by Bridie Clark
Lucy glanced quickly at Wyatt. “I’m self-trained. I’ve loved fashion since I was a little girl.” She tried to keep her voice steady and relaxed, as if chatting about her designs to Margaux Irving were an everyday occurrence. “When I was a teenager, I took apart a vintage Chanel dress to understand exactly how it had been constructed, the way an aspiring engineer might take apart a radio.” She didn’t mention that she’d found the dress serendipitously at the local Salvation Army, or that she’d had to pay the eighty-dollar price tag on layaway. “It’s always been my dream to be a designer.”
Another loaded pause as Margaux stepped forward slightly to examine the dress from another angle. “And where did you have it made?”
“In my own living room.” Lucy lifted up her train. It had taken weeks of labor to make the floaty confection. “I worked with another seamstress in order to finish in time. And my friend Eloise Carlton—I believe she’s worked for your magazine—helped with the fitting.”
Margaux swept around her. “I must say—”
Lucy drew her breath in anticipation, but before Margaux could deliver her verdict on the gown, a young assistant flew at her. The girl’s face was flushed with panic. “Margaux! I’m so sorry to bother you, terribly sorry, but we’re having a little issue with some protesters!”
Uh-oh. This would not be pretty. Lucy felt so sorry for the assistant, who would doubtlessly get Margauxed for the breathless interruption, that she was temporarily distracted from her own suspense.
The editor in chief cast a withering look. “Such as?”
“They just doused three of our guests with red paint on their way in, and they say they’ll only stop if they can have a word with you.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“I know, but . . . we’ve received word that Mary Kate, Kanye, and Demi and Ashton are all circling the block, afraid to get out of their cars. These protesters don’t care about the police, about spending the night in jail—they just want to talk to you.”
That’s kind of bad-ass, Lucy thought, although she selfishly wished it didn’t have to interrupt her tête à tête with Margaux. She’d never understood carcass chic, or how designers and their clients could look the other way while little bunnies in China went to their slaughter. She favored Stella McCartney’s animal-friendly approach.
“Enough.” The stony-faced editrix turned back to Wyatt and Lucy. “Please excuse me.” She swept away before they could answer—before she could give any indication of feeling toward Lucy’s gown.
Now what? Frustrated, Lucy let out something between a groan and a sigh, and Wyatt slipped his arm around her. “I’m sure she loved it,” he said. “How could she not?”
Despite knowing better, she couldn’t help feeling a little thrill from his unexpected closeness. “She must rock in poker. But thanks.”
“Trust me, I’m sure she was a fan. And everyone else will be too. You’re beautiful—” Those last two words seemed to slip out, and once they had, Wyatt quickly dropped his arm. The same cloud she’d felt in the limo passed over them, reminding Lucy that she had to get her feelings in check. Wyatt was nothing more than her friend—a surprisingly loyal and supportive friend, but just a friend. “There’s Parker and Trip,” he said, changing the subject. “Let’s see if they’re at our table.”
“That’s Walker Gregory, director of the museum.” Wyatt discreetly pointed as they made their way through the crowded room to find their seats. The Grand Room (not only an apt description, but the name of the family who’d endowed it) was a sight to behold, even for Wyatt’s jaded eyes. Amazonian vines and foliage hid the ceiling and walls, while the tables were covered in crisp linens, heavy silver, and Meissen porcelain, creating a sense of civility in the exotic wilderness. Walker, Wyatt observed, was seated to the left of Meredith Galt, who’d recently made an enormous gift to the Fashion Forum. He and Lucy had been seated prominently, too, he was pleased to note.
Speaking of Galts, there was an unwelcome one waiting when they reached the table. “Theo, what a fun surprise!” Lucy exclaimed, rushing over to kiss him hello.
