache. She pushed her thoughts elsewhere. “How was Tamsin’s bachelorette?”

  “Misery. Her friends from Trinity put together this horrible bar crawl—we had to drive around the city on a ‘party bus’ and wear sombreros and act like we weren’t roasting in cheese-ball hell.”

  Fernanda tried again. “Is Tam getting excited for the wedding?” “Getting emaciated is more like it. She looks like a blonde bobble-head. Really let the Adderall thing get away from her. It’s super tragic.”

  Fernanda nodded. “Do you think it’d be wildly too soon to bring Parker to the wedding?” Oops. She had Parker on the brain, and the question she’d been weighing for days had just kind of popped out. “I don’t know, it would be really fun to have him there—”

  “Are you insane?” Cornelia asked. “Definitely, definitely too soon.”

  “You’re probably right.” Fernanda couldn’t help feeling disappointed, but it was sage advice. “Plus I’d hate to call Tamsin two weeks before the wedding, pleading for a plus one.”

  “And there’ll be a lot of cute guys there—all the New York boys plus the Palm Beach crowd, and Henry Baker’s San Fran people. You don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket, Fern. I mean, Parker did just get divorced. He’s probably not looking for anything serious right now. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

  Fernanda swallowed. She knew Cornelia was just looking out for her, but sometimes her best friend had a knack for saying exactly what Fernanda didn’t want to hear. “You’re probably right. It just feels different this time.”

  Cornelia rolled her eyes. “You say that every time, right before you go ‘method’ and start acting like a total stranger. Remember Brice, that lax-player from Dartmouth? You hid your Gucci and started doing keg stands every night. Then for Mark, you became, like, this silent geisha, until he dumped you for his intern. And then Armstrong, that club promoter—God, that was the worst. You had to spend a month at Promises, remember, to get him—and everything that came with him—out of your system.”

  “My track record is lousy, I know.” Fernanda was not enjoying Cornelia’s guided tour down memory lane. “But that’s the thing about Parker. He’s so laid-back, I feel like I can be myself around him. You’re right, though, I know you’re right. Why rush it?”

  “Exactly,” Cornelia agreed, sitting back in her chair. “You don’t think Wyatt would bring Skankerella, do you?”

  “He wouldn’t!”

  “He’d better not.” Cornelia swallowed the rest of her roll. “It’s bad enough that he’s going to see me in that hideous bridesmaid gown. I’ll never forgive Tamsin for choosing it. Not a drop of sex appeal. But at least it might keep her father from groping me in the receiving line.” Cornelia’s BlackBerry buzzed on the table. “Hi, Daph,” she said, holding up a manicured finger to Fernanda. “What do you mean, his wife doesn’t want me there. I’ve got to be there. Howard Galt’s sixtieth birthday is all anyone’s been talking about for weeks. I can’t miss it.” She cocked her head. Fernanda could hear Daphne’s high-pitched voice yammering. “Fine, work on it. And I’ll see you tomorrow at two. Have your assistant Berry me Dafinco’s address.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re going to have your own perfume,” Fernanda said when she’d hung up. “Like SJP or J-Lo—”

  “Please. We’re only selling Socialite at Bergdorf, Barneys, and Saks Fifth Avenue—each bottle costs at least $250, the glass is handblown in Italy.”

  “Handblown. Amazing. I can’t wait.”

  Cornelia reached across the table to spear Fernanda’s two remaining croutons. “So Howard Galt’s birthday party is supposed to be major. But his lame-ass new wife doesn’t want me there. Like I’m still interested in that dinosaur—I’m so over my old guy phase. Whatever. Can we shop? My stylist has been pulling up the pukiest stuff lately. Even the stuff I have to pay for is hid. You’ve got to help me.”

  “I’d love to!” Fernanda said. All of Barneys was underneath them and she’d called in sick at Christie’s that morning. “I need something, too. Parker wants us to have dinner with some of his friends from—”

  “You’re the best!” cheered Cornelia. “Your turn to pick up lunch, sweetie?”

  Fernanda tried not to mind. “You bet,” she said, waving for the check.

  Wyatt, wearing only a towel, padded across the white-tiled floor at the Racquet Club. After a full morning at his computer, composing the early chapters of his book, he was looking forward to his steam-sauna-pool routine. He was really working again; his deal with Harvard University Press had been made official last week. If The Overnight Socialite became the crossover academic-and-commercial knockout he and Kipling thought it could be, it would be worth all his efforts.

  Max Fairchild, also clad in a towel, was an intrusion on these thoughts. “Wyatt! I was hoping to run into you, man.”

  Wyatt grimaced. Judging by Max’s absurdly chiseled physique, the guy spent way too much time working out. “How are you?” he asked, hoping desperately that Max wouldn’t try to keep the conversation going. He really needed to unwind.

  No such luck. “Well, I’m good. I mean, I’m okay. But I was wondering about something. Er, someone. Are you dating Lucy? The girl you brought to your mother’s house?”

  “Lucy? No, she’s just an old friend.” Wyatt recited the party line, but he also felt territorial. The last thing Lucy needed was a distraction.

  “Okay, that’s what she told me, too. So you wouldn’t have a problem with my taking her out?” Max looked elated.

  “I wouldn’t have a problem with your asking her out,” Wyatt replied. “But don’t be upset if she puts you off. She’s very serious about her work. Doesn’t have much time for a personal life.”

  Max nodded. “Well, I’ve got to try. She’s one of the cooler girls I’ve met in a long time. You going to the steam room, too?”

  “Sauna,” Wya
tt decided. He’d had enough of Max Fairchild. “See you around.”

  “She should call this Spill in Aisle Three,” Lucy muttered, looking at one of the pieces with open bewilderment. Wyatt stifled a laugh. They’d crossed the threshold into the art exhibition of new works by Libet Vance. It was already filled with downtown galleristas posing thoughtfully in front of the installations.

  Libet, daughter of a famous bad-boy artist, had expressed herself by configuring pieces of whole fruit—pineapples, mangos, Asian pears—into what could be roughly described as sculpture. Some of the bananas were beginning to spot with brown—a giveaway that the artist had thrown together her entire show that week. Libet might view it as art, thought Lucy, but most people she knew would consider it last Monday’s breakfast.

  Wyatt looked at her critically. “Are you chewing gum? Spit it out! You look like a cow chewing her cud.”