by Bridie Clark
Frustrated, she clicked through to Parkavenueroyalty.com, only to find more infuriatingly glamorous photos of Lucy at various parties. When the home page fully loaded, Cornelia let out another gasp. Lucy, wearing a white Prada dress that Cornelia’s stylist said she couldn’t get for another month, had deftly scaled the ranks to number one socialite! Cornelia had been demoted to number two. She ran through the reader comments, all of which gushed over the newcomer’s grace and beauty. “She and Wyatt are the cutest!” weighed in some loser with the screen name 10021diva. “So glad he dumped Cornelia and found a class act!”
Cornelia slammed her laptop shut. It was bad enough Lucy appeared to have stolen her man. She wasn’t going to steal her crown, too. She picked up the phone and dialed Anna Santiago’s number.
“Hello, darling!” Anna said breathlessly. Cornelia could hear the whir of her stationary bike. She was always working out.
“Sweets, a favor. Are the invites for the Vanderbilt gala with the printer yet?”
“I just sent in the proofs. Why?”
Cornelia bit her lip. “Would it be impossible to pull them back and add just one more name to the host committee? It would mean so much to me, or I wouldn’t ask.”
“Lucy! Lucy!” Lucy whipped her head around to see who’d shouted her name. To her astonished delight, it was one of the many photographers flanking the red carpet at the screening of the new Gus Van Sant film. “Who are you wearing?” he shouted, already snapping her showstopping dress.
“Marchesa!” she called back, remembering Angelique’s pose and throwing her chin back with saucy abandon. She wished she’d been able to pull together her own dress for the event, but she’d been out at parties nonstop, cutting drastically into her design time. It didn’t matter, she reassured herself—the dress Eloise had pulled for her was fabulous, and the important thing, for now at least, was to boost her visibility. As the photog continued to click away, others followed suit. Some of them didn’t know who Lucy was, but it was clear that she was somebody.
After stopping to spell out her name, she made it through the press gauntlet to meet Wyatt inside Soho House’s barely lit lobby.
“We’re getting there,” he said, holding her hand as they stepped into the elevator.
Friends hold hands, she told herself. Ever since they’d returned from Palm Beach, something seemed to have changed. Maybe it was her imagination, but Wyatt didn’t seem as critical as he’d once been. He seemed to be actually enjoying their time together. As they settled into the darkened movie room, their arms grazing because of the tightly packed seats, Lucy felt a frisson of excitement bloom inside her. “Wyatt, thank you,” she whispered.
He looked at her and smiled. “My pleasure.”
“I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I—” she struggled to express herself. Maybe this wasn’t the place to do it. “Do we have anything on the calendar tomorrow night?”
“Cocktails for the School of American Ballet, then dinner with Mimi and Jack.”
“Can we get out of it?”
He looked at her with concern. “I’d rather not. You’re on the committee now—it wouldn’t look right. What’s the matter?”
“I, um”—Lucy suddenly felt shy—“I’d like to have you over for dinner. You’ve treated me to so much. It’s the least I can do.”
“You cook?”
“Of course I cook.” A bit of a bluff, she thought, but how hard could it be?
“I’d enjoy that.” Wyatt looked touched. “How about next week, instead of tomorrow? Maybe Tuesday? We’ll have Howard Galt’s birthday party behind us.”
“Perfect. Show up hungry.”
“It’s a date,” he said. An unfortunate figure of speech. At the mere mention of the D-word, both Wyatt and Lucy riveted their eyes on the movie screen, and they didn’t speak again until the lights came up.
“What do you mean, you haven’t told her?” Trip carefully lined up his Calloway driver and squinted off the roof into the distance. It was an unseasonably warm day. He’d begun renting a penthouse apartment solely for its rooftop, allowing him to practice his swing midweek by driving balls into the East River. The lavish four-bedroom apartment was now the home of two of his maids. “What happens when your book gets published and Lucy’s exposed as a fraud? You can’t keep what you’re doing a secret from her forever.”
