by Bridie Clark
"Trust me, my mother would be thrilled to get a postcard from the drive-thru chapel in Vegas."
Trip held out his hand, and Eloise reluctantly took it. His cashmere sweater smelled of cigar smoke. "I didn't know this was such a big deal to you, babe."
"It is," she said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her plaid pajama top. She realized just how badly she wanted a commitment--not to satisfy her mother or anyone else, but for her own sense of security. "It really is."
Trip's face had grown noticeably paler, but he wasn't running for the door. "Let me think, okay? It's a lot to take in all at once."
Eloise nodded, burying her head in the crook of his arm. It sure as hell wasn't unfolding like a fairy tale, but at least she'd broached the subject. Now she just had to be patient. She'd had practice.
When the doorbell rang, Lucy yanked the casserole dish out of the oven and dashed into her bedroom to change. Why did Wyatt always have to be so terribly punctual? The escargots were my first mistake. She ran a brush through her hair and swiped on some lip gloss. That beurre blanc sauce, so simple in Julia's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, had translated into a gluey mess, and the snails looked revoltingly gelatinous. She'd settled instead for a simple green salad, the ingredients of which she happened to have in the fridge. Then, by the time she got home from the liquor store, the smoke detector had begun to screech, and she'd opened the oven to find her duck a l'orange was charred. Net-net: at 7:45, just fifteen minutes before Wyatt was due to arrive, the "home-cooked gourmet meal" she'd promised was a blackened mess in the garbage pail. At least she hadn't set the place on fire.
Speaking of, they hadn't spoken much since Howard's sixtieth went up in flames last weekend. Nobody had been hurt, which was the important and rather miraculous thing, and Howard had been able to keep his wife from throwing herself in front of the fire engine. And now it was Tuesday, the agreed-upon night of their so-called date. Lucy wished Wyatt had never called it that. They'd had dinner together plenty of times before, though rarely just the two of them--and never for the sole purpose of enjoying each other's company.
"I'm coming!" she hollered, racing for the door while buttoning the front of her dress--which was one of Wyatt's favorites, the one he'd complimented her on when she wore it to the committee luncheon for the Vanderbilt gala. Lucy opened the door to see Wyatt standing there with a gift-wrapped box in his hand. He was wearing the soft cashmere V-neck she liked--a good color on him, navy blue--and she caught the subtle scent of cologne as he walked past her into the apartment.
Her heart was suddenly in her throat. It's Wyatt, for God's sake, Lucy thought. I spend a hundred hours a week with the guy. And I want to slap him during at least sixty of them.
"Thanks for having me." He wiped his hands on his trousers. So he was nervous, too. That was his tell.
"Thanks for coming!" she chirped. "Wine?"
He nodded with great enthusiasm. "Red, if you have it." He took a seat on Eloise's Brunschwig & Fils club chair as she went into the kitchen to pour. "Dinner smells delicious. Must admit, I'm famished. I spent the entire day working; it was five before I looked up at the clock. I skipped lunch and everything."
Lucy grabbed the wine and two glasses and glanced doubtfully at the sorry-looking dish she'd pulled from the oven. She had ended up throwing together a main course of . . . Hamburger Helper. Terrible. She loved the stuff herself, and she'd picked up a box along with some ground beef to have on hand for the rare nights she didn't have a dinner engagement and could cook at home. But in no way would it satisfy Wyatt's refined palette. At least she had the salad, plus some chocolate-dipped strawberries for dessert. Still, it wasn't much of a thank-you gesture.
"What are you working on?" she asked, leading him over to the small dining room table, where she'd already put out the salad. Wyatt always complained about waiting for a first course.
"Oh, you know--" Wyatt trailed off. He never wanted to talk about his work. Maybe he thought it'd be too far over her head, or maybe he just liked to leave it behind at the end of the day.
"I want to read your stuff someday." Lucy pulled out the cork and poured.
