by Bridie Clark
Lucy gingerly carried her masterpiece into Eloise's living room, where Wyatt sat on the couch waiting for the unveiling. "I can't believe I'm asking you this--but please, be critical." The dress had turned out just as she'd imagined it, thanks to Doreen's careful execution, and struck her as exactly right for the Ball's "Fauna in Fashion" theme. It was regal without being princessy, and she felt a surge of pride knowing it was her very own creation. Tout le monde who mattered--she'd even begun thinking in French Snob, thanks to Wyatt--would see it on display at the Ball next Saturday.
Wyatt looked at the dress, then raised his eyes to Lucy. "It's perfect," he said. "I can't believe you did this. You're--"
She interrupted him by letting out a squeal, feeling the knots in her stomach release for the first time all week. The dress was ready. So was she.
"Listen," he said. He squirmed in his chair. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something."
"Wait, just hang on a sec." She ran into her bedroom, grabbed the envelope off the bureau, ran back, and waved it at him. "Before I forget, here's the money from my first commissions. Libet and Anna both placed orders after the Townhouse shoot. Doreen says she'll have them finished in a week or two." She handed it to him. "I've kept a pretty careful tally of how much I owe you, Wyatt. This is just a start."
Wyatt looked down at the envelope in his hands. "I can't take this--"
She'd expected resistance. "Of course you can. You're my first investor, and you made all this possible. I know you hate mushiness--but you've given me so much more than money. You've completely changed my life."
He turned the envelope over, uneasily. "I can't take credit for what you've done."
"We've both done it. Team effort." She smiled. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Huh? Oh, never mind. Nothing important."
Eloise took one last look in Trip's bathroom mirror before grabbing her clutch and racing down the stairs to the waiting car and her soon-to-be fiance.
This had to be it. She was terrified to hope, but really, Trip had given her no choice but to have the utter expectation of a proposal. For starters, he'd announced that he'd made reservations at an "undisclosed location," and Eloise would be brought there blindfolded. Last week she'd overheard him talking on the phone in his study about making a "huge commitment," and being finally ready "to pull the trigger." She'd stood at his study door a second longer than she should have, unable to tear herself away, and had distinctly heard her boyfriend--her soon-to-be fiance!--say that he'd "been thinking about it for a long time, but now the timing feels right." Besides, after their last fight, Trip would have to be a complete turd to lead her down the wrong path again.
Eloise smoothed down her Brian Reyes dress, an understated white and tan strapless with a sleek silhouette. Paired with a cashmere cardi and simple clutch, it was just the demurely sexy look she needed for the night.
Her BlackBerry buzzed. "Sweetie?" she asked, picking up. "I'm on my way right now."
When she emerged from her building, Trip was standing outside the Mercedes, holding a dozen red roses and a blue and gold Hermes scarf. "No peeking," he instructed, giving her a surprisingly languorous kiss before tying on the high-end blindfold.
Heart galloping, Eloise groped her way into the backseat. "Hi, Raoul," she giggled, waving her hand blindly.
"Hello, Miss Carlton," the driver answered. "You're a good sport."
The drive took longer than Eloise had expected. Maybe it was the blindfold, maybe it was her nerves, maybe it was Trip's uncharacteristic silence from the seat next to her--but what was probably a ten-minute trip felt more like an hour. Finally, Raoul pulled to a stop and she could hear him shift into park.
"We're here?" she asked.
"We're here, baby doll," Trip said, holding both her hands. "Can you handle the suspense for one more minute?" She nodded, smiling, while Trip got out of the car. A moment later, the door on her side opened, and his hand took hers again, helping her out.
"Where are we?" she twittered, loving every second as Trip led her forward. She could hear their feet crunching on gravel, and then the silk blindfold was untied--
"Surprise!" Trip shouted, as she struggled to orient herself.
