Overnight Socialite

by Bridie Clark

  That’s more like it. Cornelia settled back onto the bench, relieved. With a Cheshire cat smile, she slid the manila envelope across the table.

  Thirty blocks downtown, in Parker Lewis’s tranquil cream and charcoal gray master bedroom, Fernanda cracked open one eye and nearly purred with contentment. She took a moment to drink in the gentle light seeping around the edges of his window shades, the deliciousness of their entangled limbs and Parker’s warm breath on the back of her neck. Her hair was in sex knots and her face was fright-eningly devoid of makeup, but for once, Fernanda didn’t care.

  She was engaged. Well, no, but as good as engaged. Parker, last night over dinner in front of the roaring fire, had told her that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Her relief had bordered on ecstasy. She didn’t even shout out her ring preferences (a cushion-cut bordered by two sapphires, no skimping on the carats) right away.

  “I’m holding you hostage,” he murmured, stirring behind her. “I’m thinking homemade blueberry pancakes, maybe a snowy walk with Mr. Fursnickety, and then we light a big fire and spend the rest of the day curled up right here.”

  “I have no say in the matter?” she teased, but it was music to her ears. She dreaded calling in sick again, especially since her boss at Christie’s had just come through with that raise, but there was no real debate inside Fernanda’s head.

  “If you want,” said Parker, “you can have banana pancakes. But otherwise, no, you have no say.”

  Fernanda rolled over to kiss his neck. “What about work for you? You don’t need to go in?”

  “Work can wait for a day,” he said, sitting up. “Work’s not what’s really important, is it?” He kissed her forehead, and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Now, stay right there. Breakfast is coming to you this morning.”

  Just one more thing to love about Parker, thought Fernanda, cozying back down under the covers. He was so senior—not to mention successful—at the bank that he no longer had to put in face time or deal with a boss breathing down his neck. He could afford to be laissez-faire. Not like the junior investment banker she’d dated who was one step away from wearing diapers on the job to avoid time-wasting bathroom breaks. Parker seemed to have a grip on the whole life-work balance thing.

  That he was twenty years older seemed only a selling point to Fernanda, as was the fact that he wasn’t what you’d call “conventionally handsome.” Although she found him adorable, to the rest of the world Parker was undeniably squatty, hairy, and bow-legged. His face had character, as her mother put it, but the character was comic: slightly bulbous nose, toothy grin, eyes set a bit too close together. Fernanda was the looker of the pair, which worked just fine for her. It meant she wasn’t as painfully aware of the lines and creases that her dermatologist couldn’t erase. Parker managed to make her feel hot and young.

  “You’re spoiling me, Park,” she called after him, propping herself up on her elbows. “What did I do to deserve the royal treatment?”

  “Like you really have to ask?” he yelled back from the kitchen.

  She felt such a rush of joy that her chest almost ached. Sternly, Fernanda reminded herself not to get carried away. She wasn’t married yet. There could be complications. After all, traces of the ex-wife were everywhere. She’d found an old tube of mascara in the bathroom cabinet, and even a few stray tampons in one of the drawers. The ex’s name was still on half the mail Parker received.

  It was hard not to get a teensy bit excited, though. She’d met his friends, and they seemed to like her. He’d charmed her mother, which hadn’t been difficult, and made an effort to get to know Max. She’d helped him make his cozy new Tribeca pad feel like a home (while secretly plotting their triumphant return to uptown life, where they really belonged).

  Even before last night’s conversation, the temptation to call St. James’s—anonymously, of course—to check if they had any Saturdays available for weddings next fall had proved too strong. She’d held herself back from trying on bridal dresses at Vera Wang, but only just. If he proposed, she could have all the details of their wedding planned in under a week, right down to the Fernanda & Parker typeface on the matchboxes. She pulled herself out of bed, traipsing naked across the room to retrieve her BlackBerry from her bag. The only thing separating her from a perfect day was this phone call to her boss, so it was better to get it done with early—preferably while she could still leave her feeble excuse on a voice mail.

  Five missed calls. Four from Cornelia—her friend had a habit of calling incessantly until Fernanda answered—and one from her mother. But first, her boss. Thankfully, she got his voice mail. “Martin, this is Fernanda. I’m afraid I’m not feeling well again, and I don’t think I can make it to work.” Her voice was still gravelly with sleep, which conveniently made her sound ravaged by bad sinuses. “I’ll be checking e-mail, you know, between naps and a doctor’s appointment. See you tomorrow.”

  “Breakfast is served,” Parker said, appearing in the doorway with a rattan tray loaded with food. Pancakes, a small pitcher of OJ, and steaming hot coffee—Fernanda’s mouth watered. No wonder she’d gained five pounds since they’d met. Normally she’d throw herself on the Jill Pettijohn cleanse immediately, but Parker said he liked her better with some meat on her bones—and Fernanda actually believed him.

  “Smells delicious,” she said, jumping back in bed and pulling the sheets loosely around her. She looked up at Parker and smiled seductively.

  “Let’s let it cool,” he said, nearly throwing down the tray on the nightstand and diving on top of her.

