by Bridie Clark
I've seen chimps with better table manners. "What's that?"
"In just three days, I've become Lucia Haverford Ellis, a blue-blooded, prep-school educated daughter of fortune."
Wyatt, looking up from his list, peered at her across the dining room table. "It's not quite as simple as saying the right things, or wearing the right clothes. It's your carriage, your delivery, your manners, your . . . aura. We're just sketching out some outlines that you'll have to fill in, and that's no small task. Everything about you will need to change for this to work."
"Awesome pep talk," Lucy muttered. "Hey, what do I say if someone asks about us?"
"Us?" Wyatt repeated. Margaret looked at him with curiosity.
"Yeah, us. I mean, I assume we'll be going out together a lot. What's our relationship?"
A good question. Wyatt couldn't decide what was riskier to his rep--claiming Lucy as a relative, or as a girlfriend. "We'll tell people we're old family friends. Known each other since birth. Practically cousins."
Lucy gave him a sideways look. "Got it, coz."
"Yeah, don't call me that. I'm just your wiser, older friend, showing you around the city as you take your place in society."
"Wiser, huh?" She took another swig of her juice, forgetting to pinch her nose. The shake left a disgusting algae-green residue over her top lip.
What have I gotten myself into? Wyatt blanched as she wiped her lip with the back of her hand.
Day Four, 4:52 PM
"Allow me to get the door for you, Miss Ellis," insisted the driver, rushing around to the side of the car before Harold, the doorman, could scramble out from Wyatt's building. Wyatt came out the front door just steps behind him.
"Thank you, Mark," Lucy said, feeling like royalty. She was sheathed in a mod navy minidress that made her legs look surprisingly long and attractive. Sliding out of the backseat, she caught her own reflection in the shiny window of the Town Car and tried not to gape. But wow. Pair Eloise's black book of beauty gurus with Wyatt's black Amex, and the results were pretty astounding.
That morning, Lucy's hair had been layered into a soft bob that reached almost down to her shoulders. Very Katie Holmes, claimed the hairstylist, after declaring Lucy's previous $9.99 Supercuts chop a crime against humanity. Her brows had been perfectly, painfully, painstakingly shaped by a so-called eyebrow doctor. Her smile had been brightened. Her skin, lavished with attention during an oxygen-infused facial, had never looked more radiant. Her feet and hands had luxuriated in warm almond-honey butter. She'd been waxed, buffed, shined like a BMW after a long winter.
"Ta da!" She curtsied before Harold and Wyatt.
"Not so fast." Wyatt looked stern. "Back in the car."
"Do I have another beauty appointment?" Every square inch of Lucy's body had been polished to a sheen. What more could be done?
"You're not Britney Spears. You need to learn how to get out of a car without flashing an entire city block. Try it again."
Lucy flushed. Not that she'd been expecting a compliment or anything crazy like that--but she couldn't help feeling a bit deflated. It was so like Wyatt to find something to criticize. "I'm wearing under-wear."
"I know. Purple."
"And I know how to get out of a car!"
"Apparently not."
She got back in the car, cursing him silently. Then she slid out--again--this time scooching across the backseat in little jerky motions.
"Again," he ordered.
"Okay, I know I didn't flash anything that time. Harold, did you see anything?"
Harold shook his head. He seemed disappointed.
"You looked ridiculous," Wyatt said, sounding exasperated. "This time keep your knees firmly pressed together, and don't wiggle so much. It should be a smooth, graceful movement."
She tried it again.
"No," he said.
Again and again, she piled in and out of the car door. Several taxis beeped at the parked car, but Wyatt waved them off. "I'm getting butt burn!" Lucy complained on the fifth take.
"Not perfect, but better," Wyatt finally declared when she'd managed to keep her ankles together. "Come inside. Now we're behind schedule."
Could he be any more condescending? "Thanks for the lift, Mark," Lucy called to the driver, who'd returned to the front seat.
