Wolves in Chic Clothing

by Carrie Karasyov

  “So Julia,” said Polly. “Lell tells me you volunteer uptown—way uptown—a couple days a week?”

  “Oh, yeah. I work with girls, we do art projects, jewelry making—”

  “Whoa,” said Polly. “Could you be more perfect? What, are you home polishing your halo?”

  Julia smiled uncomfortably. Was that a compliment? Or not?

  “So,” said Lell, looking at her gang, changing the subject. “How excited are we for the weekend? I can’t wait.”

  “It’s going to be a blast. Party central. Full-on posse weekend, sans Meredith, who I’ve kicked out of the posse. But everyone else is going out this weekend,” announced Polly. “Everything’s heating up for a really fun season.”

  Julia was super-psyched but slightly apprehensive. She looked over her fellow lunchers and then at her own duds. “What should I pack?”

  “Julia,” Lell carefully treaded, looking to Polly for support. She had been wanting to have this conversation with Julia for some time. While she admired Julia’s unique style, sometimes she felt that it bordered on sloppy. There was a very fine line between grunge and edge. You can dress eclectic, as long as the eclectic means Marni instead of Prada.

  “Now that you are a face of Pelham’s, maybe there are certain things you might want to think about with regard to image . . .”

  Gulp. “Okay, sure . . . I’d appreciate your advice. I know I’m not exactly the country club set.”

  Hope looked at her friends nervously as they rolled up their sleeves to jointly launch their makeover tactics.

  “Okay,” started Lell. “First of all, those flip-flops you wore to work the other day during the freak heat spell? You need a heel. Even just a kitten heel. Yours looked too . . . beach.”

  “So I should save them for this summer?”

  “Well, no,” said Lell. “I don’t think they’d go over in Southampton.”

  “But I thought the Hamptons was the beach. You guys always say, We’re going to the beach.”

  “We all call it the beach,” said Polly, rolling her eyes, “but it’s not really the beach.”

  Lell shot Polly a look, implying she’d take it over from here. “Julia,” she said, as if talking to a four-year-old. “It is a beach. It’s just not Venice Beach. We don’t actually go running in the waves. Especially not in March. But even if it were July, we just basically walk Main Street, shop around, maybe drive to Southampton, go to the Club, have lunch, stuff like that. But people really do dress up.”

  “Okay. So no flip-flops. Do heels.”

  “Well, you can do flip-flops or flats, but maybe go for a Jack Rogers or a fun Manolo flat. Something cute and stylish. Sigerson Morrison. Kate Spade, you know,” offered Polly.

  “Another shoe thing,” started Lell, taking a deep breath. “Those,” she said, looking at Julia’s chunky platform slides, “are maybe too clonky.”

  “These?” Julia looked down.

  Polly studied the horrendous footwear. Like Steve Madden exploded. “Here’s how I like to think of it. Women’s feet should be dainty. Small. Feminine. Not like two cinder blocks strapped onto them! What’s delicate about that?”

  “Another thing, speaking of feet . . .” started Lell, looking at Polly. “It’s about the anklet.”

  “You gotta lose the anklet. And the toe ring,” Polly interjected. “I know it seems hip and stuff, but there is no room for toe rings. Our feet are not hands. They are feet. Don’t try to fingerize them.”

  “Okay,” Julia nodded, gulping her water. Sheesh.

  “And the pedicure . . .” Lell ventured.

  Julia studied the deep almost black shade of blood red that was visible through her stockings. “Too dark?”

  “I know maybe Wicked is really downtown and vampy and all that, but it looks a little violent,” Lell explained. “I’d go with Ballet Slippers or Like Linen only.”

  “I always get Mademoiselle,” said Polly, sticking up a perfectly pummeled, scrubbed, polished foot. “Dark is too scary. We aren’t goths.”

  “But Lell,” Hope said, feeling horrible about this superficial assault on Julia, “you totally had red once. Red is fun. I get red.”

  Polly shot Hope a silencing look. Clearly she was trying to make Julia feel more comfortable, but she was interfering with their Eliza Doolittle intervention. “Hope, that was for a theme party, that’s different,” she chastised. “It was a Latin-Chic event, remember? The Red Hot in Rio ball for the Young Committee to Fight Rosacia.”