  Over her squeals, Fernanda could hear her BlackBerry buzzing. She tried to block it out, but involuntarily tensed—what if it was her boss? “Hold that thought,” she said, wiggling out from under Parker and reaching for the phone.

  But it was Cornelia’s number flashing on her screen. “Her fifth call this morning. I wonder if something’s wrong.”

  “With Cornelia? Trust me, plenty’s wrong.” Parker sighed. “But go ahead, pick up. We have all day together.”

  Fernanda smiled gratefully, then said, “Hey! How are you, C?”

  “You sound happy,” accused Cornelia. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you?”

  “I’m sorry. What’s up?”

  When Cornelia spoke, her voice was so cold that Fernanda shivered. “I finally nailed her, Fern. She’s been passing herself off as an heiress, when she’s really to the trailer born.”

  “You mean Lucy? What did you do?” Fernanda felt the cold current pass over her again. Cornelia’s vindictive streak could cross the line into downright frightening territory. She’d once ratted out a “disloyal” college friend, a girl working for Glamour and struggling to make ends meet, for selling a few leftover beauty products on eBay. The girl had been banned from Condé Nast for life. And Cornelia had started those nasty rumors about Mimi Rutherford-Shaw getting lipo every month, and about Anna Santiago and her stepbrother. She kept Page Six on speed dial. Cornelia had done something really bad this time, Fernanda could feel it.

  “It’ll be such thorough public humiliation that she’ll be flipping burgers in her sleepy little hometown before she can blink.” Cornelia cackled—or maybe it was just a bad connection. “With straw between her teeth and her tail between her legs.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Fernanda looked at Parker and suddenly felt ashamed of how evil her best friend sounded. “I mean, so she’s self-made. So she took a few liberties with the truth—”

  “Self-made? She’s a work of fiction! Wait till you see the photos from the Nola show.” There was that bad connection again. “I mean, it’s just too good. The little gold digger is about to get all the attention she craves. It just won’t be the kind of attention she craves.”

  Fernanda was starting to feel ill. Parker watched her intently. “Don’t do it, Cornelia,” she said quietly, aware that she was lighting a short fuse.

  “What did you say?”

  “Don’t do
it. It’s—I don’t know, it’s just really mean.”

  “Mean? Tell me you’re joking. The girl stole everything that mattered to me—”

  Fernanda took a deep breath and tried to be brave. “She didn’t really steal Wyatt. And anyway, it’s time to move on. There’s amazing stuff happening in your life right now, but you’re consumed by the negative.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” There were shards of ice in Cornelia’s voice. “Believe me, she deserves everything that’s coming her way. It’s all coming out in Townhouse.”

  “So you got Mallory Keeler to write a nasty piece about her—”

  “You can call it nasty. I call it true,” Cornelia said with chilling intensity. “And speaking of the truth? You might want to run some due diligence on that guy you’re dating. A friend on his old co-op board told me that he’s practically broke. The ex took most of his money; his investments and restricted stock are tanking; he’s probably getting fired, and he’s leveraged up the wazoo. Has Prince Charming mentioned any of that?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fernanda retorted, wanting to reach through the phone and slap Cornelia. Hard. Her chest felt constricted. The room was wobbling. Maybe she was having a heart attack.

  “Just ask him,” Cornelia snorted. “It figures. Didn’t Freud have some theory about girls being drawn to men who remind them of their fathers? So it’d make sense you’d fall for a failure.”

  Fernanda felt her insides deflate. She ended the call without another word.

  “Are you okay? What the hell was that all about?” asked Parker.

  “You don’t want to know.” Fernanda plopped on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t look at him.

  “What do you mean, you haven’t told her?” Dottie, who’d been examining one of the fabric swatches her decorator had left for the new draperies in her living room, looked up at her son. He was visiting her at home again—since when did Wyatt do that?—and he looked slightly unkempt, like he’d barely bothered to shower before wandering over. “Isn’t the Ball the Saturday after next?”

  “But the book won’t be out for months after that. It still needs editing, and of course, an ending. I have plenty of time before . . . she needs to find out.”

  Dottie drew her petite spine up to its greatest height. This had gone on long enough. Her son may have been brilliant in his way, but apparently he needed the basics spelled out for him. “You need to do the right thing. For her sake, and your own. I see how you look at her when she’s in the room with you. She’s a special girl, Wyatt. Who cares if she’s not”—she lowered her voice—“pedigreed. I don’t, and you shouldn’t. I want you to be happy. Frankly, Lucy seems to share our values more than any of the fly-by-night party girls you’ve dated.”

  Wyatt looked at her like she’d announced a move to Vegas to join Cirque du Soleil. “I’ve grown very fond of Lucy, of course, but that doesn’t mean—”

  Dottie sighed. “You’re only fooling yourself, darling.”

  27

  Wyatt’s Book Notes:

  Because male bowerbirds of New Guinea aren’t much to look at, they compensate by constructing elaborate houselike bowers to lure potential mates. They feather their nests with colorful objets d’art—ornate crests, fans, plumes, and tail streamers dropped by their neighbor, the bird of paradise. Impressive real estate can be more effective than a great matchmaker. Men in New York society don’t need to be told.

