by Bridie Clark
"No-brainer," Theo said, worshipping her.
"No, seriously, that trade is just foolish. You could bounce a quarter off that girl's--" Lucy quickly stopped herself. "I mean, she's gorgeous."
Theo laughed. "And here I thought you society chicks were supposed to be all reserved."
Lucy looked upset, as though he'd criticized her by saying she had a personality. When she spoke again, it was in a more subdued voice. "So do you work in finance, like your father?"
"Nah, I'm kind of the black sheep. I dropped out of college--my old man was horrified, which was only one of the reasons I did it--and fled to Los Angeles when I was twenty. I've never looked back. I needed to make something of myself, without his help."
"I get that," Lucy said. "So, may I ask what you made of yourself?"
Theo took a sip of his drink. Lucy didn't waste much time with small talk, which he found winning. "Well, I drifted around for a few years, promoting parties, pretending to produce films. BS-y Hollywood stuff. Then one night I was in a club in Compton, and I heard this fierce young rapper by the name of Sweet T. Somehow I convinced him to let me represent him. Things just went from there; now I work with a few dozen performers and have my own label. It sounds corny, but I kinda fell ass-backward into my calling."
"You seriously discovered Sweet T?"
"You've heard of him?" Was it Theo's imagination, or did she look impressed? He was shocked. Sweet T hadn't permeated the "mainstream" market yet--let alone the rich New York heiress market.
"Uh, well"--Lucy seemed to falter--"my, um, staff used to play his stuff. I'm not a huge rap fan. Classical music and opera are so much more my thing. But I appreciate talent when I hear it."
There was definitely more to this Lucy Haverford Ellis than met the eye. Theo was intrigued. "I'm glad I switched the seats," he said, guiding Lucy toward their table. He noticed that she glanced over her shoulder, presumably to look for her lost date. But Wyatt was too preoccupied with Irina, who was listening to him with wide-eyed interest, to notice.
"Me, too," Lucy said, accepting Theo's arm.
Lucy tried not to panic.
She could totally handle dinner without Wyatt next to her, kicking her foot whenever she started talking too much. Theo's full-court press was nothing to worry about. Nor was the fact that Mallory Keeler, the editor-in-chief of Townhouse, was right across the table, watching her closely through her horn-rimmed glasses. Wyatt had warned her that Mallory made a business of knowing who everyone was, whom they were sleeping with, where they got lipo, how much they'd overpaid for their apartment, which nursery schools had wait-listed their tykes. It was no secret that Mallory had been digging for information about Lucia Haverford Ellis, the enigmatic newcomer who was suddenly turning heads.
I can handle this, she thought.
She got through the first five courses--there were nine total, each served by her own personal server. But when she was taking the first bite of the seared duck foie gras, Meredith Galt--surprisingly strong given her Chihuahua proportions--pulled her stepson away from the table to introduce him to a few guests. And Mallory, barely missing a beat, slid into his empty chair.
Lucy put down her fork. She felt her posture straighten. She'd met Mallory at Topsy Matthews's at-home trunk show for the baubles she'd collected in India, but she and the editor had barely spoken.
"Stunning dress, Lucia," Mallory said, eyeing Lucy from head to pin-thin heels. It didn't feel like a compliment, not the way she said it.
"Please, Mallory, call me Lucy." She fought down her nerves. "You look lovely, too." Mallory was dressed in black Armani, a little severe but it suited her.
"Fendi, right?"
Lucy was surprised by Mallory's accurate guess. "That's right. The invitation said the dress was 'bear market,' and I had no idea what to wear. I would've shown up in a fur coat and shopping bag, if my friend Eloise hadn't stopped me."
Mallory smiled. She should smile more, Lucy thought. Softens her whole face. "Mind if I run that in my coverage of tonight's party?" Mallory asked.
"You're covering the party for Townhouse?"