“Swell tux,” Wyatt said, shaking Theo’s hand. It was black-on-black, cheesy as hell. “Very Steven Seagal.” He took his seat. Wyatt wasn’t sure why the discovery of Theo grinning from the seat next to Lucy’s irritated him so much—ditto Lucy’s effusive reaction to seeing him—but it did. He’d have preferred a table in Siberia to an evening spent witnessing Theo’s slimy moves. Besides, for all Theo knew, Wyatt and Lucy really were a romantic item—so where did he get off with the full-court press? No doubt the guy had asked to be seated next to Lucy—since the museum was now in such debt to his family, nobody had the stones to say no. See how they felt when the Hayes Foundation reevaluated its portfolio of philanthropic contributions next year.
“Are you okay?” Lucy whispered when Theo was distracted by a passing friend. “You seem upset. Is it Theo?”
“Never mind,” said Wyatt. If he tried to explain his feelings, he knew he would sound jealous, or possessive of a woman he had no right to be possessive of. Wyatt glanced down at the event card to the side of his plate. “So it looks like the auction will take place before dinner.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “I won’t be able to enjoy myself until it’s over.”
As soon as the words left her lips, Walker Gregory took the stage. As the waitstaff silently set the first course, the audience craned to see the small, patrician gentleman who for decades had maintained the museum’s preeminence. Walker welcomed everyone to the Ball, thanking various patrons and boasting of high-profile recent acquisitions, but Wyatt wasn’t listening. He heard his own name mentioned, but even that failed to steal his attention away from the young woman sitting next to him. The magnitude of what Lucy was about to do—presenting not only her gown, but herself, to the most discerning style cognoscenti on the planet and asking for their approval in such a public and vulnerable way—was only now fully hitting him. She nervously clutched his hand under the table. At that moment, Wyatt wasn’t thinking about his book, the experiment, his stake in the night. He just prayed Lucy wouldn’t be crushed in front of everyone who mattered to her career. She’d come too far and cared too much.
“Will all the participants in our fashion auction please join me?” Walker asked, prompting Wyatt to squeeze Lucy’s hand extra hard.
“Ouch!” She laughed a little as she stood. “You’re even more nervous than I am, aren’t you?”
“These ladies have generously agreed to auction the dresses they’re modeling this evening,” Walker continued, “and all proceeds will go toward continuing the Heritage Museum’s tradition of excellence.”
Wyatt watched with tense pride as Lucy threaded her way to join the museum director onstage. All the other women who were lining up next to her, besides hailing from the most prestigious families in American history, had chosen gowns made by established American designers such as Ralph Lauren, Michael Kors, and Nola Sinclair. He thought Lucy was the most self-assured and elegant of the bunch, and that her dress matched her as the most beautiful—but what if nobody else admired it enough to make a bid?
Compare her with Cornelia, he thought, watching his ex glower next to Lucy in a celadon Ralph Rucci gown and a painted-on smile. Cornelia could don ten tons of diamonds and still lack Lucy’s sparkle. He’d taught Lucy the manners, the savoir faire—but she’d always had an inherently noble character. It showed through in everything she did, from her ready devotion to Mimi Rutherford-Shaw’s nonprofit to her tireless work ethic, from her immediate curiosity about art and culture to her unwavering modesty and sense of self. He knew she dreamed of making it big not only for herself, but also so that she could provide for her mother. Seeing her on that stage, he saw her clearly for the first time.
“Can you believe she made that dress?” Theo, leaning across Lucy’s now empty seat, had the audacity to smile at Wyatt as though they were old chums. “Girl’s got serious talent.”
/> “She’s got a very bright future ahead of her,” said Wyatt. He tried not to think about how his book might stall her career before it started.
The Sotheby’s auctioneer called the room to silence. “First we have a Rodarte gown, worn tonight by Miss Libet Vance. Can I start the bidding at ten thousand? Ten thousand from the woman in red. Twelve? I have twelve thousand dollars from the gentleman at the back of the room.” The auctioneer continued to rattle off bids. “Fifteen thousand for this one-of-a-kind gown. Going once, going twice—sold to the woman at table twelve for fifteen thousand dollars.” Anna Santiago’s Nola Sinclair dress—a vampiric mountain of heavy black lace that made Wyatt shudder—went on to sell for a respectable seven thousand, and then Cornelia’s gown for an impressive twelve.