"Anytime. You look great, Lucy, like a real movie star."
"Aren't you nice?" She gave Wyatt a pointed look as they headed inside, but he didn't seem to notice.
Day Five, 10:43 AM
"Right hip forward, left leg back." Angelique, the German model Wyatt had recruited to teach Lucy proper carriage, demonstrated the pose in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror that took up one entire wall of Wyatt's private dressing room. She gestured for Lucy to do the same.
"It looks like you're about to steal second base," Wyatt chimed in from his armchair in the corner.
"I'm trying!" she yelled back. Lucy adjusted her back leg but she still looked awkward. There was just nothing natural about standing like this, even if it did "shave inches off her hips," according to Angelique. Lucy wondered briefly whether Wyatt and Angelique had a romantic history. Judging by the flirty little smiles the model kept sending his way, she guessed they did--or soon would.
"Why don't we try walking instead?" Angelique was losing patience.
"Don't let her off the hook that easily, Ange. Lucy can't walk before she's mastered at least one camera-friendly pose."
"But that could take hours." Angelique's full lips popped into a pout.
Lucy felt her temper flare. A towering six-foot beauty with long blonde locks and cheekbones that could cut stone, Angelique probably couldn't relate to anyone who didn't roll out of bed ready for a close-up. Annoyed, Lucy jutted out her hip again, throwing back her chin slightly.
"Yes!" Wyatt exclaimed. "Much better."
"Finally," Angelique said. "Now try this one." She pivoted her willowy frame so that the imaginary camera in front of her caught one side of her body and a bit of her back. Then she coquettishly turned her head, chin nearly at her shoulder, and smiled.
Lucy imitated, casting an insouciant grin at Wyatt in the mirror. He squinted back, examining her clinically, and then nodded. "Not bad," he declared. "Great job."
"Hey, thanks!" Lucy spun around to face him, shocked to hear praise escape his lips.
"Great job, Angelique. Now, Lucy, you may try walking."
Day Six, 3:12 PM
"Fill in the blank," Wyatt said. When Lucy emerged from the dressing room at Bergdorf in a black satin Dolce & Gabbana, he immediately shook his head. The dress was too overtly sexy for their purposes. He sent her back behind the black velvet curtain to try on the next outfit. "The gay male walker is a blank part of the socialite's arsenal."
"I don't know." Her voice was muffled by whatever she was pulling over her head. "Outdated?"
"Essential. Charming, stylish, erudite men never go out of style. I've booked you several lunch dates at La Goulue with the best in the business, so to speak. I won't be able to go with you to every event, you know. I've got my own work to do."
Lucy pushed back the curtain, flush-faced from the exertion of trying on three racks of clothes in record time. Now she modeled a sophisticated Rodarte cocktail dress in muted pink chiffon. It showed off her figure, which had already been significantly whittled thanks to Derrick. Wyatt gave a thumbs up.
"Give me three As Mother always says," he said.
Back in the dressing room, Lucy was working her way into a cashmere sweater-coat and black cigarette pants. "As Mother always says, better to be overdressed than underdressed. As Mother always says, you can tell a great deal by the way a man eats his soup." She threw back the curtain for Wyatt's input on her latest ensemble.
He nodded appreciatively. "Perfect for weekends, you know, around the house."
"Around the house?" Checking the price tag, she pulled a face. "You seriously think an eight hundred dollar sweater is appropriate loungewear for a Sunday at home?"
"Of course. You have to be camera-ready at all times. What else does Mother always say?"
Lucy sighed. "One can't put a price on quality."
Wyatt smiled. She was learning. And he was getting everything he needed for his book, working feverishly at night after fourteen-hour days with Lucy. The Overnight Socialite, he and Kipling were thinking about calling it. This experiment would be a landmark in anthropology--and it could jump-start his stalled career.
