by Bridie Clark
She opened the box and found a fine leather portfolio binder, absolutely gorgeous, a major upgrade from the plastic one she’d been using since high school. Just looking at it made her feel inspired. “Wyatt, it’s beautiful,” she said. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Something to capture your vision,” he said.
21
Never wear anything that panics the cat.
—P. J. O’Rourke
Full diaper. Those were the words that flew to mind when Lucy tried on the monstrosity of a dress that arrived by messenger to her door just three hours before the Vanderbilt gala. A mustardy yellow guaranteed to make any skin tone look malarial, with a saggy cowl of a bodice and a huge pouf at the hips that made its way around to an enormous bustle and tight mermaid train, the dress made her look like she was packing a loaded Pampers.
“You can’t wear that monstrosity in public!” Eloise declared, diplomatically given the circumstances, as she circled the dress. “I don’t get it. Roland’s line is so glam—look, even the label looks like it was stitched on by a two-year-old.” The dress Philippe had sent for Eloise to wear to the event, on the other hand, was a one-shoulder Grecian-inspired gown in black silk. It was gorgeous, and perfectly suited Eloise’s willowy frame, ethereal beauty, and current golden-blonde extensions.
“Is it really that awful?” Lucy pulled the hanger off the doorframe and held the gown up to her body, hoping to see it in a new light. She and Eloise had decided to get ready together before the gala, which meant that hair and makeup artists would be arriving any moment—Wyatt insisted on the full works before such a big event. Lucy’s dress had been late in arriving, so now her hands seemed tied. Eloise had called Roland’s office, but of course there was no answer. He was off getting ready for the Vanderbilt gala himself, no doubt.
“It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Lucy groaned. “So what should I do? We’re all supposed to wear his dresses, right? I don’t want to be a poor sport.”
“We’ll trade,” Eloise said heroically. “I’ve been going to these stupid things for so long, nobody’s paying attention to what I wear. Trip barely notices La Perla these days. I’ll just duck around the red carpet.”
“There is no way I’m letting you trade with me.” Lucy was touched, but resolute. “You’re a stylist. This dress will ruin your credibility.” She squinted her eyes at the dress, praying for a vision. “What if I just made a few alterations? Do you think Roland would mind?”
“Honey, you would only be doing him a favor. Show up wearing that”—she pointed to the dress and involuntarily shuddered—“and his reputation will be just as cooked as yours.”
Lucy grabbed her sewing basket and pulled out her scissors. Where to begin? The heavy yellow fabric had been stitched together with fluorescent threads, topped by a mammoth magenta explosion about the size of her head on the derrière. Bye-bye, bustle, if that’s what you are. She snipped with the precision of a surgeon removing a tumor. And mermaid train, don’t get too comfortable.
“Will you have time to take in the hips?” Eloise suggested after Lucy had cut the train and rehemmed the bottom of the dress. “That’ll help a lot, I think. Here, let me pin.” She set to work.
Forty minutes later, the intercom buzzed—Henri and Elizabeth, the beauty team, had arrived. Eloise lifted her head from the dress. “I think I like this dress. Is that possible? You just performed triage!”
“It’s wearable now, right?”
Lucy slipped into the streamlined gown. She’d gotten rid of most of the inflammation. The color was still not great, and if anyone got too close they might notice the stitchwork was rushed, but it would photograph just fine. She spun in front of the mirror, scrutinizing their work. Not bad at all. She just hoped Roland Philippe would agree.
Fernanda pinned back her glossy hair, then changed her mind and let it swing down. Her mother watched her in the mirror. She always watched her daughter prepare for events, and tonight was more momentous than usual. “Thank him again for that dinner, won’t you? Wear it down. It looks lovely down.”
“You sent him a note, and thanked him twice yourself. I think Parker understands that you enjoyed your meal.” Fernanda smiled indulgently at her mother. She was glad her mother approved so wholeheartedly. She and Parker had grown very close in just a few short weeks, and she’d specifically asked Roland’s assistant to send her a dress in ivory—a subliminal suggestion, she hoped.
“Fernanda?” said her mother, untwisting one of the dress’s delicate straps. “This is what I’ve always wanted for you, dear.”
When Fernanda was fifteen years old, her mother sat her down during spring break and told her—in the stark terms that can only be uttered between mother and daughter, and even then only after a few cocktails—that she’d need to marry someone wealthy. Specifically: very wealthy. That goal had been reinforced, though never again so directly, for the past fifteen years. Fernanda had never questioned it, not really. She wanted the comfortable life that her mother wanted for her. Despite her high marks at St. Paul’s and her Dartmouth diploma, neither woman considered that Fernanda could go out and earn that life for herself.
And now it looked as though she’d finally found success. Not only that—she really liked Parker. She could be herself with him. In fact, Fernanda thought as she gazed in the mirror, it’s possible that I’m even falling in love.
“Lucy! Eloise! Over here!” a photographer called out.