“I know that,” Wyatt snapped. He pulled a club from his golf bag. The issue had been on his mind more and more lately, but he wasn’t any closer to reaching a resolution. He’d gone through all the possible scenarios in which he could tell Lucy, but in each one, she’d be left hurt, angry, or worse. “But I can’t tell her now. It would corrupt the scientific nature of the experiment—”
“Bullshit,” Trip remarked. He halted his swing and looked directly at his friend. “Be a man and admit you’re scared. You like this girl. You should have told her at the beginning, but you didn’t, and now you don’t know how to break the news that you’re planning to blow her cover.”
“I like this girl?” Wyatt repeated incredulously. He had to admit—he enjoyed her company. They’d developed a friendship, thanks to the countless hours spent working on their shared project. But if Trip was implying there was something romantic between him and Lucy—
“Fine, don’t admit it. But don’t pretend you don’t care about her feelings.” Trip executed his swing, sending the golf ball sailing off the roof and toward a buoy marking the ferry path. “I see the way you look at her. Maybe you’re in denial, but nobody else is.”
Suddenly Wyatt’s interest in golf evaporated. What was supposed to be a relaxing diversion had become a reminder of the stress that had kept him awake the night before. He packed up his clubs and headed for the door. “See you tonight,” he called over his shoulder, as Trip launched another golf ball over the FDR.
Cornelia grabbed the baby from a bassinet and cradled it in her arms. It was a scrawny thing, not particularly attractive, but then she’d always considered all babies—let alone these underfed Romanian orphan babies—to be highly overrated in their cuteness, much like kitten heels. “Don’t you dare spit up on my Valentino,” she whispered, a beatific smile on her face, but the red-faced little creature was making no promises.
“Cornelia, can we get a few shots?” asked one of the photographers who’d been sent to cover the Baby Love Sip ’n’ See at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. As she hefted the surprisingly weighty child in her arms, Cornelia decided that this charity, the brainchild of Mimi Rutherford-Shaw (as though she weren’t procreative enough with two little brats at home), was just about the most annoying one in town. Most charities didn’t require you to rub shoulders with the beneficiaries of your efforts: Cornelia was on the advisory committee for Save Our Children with Rickets, but she didn’t have to stand around all day propping up knock-kneed kids. Baby Love was different. Mimi’s recently launched nonprofit provided for the needs of underprivileged and orphaned infants in the greater Manhattan area, and she was vehement that this Romanian mini-crop awaiting adoption wouldn’t turn out normal if they didn’t get lots of kisses and cuddling from strangers like Cornelia. Puh-leeze. Growing up, Cornelia’s mother had reserved displays of maternal affection for when the cameras were rolling. Her nannies had all been stiff-upper-lip Brits whose idea of warmth was an approving tap on the head. If that was such a negative, where was the outreach for underhugged daughters of privilege?
Still, Mimi had arranged for a whole battalion of photographers to cover the cocktail hour, so Cornelia smiled as one snapped away.
“How long do we have to stay?” she asked Fernanda once he’d retreated.
“An hour? Maybe two?” Fernanda seemed to be in no rush. Her baby, a fat little dumpling of a girl, was actually pretty adorable, whereas Cornelia’s had the sullen pout of an infant Simon Cowell.
“An hour? No, sorry. I’m meeting my image consultant for dinner at La Grenouille. What the hell are we expected to do with these babies for an hour?
”
“I’m not sure . . . I think we’re supposed to read to them.”
“Read to them? Do they even speak English?”
“It’s supposed to stimulate language development in babies,” Fernanda said. She’d been paying attention when Mimi Rutherford-Shaw described the mission, whereas Cornelia had stayed glued to her BlackBerry. The crisis at hand: Daphne was still trying to sort out her invitation to Howard Galt’s sixtieth tomorrow night, an unmissable event.
