Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  Tripp was discussing a recent Giants game with Harry when the energy in the room changed slightly. I wasn’t sure exactly why, but I felt a chill, like everyone’s eyes were on me, and then Tripp stiffened. Richard, who had just been in the corner packing up his camera equipment, suddenly started unpacking. Then I saw Julie get up from her seat. She tapped Richard on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

  “Oh, yikes,” May said. She looked past me, her eyes settling somewhere over my shoulder.

  I saw Emily’s mouth drop open. In fact, everyone seemed to be either looking over my shoulder or gaping at something or both. Except Tripp, who was suddenly enthralled with his filet mignon.

  I turned around and watched as Tabitha made her way down the hallway and into the dining room. She was wearing what can only be described as a crotch-length Herve Leger bandage dress that barely covered her bony hips. Her shoes were sky-high, crystal-encrusted platform stilettos. She wobbled in them like she could tip over at any moment, her eyes so hazy she had to be either drunk or high or both.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  Tripp looked at me and tilted his head. “What?”

  “Tripp, look,” I said, my cheeks flushing. Did he know she was coming?

  Tripp turned around. “Oh,” he said indifferently, glancing over his shoulder.

  I was shocked to see a seat had actually been reserved for Tabitha. She sat down, all the while pretending she wasn’t being blatantly gawked at, and placed her napkin in her lap.

  Tripp turned back. “Whatever.”

  I faced forward and took a deep breath.

  Across the table, Emily was avoiding eye contact while May looked directly at me. I just took a sip of my water and smiled back at her. Kill them with kindness. That was really all I could do.

  “She’s obsessed with me,” Tripp hissed in my ear. “I have no idea why she showed up.”

  “Was she invited?”

  Tripp was silent.

  “Baron knows her,” he finally said.

  “I see.”

  Within seconds, conversation began to flow again. Baron was fawning over Tabitha now, pouring wine in her glass and laughing like she was the most interesting person in the room. May and Harry started nuzzling each other and the rest of the guests seemed to lose interest in the fact that Tripp, Tabitha, and I, the love triangle of “Page Six” proportions, had found ourselves sitting at the same dinner table together.

  When dessert was served, Emily excused herself from the table and quietly came around to my seat.

  “Ladies’ room?” she said in my ear.

  It was the best idea I’d heard in a long time. I placed my napkin next to my plate and pecked Tripp on the lips.

  We walked out, but Emily didn’t take me to the ladies’ room. We grabbed our coats from the coatrack and she led me up a flight of stairs and onto a roof terrace overlooking the city. It was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen, covered in vines and tiny white lights and populated by rows of sculpted evergreens.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” she asked, pulling out a pack of Marlboro Lights. I had only seen Emily smoke on a handful of occasions, typically when she was stressed out about something.

  “Of course not,” I said. “Actually, this is one of those times I kind of wish I were a smoker!”

  Emily grinned. “I’m going to tell you something,” she began, taking a deep breath. “I wasn’t even going to say anything, but then she showed up and, well, I think you have the right to know.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You know how Tripp told you that he and Tabitha were kind of a brief fling, that it was really casual?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Well,” Emily sighed. “The fact of the matter is, they’ve been on and off for years now. It’s not like they were ever fully committed, but Tabitha is very territorial about Tripp. Before you came along, they were pretty hot and heavy.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t tell you the whole story at first”—she paused, searching for the right words—“because I thought maybe Tabitha would just let it go. And it’s clear that Tripp cares about you. He definitely seems to have fallen for you pretty quickly. But I just want to make sure he’s being totally honest with you.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “Like, he couldn’t mention the fact that she might be here? He acted like it was an afterthought!”

  Emily pursed her lips. “I think he might be trying to . . . downplay the relationship. Maybe it’s because he’s ready to move on . . . to move forward with you. But, it just concerns me that he’s not laying all of his cards on the table. Especially since you two seem to be moving so quickly.”

  “Ugh.” I buried my face in my hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I was just starting to confide in and trust him. It was the déjà vu I’d feared all along.

  I forced myself to pause for a moment. This information could very well have been hearsay—if I’d learned one thing, it was that there was a lot of gossip in New York, maybe even more than in a small town in the South! Which is saying a lot.

  “Tell me about Tabitha,” I said, taking a deep breath. “If I’m going to have to duke it out with this lady to get to the truth, I need to know what makes her tick. So far all I’ve got is . . . she’s a socialite, she knows pretty much everyone, and she’s out to steal my boyfriend.”

  Emily shrugged.

  “Well, Tabitha is actually more of a businesswoman these days,” Emily said. “She goes to a lot of parties, yes, but she often gets paid to go to them. Any time you see Tabitha walk a red carpet with a bunch of sponsors or show up at the launch of some product, you can bet she’s getting paid. Even if she attends a fashion show, odds are they’re paying her somehow, even if it’s in free clothes. Tabitha is New York aristocracy. And in some circles, that counts for something. She adds a certain cachet.”

  I nodded.

  “And there’s her jewelry line of course.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Jewelry, accessories. I think there may be an evening clutch here and there. It’s not really known that well in the States. I think it’s sold at a little boutique on Madison. But supposedly it’s huge in Asia and Germany. The last time I spoke to her, she was creating a less expensive version of the line for QVC.”