Shoulders back, belly in. Arms held ever so slightly away from the body to avoid any unfortunate fat-squish. Chin slightly lifted. Lucy ran down the checklist of directions Wyatt had given her on posing, feeling more like a Balanchine ballerina than a girl getting her photo snapped. Lips parted. Forget saying cheese—it spread out the cheeks too much, very unflattering.
Just when she’d gotten into position, Lucy felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to find a pretty blonde in a dither. “I’m Laurel, Roland’s assistant?” She had a lilting voice that turned almost everything into a question. “Is there a reason you’re not wearing Roland’s dress?”
Lucy cringed. So much for her delusion that nobody would notice. “I can explain—” she began, although she had no idea what that explanation might be. “I just made a few changes to it.”
“What are you talking about? This isn’t the silver dress we sent you yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Lucy’s sense of suspicion began to tingle. “I got this dress a few hours ago. It didn’t fit properly, so I made a few alterations—”
“Alterations? The dress we sent you had absolutely nothing in common with what you’re wearing now.” Laurel pinched the fabric between her fingers. “This is polyester? Roland is allergic to polyester—he practically breaks out in hives if it’s in the same room.”
“I knew it!” Eloise exclaimed. “I knew Roland had nothing to do with this dress! It was hideous, Laurel. Lucy worked some major magic to get it looking this good.”
“So what happened to the dress we sent?” Laurel looked totally panicked.
There was a sudden commotion from the photographers. The girls craned their necks to see who was commanding the carpet and camera bulbs—and it was none other than Cornelia Rockman, wearing a silver gown and emerald earrings.
“That’s your dress!” Laurel was fuming. “I sent it myself to be sure there’d be no mistake? The messenger said your doorman signed for it? How did she end up with it?”
Lucy didn’t answer. She’d heard stories about husband hunting and nanny poaching on the Upper East Side, but dress-napping? That was a new one. Cornelia was a pioneer.
“Listen, Lucy, I’m sorry this happened? Hopefully we can find another occasion in the near future? So much from his new line would look beautiful on you.”
“Of course,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out this time.” After Laurel had marched off to find Roland, Eloise turned to Lucy with unease in her eyes. “I know it’s just a dres
s, but it’s still creepy. What are you going to do?”
“What I have to do,” said Lucy. One thing she’d learned from Rita: you don’t start a fight, but if someone else does, you finish it.
She strode over and took her place next to Cornelia, who gave Lucy’s dress a confused once-over. Sticking her right foot out ever so slightly, angling her hips for the most flattering angle, Lucy could feel the photographers shift their attention toward her.
“Who are you wearing, Lucy?” called out one reporter.
“Just something I whipped up at home.”
“Roland didn’t give you a dress to wear?” Cornelia had the audacity to feign concern.
“Cut the bullshit, Cornelia.” Lucy dropped her voice so only her red carpet nemesis could hear her, and she kept her expression pleasant. “I know what happened. And if it’s a turf war you want, that’s what you’ll get.”
Several hours later, Fernanda nuzzled up to Parker in the backseat of the Town Car. “My place?” he asked, giving the driver directions after she nodded her sleepy consent. They’d been among the very last to leave the gala, dancing and knocking back glass after glass of champagne. It was nearly three, and she could barely keep her eyes open. In fact, she might have drifted off to the land of Nod on their drive downtown had Parker not whispered three electric words in her ear.
22
Lucy Ellis, squired as usual by Wyatt Hayes IV, stole the red carpet at last night’s Vanderbilt gala in a little something she “whipped up at home.” The girl never ceases to amaze.
—Rex Newhouse, www.rexnewhouse.com
Theo kicked his feet off the desk and peered more closely at his computer screen, which he’d just refreshed to find newly posted photos of Lucy at the Vanderbilt gala. She looked even more stunning than he remembered, dressed in a golden gown that flattered her complexion and dark hair. But there was Wyatt, lurking in the background of several candid shots, looking smug. Theo had been kicking himself ever since the conflagration at his father’s party. How he wished he hadn’t panicked at the first taste of smoke in his mouth and sprinted for the nearest exit; if only he’d done the more gentlemanly thing, he might’ve gotten a leg up on his East Coast competition.
His eyes fell on a photo of Cornelia, who, he conceded, had also looked gorgeous in a silvery dress. Maybe he should help her. A quick recording session, just to see if she had any talent, might not be a bad idea. His father would hate that he was doing it—that one bathroom grope had cost him more than the collapse of Wall Street—which sweetened the idea in Theo’s mind.
But then his thoughts turned back to Lucy. How could he make it up to her?
The next morning, as Lucy lay in her sudsy lavender-and-honey bath, chilled cucumber slices resting lightly on her eyelids, she felt . . . well, as tightly wound as the spring in a pogo stick. Lately, even in the rare moments when she had time to unwind, her mind raced. She took a deep breath as the hot water melted her muscles, sore from yesterday’s rigorous double workout with Derrick. She rested her head against a rolled-up Egyptian cotton towel, and then lifted her pedicured left foot onto the bathtub’s porcelain ledge, watching the steam lift off her exposed leg. Just minutes before, from the window seat, she’d watched snow come petaling down to the ground. Relax, she told herself. But she couldn’t. It was impossible to stay in the moment.
