by Bridie Clark
22
Lucy Ellis, squired as usual by Wyatt Hayes IV, stole the red carpet at last night's Vanderbilt gala in a little something she "whipped up at home." The girl never ceases to amaze.
--Rex Newhouse, www.rexnewhouse.com
Theo kicked his feet off the desk and peered more closely at his computer screen, which he'd just refreshed to find newly posted photos of Lucy at the Vanderbilt gala. She looked even more stunning than he remembered, dressed in a golden gown that flattered her complexion and dark hair. But there was Wyatt, lurking in the background of several candid shots, looking smug. Theo had been kicking himself ever since the conflagration at his father's party. How he wished he hadn't panicked at the first taste of smoke in his mouth and sprinted for the nearest exit; if only he'd done the more gentlemanly thing, he might've gotten a leg up on his East Coast competition.
His eyes fell on a photo of Cornelia, who, he conceded, had also looked gorgeous in a silvery dress. Maybe he should help her. A quick recording session, just to see if she had any talent, might not be a bad idea. His father would hate that he was doing it--that one bathroom grope had cost him more than the collapse of Wall Street--which sweetened the idea in Theo's mind.
But then his thoughts turned back to Lucy. How could he make it up to her?
The next morning, as Lucy lay in her sudsy lavender-and-honey bath, chilled cucumber slices resting lightly on her eyelids, she felt . . . well, as tightly wound as the spring in a pogo stick. Lately, even in the rare moments when she had time to unwind, her mind raced. She took a deep breath as the hot water melted her muscles, sore from yesterday's rigorous double workout with Derrick. She rested her head against a rolled-up Egyptian cotton towel, and then lifted her pedicured left foot onto the bathtub's porcelain ledge, watching the steam lift off her exposed leg. Just minutes before, from the window seat, she'd watched snow come petaling down to the ground. Relax, she told herself. But she couldn't. It was impossible to stay in the moment.
In the past two months, she'd been transformed from Wyatt's plus one to a bona fide It girl. First came the invitations to store, restaurant, and club openings. Book launches. More benefits than one human being could attend. Ladies' luncheons. Screenings, the occasional premiere. Birthday parties for people she'd met once or twice. Then there'd been a flood of dinner invitations buzzing through her BlackBerry, at least two on any given night: the Hendersons at Elio's, the Martins at their home on Central Park West, the van Severs at Swifty's. The alligator Smythson appointment book that Wyatt had given her was overflowing. And so was her closet--since apparently one of the golden rules of the socialite biz was that you couldn't wear the same outfit twice.
And the barrage of press was just plain mind-boggling. This morning, she'd flipped open the New York Times to discover her first party photo on Bill Cunningham's Sunday Styles page, a rite of passage if ever there was one. She'd clipped it out, neatly storing it in the cream-colored box her first pair of Manolos had come in, along with a photo of her from Tamsin and Henry's wedding that Quest had included in their coverage of the event. There was even a little photo of Lucy, taken at Libet's exhibition, in this month's Vogue! Lucy Jo Ellis--well, Lucia Haverford Ellis, but close enough--had appeared in Vogue!
And then there was the Townhouse spread, now just two weeks away. And of course, the legendary Forum Ball--the exciting, if terrifying, culmination of their experiment. She still couldn't believe she'd be there.
The doorbell rang, breaking her thoughts. Probably the messenger with my dress for tonight's dinner. She pulled herself out of the bubbles and threw on a fluffy white robe. Max had called earlier that week and asked her out again--she'd had to decline. He was starting to take the hint, she hoped. Even if she had been romantically interested in him, which she just didn't think she was, her calendar was fully booked. Tonight she and Wyatt were heading to an intimate dinner for eight at the Waverly Inn. The group, comprised mainly of cooler-than-thou downtown scenesters who called themselves artists but didn't seem to produce very much art--had as little to say as their more buttoned-up Upper East Side counterparts, but Wyatt insisted she make inroads into every "scene." Lucy always angled to sit next to Wyatt, who never suffered a shortage of unexpected opinions.
"Coming!" she called, tying the sash tight and leaving little puddles across the living room floor with each step. She unlocked the door and gasped.
"Lucy Jo!"
"Rita! What are you doing here?" Lucy asked, unable to keep the panic out of her voice.
Rita--a short, stout woman with brassy highlights self-streaked through her copper hair--pushed a copy of Vogue, open to the spread with Lucy's photograph, into her daughter's face. "Some way to greet your mother! You don't return my calls, so I had to come in person." She barreled past Lucy, knocking her with an alarmingly large suitcase and taking in the apartment. "This is your friend's place? Cute." Then she flashed an ear-to-ear grin and dumped the suitcase on Lucy's left foot.
"What are you doing here?" Lucy repeated, feeling ill.
"I guess you were waiting to tell me?"
"What are you talking about?" Lucy asked.
"Your new life, kid!" She waved Vogue in Lucy's face again. "My friend Brenda brought it in to the salon. At first I wasn't sure it was you. You look different, so classy. The city's been good for you. Anyway, they got your name wrong--where'd that Haverford come from?--but there's no mistaking my little girl."