  I was impressed, and it must have shown.

  “I know,” Emily said. “Do you know how much money those direct-sell channels make? Oh my God, it’s ridiculous.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Apparently in New York, being a socialite—essentially getting dressed up and going to parties five nights a week—could be a job, one that could even be parlayed into a career in design. As ridiculous as it seemed at first, I couldn’t help but admit that becoming a boldface name like Tabitha—being photographed at parties and building an image and a brand through that exposure—sounded like a great way to realize my dream.

  “Listen, Minty,” Emily continued. “I’ve known most of these people since I was born. I’ve seen them with runny noses and peanut butter and jelly stains on their school uniforms. And I still feel intimidated sometimes. I can only imagine what it feels like to experience it for the first time at twenty-two.”

  She waved her hand in the air and I looked around at the tiny white lights and vine-covered trellises. I took in the collection of topiaries, covered in protective burlap for the colder winter months. I imagined that not many people have been on the rooftop of 812 Park Avenue. The air was so rarified it could almost have been bottled and sold, like a souvenir of the good life.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve seen a lot of girls let this lifestyle get the best of them. They go out until all hours of the night and develop eating disorders just trying to keep up. The only way you’re going to survive, the only way you’re going to succeed, is if you stay true to yourself.”

  “So I should break up with Tripp?”

  Emily laughed and took a drag of her cigarette.


  “No! No, I’m not saying that at all, not yet at least,” she laughed. “I’m saying . . .” She paused for a moment. “I’m saying, keep curling your hair.” She pulled at one of my ringlets and smiled. “Keep wearing dresses and smiling and being polite. It might take a bit longer for people to warm up to you, but they’ll remember you as a result. They’ll remember you because you’re different, because you stand out from the crowd of skinny girls in earth tones and no makeup, such as myself.” She grinned. “And don’t let women like Tabitha get in the way of anything you have your sights set on, be it Tripp or anything else.”

  “You sound like my mother.” I laughed.

  I always knew, deep down, that Emily was playing for Team Minty, but that night solidified it.

  As Emily took one last drag of her cigarette and flicked it over the building’s ledge, a couple stumbled onto the terrace, wrapped up in an embrace.

  “I guess that’s our cue to leave,” Emily said, standing up. She glanced at her watch. “Anyway, it’s after-party time.”

  Kill Them with Kindness

  In New York, the clubs you go to—or don’t go to—speak volumes.

  The good clubs have very long lines. But the even better, more exclusive clubs have smaller lines, because most people know they have no chance of getting into a top place unless they are officially on the list. And by “list,” I don’t mean some promoter’s list thrown together with a group of NYU students celebrating a birthday. Those who are granted entrance into the best clubs are part of an elite group that rarely changes, much like the membership roster at an exclusive country club.

  The Boom Boom Room at the Standard Hotel—where Baron was hosting his after-party—had one of the most impenetrable doors in the city.

  “Supposedly Jessica Simpson tried to get in last week and they had to turn her away,” Tripp explained as Zeke zoomed down the West Side Highway.

  Emily had hitched a ride with us. I sat in the middle with my head rested on Tripp’s shoulder.

  “No way,” Emily said with just a hint of disinterest.

  “There was some sort of private party and she wasn’t on the list,” Tripp said, laughing.

  Unlike in L.A., where clubs and lounges court every actor and actress with a YouTube profile, in New York, often the coolest clubs were the ones that didn’t let celebrities in. Boom Boom was notorious for choosing class and connections over the latest cover of Us Weekly.

  We pulled up to the entrance, which was an unassuming, industrial-looking doorway on West Thirteenth Street. There was a lone doorman standing outside wearing a large fur coat and looking like he had better things to do. To his right, a small group of women milled around, furiously typing away on their BlackBerries. They were probably trying to reach the person who had promised they were on the list. When we walked up to the doorman (Tripp referred to him by name, Sebby), he didn’t even reference a clipboard or his BlackBerry. We just waltzed inside.

  We walked through a dark hallway and into the elevator, which had mesmerizing, heaven-and-hell-inspired video art built into the walls. Finally, we were greeted by red-lipped models/cocktail waitresses, who ushered us into a hallway, which opened up into a huge room decorated in shiny gold finishes and sumptuous cream leather, like the inside of a genie’s bottle meeting 1970s glam. I didn’t know where to look, because the interior of the club was almost as stunning as the sweeping city views.

  Tripp guided us straight to the center bar, where we ordered cocktails from a handsome, tattooed bartender with a mustache that was curled up at the tips. He and Tripp did a quick, familiar sort-of handshake, and he immediately began pouring our drinks. Once we were set, we found Baron and a few others holding court in one of the sunken banquette areas.

  “You ladies take a seat here,” Tripp said. He waited until we looked comfortable, then he touched the top of my head and gave me a quick kiss. “I’m going to find Harry. Be right back.” He disappeared into the crowd.

