Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  “I need to meet your mother.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” I said.

  “So.” Spencer leaned over from his desk. “Fallout from the ‘Page Six’ drama? Catfights?”

  “Why do I have a feeling you’re writing this down?”

  “Because I am. In my head.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Minty, how many times do I have to tell you? One day, I’m going to be the next Truman Capote,” he said, “except handsomer and far more straight. And you’re going to be the next C. Z. Guest.” He paused. “Except blonder and far more scandalous. And then I’m going to write a bestselling book about you and your life and we can both be fabulous together and operate on a plane somewhere above A-list celebrities and somewhere below the president of the United States.”

  “You are ridiculous,” I said.

  As Spencer was talking and I was pretending to listen, Ruth stepped off the elevator and stomped toward her office. She called me in immediately, of course.

  When I arrived in the doorway of Ruth’s office, she actually looked fresh and triumphant, the way she usually looked after she had placed a feature in The New York Times—or fired someone.

  “I saw our friend Farah this morning,” she said.

  Farah Hammer, the editor of “Page Six.”

  “O-oh?” I stammered. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond.

  “She’s a cunt,” Ruth said. She typed something on her computer. “But I have her in the palm of my hand.” She swiveled back in my direction and pointed at me. “Fear of God,” she said.

  I looked up at Ruth and nodded. She was having a conversation ahead of me and I was attempting to catch up after stumbling a bit over the C-word.

  “For example,” she continued, “you do what I say because I have put the fear of God into you.”

  She was right.

  “At the end of the day, it’s my ass on the line at this company. And the only way I can trust that you’ll actually listen and get the job done to my liking instead of spending the whole day tweeting or blogging or flirting on Facebook like Spencer does”—she took a breath—“is if I know that you’re not only afraid but terrified. And that’s my tactic with so-called journalists like Farah.”

  I wrote down an edited version of this statement in my Smythson.

  “Which is not to say she isn’t going to write about you again,” Ruth continued. “God knows she has to now that you’re dating that Tad von Trapp character.” She glanced around her desk and found a pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out and lit it.

  “I can’t tell her what to write and what not to write. But. You’re an RVPR employee. If she’s going to write about you she’s going to mention that fact, goddamn it, and she’s also going to call me before she publishes even a sentence with your name in it.”

  I took a deep breath. The news was both comforting and horrifying. I had barely recovered from yesterday’s story and here she was, anticipating countless more to come? What was Tripp going to think if every time our names popped up in the papers it looked like an RVPR publicity blitz?

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess that makes me feel better.”

  “I don’t care if you feel better,” she said. “You’re lucky I’m letting you keep this job after the crap I had to deal with yesterday.” She turned back to her computer. My cue to leave.

  I made my way toward the door.

  “Also, Davenport,” she said.

  I turned back at full attention.

  “You’re going to start taking on a more visible role. I’m making you my right-hand gal for all things Fashion Week. It’s months away, I know, but we’re working with five new designers this year and we’re already drowning. You’ve got connections now. You can pull some strings. Get some of your friends or Trapp’s, Tripp’s, whatever, friends to show up—I’m talking boldface names only. I’m going to rely on you to help take things to the next level this season. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Back at my desk, I processed the information slowly. At face value, in the wake of the “Page Six” scandal, I could have been a detriment to RVPR. But Ruth was turning me into an asset. She was, quite literally, using me—and my relationship with Tripp—to get press for the company. And, in the meantime, she was forcing me to use Tripp’s connections to bolster RVPR’s Fashion Week guest lists.

  After a few long minutes of thinking, Spencer turned away from his computer and waved his hand in front of my eyes.

  “Why the long face?” he asked.

  I tilted my head to the side and sighed. I wasn’t exactly sure.

  “Have you ever felt like your life is running away from you?” I asked.

  Spencer thought for a moment.

  “No. Usually I feel like it’s not running fast enough.”

  “I just don’t know if I can keep up.”