They were standing on the dock of the Boat Basin on the Upper West Side. Eloise recognized the site from her early days in New York, when she'd lived in the neighborhood. "Are we taking a boat ride?" she asked. It was the perfect night for a proposal on the Hudson River, with Manhattan on one side and a deep orange sunset on the other.
"We're taking many boat rides," Trip said. He pointed to a flag-blue Hinckley docked close to where they stood. A huge American flag was mounted off the rear on a mahogany pole, and printed in navy-and-gold block letters on one side was the name Eloise.
"There she is," Trip said. "The Hinckley T38R Convertible. Hand-built, open all the way up to the cockpit. You and I can take her to Nantucket this summer--it'll be amazing."
Eloise just stared at the boat that bore her name. "This is my surprise?" she asked, feeling seasick.
Trip, who'd been looking at her with hopeful anticipation, suddenly realized what he'd done. His face dropped. "Babe, I haven't forgotten about our conversation. I promise. I just need some more time. I thought you'd be excited--El, you look kind of green."
"You're not planning to propose tonight?" she asked.
"El, lovebug, we've talked about this," he said. He shut the car door so Raoul, staring straight ahead in the driver's seat, wouldn't hear.
"So you're not."
"I thought you'd be excited! C'mon, sweetie, I'll give you the tour, you'll love it--"
"There is no chance I'm stepping on that boat." Eloise felt seconds away from a Krakatoa-style eruption. "You need to tell me right now, Trip, right now--are we getting married or not?"
Trip stared at her. "You're not serious. You can't expect me to respond to an ultimatum like that, to agree to change my entire life--you know how I feel about marriage."
"Does it matter how I feel?" Eloise demanded. The crux of their problem, she suddenly realized, was Trip's unwillingness to put her needs ahead of his own. "What kind of sicko plans this whole blindfold thing"--she threw the Hermes scarf on the ground. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged them off violently--"and doesn't propose?" She was going to puke.
"Don't do this, El. We just moved in together--"
Her anger left her winded; she struggled to catch her breath. "Don't you dare act like I'm rushing you!" Eloise opened the car door and threw herself in. "Raoul, please take me home." But she could see the driver pause, not wanting to piss off his boss. It's always about Trip. Trip's program, Trip's feelings, Trip's decisions. She got out of the car. It was hard to control her body, but she did, running as fast as she could in four-inch stilettos.
"Eloise, please wait!" Trip dashed after her, grabbed her arm, and forced her to teeter.
"Don't speak to me unless you're ready to propose!" she shouted at him.
She was that girl. He'd turned her into that girl.
She kept on running, running, running. Past the crowds perusing the fruit stands outside Fairway, past the sidewalk where John Lennon was shot, past the evening joggers in Central Park to Fifth Avenue. One of her feet was bleeding, the other felt raw with blisters, but she didn't care. The sun was gone by the time she reached her own block. Eloise was too devastated to cry.
"Hello, Justine. This is Alison Pearce, Parker Lewis's new secretary. Mr. Lewis asked me to call you for a copy of his most recent summary of assets. We didn't receive one last month. Maybe because of Mr. Lewis's recent move? I know everything's been a little chaotic. Uh-huh. Uh-huh, perfect. Could you fax it to two-one-two, five-five-five, nine-eight-two-zero? Thanks, Justine. I'll let you know when it's come through."
No sooner had Fernanda hung up the phone than she heard the squeak of the front door hinge and the sound of Parker dropping his keys on the console table.
"Parker, is that you?" she
called, running a hand through her freshly blown-out hair and trying to calm herself. He could have easily caught her mid-snoop; she was getting sloppy. "In the bedroom, sweetheart!"
"Hey, hon. This is a nice surprise." Parker, wearing a pin-striped bespoke suit and a robin's egg blue tie she had picked out for him at Bergdorf, looked a bit weary as he crossed the room to kiss her hello. "Dinner's at eight, right?"