Day Seven, 1:54 AM
"How many times do I need to tell you? The G in Gstaad is silent!" Wyatt circled the couch where Lucy was now slumped like a wilted tulip. Though they'd been working tirelessly on her elocution, Lucy's a's remained as wide as the Great Plains, and her frequent "you knows" and tendency to rush-right-through-a-sentence-without-pausing-for-air were putting up a tenacious fight.
"The snow in Aspen puts Gstaad's to shame," Lucy repeated lifelessly.
"Get the marbles out! You're still mumbling." Growing impatient, Wyatt tapped his notebook with his pencil. "From the top."
Lucy held up an index finger instead, taking several thirsty gulps from her water glass. Another ugly habit. Would he have to reteach the girl everything?
"Can we finish this tomorrow?" she whined. "I'm seriously about to pass out. And it's Christmas Eve."
"We'll be finished when you've got it right!" Wyatt barked. Did she think he was enjoying hour six of listening to her butcher the English language? That he wouldn't rather be drinking southsides on his mother's terrace, the white lights of her twelve-foot Christmas tree twinkling behind him? "From the top, Lucy. And for God's sake, sit up straight."
She cleared her throat and collected herself into an erect posture on the front of the couch. "Didn't we meet in Capri last July?" she continued, saying each word cautiously.
"Yes!" Wyatt stopped in his tracks. "Yes!" It was the first time she hadn't pronounced the name of the island like those unflattering three-quarter-length pants. "Go on, go on!"
"I don't want to be known merely as the Ellis heiress," Lucy continued, looking surprised herself. "I prefer to be judged on my own merit."
"Yes! That was actually good!"
"I was raised in Chicago, and my family summers in Nantucket." Lucy looked equally shocked by the patrician accent leaving her lips. "You remind me of my roommate from boarding school." They stared at each other in disbelief as she continued. "Who sets foot in Manhattan after Memorial Day?"
"That's it!" Wyatt could barely restrain himself from jumping up and down. He closed his eyes. "Again!"
"The snow in Aspen puts Gstaad's to shame!" Lucy shouted.
"I think you've got it!" Wyatt exclaimed. For six entire sentences she had sounded like a born-and-bred socialite, blue blood coursing through her veins. He grabbed her by the hands and pulled her up off the couch.
"One week in Ibiza and I don't need to go clubbing for the rest of the year!" she said, pronouncing the z as "th."
"By George!" Wyatt, unable to contain his excitement, scooped Lucy around the waist--smaller, now, he noticed--and began to dance with her around the room.
"Didn't we meet in Capri last July?" She beamed up at him.
"You've got it!" he exclaimed, twirling the girl in his arms.
12
Wyatt's Book Notes:
Dominance among male cichlid fish is correlated to bright coloration. When researchers experimentally manipulated subordinate male cichlids into developing this bright coloration, they found that the fish began to exhibit dominant behavior within minutes. Similarly, the effect of a simple makeover and improved wardrobe on L.'s psyche was an astonishing phenomenon to behold. Though our work is just beginning, there's no doubt that designer clothes--and never the same outfit twice--do indeed make the socialite.
How do you properly thank someone for hooking you up with a personal chef who usually keeps a six-month waiting list?"
"Handwritten thank-you note, delivered by messenger the next day?" Lucy tried to hide her breathlessness as Wyatt took the front steps at the Heritage Museum two at a time. With their experiment now almost two weeks under way, Wyatt had gotten into the habit of drilling her constantly. Ever since she'd had her breakthrough, she'd stopped hating it so much. When she answered correctly, it could actually be fun--and that was happening more and more often.
Wyatt made a buzzer sound. "Wrong!"
"An elegant arrangement from Plaza Flowers?" she panted. After double sessions each day with Derrick the ex-SEAL, she should have been able to scale the side of the museum without breaking a sweat. But she was huffing for air keeping up with Wyatt's long stride. They were going to see the new Pierre Bonnard exhibition, and Lucy had been up late the night before learning about the Nabis, the group of Post-Impressionist avant-garde artists of which he'd been a member. Required reading, but it was actually pretty interesting, and Bonnard's use of intense, high-keyed color spoke to her as a designer.