  “Even then, the darkest we’d go is maybe a cherry red,” Lell told her with earnest eyes. “But only for two days and then you have to go get a change of polish. Back to Ballet Slippers.”

  Polly nodded in agreement. “The red can chip. There’s nothing worse than that. You don’t want to have that prostitute-in-San-Juan vibe.”

  “It’s like what I was saying about some of your clothes,” said Lell softly. “There are ways of looking edgy without looking dirty. Go with the groomed choices.”

  “Like with your hair,” added Polly, as if giving a killer stock tip. “A bun should be always be sleek, not too thrown together and messy. Maybe use some Fekkai shea butter balm.”

  “Okay,” said Julia, now looking at the menu to distract herself from the barrage of rules. Oooh, hamburger. Perfect.

  “If you want to go messy and windswept,” said Lell, “then you can go to Frédéric Fekkai to get it looking windswept and messy. It’s just done with more precision. On purpose. You know, like I said, put together.”

  Gustave the waiter came with his pad and looked at Julia. Great. Finally chow time.

  “Hi, um, I’ll have the burger please, medium rare.”

  The girls all looked at each other. Shock. It was as if she had ordered a plate of fried maggots.

  “I’ll have the Salade Folle, please,” said Polly with a smirk. “Dressing on the side.”

  The waiter looked at Lell. “Same,” she said.

  “Same,” said Hope.

  After the menus were collected the four sat in silence for a second. Oops. Did Julia get the wrong dish? They all clearly liked this salad. “So, is this salad like the specialty of the house or something? This must be one badass pile o’ leaves!”

  The girls looked down. “Julia,” Polly started. “Why French fries and burgers always?”

  “I . . . like them, I guess. I know, it’s so bad, right?”

  “Terrible for you,” said Lell. “I always say, keep it clean and lean.”

  “See,” said Polly, “it’s like what we were saying about feet. Dainty. Elegant. Small shoes, small portions. Yes, you are thin now, but I am looking at you, not your DNA. I can’t see your ancestors! Were they skinny? Scandinavian? Were they fish eaters? These things matter. Your genes are the forecast for your thighs. But because we can’t see backward and see portraits of our forebearers, we must be careful. It’s just not worth it. There’s nothing worse than being fat.”

  “Except chipped red nail polish,” said Julia.

  Lell and Hope laughed. Polly flared her nostrils and looked at Julia. “No,” she said coldly. “Fat is worse.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Julia said, stopping Gustave on his way back to the kitchen. “Make that four Salades Folles instead.”

  chapter 17

  It was the painful, tragic blight of the MTV generation of quick editing, strobelike images, and a remote control that could power through a hundred channels in a single bound. It was tearing through homes—ravaging even in the upper crust of New York Society, breaking hearts and shattering dreams: Attention Deficit Disorder had to be stopped. Now.

  The tearful, hopeful plea came from the chairman of FADD, Vaughn Tiverton, who interrupted the light conversation and clinking of sterling silverware on china plates to give his imploring speech on behalf of the cause. The bow-tied and dressed-to-the-nines glittering crowd stopped eating or fake-eating, an art mastered by those at Lell’s table, who expertly pushed the food around, managing to eat only the de
corative greens, somehow making the rest of the food magically end up on one side of the plate.

  “Ugh, the speeches are the worst part about these things,” said Polly, in a loud whisper to Julia.

  Julia made a nice half smile–slash–grimace to acknowledge the comment, but she didn’t want to speak while the chairman was talking. Polly paid no mind to the podium, continuing on as if she were in her own living room. “See that girl with that tacky body glitter? She’s the worst. She’s obsessed with us, such a climber. Her name’s Pansy von Oppenslauffer. Everyone knows she added the ‘von.’ Pathetic.”

  Julia recognized her from the floor at Pelham’s. She was very statuesque and always seemed incredibly sweet, even to a little nobody salesgirl like Julia.

  “She thinks she’s so great, but she lives in a postwar Trump horror show.”