"Yes, but I told Nelson and Ava that we'd swing by their place at seven for a quick drink. Is that okay, darling? Didn't your assistant mention it?"
Parker glanced at the clock. It was already six thirty-seven. "Maybe she did. It's been such a crazy day, Fern. Have you seen the news? The financial markets are taking a historic beating--"
Fernanda uncrossed her legs and stood up from the bed. "Poor puppy," she said, smooching his neck. She hated when he got all doomy-and-gloomy about the economy. "A nice night out with friends will cheer you up."
Parker looked unconvinced. "Where are we going?"
"Bouley. Ava made the reservation."
"Fine, but if Nelson Miller orders the eighty-eight Chateau Haut-Brion like he did last time, he's paying for it. After a day like the one I just had, it will not cheer me up to drop a thousand bucks on dinner."
Fernanda, horrified, stopped inspecting herself in the mirror and whipped around to face her boyfriend. "Parker! Say you're joking. You would never--"
Parker looked at her blankly. "I'll get changed fast, and then we can go."
"Okay!" she called after his retreating back. She pushed out of her mind the specter of an embarrassing moment with the dinner check. Parker would never be that gauche. "I laid out some clothes for you. Figured you'd want to change out of the suit you've been wearing all day."
Parker popped his head out of the walk-in closet. "I'm a fifty-two-year-old man, darling. I've been capable of dressing myself for a few years now." He said it lightly, but she could tell she'd overstepped.
"Just trying to help!" she called, hiding the hurt in her voice. Parker really was in a black mood today. You'd think he'd show some gratitude for the effort she'd put into eradicating his ex-wife's tackola influence on his wardrobe--he had more Gucci loafers than you'd find in Cipriani on a Saturday night.
"I know you are, sweetie." Parker, now in his boxers, sat down on the chaise in the corner and patted the spot next to him. Fernanda perched beside him, careful not to wrinkle her sapphire-toned Michael Kors frock. "You know what it is? I just need more downtime. It seems like we're always running somewhere. I need a night or two each week where it's just you and me, some takeout, in our PJs by eight." He smiled, and Fernanda smiled back--although she felt more like crying. PJs by eight? The mere mention of downtime was such a downer.
Ever since Cornelia had planted the nasty little bug in her head, Fernanda had been obsessed with sleuthing out the truth about Parker's financial solvency. She'd started with his BlackBerry and e-mail account, logging in whenever she had the chance (his password had been easy enough to guess: Fursnickety, that nasty little vermin his wife had understandably left behind). Other than the pang of guilt she'd felt after reading an e-mail to his college buddy in which Parker had gushed about how happy Fernanda made him, she hadn't gotten much out of her efforts. Then last Friday she'd overheard him wrapping up a call with someone named Justine. When she teasingly asked about the other woman, he'd revealed that she was his private banker at JP Morgan--and so, of course, Fernanda had seized the first opportunity to scroll down in his BlackBerry call log and take down Justine's information for herself. She'd phoned from his apartment so that her number wouldn't pop up on Justine's caller ID. It was risky, but Justine didn't seem to suspect anything.
Was it wrong? A gross violation of his privacy? Clearly, yes and yes. But she was her mother's daughter, after all, bred to care about money first and foremost.
"Are you okay, babe?" he asked, touching her cheek. He turned on the lamp next to the chair, warming the room in a soft yellow light. "I'm not saying I don't want us to have a social life. Just more balance. Like maybe this weekend, you and I could go away to my cabin in the Adirondacks and just--"
"This weekend?" Fernanda nearly hyperventilated at the thought. "That's impossible, this Saturday is the Fashion Forum Ball! I've had my dress for four months! Cornelia's one of the Ball chairs and she'll kill me if I'm not--"
"Okay, okay," he said, taken aback by her impassioned response. Fernanda thought she heard him sigh. "Another weekend, then. No big deal."
As he stepped into the closet to dress, she dashed off to the fax machine, where Justine's report was waiting.