  Lucy gingerly carried her masterpiece into Eloise’s living room, where Wyatt sat on the couch waiting for the unveiling. “I can’t believe I’m asking you this—but please, be critical.” The dress had turned out just as she’d imagined it, thanks to Doreen’s careful execution, and struck her as exactly right for the Ball’s “Fauna in Fashion” theme. It was regal without being princessy, and she felt a surge of pride knowing it was her very own creation. Tout le monde who mattered—she’d even begun thinking in French Snob, thanks to Wyatt—would see it on display at the Ball next Saturday.

  Wyatt looked at the dress, then raised his eyes to Lucy. “It’s perfect,” he said. “I can’t believe you did this. You’re—”

  She interrupted him by letting out a squeal, feeling the knots in her stomach release for the first time all week. The dress was ready. So was she.

  “Listen,” he said. He squirmed in his chair. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

  “Wait, just hang on a sec.” She ran into her bedroom, grabbed the envelope off the bureau, ran back, and waved it at him. “Before I forget, here’s the money from my first commissions. Libet and Anna both placed orders after the Townhouse shoot. Doreen says she’ll have them finished in a week or two.” She handed it to him. “I’ve kept a pretty careful tally of how much I owe you, Wyatt. This is just a start.”

  Wyatt looked down at the envelope in his hands. “I can’t take this—”

  She’d expected resistance. “Of course you can. You’re my first investor, and you made all this possible. I know you hate mushiness—but you’ve given me so much more than money. You’ve completely changed my life.”

  He turned the envelope over, uneasily. “I can’t take credit for what you’ve done.”

  “We’ve both done it. Team effort.” She smiled. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Huh? Oh, never mind. Nothing important.”

  Eloise took one last look in Trip’s bathroom mirror before grabbing her clutch and racing down the stairs to the waiting car and her soon-to-be fiancé.

  This had to be it. She was terrified to hope, but really, Trip had given her no choice but to have the utter expectation of a proposal. For starters, he’d announced that he’d made reservations at an “undisclosed location,” and Eloise would be brought there blindfolded. Last week she’d overheard him talking on the phone in his study about making a “huge commitment,” and being finally ready “to pull the trigger.” She’d stood at his study door a second longer than she should have, unable to tear herself away, and had distinctly heard her boyfriend—her soon-to-be fiancé!—say that he’d “been thinking about it for a long time, but now the timing feels right.” Besides, after their last fight, Trip would have to be a complete turd to lead her down the wrong path again.

  Eloise smoothed down her Brian Reyes dress, an understated white and tan strapless with a sleek silhouette. Paired with a cashmere cardi and simple clutch, it was just the demurely sexy look she needed for the night.

  Her BlackBerry buzzed. “Sweetie?” she asked, picking up. “I’m on my way right now.”

  When she emerged from her building, Trip was standing outside the Mercedes, holding a dozen red roses and a blue and gold Hermès scarf. “No peeking,” he instructed, giving her a surprisingly languorous kiss before tying on the high-end blindfold.

  Heart galloping, Eloise groped her way into the backseat. “Hi, Raoul,” she giggled, waving her hand blindly.

  “Hello, Miss Carlton,” the driver answered. “You’re a good sport.”

  The drive took longer than Eloise had expected. Maybe it was the blindfold, maybe it was her nerves, maybe it was Trip’s uncharacteristic silence from the seat next to her—but what was probably a ten-minute trip felt more like an hour. Finally, Raoul pulled to a stop and she could hear him shift into park.

  “We’re here?” she asked.

  “We’re here, baby doll,” Trip said, holding both her hands. “Can you handle the suspense for one more minute?” She nodded, smiling, while Trip got out of the car. A moment later, the door on her side opened, and his hand took hers again, helping her out.

  “Where are we?” she twittered, loving every second as Trip led her forward. She could hear their feet crunching on gravel, and then the silk blindfold was untied—

  “Surprise!” Trip shouted, as she struggled to orient herself.

  They were standing on the dock of the Boat Basin on the Upper West Side. Eloise recognized the site from her early days in New York, when she’d lived in the n
eighborhood. “Are we taking a boat ride?” she asked. It was the perfect night for a proposal on the Hudson River, with Manhattan on one side and a deep orange sunset on the other.

  “We’re taking many boat rides,” Trip said. He pointed to a flag-blue Hinckley docked close to where they stood. A huge American flag was mounted off the rear on a mahogany pole, and printed in navy-and-gold block letters on one side was the name Eloise.

  “There she is,” Trip said. “The Hinckley T38R Convertible. Hand-built, open all the way up to the cockpit. You and I can take her to Nantucket this summer—it’ll be amazing.”

  Eloise just stared at the boat that bore her name. “This is my surprise?” she asked, feeling seasick.

  Trip, who’d been looking at her with hopeful anticipation, suddenly realized what he’d done. His face dropped. “Babe, I haven’t forgotten about our conversation. I promise. I just need some more time. I thought you’d be excited—El, you look kind of green.”