“Last but not least, we have a beautiful gown by”—the auctioneer paused to make sure he was reading the program correctly—“Lucy Ellis. Is that right?” Lucy nodded, an easy smile on her face. If she was nervous about her dress’s being on the block, it didn’t show. Wyatt felt he’d absorbed all her anxiety, compounding his own. He reached quickly for his water glass, nearly knocking over his wine. He didn’t think he could stand to watch. “She’s wearing her own creation, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll start the bidding at five thousand dollars. Can I have five thousand for this stunning gown from Lucy Ellis?”
Echoing Wyatt’s worst fears, the Grand Room remained silent. Guests actually stopped chewing, holding their silverware frozen over their plates. Eloise, seated with Max at the next table, shot a glance toward Wyatt, eyes wide with panic. Wyatt himself had stopped breathing. The silence was unbearable. He got ready to raise his paddle. Lucy would be devastated that he’d had to come to her rescue, but it was better than watching her endure this silence for another minute.
Theo’s hand shot out to grab his own paddle. “Don’t you fucking dare!” Wyatt said, glaring. The thought of Theo Galt owning Lucy’s dress appalled him.
“I think you’re missing the point of an auction,” Theo whispered back. “Besides, I’ve decided I want to back her. Help her start her own label.”
“She’s already got a swarm of people who want to back her, including me.” He spoke without thinking. “She doesn’t need your—”
“A one-of-a-kind original by Lucy Ellis,” repeated the auctioneer. “Doesn’t she look lovely in it? Can I get five thousand for this exceptional gown?”
Before either man could get his paddle in the air, a timid voice called out from the back of the room. “Five thousand!”
Wyatt, exhaling for the first time since Lucy had left her seat, lifted out of his chair to behold the angel who’d bought her gown. Fernanda Fairchild sat with her paddle trembling in the air. Shocked, Wyatt’s first instinct was suspicion—why would Cornelia’s BFF stick her neck out to save Lucy? But when he turned to the stage to catch Cornelia’s reaction—face purpling with rage, jaw dropped—he realized there had just been a major social defection. Fernanda, it seemed, had found her backbone.
With the ice broken, Wyatt watched with glee as paddles began flying faster than the auctioneer could call. Every female in the room seemed to grasp how special Lucy’s gown was, and as Wyatt knew, it was a room full of women accustomed to getting what they wanted. Wyatt caught Lucy’s eye; because he knew her so well, her cool expression betrayed her elation. If she’d won over this room, the core of chic, there’d be no stopping her.
“Twenty thousand,” declared a distinctive voice from the front of the room. Heads whipped around to see who’d more than quadrupled the original ask.
“Margaux Irving! We have twenty thousand from the incomparable Margaux Irving!” the auctioneer chirped. Wyatt, unable to control himself, jumped up from his seat applauding—luckily, others followed quickly. Margaux had made history by raising her paddle—in the decade he’d been attending the Ball, Wyatt had never seen her bid on a gown. “A high bid from the one and only Ms. Irving! Ladies, gentlemen, do we have anyone who’d like to top that?”
Paddles stayed down, as the guests weighed their desire for the gown against the danger of alienating the powerful editor, but the buzz in the room was deafening. His eyes locked with Lucy’s in triumph, and she flashed him a huge grin. Cornelia, meanwhile, seemed to be slightly convulsing next to her.
Since nobody seemed to be finding courage, the auctioneer brought down his gavel. “Sold to Margaux Irving for a very generous twenty thousand dollars.”
She did it! Pure jubilation coursed through Wyatt’s veins. He felt high. Eloise and Theo and Max were toasting all around him, but once again Wyatt was only truly aware of Lucy, slipping quickly through the crowd, beaming, pausing here and there to graciously accept congratulations from new admirers. When she finally made it back to their table, Wyatt couldn’t stop himself—he pulled her close and kissed her, hard, with all the pent-up passion he’d been denying for weeks. When she pressed back against him, her lips petal-soft but her kisses firm, it was all he could do not to carry her out of the party and straight to his bed.