28
The countdown is on, fellow fash-addicts! Tonight is the glitziest, most exciting party of the year, the nexus of East Coast aristocracy and old Hollywood glamour, of dazzling haute couture and American heritage, of five-star fame and fifth-generation power. It's the Fashion Forum Ball, and we'll be on the red carpet to give you your fix.
--www.fash-addict.com
Now do you remember why eating is kind of important?" Lucy clucked, circling Eloise with her pincushion.
With a sigh, Eloise hitched up her flax-colored strapless dress--ingeniously decorated with pheasant feathers and antique beading and right on the money for the Ball's celebration of fauna in fashion. The dress had been designed by Lucy, Eloise's designer of choice these days, and stitched with the expert help of Lucy's former Nola Sinclair colleague Doreen--but it was now dangerously loose on Eloise's diminished frame. Since the breakup with Trip, her appetite had collapsed and she'd been subsisting on the three C's: coffee, champers, cigarettes. "Just don't let me dance. This dress will be down around my waist by the first chorus. No offense to your pinning job, of course." Eloise lifted her arm so that Lucy could get in a bit closer.
The two friends, at Wyatt's insistence, were getting ready in a lavishly appointed suite at the Carlyle. It was an extravagance, but it was the only surefire way to avoid wrinklage; the museum was just three blocks away from the hotel. Since two that afternoon, Eloise and Lucy had been ensconced with an entourage of hair and makeup gurus. Eloise had to admit that the suite--with its framed architectural renderings by Piranesi and its sweeping view of Central Park--was a refreshing change of venue, considering she hadn't been out of the apartment or her sweatpants since Trip broke her heart.
Feeling a familiar lump in her throat, Eloise reached for her pack of cigarettes. "What if he shows up with a date? I mean, it's possible--"
"He's not showing up with a date, El. I called Margaux's office myself. Trip RSVP'd solo. Double- and triple-confirmed."
"Fine, what if he goes home with someone?"
"I will personally kick his ass down all fifty front steps of the museum. But he won't. This is Trip we're talking about. He might be an idiot, but he's not a bad guy."
Eloise let out a deep exhale, but wasn't reassured. She wondered if she'd ever stop feeling queasy. "I'm sorry, you must be so sick of listening to me."
"I'm not. You're being incredibly strong." Lucy smiled kindly at Eloise, dodging the small cloud of smoke she'd just exhaled and putting the final pin in her bodice. "There. You look beautiful."
"Thanks," she answered. She just hoped Trip would think so. "So do you, Luce, really." She just knew that Lucy's diaphanous cream-colored gown, hand-pinked at the edges, would steal the show. The soft layers of chiffon made it look like she was walking through clouds, while the bodice was molded perfectly to Lucy's svelte silhouette. The dress reflected a vision and attention to detail one might expect from a Paris couturier, not a girl from the Midwest. Lucy looked like the modern embodiment of the Roman wilderness goddess Fauna, from the warm olive undertones of her skin to the delicate gold Manolos that laced up her legs.
"Can I admit something?" Lucy walked to the window and looked out at the sun melting over the trees of Central Park. "I know I should be nervous about the auction, the press reaction to my gown, meeting Margaux Irving for the first time--and trust me, I am." She shivered at
the thought. "I really am. But my mind keeps racing with . . . I don't know, other thoughts. I'm just not sure what will happen after tonight with me and Wyatt."
As distracted as Eloise had been with her own crisis, she wasn't blind to the growing chemistry between her friend and Wyatt. "Listen, four months ago, Wyatt was pretty much a nightmare, in terms of women. Selfish, shallow, elusive--"
"Obsessed with his place in the world. Yeah, I know--"
"But he's changed a lot. Frankly, more than I thought Wyatt would ever be capable of changing." So unlike Trip. Eloise poured herself another glass of Veuve Clicquot, hoping it might inspire a more festive mood, or at least steady her nerves.