"Sure. Of course. Though it's pretty dull." He took a large sip of his wine. "This is good. You pick it out yourself?"
She nodded proudly. His twenty-hour wine tutorial hadn't been wasted. "Speaking of work, I called Mallory's office yesterday and told her I'd do the Townhouse spread. And even better, when I told her I was an aspiring designer, she told me I should bring some of my own dresses to wear! Can you believe it?"
Wyatt's face lit up. "That's great news! Of course I can believe it. I've seen your sketches--they're terrific." He took a bite of his salad. "Now you just need to find your own original vision, that's all."
She set down her wineglass. "What do you mean?" She had plenty of vision.
"Oh, just--think of the sidewalk artists we pass on our way into the Met. Some of them can replicate the masters with great accuracy. It would take a trained eye to tell a real Rembrandt from the one we saw on the curb. It takes talent to imitate so flawlessly. But it takes genius to create the original."
Lucy pushed her plate away. "My work is original, Wyatt. You don't know what you're talking about."
He seemed surprised by her reaction. "Don't be offended. I'm just saying--and you have to admit it's true--each page of that sketchbook you showed me was heavily influenced by another designer's vision."
"So what? You're saying it's wrong to find inspiration in other people's work?"
"I'm sorry I said anything. I didn't mean to upset you."
"Why would I be upset? You've just called me a rip-off artist." But even as she said the words, Lucy had the feeling he was absolutely right. She'd taught herself by studying the greats--Dior, Lagerfeld, Valentino--but had she ever designed something that was uniquely her? What would something uniquely her even look like?
"Just because you haven't done something doesn't mean you can't or you won't. I believe you have it in you. Don't forget, I'm an equity holder in Lucy Ellis Designs."
She breathed again. It was one thing to take Wyatt's criticism of her posture or her hair, another entirely when her work--her passion--was under his microscope. "I guess I'll have to figure it all out before the Townhouse shoot."
"You'll need some money to get everything made. Just tell me how much."
"I--no, I mean, I'll figure it out. I've taken enough from you already. And I mean, jeez, you saved my life on Saturday night!"
He brushed it off with a wave of his hand. "Got me away from Irina. God, she was a bore. Quite the sprinter, though."
Lucy cleared their plates and fetched the main course from the kitchen. This was the moment she'd been dreading. She watched him take his first bite of Helper. Wyatt immediately sank back in his chair, eyes closed, and Lucy could feel her stomach drop to street level. What had she been thinking? Who served a packaged meal to a gourmet like Wyatt?
"I can't believe it." He opened his eyes, but still looked dumbstruck. "You've matched her recipe perfectly! Did she teach you how to make this?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Boeuf a la Margaret! It was my all-time favorite dish as a child. I used to beg Margaret to make it every single night, and it's just as good as I remember. You weren't kidding when you said you could cook."
Was he serious? From the way he was gulping down forkfuls of Helper, it seemed that he was.
"Well, I made plenty," Lucy said, beaming. No need to give away Margaret's secrets. Watching Wyatt gobble down his dinner, she saw what he must have been like as a little boy.
"Theo Galt hasn't been in touch, has he?" he asked between forkfuls.
"Oh, he called yesterday. To make sure I'd survived, you know."
Wyatt shook his head. "Very nice. Where was he when it counted?"
"He says he got caught up in the swarm of people, and when he went back to look for me, I was gone."
Wyatt snorted. "I almost forgot. Open your g
ift." He picked up the box from the floor next to him and slid it across the table at her.
She opened the box and found a fine leather portfolio binder, absolutely gorgeous, a major upgrade from the plastic one she'd been using since high school. Just looking at it made her feel inspired. "Wyatt, it's beautiful," she said. "You shouldn't have."
"Something to capture your vision," he said.
21
Never wear anything that panics the cat.