My little girl? Those words had never left her mother's mouth before. Lucy, feeling weak, sat on the arm of the couch.
"You didn't mention that you were famous!"
"I'm not. It's just one photo, Rita."
"But you should see how many photos there are of you on the World Wide Web!"
Rita had learned to use the Internet? The sky should be falling at any moment.
"Bren's boyfriend looked up the name on his computer. Pulled up a website that shows photos of you out on the town every night, dressed to the nines, rolling with a bunch of Richie Riches." Rita whistled through her front teeth.
Lucy, suddenly hot, shoved open a window in the living room. "Why didn't you call first? I could've planned better--"
"Thought I'd surprise you!" Rita fingered Eloise's curtains. "Brenda was tickled to take care of the kitties, so I packed a bag and hopped on the bus!"
"How long can you stay?" Lucy asked feebly.
"I'm in no rush!" Rita looked pleased. "And here I thought you were strapped, working for that designer. I guess you just got a big raise, huh?"
"Actually, I lost my job before Christmas. I should've told you sooner."
"So where's the money coming from?" asked Rita. "Are you dancing? I always said you'd be able to make good money, and now you look better than ever--"
Lucy shuddered. Only her mother would view exotic dancing as a promising career choice. "Nothing like that. It's, um, a social experiment. My friend Wyatt's a biological anthropologist--a scientist who studies the relationship between humans and primates--and he's been teaching me how to be, um, a socialite." The experiment had stopped seeming weird to Lucy, until she said it out loud. "When it's over, he's going to help me get a job working for an amazing designer, a job I couldn't seem to land on my own."
Rita nodded approvingly. "I saw that Wyatt guy. Quite the looker. Is he also your beau?"
"No! No beau! No." Lucy could see Rita's mind working. "It's just a business proposition. That's all."
Now it was Rita who looked shocked. "Hold on, now! It's one thing to dance--hell, I'd do that myself if I still had the body for it. But I didn't raise my daughter to--"
"Rita! Wyatt and I are strictly platonic. We're just working together, like, professionally."
"What's in it for him? You'll get a leg up in the fashion business, but what's the gravy on his potatoes?"
Lucy let out a frustrated sigh. "It's a bet with one of his friends. These guys, Rita, they're not like the guys we know back home. Wyatt's got spare time on his hands."
&n
bsp; "And spare money, seems like. So he's using you as a guinea pig--and bankrolling this new swanky lifestyle."
Lucy hated feeling like a kept woman, and she could hear the kaching sounds going off in Rita's head. "Well, more or less. I borrow a lot, too. That dress I wore in the Vogue photo was borrowed from an up-and-coming designer."
"You know I have nothing against borrowing," Rita declared magnanimously. "Share the wealth, I always say. Speaking of which, I spent my last dime coming out here. I had to get a New York wardrobe, once I saw how swanky you're looking these days." She unzipped her suitcase and pulled out several tiny little dresses, each in a different animal print. "I brought my nails, though, so once we find a few investors, I'll be back in the black."
The relative peace of Lucy's warm bath seemed lifetimes ago. "I don't have any money, Rita. I'm just as broke as I've always been."
Rita didn't look concerned. "Your friend Wyatt does, though, right?"
"I can't ask him for money. He's done too much for me already. But listen, in a few months, when I've got my career going full-steam, I can help you--"
"You're selling yourself short." Rita Ellis lowered her voice. "I'm sure you could find some way to convince this guy to part with some cash. Use your feminine wiles, darling--"
Lucy felt the anger rising in her chest. "In a few months, Rita, when it's my money to give. You know I'll be there for you. That's the best I can do."
Rita frowned hugely. She shook her head. "I come all the way out here, leave my whole life behind--"
"If you'd called, I would've told you to stay home!" Lucy snapped. As soon as the words left her mouth, she could feel them hit Rita hard. She'd never spoken so disrespectfully to her mother. Rita's penciled eyebrows arched in hurt surprise, before forming an angry downward arrow.
"I didn't realize!" Rita declared. She grabbed her suitcase and moved toward the door. "I won't stay where I'm not wanted!" She waited a beat, giving Lucy the chance to stop her before charging out of the apartment.
Lucy let her go. She watched the door slam behind her mother.
Her hands trembled as she headed back into the bathroom and pulled the plug in the tub. She watched the iridescent bubbles swirl down the drain as though pulled by some invisible hand. She's never exactly been Mother of the Year. Lucy pressed both hands over her face. She could ruin everything for me.
She walked to the apartment door, then changed her mind. No. Too much at stake. Lucy glanced in the entryway's gilded mirror. She'd developed a habit of tucking invitations into its ornate edges. They were too beautiful--the hand-engraved calligraphy, the Mrs. John L. Strong card stock--to hide, or keep stacked on a tray. Now the mirror was starting to look overgrown, almost wild. Lucy could barely see her own reflection.
She threw on her snow boots and raced out the door after her mother.