The book. It flickered momentarily across his frontal lobe, forcing Wyatt to pull back.
“Wyatt?” she asked, touching his arm.
The world had returned to spinning on its axis, but everything seemed changed. Theo, Wyatt noticed with satisfaction, had slunk off toward the bar, trumped by the kiss he’d been forced to witness. Max and Eloise had quickly absented themselves, too. Lucy was looking at him in a new way, her face lit with hope and curiosity. He could see in her eyes that she’d wanted that kiss as much as he did.
The book, the book, the book. “I—there’s something I need to do,” he said.
“What, gloat?” She smiled, teasing him. “Give Trip a pass tonight. It can’t be easy for him, watching Eloise with Max. You can rub victory in his face tomorrow.”
She has no idea, thought Wyatt, unable to bear his duplicity a moment longer. He cared way too much about Lucy to hurt her. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.” Before she could utter a word of protest, he stood and headed quickly for the door, resolved in what he had to do.
“What the hell were you thinking, bidding on that dress?” Cornelia kept her voice low so that only Fernanda and Parker could hear. She’d charged straight to their table as soon as the auction was over, head spinning with anger. “Lucy was twisting in the wind until you opened your fat mouth!”
“Calm down,” Parker said slowly. “You’re overreacting.” Fernanda, her face even paler and more drawn than usual, didn’t say a word. She sat with her arms crossed, not meeting Cornelia’s eyes, like a prisoner of war anticipating torture.
“Does the troll speak for you now, too?” Cornelia could feel a familiar hot darkness welling up inside her. She’d felt it for the first time when she was sixteen and her mother had forgotten that it was Parents’ Weekend at Groton and flown to Verbier with her Swiss “friend” Jacques instead. It was a dangerous feeling, Cornelia knew that. Her mother had returned from the slopes to find her friends all gossiping that she had chlamydia. “You’re just lucky your grand gesture triggered a bidding war, Fernanda. Where would you have gotten your hands on a spare five thou? You would’ve had to harvest a kidney—what’s the going rate for the internal organs of an aging, insolvent social has-been?”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” said Parker, his cheeks flushing. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Oh, please. You’re pathetic,” she spat back at him. “Broke, bald, boring—no wonder your wife dumped you. I guess Fernanda here is the best you can do.” She let out a laugh. “Do you have any idea how many men ol’ Fern here threw the cat to during her twenties, hoping one would make an honest woman out of her?”
“Get away from us, you viperous beast!” Parker flew to his feet, while Fernanda remained slumped, face buried in both hands. Though he was considerably shorter than Cornelia, the sheer force of his outrage pushed her back on her heels.
She became aware that people were starting to pay
attention. “No need to make a scene,” she sneered, pulling herself together. Cornelia Rockman would not be reduced to hysterics in the middle of the social event of the year. She would not raise her voice. She was, after all, a lady, and these two losers were so not worth it. Without a backward glance at Fernanda, she turned on her heel and walked away, ending eighteen years of friendship.
In a quiet corner of the now forsaken room where they’d had drinks, Wyatt punched in the phone number and prayed for voice mail. After all they’d been through together, he had no choice. Lucy was a human being, not a chimpanzee under observation. His mother was right: it was time to think of someone besides himself, for once.
“Wyatt!” Damn it, Kipling had picked up. Wyatt could hear the din of a restaurant in the background. “Good to hear from you, son, even at this late hour. Have you—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t publish the book,” Wyatt blurted out. With the utterance of each word he felt more weight rise off his heart.
“El, think you ought to slow down just a bit?” Lucy eyed her friend with concern. After Wyatt had abruptly vanished, leaving her stunned and breathless and bewildered by their kiss, she’d found Eloise with Max at the bar. Eloise, normally poised and soft-spoken, was in her cups—no state to help Lucy decode Wyatt’s hot-and-cold behavior—and had just overridden Max to order yet another martini.