  Hope overheard the comment and winced. What kind of bitchy things was Polly saying behind her back? Hope looked at Julia, who was bristling in a similar way. If Polly could only see the dump Douglas and I share, sheesh.

  “Anyway,” said Polly, looking at other women around the room. “She’s not nearly as bad as Sommersby McClintock. She is such a raging self-promoter! Look at her scanning the room for Mary Hilliard to photograph her. She came out with that retarded coffee table book on designer tree houses in the Hamptons and now she thinks she’s an author. She even got new stationery made at Mrs. John L. Strong with an engraved quill on it! I mean, as if she’s William Shakespeare or something! What a joke. It’s self-published! It’s literally Shady Oak Press. Who are we kidding here?”

  “Shhh,” Lell said, across the table. “Poll, we can’t hear.”

  Polly’s blood froze. Then boiled. How dare Lell admonish her in front of everyone. What a goody-goody. Christ, she was only whispering!

  Finally the speeches were wrapped up, with the delivery of the fantastic news that the evening had grossed a whopping $2.3 million.

  Charlie always rolled his eyes at these grandiose numbers. “But what’s the net? They never tell you the net,” he said to Hope.

  “It’s still major, though,” she answered, always the optimist.

  “Yeah, but how much do the caterer and flowers cost? A shitload.”

  Julia imitated her tablemates’ golf-claps as the band resumed playing. A beret-wearing Bill Cunningham snapped the floating gowns of women spinning on the floor of the Burden Mansion with their husbands. That was Lell’s cue. Cameras flashed and she had to go get some of the action—that’s what Daddy would want. Ahhh, work. It never ended. She had to go promote the company! With that, she took her husband’s hand. But even as he rose from his seat, Will’s eyes were locked on Julia, who was almost too gorgeous to behold without panting.

  As all the other couples rose from their seats, Julia realized she would be left alone in their wake, with empty Champagne-flutes and full plates of food.

  Hope caught sight of Julia not budging as Henny took Polly’s hand and Lell took Will’s. “Julia, do you want to come dance with us?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, it’s okay, you guys go.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Charlie. “We can all go—”

  “No, no, you guys go ahead, I’m fine!”

  As the couples hit the floor, Julia looked around the glistening ballroom. This was so incredible. It was more dazzling than the fanciest wedding she had ever attended—before Lell’s, of course. The three-course meal, the twenty-piece orchestra, the lighting, the decor, the flowers, it was all so stunning she felt like it was a royal ball. And this was just any night of the week for them! What lives they led. How amazingly fairy tale–esque.

  Just then, she saw tons of lights flicker as Lell stopped dancing to pose for the hordes of photographers that swarmed around her to snap her couture Balmain gown. The beading alone must have taken ten people a hundred hours. It fell to the floor in a wave of shimmering tulle, and her hair swept her bare shoulders in a perfectly coiffed, glossy mane. Very few people knew the facts of her nightly preparation, but Douglas had heard through a friend who worked at a hair and makeup artist agency, that she had Miami Papadam on retainer, and he’d come blow out her locks and apply makeup for $2,000 a night. All expensed to the company, of course, since she had to maintain “a look” for Pelham’s sake. Douglas always dumped on the fact that she was spending like this, but now that Julia saw how much attention she got—as if an invisible red carpet was laid out just for her at each of these engagements—maybe she did need to look a certain way. Maybe there were always two sides to every story.

  Meanwhile, amid the blinding flashbulbs, one thing was constant: the gaze of Willoughby Banks’s eyes on Julia. She looked away from his piercing stare, then subtly back again to find his wide pupils still inhaling her. Then, never breaking his gaze, he walked over to her.

  “Sorry you’ve been left here. Lell is occupied at the moment,” Will said, glancing at his preening wife. “Shall we?”

  Julia nervously took his hand and went out on the dance floor. They shared barely one measure of a waltz together when Lell came back, finished with her spontaneous photo shoot. “Oh, Will, you are too sweet to take care of Julia. Thanks, dear.”

  Patrick McMullan, who had been snapping Lell, had followed her to this mysterious, gorgeous creature. “And who have we here?” he asked.