"Just a little something for the social diary section. We've only got a skeleton crew of reporters, so I write whatever needs to be written. Speaking of, I hear Cornelia Rockman was vetoed from the guest list by Galt's wife. Any truth to the rumors that the two of you are at each other's throats? She doesn't seem like your biggest fan."
"Is that right?" Lucy remained carefully wide-eyed. No way was she going to get dragged into mudslinging. She didn't need Wyatt to tell her that was a bad idea. "I think Cornelia's lovely, actually, and she does so much good for the city's public institutions."
Theo, having wrested himself free from his stepmother, returned to the table. He hovered, clearly wanting his seat back.
"I meant to tell you, Mallory, that article you wrote on the history of tuxedos was riveting," Lucy said. "I read that issue cover to cover."
"Really? It's nice to hear that someone actually reads our stories. We're like the Playboy of the Upper East Side--everyone picks up Townhouse for the pictures, much as I'd like to pretend otherwise."
Now it was Lucy's turn to smile. Maybe Mallory wasn't as scary as she seemed. Just a hardworking professional, like Lucy--or like Lucy would be, once this socialite nonsense had served its purpose and she was working for a designer and climbing the ladder again, a few rungs higher. "At least they're picking it up. That's the first step."
"Mal, you should convince Lucy to be your next centerfold. I'd buy a few thousand copies myself," Theo said. "Now get out of my seat. I don't have much time to convince her to dump her uptight boyfriend for me."
Lucy bristled, but Mallory didn't seem to mind. "Actually, Lucy, we're shooting a huge fashion spread at the Central Park Zoo--profiling the most visible, stylish girls-about-town. Cornelia, Libet Vance, Anna Santiago, and a few others have all signed on, and we're devoting ten full pages of the next issue. We're raising awareness for the Wildlife Conservation Society. I'd love to include you in the lineup."
"Really?" Could it be this easy? Could she have arrived at the top of the pecking order so soon? Lucy glanced across the room to where Wyatt was seated--but with Irina next to him, cooing in his ear, he seemed to have forgotten that she was at the same party. It irked her that he could be so easily distracted. "I'll think about it, Mallory. Thanks."
As if she'd ever turn down such an amazing opportunity. Fortunately, Lucy had remembered just in time what Wyatt had taught her: Seem to take the attention of others for granted, as though it were your birthright. Never appear to be courting the press.
"I hope you'll do it. It'll be very elegant, I promise." Mallory stood up. "Theo, you're an ass." She said it with affection, and he laughed, jerking his thumb in the air. Then Theo plopped down next to Lucy, draping an arm over the back of her chair.
Wyatt stifled a yawn. It always surprised him how quickly the initial enthrallment of perfect beauty could wear off. Even at the height of his modelizing, he'd recognized the need for novelty to stave off his boredom. Irina had entered hour three of detailing the petty catfights among catwalkers; she'd introduced such a confusing mosh of names that Wyatt was reminded of a Tolstoy novel, except for her lack of plot.
At least he had all of Rome to gaze at. He had to give Meredith Galt credit--the artist she'd found had replicated the view with stunning accuracy, capturing the magic of Trinita dei Monti, St. Peter's, and Piazza Venezia. Renee Fleming sang in the next tent, her agile soprano voice ringing through the air, supported by the thirty-piece orchestra. If he could have been spending it with Lucy instead of the drone by his side, it would have been a great night.
"You seem distracted," Irina said, resting a hand on each side of her twenty-four-inch waist.
Women had been saying that to him his entire adult life, Wyatt realized. He looked over at Lucy, who was seated to the right of Theo Galt in the Metropolitan Opera tent. Ridiculous, this whole spectacle--we shouldn't have come. Who
throws a party like this in his own honor, besides perhaps Louis XIV? "Not at all," he told Irina. He forced his eyes back toward his dinner companion, which shouldn't have required as much discipline as it did. There was a time in his life when he would have listened to Irina recite the phone book, if it meant she'd go home with him. "You were telling me about how Daniella stole Dasha's, um . . . her feathers?"