--P. J. O'Rourke
Full diaper. Those were the words that flew to mind when Lucy tried on the monstrosity of a dress that arrived by messenger to her door just three hours before the Vanderbilt gala. A mustardy yellow guaranteed to make any skin tone look malarial, with a saggy cowl of a bodice and a huge pouf at the hips that made its way around to an enormous bustle and tight mermaid train, the dress made her look like she was packing a loaded Pampers.
"You can't wear that monstrosity in public!" Eloise declared, diplomatically given the circumstances, as she circled the dress. "I don't get it. Roland's line is so glam--look, even the label looks like it was stitched on by a two-year-old." The dress Philippe had sent for Eloise to wear to the event, on the other hand, was a one-shoulder Grecian-inspired gown in black silk. It was gorgeous, and perfectly suited Eloise's willowy frame, ethereal beauty, and current golden-blonde extensions.
"Is it really that awful?" Lucy pulled the hanger off the doorframe and held the gown up to her body, hoping to see it in a new light. She and Eloise had decided to get ready together before the gala, which meant that hair and makeup artists would be arriving any moment--Wyatt insisted on the full works before such a big event. Lucy's dress had been late in arriving, so now her hands seemed tied. Eloise had called Roland's office, but of course there was no answer. He was off getting ready for the Vanderbilt gala himself, no doubt.
"It's the most hideous thing I've ever seen in my life."
Lucy groaned. "So what should I do? We're all supposed to wear his dresses, right? I don't want to be a poor sport."
"We'll trade," Eloise said heroically. "I've been going to these stupid things for so long, nobody's paying attention to what I wear. Trip barely notices La Perla these days. I'll just duck around the red carpet."
"There is no way I'm letting you trade with me." Lucy was touched, but resolute. "You're a stylist. This dress will ruin your credibility." She squinted her eyes at the dress, praying for a vision. "What if I just made a few alterations? Do you think Roland would mind?"
"Honey, you would only be doing him a favor. Show up wearing that"--she pointed to the dress and involuntarily shuddered--"and his reputation will be just as cooked as yours."
Lucy grabbed her sewing basket and pulled out her scissors. Where to begin? The heavy yellow fabric had been stitched together with fluorescent threads, topped by a mammoth magenta explosion about the size of her head on the derriere. Bye-bye, bustle, if that's what you are. She snipped with the precision of a surgeon removing a tumor. And mermaid train, don't get too comfortable.
"Will you have time to take in the hips?" Eloise suggested after Lucy had cut the train and rehemmed the bottom of the dress. "That'll help a lot, I think. Here, let me pin." She set to work.
Forty minutes later, the intercom buzzed--Henri and Elizabeth, the beauty team, had arrived. Eloise lifted her head from the dress. "I think I like this dress. Is that possible? You just performed triage!"
"It's wearable now, right?"
Lucy slipped into the streamlined gown. She'd gotten rid of most of the inflammation. The color was still not great, and if anyone got too close they might notice the stitchwork was rushed, but it would photograph just fine. She spun in front of the mirror, scrutinizing their work. Not bad at all. She just hoped Roland Philippe would agree.
Fernanda pinned back her glossy hair, then changed her mind and let it swing down. Her mother watched her in the mirror. She always watched her daughter prepare for events, and tonight was more momentous than usual. "Thank him again for that dinner, won't you? Wear it down. It looks lovely down."
"You sent him a note, and thanked him twice yourself. I think Parker understands that you enjoyed your meal." Fernanda smiled indulgently at her mother. She was glad her mother approved so wholeheartedly. She and Parker had grown very close in just a few short weeks, and she'd specifically asked Roland's assistant to send her a dress in ivory--a subliminal suggestion, she hoped.
"Fernanda?" said her mother, untwisting one of the dress's delicate straps. "This is what I've always wanted for you, dear."