In the past two months, she’d been transformed from Wyatt’s plus one to a bona fide It girl. First came the invitations to store, restaurant, and club openings. Book launches. More benefits than one human being could attend. Ladies’ luncheons. Screenings, the occasional premiere. Birthday parties for people she’d met once or twice. Then there’d been a flood of dinner invitations buzzing through her BlackBerry, at least two on any given night: the Hendersons at Elio’s, the Martins at their home on Central Park West, the van Severs at Swifty’s. The alligator Smythson appointment book that Wyatt had given her was overflowing. And so was her closet—since apparently one of the golden rules of the socialite biz was that you couldn’t wear the same outfit twice.
And the barrage of press was just plain mind-boggling. This morning, she’d flipped open the New York Times to discover her first party photo on Bill Cunningham’s Sunday Styles page, a rite of passage if ever there was one. She’d clipped it out, neatly storing it in the cream-colored box her first pair of Manolos had come in, along with a photo of her from Tamsin and Henry’s wedding that Quest had included in their coverage of the event. There was even a little photo of Lucy, taken at Libet’s exhibition, in this month’s Vogue! Lucy Jo Ellis—well, Lucia Haverford Ellis, but close enough—had appeared in Vogue!
And then there was the Townhouse spread, now just two weeks away. And of course, the legendary Forum Ball—the exciting, if terrifying, culmination of their experiment. She still couldn’t believe she’d be there.
The doorbell rang, breaking her thoughts. Probably the messenger with my dress for tonight’s dinner. She pulled herself out of the bubbles and threw on a fluffy white robe. Max had called earlier that week and asked her out again—she’d had to decline. He was starting to take the hint, she hoped. Even if she had been romantically interested in him, which she just didn’t think she was, her calendar was fully booked. Tonight she and Wyatt were heading to an intimate dinner for eight at the Waverly Inn. The group, comprised mainly of cooler-than-thou downtown scenesters who called themselves artists but didn’t seem to produce very much art—had as little to say as their more buttoned-up Upper East Side counterparts, but Wyatt insisted she make inroads into every “scene.” Lucy always angled to sit next to Wyatt, who never suffered a shortage of unexpected opinions.
“Coming!” she called, tying the sash tight and leaving little puddles across the living room floor with each step. She unlocked the door and gasped.
“Lucy Jo!”
“Rita! What are you doing here?” Lucy asked, unable to keep the panic out of her voice.
Rita—a short, stout woman with brassy highlights self-streaked through her copper hair—pushed a copy of Vogue, open to the spread with Lucy’s photograph, into her daughter’s face. “Some way to greet your mother! You don’t return my calls, so I had to come in person.” She barreled past Lucy, knocking her with an alarmingly large suitcase and taking in the apartment. “This is your friend’s place? Cute.” Then she flashed an ear-to-ear grin and dumped the suitcase on Lucy’s left foot.
“What are you doing here?” Lucy repeated, feeling ill.
“I guess you were waiting to tell me?”
“What are you talking about?” Lucy asked.
“Your new life, kid!” She waved Vogue in Lucy’s face again. “My friend Brenda brought it in to the salon. At first I wasn’t sure it was you. You look different, so classy. The city’s been good for you. Anyway, they got your name wrong—where’d that Haverford come from?—but there’s no mistaking my little girl.”
My little girl? Those words had never left her mother’s mouth before. Lucy, feeling weak, sat on the arm of the couch.
“You didn’t mention that you were famous!”
“I’m not. It’s just one photo, Rita.”
“But you should see how many photos there are of you on the World Wide Web!”
Rita had learned to use the Internet? The sky should be falling at any moment.
“Bren’s boyfriend looked up the name on his computer. Pulled up a website that shows photos of you out on the town every night, dressed to the nines, rolling with a bunch of Richie Riches.” Rita whistled through her front teeth.
Lucy, suddenly hot, shoved open a window in the living room. “Why didn’t you call first? I could’ve planned better—”
“Thought I’d surprise you!” Rita fingered Eloise’s curtains. “Brenda was tickled to take care of the kitties, so I packed a bag and hopped on the bus!”
“How long can you stay?” Lucy asked feebly.
“I’m in no rush!” Rita looked pleased. “And here I thought you were strapped, working for that
designer. I guess you just got a big raise, huh?”
“Actually, I lost my job before Christmas. I should’ve told you sooner.”
“So where’s the money coming from?” asked Rita. “Are you dancing? I always said you’d be able to make good money, and now you look better than ever—”
Lucy shuddered. Only her mother would view exotic dancing as a promising career choice. “Nothing like that. It’s, um, a social experiment. My friend Wyatt’s a biological anthropologist—a scientist who studies the relationship between humans and primates—and he’s been teaching me how to be, um, a socialite.” The experiment had stopped seeming weird to Lucy, until she said it out loud. “When it’s over, he’s going to help me get a job working for an amazing designer, a job I couldn’t seem to land on my own.”