Trip had cooked dinner, set a small table in front of the fireplace, and uncorked a bottle of wine they'd bought on their last trip to Tuscany. Eloise didn't need her mother whispering in her ear to wonder if he was up to something. Ever since their blowup about the closet last week, he'd been quieter than usual. At the end of the meal, Trip dipped fresh biscotti into the vin santo and brought it to her lips.
"You make me so happy, El." His voice was lower than usual. Eloise, watching him over the flickering candles, felt her heart start to pound. It's happening. She realized just how badly she wanted it. "We were made for each other." Trip reached across the table for her hand.
A moment of silence passed. Then another.
Reach into your pocket. Drop to one knee. Please!
As though she were controlling his thoughts, Trip moved one hand slowly toward the pocket of his sport coat, and extracted a small midnight blue box. She shut her eyes. Her joy was overwhelming. When she opened her eyes and then the small box, she saw before her not an engagement ring but a plain brass key.
"Happy Valentine's Day. Since we're officially living together," he said, "I thought you might like your own key." He smiled as though he were the sweetest, most thoughtful man on the planet. Eloise wanted to dive across the table and bite his face.
"But Trip, darling, I've had keys for the past four years," she said carefully.
"Really? Well, right, but this is sort of a symbolic key. To show we've taken the next step in our relationship."
She wished she could feel excited about that. "Unlocks the same door, right?"
"Well, yeah, but--c'mon, El, it's a sign of our new commitment." She could feel her heart harden against him. She was thirty-five years old. How could Trip really expect that sending his household manager to Ace Hardware constituted an adequate "sign of commitment"? She pushed her chair away from the table.
"Where are you going?"
"I think I need to spend the night at home. I mean, my home. By myself." Her voice was croaky. She didn't have much time before this became a bigger, more unpleasant moment than it already was. Eloise escaped as quickly as she could, grabbing her coat and pretending she didn't hear Trip calling her name.
Ground rules. Lucy would simply explain to Rita that she wouldn't be able to run roughshod over her entire life. There would be no borrowed earrings, credit cards, prom dates like old times. There would be boundaries. Lucy rested her full basket on the counter in front of the Duane Reade cashier. Rita had reluctantly agreed to set up camp in Lucy's old Murray Hill studio (Wyatt had been paying her rent, presumably so she could move back in after the Forum--one of those thoughts she preferred to avoid). The place was just as Lucy had left it--inhospitably bare-bones--so she was stocking up. But that would be it. She would not be pulled into the cycle of providing for Rita's every need.
By the time she'd hauled the heavy bags back to Eloise's apartment, Lucy felt okay. Better than okay, really. Maybe it was time to give Rita another chance. She opened the door just as Rita unleashed a peal of laughter. And then--
"I should've told him where to shove that key!" Eloise. Fark. She must've come home and met Rita.
"I know I just met you, honey, but can I tell you what I think?" Rita asked. Lucy rounded the corner of the foyer to find her mother dispensing Kleenex and advice to a tear-streaked Eloise as they lounged on the sofa like sisters in a very peculiar sorority. She felt a rush of concern for her friend; Trip must have really stepped in it this time. "Get yourself knocked up. Call me old-fashioned, but he sounds like the kind of guy who'll do the right thing."
"Rita!"
"Not like this one's old man," Rita thumbed toward her daughter. "Saw the pregnancy test next to the sink and ran out so fast he left a jackass-shaped hole in the door."
"Heartwarming," Lucy remarked. She put down her bags. "El, what happened? Yesterday you seemed so happy--"
"Yesterday I thought I'd be engaged today!" She choked back sobs. "Rita's been great, Luce. I told her she's welcome to stay here"--she heaved for breath--"as long as she needs to."
Rita, still patting Eloise's platinum blonde spikes, looked up and smiled. "Lucy thinks I'll embarrass her," she said, playing the martyr to the fullest. "I know she's trying to convince everyone she comes from a highfalutin' family, but I won't blow her cover. I know how to act classy. I've watched The Real Housewives. I know how to act like a rich bitch."
"I'm sure you do," Lucy said. She straightened her posture, summoning up the inner alpha that Wyatt had been helping her to find. "But you can't blow this opportunity for me. I won't let you. Either lay low in Murray Hill until the Fashion Forum Ball, or take the next bus back to Dayville." She ignored the horror-stricken look on Eloise's face. Her friend didn't understand.
"Fine." Rita pouted, but then turned to look at Eloise brightly. "Have I showed you my nails, doll?"
23
Wyatt's Book Notes:
L. enters new situations with trepidation, and appears overly impressed with existing alphas. Missteps still abound. For example, upon spilling some red wine on the light-colored couch of a hostess, L. made a squawking display of cleaning it up, revealin
g her subordinate status. I told her afterward she should have apologized quickly and called for the maid--something I had witnessed C. do just months before.
In the Harvard Club's wood-paneled grill room, Dr. Kipling crooked one bushy white eyebrow as he lavished butter on his popover. "Define 'not so sure.' "
Wyatt folded his hands over his plate. "About the ending, I guess."