When Fernanda was fifteen years old, her mother sat her down during spring break and told her--in the stark terms that can only be uttered between mother and daughter, and even then only after a few cocktails--that she'd need to marry someone wealthy. Specifically: very wealthy. That goal had been reinforced, though never again so directly, for the past fifteen years. Fernanda had never questioned it, not really. She wanted the comfortable life that her mother wanted for her. Despite her high marks at St. Paul's and her Dartmouth diploma, neither woman considered that Fernanda could go out and earn that life for herself.
And now it looked as though she'd finally found success. Not only that--she really liked Parker. She could be herself with him. In fact, Fernanda thought as she gazed in the mirror, it's possible that I'm even falling in love.
"Lucy! Eloise! Over here!" a photographer called out.
Shoulders back, belly in. Arms held ever so slightly away from the body to avoid any unfortunate fat-squish. Chin slightly lifted. Lucy ran down the checklist of directions Wyatt had given her on posing, feeling more like a Balanchine ballerina than a girl getting her photo snapped. Lips parted. Forget saying cheese--it spread out the cheeks too much, very unflattering.
Just when she'd gotten into position, Lucy felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to find a pretty blonde in a dither. "I'm Laurel, Roland's assistant?" She had a lilting voice that turned almost everything into a question. "Is there a reason you're not wearing Roland's dress?"
Lucy cringed. So much for her delusion that nobody would notice. "I can explain--" she began, although she had no idea what that explanation might be. "I just made a few changes to it."
"What are you talking about? This isn't the silver dress we sent you yesterday."
"Yesterday?" Lucy's sense of suspicion began to tingle. "I got this dress a few hours ago. It didn't fit properly, so I made a few alterations--"
"Alterations? The dress we sent you had absolutely nothing in common with what you're wearing now." Laurel pinched the fabric between her fingers. "This is polyester? Roland is allergic to polyester--he practically breaks out in hives if it's in the same room."
"I knew it!" Eloise exclaimed. "I knew Roland had nothing to do with this dress! It was hideous, Laurel. Lucy worked some major magic to get it looking this good."
"So what happened to the dress we sent?" Laurel looked totally panicked.
There was a sudden commotion from the photographers. The girls craned their necks to see who was commanding the carpet and camera bulbs--and it was none other than Cornelia Rockman, wearing a silver gown and emerald earrings.
"That's your dress!" Laurel was fuming. "I sent it myself to be sure there'd be no mistake? The messenger said your doorman signed for it? How did she end up with it?"
Lucy didn't answer. She'd heard stories about husband hunting and nanny poaching on the Upper East Side, but dress-napping? That was a new one. Cornelia was a pioneer.
"Listen, Lucy, I'm sorry this happened? Hopefully we can find another occasion in the near future? So much from his new line would look beautiful on you."
"Of course," Lucy said. "I'm sorry it didn't work out this time." After Laurel had marched off to find Roland, Eloise turned to Lucy with unease in her eyes. "I know it's just a dress, but it's still creepy. What are you going to do?"
"What I have to do," said Lucy. One thing she'd learned from Rita: you don't start a fight, but if someone else does, you fini
sh it.
She strode over and took her place next to Cornelia, who gave Lucy's dress a confused once-over. Sticking her right foot out ever so slightly, angling her hips for the most flattering angle, Lucy could feel the photographers shift their attention toward her.
"Who are you wearing, Lucy?" called out one reporter.
"Just something I whipped up at home."
"Roland didn't give you a dress to wear?" Cornelia had the audacity to feign concern.
"Cut the bullshit, Cornelia." Lucy dropped her voice so only her red carpet nemesis could hear her, and she kept her expression pleasant. "I know what happened. And if it's a turf war you want, that's what you'll get."
Several hours later, Fernanda nuzzled up to Parker in the backseat of the Town Car. "My place?" he asked, giving the driver directions after she nodded her sleepy consent. They'd been among the very last to leave the gala, dancing and knocking back glass after glass of champagne. It was nearly three, and she could barely keep her eyes open. In fact, she might have drifted off to the land of Nod on their drive downtown had Parker not whispered three electric words in her ear.