Wyatt watched with mounting discomfort as Theo and Lucy left their seats and headed toward the empty dance floor at the center of the pentagon.
"Her peacock feathers! Exactly," Irina said. "She had to take the runway during the Dior show without two of her plumes. It was devastating . . ." As Irina continued her sad tale, allowing Wyatt to turn his attention back toward the central dance floor, he saw that Theo now seemed to be grinding up against Lucy. Was that his idea of a waltz? Had the man no sense of propriety? He was like a dog in heat. Worse, Lucy hadn't slapped him yet.
"The waiters better start checking pulses!" Theo grabbed Lucy and pulled her closer. She glanced around and saw that he was right--at every table, some of the guests were swaying a little or bobbing their heads, but overall there were few to no signs of life. They were the only ones dancing. Frankly, she'd rather be in her seat, too, enjoying her banana caramel dessert.
"You're not what I expected," Theo said.
"What'd you expect?" Uh-oh. She thought she'd been playing the part well.
"You know--a typical Park Avenue princess, terrified of how others are judging your every move--" He grabbed her hand and pulled her even closer. "Come to Spain with me."
"What?" Lucy was sure she couldn't have heard him correctly.
"I leave tomorrow for Barcelona. Come with me!"
Lucy stopped allowing Theo to push her around in small triangles. Barcelona on a whim, with a man she'd just met? She didn't even have a passport. The trip to the Palm Beach wedding had been her first time on a plane, a fact she'd kept even from Wyatt. Was this really how the rich lived, Theo and Trip and all these other heedless men, picking up and going whenever and wherever they felt like it? Inviting virtual strangers along for the ride?
"Why don't you call me when you're next in New York?" she asked. Theo Galt was undeniably attractive, but she wasn't ready to be whisked away. Besides, what would Wyatt think? She glanced in his direction, and for the first time all night, found him staring directly back at her. He drew a finger quickly across his throat, the universal symbol for "cut it out." She looked away.
"Fair enough," Theo said. "I'll just have to invent a reason to be back in New York soon."
A few brave others had joined them on the dance floor, now, but Lucy wanted to sit more than ever. She turned her back on Wyatt and his presumptuous hand gestures. How dare he tell her what to do, when he'd abandoned her for the entire night? She wondered if she'd have to find her own ride home. Better than suffering the awkwardness of riding along next to him and Irina.
Suddenly, from ten feet away came a thunderous crash--one of the ceiling lights came spiraling down, sending up a splash of electric sparks. "Fire!" someone screeched.
Lucy whipped around. The young woman next to her pointed a panicked finger toward a nearby table. As flames began to lick up, smoke billowed, and the once reserved crowd immediately devolved into frantic animals, rising up, kicking back their chairs, hiking their ballgowns to their hips, and stampeding to the exits.
When Lucy looked back, Theo was gone, snapped up in the melee. She strained to find Wyatt, but couldn't. She moved as quickly as she could to one of the exits, jostled by the type triple-A crowd, the toxic odor of the fake-Italian piazza burning her nose. Her heel--those goddamned five-inch heels--twisted and she could feel herself start to go down, pulled into the current of moving moguls.
"Got you," Wyatt said, scooping her back up. He kept her in his arms, moving deftly toward the doors. Lucy looked back over his shoulder, not believing the devastation. One of the handpainted frescoed walls had collapsed onto the ground like an overdone souffle. Rome was burning. And Wyatt was rescuing her from it all.
20
There will be occasions when the cook has the night off, and the couple has no plans to dine out. Thus the young lady should be schooled in the preparation of satisfying yet elegant meals that will remind her husband of his sound judgment in choosing a mate.
--Sarah Birmingham Astor, The Navigation of Society
Lucy! Hey, Lucy!"
