Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  She turned dramatically and stomped toward the elevator. I met her there, out of breath and overwhelmed but smiling. The elevator door opened and we were off.

  The Hermès store on Sixty-second and Madison Avenue smelled like money. There is no other way to describe it. I guess if I were forced to break it down, I would say it smelled like a combination of leather, heavy brass hardware, and money. But mainly money.

  Walking in behind Ruth, who kept her sunglasses on indoors much longer than necessary, I felt cool and important by association. The salespeople rushed toward her and took her coat. One of them nodded in her direction and then scurried to the back of the store. No more than two seconds later, he emerged with a chic-looking woman who spoke in a French accent. He introduced her to Ruth as Virginie.

  “Zee caterers ahr heeeere,” Virginie explained.

  Ruth nodded and flicked her finger in my direction with each bit of information. I stood to the side and jotted down notes.

  “We are missing zee fleurs ahnd zee linens I dunno they are somewhere en route I am told,” Virginie continued, speaking so quickly that there were literally no breaths, no punctuation marks, between her thoughts. “All in all vee are not een such bad shape but vee are cutting eet close madame.”

  “I see,” Ruth responded, her exterior calm and collected. She glanced around the imposing space, filled to the brim with every single luxurious item you could possibly imagine: waitlisted Birkin bags, silk scarves so gorgeous they begged to be matted and framed, Collier de Chien bracelets stacked one upon another, nearly jumping onto my wrist and begging, Take me home!

  “Why is the bar in the back corner, Virginie?”

  “No clue,” Virginie said, waving her hand around. “You say better in zee front?”

  Ruth frowned. “Let’s put it over here.” She pointed at an area to the right of the stairs. “That way it’s away from the chaos of the scarf display but still central. The point is to keep the traffic flowing. You don’t want three hundred and fifty people beelining for the back of the store and ignoring Kevin’s work,” she said. “Still, you don’t want them so close when they take their first sip of rosé Moët that they’re spilling it all over his gorgeous designs.”

  There were so many details when it came to planning an event, all of which were second nature to Ruth. Did the cater waiters really need to be wearing those ties? Were flowers even necessary? Where would we store the gift bags? I tried my best to answer these questions with educated guesses: Yes? Maybe? Under the stairs?

  Before I knew it, we had solved all of the last-minute problems. The event was set to start in five minutes, my feet were already numb from standing and running all day in my once-precious Mary Janes, and little half moons of mascara had collected under my eyes. I stood in the corner and tried desperately to tidy myself up with the help of a cocktail napkin and a glass of Pellegrino.

  “Mintyyyyyy!”

  Ruth’s voice came bellowing from somewhere in the back room of the store.

  “Yes?” I shouted, limping in the direction of her voice.

  “I need you on the door,” Ruth barked, emerging from the back room wearing a little headset and holding the clipboard I’d brought from the office.

  I noticed the clipboard was already locked and loaded with a copy of the massive Excel list I’d been working on since my first day. Ruth shoved the clipboard in my direction and handed me a headset.

  “But I thought Nina was handling the door.”

  Nina was one of the more senior assistants. I was told that maybe I would “shadow” her and observe the process of manning the guest list, but it wasn’t even a possibility that I would handle the entire operation. What on earth was going on? I started to hyperventilate slightly.

  “I just fired her. So, anyway, I need you to be wearing this at all times. There are going to be cancellations and additions and fires to be put out and they’re all going to happen last-minute,” Ruth explained, not missing a beat. She stared directly at me. This was Ruth’s way of saying, “Are you in or are you out?”

  “Okay.” I gulped. “Got it.” I grabbed the headset and put it on. I held the clipboard over my chest like it was a bulletproof vest.

  “Right at the door. List only. No exceptions,” Ruth said. “If you have any problems, you just radio over to me. But I don’t want to be bothered with bullshit. Got it?”

  “Yes, of course. Got it,” I said.

  The guests started arriving almost immediately, and the process seemed simple enough at first. I would just ask for their name, they would give it to me, I would find it on the list and then check them off. They would smile at me and enter the party. And that was that. But sometime around six thirty P.M., the guests started to arrive at a more rapid pace. Maybe it was my nerves or inexperience (or both), but it seemed like it was taking me longer to find names and the line of people waiting outside was growing longer and more impatient.

  “Hellloooo,” I heard one voice screaming from the back of the line. “Are you kidding me? Honey, pick up the pace!”

  One man, who was wearing a floor-length mink coat and a pair of oversized, black-rimmed plastic glasses, insisted that he had received an invitation but had forgotten to RSVP and could I please just let him in? He said he was a friend of the president of Hermès and it would really be a problem if I turned him away.

  As he made me flip through the list again, five more people tagged onto the back of the line until it was looping halfway around the block. I had no choice but to radio Ruth over.

  She arrived in less than thirty seconds.

  “What’s the problem here, George?” she said, not so much as glancing in my direction. Ruth knew everyone.

