The Overnight Socialite

by Bridie Clark

  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 Chloe 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 fete 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 Renee 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.

  "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."

  Lucy took this in. She was starting to enjoy Wyatt's theories. "So why are you and I here, if Howard's party is just about racking up the IOUs?"

  "If you're going to be the reigning socialite in this city, you need a foothold in all these different worlds. The Howard Galts of the world hold a certain kind of power. I'm not so naive as to think that the old WASP establishment is the only one that still matters."

  "Admit it, you came for the caviar," she teased, watching him spoon still more onto his plate.

  "Wyatt! Lucy!" Meredith Galt, a petite, surgically beautiful brunette, darted toward them like a silverfish. She pressed each of them against her sequined gown, her protruding ribs making for a notably uncomfortable embrace. "I'm so glad you could be here. It means the world to Howard to be surrounded by his close friends tonight."

  "We wouldn't have missed it, Meredith," Wyatt said.

  "Yes, thanks so much for having us," Lucy said. "This party must've taken months to plan--"

  "A year, darling, with a dozen so-called 'planners' on board to help. Of course, I ended up doing almost everything myself. When you have the vision of what you want, it's easier to do than to delegate." She spoke as though her inspiration were on par with that behind the Sistine Chapel. "I told one of the planners that we wanted doves to be released at midnight, and she brings me these mottled, gray birds--I swear they were pigeons! Can you imagine? But it's done. All for Howard, you know?" She smiled with feigned modesty.

  "And it's amazing," Wyatt said. He took a deep breath, inhaling for two.

  "Isn't the air especially amazing?" asked the hostess.

  "The air?" Lucy and Wyatt looked at her blankly. The caviar, the monogrammed everything, the ski run--amazing. But the air? Come on, now.

  "Imported from Switzerland. Cost a small fortune. But it adds a certain authenticity, don't you think?" Then, remembering the business at hand, Meredith fixed Wyatt with her dark eyes. "Make sure you find Howard, won't you? You know my husband. He'll get deep into conversation with some brilliant curator--we've got several here tonight, of course--and completely lose track of the hours. He has such an insatiable passion for art!"

  "We'll make sure to find him," Wyatt said.

  "Howard's into art?" asked Lucy as they made their way further into the vast tent. It surprised her--although she'd met him only once, at a dinner for the Central Park Conservancy, from the way he'd massacred his steak and limited his conversation to berating tax hikes on the nation's top-earning one percent, it was hard to imagine he had a softer side.

  "Doubtful. Meredith's been buttering me up for weeks; she wants Howard's name on a wing of the Vanderbilt, and she knows I'm on the board. Nobody's going for it, no matter how big the check."

  This was even more surprising. "But there are names plastered all over the museum. The bathroom stalls are in somebody or other's honor."

  "Howard's richer than Croesus, but he's rubbed a lot of the board members the wrong way. Still, Meredith's his most ambitious wife yet, so maybe she can pull it off."

  Lucy suddenly felt a blast of the chilled mountain air. "I never realized the social world was such a calculating place. Doesn't anyone operate without an agenda?"

  "Not really. But you'll get used to it."

  Lucy shivered. "I hope you're wrong about that."

  Theo Galt remained quiet and watchful. Over the shoulder of one of his father's business associates, his eyes were trained on a gorgeous gazelle in a saffron silk dress. Lucia Haverford Ellis. She was a stunner, but not like the dime-a-dozen beauties he collected in L.A. You could tell this girl had class. And Theo was a sucker for class.

  This wasn't a first sighting; he'd actually done some homework on Lucia (Lucy, as she modestly preferred to be called) after glimpsing her across the room at a crowded downtown exhibit several weeks before. Some socialite had tacked the contents of her fridge on the walls. He'd been immediately transfixed as Lucy floated around the gallery kissing friends and glancing at the artwork only as much as necessary. Her apparent boyfriend--some buttoned-up dude named Wyatt Hayes, whom his stepmother seemed to revere--hadn't left her side for a moment, but then he'd pulled her out of the party abruptly. Theo could understand why the guy was so possessive; he would be the same way, if given the chance.

  "Your father was among the brilliant few to foresee the subprime disaster," gushed the associate, who seemed to be squeezing in as many compliments per minute as he could. "He deserves every penny of the billions he made."

  Theo watched Lucy laugh at something her date whispered in her ear. From the way she tilted back her head, exposing her graceful throat, he could almost hear her tinkling laugh from across the room. According to Rex Newhouse (the authority on such matters, his stepmother informed him), Lucy hailed from an old-line Chicago family who'd made their fortune in the timber industry. She devoted her time to philanthropy and fashion, wrote Rex. And the dozens of photographs confirmed that her legs put Elle Macpher-son's to shame.

  When Wyatt strayed momentarily to pick up the seating cards, Theo gave a discreet nod to a lanky blonde bombshell in a dress the size of a Post-it note. She quickly descended from her box in the Metropolitan Opera tent and glided across the room to intercept him.

  With Lucy unguarded, Theo made his move. He didn't bother to excuse himself mid-conversation from his father's drone. He knew the man would be forgiving. The gazelle looked up when he was less than ten feet away, as though sensing his approach. Up close, Lucy's neck was long and graceful. You could tell she'd studied ballet for years.

  "Theo Galt. I'm Howard's son," he told her, stretching out his hand. There was no better opening line, as long as the girl knew who his father was--and more importantly, that his net worth equaled the GDP of Cyprus. And, of course, everyone in attendance tonight knew both.

  But Lucy only blinked, as though stunned that anyone would dream of approaching her. It was appealing. A challenge. When she spoke, Theo was surprised by the strength of her voice. "Lucy Ellis. Good to meet you."

  "I know who you are." He smiled confidently. "I saw you at that gallery opening, the one with all the fruit, but you left before I could get to you."

  He made her laugh. "You must not have been trying hard enough."

  So there was a flirt underneath her icy heiress facade! "You're right, and I take full responsibility. But I didn't give up after one at bat. I asked my stepmother to make sure we were seated next to each other this evening."

  "How flattering. I assume she granted your request?"

  I assume she granted your request, Theo repeated in his head. He would've gotten a giggle from a girl in L.A. He really had a thing for this Lucy. Perfectly proper, but t
here was something behind those extraordinary eyes that suggested she might be fun, too. "Actually, no. She didn't want to piss off your date, some hoity-toity dude I apparently should've heard of?"

  Lucy laughed again. He was on a roll. "That would be Wyatt," she said.

  "So I had to switch the cards without her knowing. Now Wyatt's seated next to my date. Look, they've found each other."

  Lucy followed Theo's pointed finger. The blonde was draped over Wyatt's arm, laughing way too hard at some story he was telling. Lucy turned her attention back to Theo. "You're telling me that you gave up Irina Natrolova to sit next to me? In case you didn't realize, she's the face of Prada. I'm the face of nada." She laughed, and a tiny snort escaped. Blushing, she clapped her hand over her mouth.