“This thing hates me,” Cornelia said when her baby started to wail again. “He sounds like a fire engine.”
“He’s just frightened by all the noise in here. And he’s probably not used to being held. Don’t worry, he’ll calm down.”
“Before or after I shoot myself?” Cornelia slung him onto her left forearm, fished around in her Bottega Veneta bag, and pulled out a carefully folded WWD. She lifted the newspaper and began to read as though it were Mother Goose. “The Seventies are revived this spring as denim companies embrace lighter wash and retro fits.” The baby stopped crying. Cornelia raised her eyebrows and continued. “Change is in the air at Halston—”
“He smiled at you! Hand me the Eye section?”
“We’re not done with it.” Cornelia clutched it tightly. Then she lowered her voice. “Have you talked to Lucy yet?”
She glanced across the room to where Lucy and Eloise were sitting. Seeing Lucy in her skinny jeans and Chloé blouse, with leather bracelets wrapped on one wrist, Cornelia felt like a fuddy-duddy in her tweedy suit. She hated to admit it, but Wyatt’s new flame had a semidecent sense of style. She wondered who her stylist was and if she could steal her away. Maybe it was Eloise, who had great downtown flair. Holding two babies each, the duo were taking turns reading aloud from a big book of fairy tales. Show-offs.
Tamsin and Henry’s wedding the weekend before had left the stench of humiliation in Cornelia’s nostrils. She still couldn’t get over how Wyatt left her cold on the dance floor, in front of all those wedding guests, to go wrench Lucy away from Max. Suddenly his little game of hard-to-get didn’t seem like such a game. Cornelia had watched as he’d led Lucy outside. They were gone for too long—longer than it would take to chain-smoke three cigarettes, she’d calculated—and Cornelia had started to wonder if they’d made an early departure. But then they’d returned to the party, flush-faced, obvious—rubbing their togetherness in Cornelia’s face, mortifying her in front of everyone.
“I haven’t talked to her yet, but I promise I will.” Fernanda pulled Goodnight Moon out of the basket on the table and cracked open the spine.
“What the hell are you waiting for? Anna’s holding back the invitations! We need to lock Lucy in now!”
“It just feels awkward with Eloise around.”
“What is wrong with you?” Cornelia snapped. Fernanda had gone so mushy and useless since she started dating her troll-man and his pet ferret. “Forget it. I’ll ask her.” She dumped her orphan back into his bassinet and strode across the room. Seeing her, Eloise and Lucy wrapped their arms more protectively around their babies, making Cornelia feel like the Wicked Witch of the East Side. What do they think I’m going to do, eat them?
“You girls are naturals,” she said.
“Aren’t they sweet?” said Eloise. “I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye!”
“I know, I know.” Cornelia suppressed an eye roll. “Listen, Lucy, I could use your help. This year I’ve been asked to chair the Young Patrons of the Vanderbilt gala. I’m supposed to rally the support of friends and make sure we’ve got the best possible crowd there. Would you be interested in joining the benefit committee?”
Lucy looked confused. “Me? Really?”
“It’s always the same old people, and I’m desperate for some fresh energy. Please? And don’t worry, there’s nothing to it. You invite a few friends, you wear a dress by the designer sponsoring the event—this year it’s Roland Philippe, so it’s guaranteed to be fabulous—and you show up for photos. Please say you’ll do it?”
Lucy paused. Then she smiled, as though she’d decided to trust Cornelia. Idiot. “Okay, sure. Thanks.”
“Fabulous! You’re the best. Eloise, you’ll be there, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Eloise said dryly.
“Maybe El could be on the committee, too?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, um—of course!” God, the girl was sticky sweet. As a kid, she probably let everyone on the playground cut ahead of her in the line for the slide. “Well, I’d better get back to the little precious. Thanks again.”
Cornelia nearly skipped back across the room. It was almost too easy. Lucy had no clue whom she was dealing with . . . but she would, soon enough.