She glanced across Lexington Avenue to see Max Fairchild waving frantically to catch her attention. That's how I know him. The memory slammed against her. Unfortunately for Max, he was wearing the same camel-colored trench coat he'd been wearing that rainy night back in December, immediately reminding Lucy of the gutless jerk who'd swiped her cab and left her standing in a puddle. When Max dashed across the street and kissed her hello, she couldn't erase the dismay from her face quickly enough.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
"I'm fine!" she said, recovering. She wasn't about to blow her cover. "Sorry I haven't returned your call yet. I've been so busy getting everything in order for my Townhouse shoot." Too bad he's an ungallant cab thief, Lucy thought, because he's very cute. He wore a moss green corduroy blazer and faded jeans, and his golden curls were unruly enough to suggest he wasn't too vain. "How are you?"
"Just lucky I bumped into you," Max said. "Any chance I could take you to dinner this evening?"
Dinner! Lucy glanced at her watch in a panic. Wyatt would be at her apartment in just twenty minutes and she had so much to do. "I'm cooking for Wyatt tonight. A little thank-you for all he's done for me, you know, introducing me to all his friends, showing me around New York." She held up the black and gold bag from Garnett Liquor, clinking bottles together. "Another time? May I call you tomorrow?"
"Of course. Have a nice dinner." Max looked so disappointed that Lucy instantly forgave him for the cab incident. He wasn't a bad person, she could tell--just a bit of a wimp. Then, remembering the duck a l'orange she'd left in the oven, she took off down the block in a full sprint.
"Will you please relax?" Trip said in an infuriatingly calm voice. "You're getting yourself worked up over nothing."
Eloise watched with shock as he crossed his modern, sparely decorated living room to pick up last week's half-finished Times crossword puzzle from the coffee table. He settled into an Eames chair. He uncapped his pen. All in all, thought Eloise, he was acting as though he hadn't just detonated an A-bomb.
"Nothing?" she repeated. Everything in Trip's black and gray living room seemed to have turned flaming red before her eyes. The old Eloise--the sweet girl who didn't want to pressure her boyfriend, who didn't want to force his hand--had officially left the building. That girl had gone dashing down the block as though there were a five-alarm fire in her boy shorts.
"I just don't think it really makes sense to redo my closets to accommodate your shoes, since you'll be moving back into your place pretty soon." Trip said the words slowly, as though dragging out his statement would make it any less incendiary. "I was just being practical--"
She shook her head so hard she could feel her brain quiver. "When you ask your girlfriend of eight years to move in with you, Trip, it's not exactly implied that she'll be moving back to her place in a few months!"
Trip looked thunderstruck. "What? I just assumed--" He caught himself. "You're right, El, we never talked about it." He put down the crossword and scratched the stubble on his chin. "So you want to stay here? Sell your place? Is that what you're saying?"
"I want to know we have a future together." She covered her face with both hands, rubbed the deep crease that had formed between her eyes. She was losing her grip on anger--she could feel it melting, and a deep sadness was filling its place.
Trip pulled her hands down and gave her a light kiss. "Of course we do, El. You know we do. That's never been a question, at least not for me." There was genuine concern in his eyes, she was relieved to see.
"So you see us getting married
and having kids someday?" There, she'd asked. The big, scary question that she'd been too chicken-shit to ask for the past several years was now hanging in the air between them. She could puke.
"Kids, sure. I mean, not right now, but maybe someday."
Maybe someday. Eloise forced herself to press on. "And marriage?"
"I thought we decided marriage wasn't us. That we'd do the Kurt Russell-Goldie Hawn thing instead."
Eloise struggled to contain herself. "When did we say that?"
"I don't know, I just thought we were on the same page." "We're as committed as any of the married couples we know. It's just a piece of paper."
"Then what's the big deal? We could just go down to City Hall and be done with it in an afternoon."
"You really think your mother's going to go for that?"