  “Oh, Ruth, hi!” he said, suddenly turning very shy and conciliatory. “How are you? I’m just explaining to this lovely young lady here that I received an invitation but I totally forgot to RSVP. Can you believe it? So sorry, I’m such a flake.”

  “You’re not on the list, George, go home,” she said.

  She turned around and walked away.

  I stared back at him, shocked. He returned my stare with a squinty-eyed sneer and stomped away, as if it were my fault that not only was he not on the list, but he was also lying in order to try to gain access to a private event. I couldn’t believe it.

  The next twenty or so guests went pretty smoothly. Rockefeller? Check. Gugelmann? Check. Hearst? Check. And everyone, for the most part, was lovely and polite. I thanked them for waiting. They obliged. And they all looked drop-dead gorgeous, I might add. I had never seen so much style in one place. Every outfit looked like it was straight out of magazine photo shoot. And then a youngish-looking Asian man stepped up. He was wearing a thin, drapey T-shirt; faded, distressed jeans; and limited-edition Nike Air Jordans. He had an air about him that said, I am important enough to get away with wearing an outfit like this to a fancy party.

  “Kevin Park,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Park, Park, Park.” I searched my list. I flipped back to the first page and searched again. “Could it be under any other name? Maybe it’s under Kevin?” I searched for “Kevin” and came up short.

  In the meantime, he looked at me like I had five heads and a tail.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t find your name,” I said.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  A man behind him stepped forward.

  “Sweetheart, we’re late for the party. Let us in, will ya?” he said, raising an eyebrow and turning his head to the side. Kevin Park laughed.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to let anyone in unless you’re on the list,” I explained.

  I continued to flip through the sheets of paper, hoping for a small miracle. Ruth must have been checking up on me, because she appeared at my side just then, and (of course) immediately double-kissed Kevin Park and his friend.

  “Is all okay, sweetie?” she said to Kevin, holding him by the shoulders.

  He looked at me. “We were just having a
bit of a hard time at the door.”

  Ruth looked horrified. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh Christ, I’m so sorry. Come in, come in.” She ushered them through the door while shooting me a look that said, You idiot, can you do anything right?

  And that’s when I remembered. Kevin Park. The designer. He was the whole reason they were having the party to begin with, and I had almost turned him away at the door. Oh my God, I thought. Could it get any worse?

  “Lipton,” a breathy female voice said in my ear.

  I looked up to see Tabitha Lipton standing in front of me, in the flesh, the Tabitha I’d been photographed with (from the looks of it, she didn’t remember me at all), Tripp’s Tabitha. “Yes, ma’am,” I said without thinking.

  “Ma’am?” Tabitha repeated, chuckling. “Ma’am?!”

  I’d somehow managed to insult her, and of course Ruth chose this moment to check on me again. “Tabitha, come on in, I’m so sorry,” Ruth said, pushing me to the side. She turned to me briefly and hissed in my ear, “Get out of the way.”

  I glanced through the window and watched as one of the other assistants made her way through the crowd. Ruth had radioed for her to take my spot. Just before the other assistant made it to the entrance, she squeezed past a tall, dark-haired man who was taking off his coat. I recognized him immediately: Tripp. Of course. He must have been just behind Tabitha in line, I realized. Now I was totally humiliated.

  Once the other assistant had the clipboard in hand, Ruth pulled me away from the line of people and into the street.

  “You’re dismissed for the night,” she said. I could tell it was taking every ounce of restraint she had not to scream at me.

  “Ruth, I—I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Go home, Minty.” She stopped, took a deep breath and continued. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the office first thing.”

  She turned around and left me standing on the corner, shivering in the cold October night air with no taxi in sight and no money to pay for one. I’d left my purse and jacket inside, but what was I going to do? Ask Ruth if I could go grab them? My throat tightened.

  I could feel the tears coming. They were definitely coming. I was grateful for the fact that there was no one around to see me cry.

  “Minty?”

  Tripp.

  He was out of breath, as if he had been running after me. His cheeks were all ruddy and flushed. His blue eyes sparkled even more as a result.

  “Are you all right?”

  I noticed he was holding my jacket and purse. How in the hell did he—

  “One of the girls . . . one of your coworkers I think?” he said before I had a chance to ask him. “She was coming out to give these to you and I couldn’t help but overhear,” he explained, smiling just slightly. He looked down. “You never responded to my message on Facebook.”

  I scoffed. “You mean, ‘Oh, hey’?”

  He stared back at me, wide-eyed.

  “The message you wrote me sounded like you were writing a formal letter to your headmaster at boarding school or something!” He paused. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “The mood does not feel lighter.”

  “Minty.” He tilted his head to the side and made a puppy-dog face. I couldn’t help but smile.

  Snap out of it, Minty! Teach that man a thing or two about how to treat a lady! This thought came out of nowhere, in my mother’s voice, like she was sitting inside my head, her legs crossed, toe tapping. I stood up straight and brushed the tears away from my cheeks.

  “Thank you for my coat, Tripp. And for my purse, as well.” I took the coat and the purse. “It was very kind of you to get these to me.”