19
Meredith Galt invites you to
dinner & dancing
In celebration of Howard’s 60th
Saturday, January 31st
7 PM
At Windsong
Oyster Bay, Long Island
Dress: Bear Market
All this for a birthday?” Lucy murmured as Wyatt escorted her down a hallway covered in gold leaf. Six concert violinists serenaded them on each side. She pulled her sable wrap more tightly around her shoulders, although it wasn’t cold. “This tent is bigger than Dayville. Howard must be fucking loaded!”
“A lady never uses the word ‘loaded,’ ” said Wyatt, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Or that other word.”
Lucy had to admit, there was something to be said for entering a party like this one on the arm of a man like Wyatt. She would’ve been a nervous wreck without him, even now, when she’d grown accustomed to going to three parties a night and hobnobbing with the snob mob. She’d seen him in his tuxedo dozens of times now—his tuxedos, actually, although they varied almost imperceptibly—but the impact never seemed to diminish. It turned out you could find someone to be an arrogant jerk and still have your breath occasionally whisked from your body when he picked you up for the evening, or crossed the room with your drink in hand. She wasn’t interested in Wyatt romantically, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate his unique presence.
“Five years old, tops.” Wyatt nodded at the Galt family crest that had been emblazoned on the tent. It was illuminated by a spotlight so intense that the ships in Oyster Bay Harbor could discern not only the tiger midpounce, but the arrows and shield, too. The tiger was about to ravage a wounded fox, which coincidentally happened to be the name of Howard’s largest competitor, Fox Equity Partners.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Lucy had to laugh.
The birthday fête was being thrown at Windsong, Howard’s magnificent seventeen-bedroom estate facing the harbor, although the house itself had been deemed unsuitable because the formal dining room could accommodate only two hundred of the eight hundred invited guests. Instead, an enormous gold-and-silver pentagon had been erected on the sprawling property.
The tent—if such a vast and sturdy structure could be called a tent—comprised five equally cavernous rooms, each a perfect replica of one of Howard’s “favorite places”: the Metropolitan Opera (complete with Renée Fleming belting out arias with the accompaniment of a thirty-piece orchestra); his home in St. Moritz; the spectacular rooftop terrace of the Hotel Russie in Rome, with a frescoed depiction of the city’s seven hills; the locker room of an NFL team he owned; and the vast bow of his 120-foot yacht, which spent most of the year anchored in the south of France.
“Hot toddie?” asked a model-waitress when Wyatt and Lucy entered the St. Moritz room. Lucy’s jaw hit the faux-snowy floor. Designed to replicate Howard’s sprawling Swiss chalet, the party planners had constructed an indoor ski slope, on which members of the Olympic ski team were currently doing runs. The decor was a PETA nightmare, with furs draped over couches and floors, and a chairlift gleamed from one side of the mini-mountain, transporting slightly bewildered guests up to the highest peak. A trough of Iranian beluga caviar beckoned from the summit.
&nbs
p; “What do you think the purpose of this extravaganza—the underlying purpose—is?” Wyatt whispered in her ear. He could have said it loudly. Nobody was close enough to hear their conversation; the space was so vast that guests orbited stiffly around each other.
“I don’t know, to celebrate? Ring in a new year, kabillionaire-style? Leave everyone else wondering where they went wrong?”
“Good answers. It’s to show the world, in no uncertain terms, that he’s made it. Which Howard clearly has, financially speaking—his fund went public for five billion in ’04.” Wyatt scooped some ground-level caviar onto a mother-of-pearl plate. “In my field we might call Howard an aggrandizer; having made his dough, he’s now looking for social acceptance on the highest level. Hence the party. Throw an event like this one, and you obligate the entire guest list to reciprocate in some way—whether it’s a useful introduction, a letter of recommendation to a club, inclusion at the most exclusive tables. A party can be an incredibly useful tool in building alliances and, ultimately, gaining social dominance.”