"Try again," he said.
"An invitation to join my table at an upcoming benefit?"
Wyatt rolled his eyes. "Not even close."
"I know! A dozen pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes." Wasn't that what Jessica Seinfeld gave Oprah? Lucy felt sure she'd gotten it right this time. Wyatt had spent yesterday afternoon explaining to her the rules of reciprocity in establishing "tribal ties." He called it tit-for-tat behavior, explaining how chimps--and humans--used mutual back scratching to build alliances. Reciprocity was the glue that held social groups together. And what woman wouldn't appreciate Louboutins as barter?
"Unless the chef is Thomas Keller, you massively overshot. The correct answer is: invite her to your weekend home in Millbrook."
"Wyatt, I don't have a weekend home in Millbrook!"
He halted at the front entrance of the museum, considering this fact. "Fine, then, the flowers."
Flashing his "Friend" card at the ticket counter, he waltzed by with Lucy in tow. Then he typed something quickly into his BlackBerry and hit send before tossing it back into the pocket of his cashmere overcoat.
Cornelia--got your messages. Thanks for the wine. In midst of new project and very busy. Be well, W.
Be well? Be well? fumed Cornelia, examining her poinsettia-red thumbnail. She was lounging by the pool in Palm Beach. He might as well have written "eat shit and die." And who sends a half-assed text message in response to a bottle of '82 Chateau Mouton Roth-schild? How rude. She laid her right hand on her taut stomach, toasty from the morning sun, and thrust her unpainted left hand toward the manicurist.
Although she'd spent the past week at her parents' home (they were in London, making it an ideal time to visit Palm Beach), Cornelia had continued her now monthlong campaign of contrition for posing next to Theo Galt. Days after the Townhouse party, when Wyatt hadn't returned her phone calls, she'd e-mailed him a Patrick McMullan snap of the two of them, a reminder of how good they looked together. No response. Then, before leaving for Florida, she'd pounced on Margaret as she left his building, pressing into her hand a small package for Wyatt containing the handkerchief he'd forgotten at her place the first night they'd kissed at Socialista. She hoped it would spark memories of their private after-party. Apparently, it had not. Finally, after too many unreturned calls and e-mails, she'd been reduced to raiding her father's wine cellar. And still all she'd gotten in response was his stupid text!
"Still bumpy," she whined, holding the nail two inches away from the manicurist's face. The young Hispanic woman had been sent by an agency that delivered manicurists, masseuses, acupuncturists, and yoga instructors to Cornelia's door, which kept her from having to mingle with the hoi polloi.
"I don't see any bumps, Miss Rockman," the woman answered. "I've redone the nail three times. I think it looks perfect."
"Excuse me?" Cornelia's nostrils flared slightly. She jumped up from the chaise longue and stretched her legs, casting a shadow over the shallow end of the pool. "I'm not paying for a mani-pedi that looks like it was done by a blind chimp." Mentioning
the chimp reminded her of her anthropologist ex-boyfriend, of course, which made her even more irritated.
"Okay, I can redo--"
"Nor do I have time to sit here watching you botch it up again!"
The manicurist sighed. "That's fine, Miss Rockman. See you again the same time next week?"
"I suppose. But tell Esmerelda no tip. I check the petty cash, you know." The woman began to shuffle toward the house with her heavy kit. "Just because I'm a Rockman doesn't mean I'm an ATM!" Cornelia yelled after her. Her mother, Verena, had always warned her about people--from men to manicurists--looking to "get theirs." Gold diggers. Parasites. Verena knew something about the profile: she'd married Cornelia's father when she was a twenty-three-year-old Scandinavian swimsuit model and he was a sixty-two-year-old senator with a heart condition. Against all odds, Cornelia's father was now past ninety, and Verena was a smokin' fifty-two-year-old rumored to have men in many ports.