  “Oh come on, Minty.” He grinned, looking down at me. “Is that all you’re going to say? I haven’t seen you in, what, how long has it been? Seven years?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  He laughed. “All right, I see,” he said. “Still as stubborn as ever.”

  It took everything inside me not to smile again. It was impossible to deter Tripp du Pont. Where some men might turn away and give up, he forged forward until he got what he wanted.

  “Anyway,” I said, “shouldn’t you be tending to your girlfriend?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”

  “Oh, come on, Tripp.” I rolled my eyes. “Let’s not go down that road again.” He laughed, shocked I’d dared to go there. “That Tabitha lady?”

  “Oh,” he said, suddenly growing quiet and awkward. He looked around impatiently. “That’s kind of a long story. But she’s not my girlfriend.”

  Interesting, I thought. Kind of a long story? Classic Tripp.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Let’s get you home, shall we?” he said, resting his hand on the small of my back. “Where are you staying?”

  Avoiding his hand, I stepped into the street as one off-duty taxi passed after another. “Sixty-first and Lexington,” I said under my breath. “And I’m not just staying somewhere. I have my own apartment, you know.”

  “Got it,” he laughed. “Listen, you’re never going to find a cab this time of night. And it’s raining. Even the gypsy cabs will be taken.”

  “I’ll walk,” I said over my shoulder, glancing down at my swollen, blistered feet.

  Tripp smirked. “In those heels? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I have a car right here.” He gestured toward a black town car that was conveniently pulling up to the curb. “Zeke will drop you off. Come on. It will take two seconds.”

  I clenched my fists and checked one more time for a taxi. Nothing. And the rain was starting to come down even harder. I couldn’t believe it. He was going to win.

  “Jesus, fine,” I said. “But keep your hands to yourself.”

  He shook his head and opened the back door for me. “Point taken, Ms. Davenport.”

  Once we were in the car, I crossed my legs and positioned myself as far away from him as possible. He shut the door.

  “I really could have walked,” I said, staring out the window.

  “Please,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

  When the car pulled up to my building, I felt like I couldn’t get out fast enough. I was confused to say the least. On one hand, sitting next to him was intoxicating. He made me feel like I was fifteen again, discovering that someone like Tripp even existed, let alone liked me back. On the other hand, he hadn’t earned the right to spend time with me yet. Call me old-fashioned.

  Tripp looked out the window. “I actually grew up a few blocks from here, Sixty-fifth and Park. My parents are on Seventy-first and Park now.”

  “Oh,” I said. “And where are you?” I put my hand on the door handle.

  “Zeke will get that,” he said, ignoring my question. With those words, Zeke, the driver, popped out of the driver’s side and opened the door for me.

  “Thank you,” I said to Zeke. Tripp followed me to the awning.

  “I’m in the same building as my parents, actually,” he said, leaning toward me. “Super convenient,” he laughed. “My father and I even walk to work together every day.”

  “You’re working at your father’s investment firm?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m definitely still the low man on the totem pole. You know, my father always said,” he continued, lowering his voice and turning his chin down, “‘All du Ponts have to learn the value of working your way up. You’re not going to start from the top just because you can.’”

  “I can see your father saying something like that,” I said. Our eyes met and for a moment I was taken back to the first night in Palm Beach. We were at a dinner party with our parents. He whispered in my ear that he thought I was the prettiest girl in the room. I remember feeling dumbfounded—I’d secretly thought Tripp was Prince Charming incarnate for years but I couldn’t believe he felt the same way. “So, anyway,
thank you for the ride.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Davenport.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  “Good night.”

  As I turned away, Tripp grabbed my arm. I felt my heart levitate. I couldn’t control the way I reacted to Tripp. It was like he happened to me, and I was just a bystander, attempting to deal with the aftermath.

  “I’m thinking I should get your number,” he said.

  I had hoped he was going to kiss me.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I said.

  “Come on, Minty,” he said. “What else am I supposed to do, tap-dance? Stand-up comedy? Pull a rabbit out of a hat? Recite the alphabet backward while standing on my head?”

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Fine,” I said.

  I recited my number out loud and watched as he punched it into his phone. He immediately hit the “call” button. My BlackBerry started to vibrate and I saw his number pop up on my screen for the very first time. “Just checking you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me,” he said, turning away and walking toward the car.

  I watched him disappear into the backseat, wondering if I would ever have the chance to see that number pop up on my screen again. I immediately saved the number under “Tripp,” feeling somewhat foolish about it, wondering if he deserved a spot in my contact list. The back door closed and the car pulled away. And he was gone.

  Get Up to the Net

  My mother was named after Scarlett O’Hara from Gone With the Wind, and she takes the role of Scarlett O’Hara’s namesake very seriously. She is an old-school southern belle with old-school-southern-belle values.

  My mother’s dream for me was not only that I get married as soon as possible but that I marry “well.” Tripp probably qualified as “well.” My mother had always had a soft spot for him (I think he reminded her of my father, both the good and the bad), but she was also skeptical about my reconnecting with him, and for good reason. She stressed that I had to play my cards close to my chest.