  Emily sat next to me quietly and sipped her cocktail. She hadn’t said much since we left Baron’s apartment. She leaned in, a bit tipsy. Her eyelids were getting heavy and she pronounced each word slowly. “Forgive me for asking but I just can’t help myself, have you slept together yet?”

  My mouth dropped open and I slapped her on the knee.

  “Emily Maplethorpe!”

  “It’s an honest, relevant question.”

  “Which I’m not going to answer.”

  “So you have?”

  “No! Emily! Oh my God, I’m turning beet red.”

  “Oh, bummer, you haven’t.”

  “Emily, we are ending this line of questioning immediately.” I pulled away from her and crossed my legs in the opposite direction. “Honestly.”

  “It’s probably good that you haven’t,” she continued, ignoring my protests. “I mean, a guy like Tripp is used to—how shall we say this—getting what he wants when he wants it. I imagine part of the reason he’s so into you has something to do with the fact that he hasn’t had the chance to actually get into you, if you know what I mean.”

  “Emily.”

  Okay, so she wasn’t just tipsy. She was drunk.

  I turned around and Tripp was standing there.

  “You girls look like you’re up to no good,” he said, smiling.

  Sometimes when I looked at him, I had to stop myself from swooning. He was like a present-day JFK Jr. He’d often been compared to him in the press. He was taller, though, more of a presence. He had the swagger of a Division I athlete.

  “Always,” I said coyly.

  Emily rolled her eyes. “Your girlfriend’s being her old uptight, southern belle self again,” she said with a grin.

  “Girlfriend, eh?” he said, elbowing me playfully.

  I gulped.

  “I guess you are my girlfriend,” he said.

  I’d thought about this moment several times since Tripp and I started dating. How would it happen? When would it happen? Would it ever happen? But I definitely never questioned how I would feel when it happened. I thought I would be happy, elated even, and part of me was. But I couldn’t get what Emily had said about Tabitha out of my mind.

  He wrapped his arms around my waist. “You’re my girlfriend,” he said. He kissed my forehead, then my nose.

  It didn’t take long for the entire banquette to get wind of Tripp’s declaration. Baron started clapping. Then everyone was clinking glasses like they were celebrating an engagement.

  “Awww, look at the happy couple,” Baron cooed.

  Tripp ignored him.

  “I’m going to marry you one day,” he continued. His words were mixing together. He wasn’t slurring, but he’d definitely had a few drinks.

  “Tripp!” I punched him in the arm.

  “I mean it,” he said, “I love you.”

  I took that “I love you” with a grain of salt. It was late. He was slightly intoxicated. Maybe I was too? Before it could settle in, he kissed me and everyone started cheering. He gave me a final kiss on the lips and scooted out toward the bar.

  “Maplethorpe, keep an eye on my girlfriend,” he said.

  Just then, Julie Greene appeared out of nowhere and inched toward my seat in the banquette. She was still wearing her coat and holding a tiny notepad. I’d always thought writing about parties sounded like the most amazing job in the world, but now I understood why Julie always looked so bored. Yes, technically, she got paid to go to parties, but she never got to let loose and have fun.

  “Hi, Minty,” she said. “Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?”

  “Julie! Hi! How are you? Of course!” I patted a spot next to me. I was surprised she remembered my name, let alone wanted to strike up a conversation.

  “Just need to know who you’re wearing tonight and I guess . . . why don’t you tell me what you thought of the dinner since you’re a first-time guest and all.”

  “Well,” I started, trying to come up with an answer that didn’t sound too “aw,
shucks,” when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there she was: Tabitha.

  “Darling,” she said, scooting her way into the banquette and elbowing Julie out of the way in the process.

  I glanced at Emily, whose lower lip was practically dragging on the floor. Julie immediately got up and stood over us, aghast.

  “Oh, hello,” I said in my most polite tone. I glanced at Julie and mouthed a “sorry.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I believe we’ve met once before,” Tabitha continued, “but I figured I should introduce myself in light of the fact that you’re fucking Tripp du Pont.”

  I have to admit, it took me a moment to regain my composure. First, I was distracted by the use of the word “fuck” (not that I never use the F-word). And she had this completely calm look on her face, like I was just a tiny flea of a person she would like to exterminate before I made her itch any more.

  “You must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said with the sweetest smile painted on my face.

  Tabitha laughed. “Very funny,” she said. “But you’re right.” Then she leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I bet there are at least five sluts at this bar right now who would fit the same description.” Then she turned around and walked away.

  The next day at work, I felt like my brain was being squished in an industrial-sized vise. I hadn’t even had that much to drink, but before I knew it, it was three o’clock in the morning and the Boom Boom Room was still going strong. How did people stay out so late and function the next day? A little something called “not having a desk job” probably had a lot to do with it.

  “Someone looks like she’s been kicked in the face by a Manolo and hit over the head with a bottle of Belvedere,” Spencer observed as I dragged myself to my cubicle. “Ruthless had a breakfast meeting this morning.”

  “I know,” I said, “why do you think I’m here at nine instead of eight?”

  “My first guess was you overslept.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “I have three alarm clocks and a mother who shows up at my apartment at seven A.M. to oversee the installment of window treatments and new hardware. There is no way in hell I’d ever oversleep.”