  “Patrick, this is Julia Pearce, our new special projects consultant at large for Pelham’s Important Jewelry.”

  “You’re a knockout, sweetie!” He started taking her picture. And one thing is for sure: flashbulbs beget flashbulbs. Within seconds, ten paparazzi were snapping away. Julia shyly smiled and looked to Lell for some kind of coaching. Her look said “this is so weird,” but her stunning face and bod were born for it. Lell and her society cronies had the perfectly positioned pose they struck on these kinds of occasion—like young up-and-coming starlets trying to be glam divas at the Oscars—always trying to channel the old-school glamorpusses of yesteryear. It was the one foot in front of the other with a hip twist, always accentuating the waist, and therefore bust, with a peek at the slim calf coming out. It was an art. One that was not too hard to master. Julia had seen Lell do it, and every actress at every movie premiere she’d read about in Us Weekly, so she gave it a try.

  One foot out, twisting slightly. Flash.

  “Give us a smile,” Cuddy McGill said. “Right here!”

  Flash.

  “Who is that pretty young thing?” Joan Coddington whispered.

  “It’s the new head of something or other at Pelham’s,” said Wendy Marshall, watching her grow more comfortable in her stance before the lenses.

  “Hmph. I’m sure Gene Pelham and his wandering hands are going to try and find their way up that skirt.”

  “You know it. She’s really something. Could be a model.”

  Flash.

  By now, Julia was getting a little buzz. Pictures? She thought to herself. Of me? It was all too surreal.

  Polly, who was dancing with Henny, was barely looking at her husband’s stupid dance moves. In fact, he often embarrassed her so with his scotch-induced Dance Fever steps that she wanted to die. He flailed his limbs and looked like a mosquito getting electrocuted by a porch-hung zapper. Well, well, well, she thought, watching Julia get blinded by the cameras. Lell’s little slave may overtake the master. Yes, Polly was jealous. From time to time she had her picture in Quest or Avenue, but never in the fashion pages of Vogue or W. And now that Lell’s little protégé was out “representing Pelham’s” just like Lell, she was in head-to-toe designer threads. Borrowed, naturally. She studied Lell’s face for a reaction as she looked over her husband’s shoulder mid-dance, just as Polly was doing with Henny. And there it was: the look of pride. Pride ever so slightly tinged with a hint of wanting to keep this newfound darling in check.

  chapter 18

  “Okay, sweetie, you are about to worship me for the rest of your life. I just stood on line for thirty solid minutes at Tower Records to get you this, an
d I know you’ll freak,” said Douglas, slamming the Yeah Yeah Yeahs latest CD on Julia’s desk.

  “Oh my God!” shrieked Julia. “You rock!” Julia grabbed the CD and started reading the liner notes.

  “I am too good to you, I swear. You owe me big time!” boomed Douglas.

  As Douglas continued rattling on in his loud, dramatic voice, Julia glanced out the door of her office. The secretaries in the hallway were giving her curious looks, and she realized that Douglas’s voice was reverberating through the entire floor, which was usually as quiet as a library. Shit, she didn’t want Lell to hear.

  “Thank you so much,” whispered Julia.

  “No prob, sweetie. We have to get tickets for their—”

  “Um, Douglas,” interrupted Julia. “Could you keep it down?”

  Douglas looked flummoxed. “What, did someone die?”

  “No, it’s just, um, people are working.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Douglas. “Sorry. I’ll come back, later.”

  “Um, maybe it’s better if I come down to see you.”

  Douglas gave Julia a curious look. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, I just feel weird having visitors—”

  “I hear you.”

  “Don’t be offended, I just don’t want to ruffle feaths.”

  “Got it,” said Douglas, heading for the door. “I’m off like a prom dress.”

  “Catch you later. And thanks for the CD.”

  Just as Douglas reached the threshold of the door, Julia’s buzzer rang. “Julia, could you come in here a second?” crackled Lell’s voice over the speaker.

  Shit. She hoped Lell hadn’t heard Douglas. But knowing that Lell had those cameras everywhere, she probably had.