  “You’ve lasted over two months as Ruthless Vine’s assistant,” he said. He thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure that’s a world record.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “As long as you want to, you can keep up.”

  Practice Grace under Pressure

  Spencer clearly didn’t let anyone—or anything—intimidate him and it seemed to work for him. In fact, it seemed to work for a lot of people I’d met since I left Charleston.

  So when Ruth handed me my first task in my new, more responsible role at RVPR, I forced myself to react positively instead of worrying about all of the things that could possibly go wrong.

  I was in charge of creating and managing the guest list for the designer Kevin Park’s boutique opening downtown, the same Kevin Park who had collaborated with Hermès a little over a month before. The same Kevin Park I’d failed to recognize outside of the party in the boutique, which, of course, eventually led to my being sent home and running into Tripp.

  “Ruth, this sounds amazing,” I began, “and I’m sure I can do a really great job. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with me handling the Kevin Park account, seeing as the first time I met him I—”

  “Oh Jesus Christ, Minty,” Ruth said, “enough. Not to mention, do you really think Kevin remembers that? Or you for that matter? Get over it.”

  Fine, I thought as I walked back to my desk. After all, I wasn’t even sure if we would cross paths, since I’d be working behind the scenes. Either way, I was definitely nervous. Not only would the food, décor, and music need to be perfect, but each guest needed to be more famous and more fabulous than the last.

  Of course, I’d barely managed a list before, let alone created one. Now I had to not only come up with a list of proposed guests but also call and e-mail them or their publicists until I got an answer. And, like Ruth said, a yes was never really a yes until that person actually showed up at the party.

  If a real A-lister said they were coming, it was my job to make sure they had something to wear—like a free dress from Kevin Park—and someone to drive them there. Arranging a driver was really the only way an event planner knew a guest was actually going to show up.

  “This should be second nature by now, Minty,” Ruth explained later that day. “It’s your job to not only make sure this happens but to recruit a few new people—It Girl types, starlets, you know the drill—who will catch the eye of photographers and press. It’s a lot of juggling, but I’m counting on you.”

  Ruth used the phrase “counting on you” a lot. By saying that she was “counting” on me, she wasn’t just asking me to complete a task, she was acting as if she had all the faith in the world that I had the ability to complete it even though she did not. I was scared out of my mind that I would fail and I also felt strangely guilty that if I were to fail, it would be somewhat of a personal offense to Ruth. Working for Ruth often felt like walking a tightrope naked over thousands of onlookers. Every once in a while she would light that tightrope on fire without giving me the slightest warning, and if I fell or screamed or even startled in the slightest, it was my fault, of course.
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  Spencer and I spent the entire week juggling both the Kevin Park event and Ruth’s increasing anxiety over visiting her parents in Philadelphia for the Thanksgiving holiday. While Spencer made calls to Ruth’s hotel (yes, she was staying in a hotel room) to ensure that the room dimensions were up to snuff and the restaurant offered gluten-free options on its menu, I was running down to Magnolia Bakery in the West Village to find a pumpkin pie that looked as homemade as physically possible. Spencer and I personally tested three rounds of pies before one was deemed appropriate.

  I spent the day of the Kevin Park event slaving away over final confirmations and car arrangements. It seemed that every time I set up a pickup time for a car, someone’s assistant called and said they needed to change.

  “Dude, you’re on Style.com again,” Spencer said, his eyes peeking over his computer screen in my direction. “From that Cinema Society screening.”

  The Cinema Society was an organization that hosted semiweekly screenings and after-parties for new films. The guest list was mainly made up of the film’s director or directors, producers, actors, actresses, and various other celebrities. It was an honor just to be invited. Of course I was curious to see which photo Style.com had chosen, but I didn’t have time. If I so much as shifted in my seat I could feel Ruth’s eyes boring into me from wherever she happened to be on the floor.

  Besides, I was on hold with the car service, once again.

  Spencer let out a hoot. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re on Style.com twice in one month and you barely bat an eyelash.”

  “Yes,” I said into the receiver. “I’m so sorry. Thank you.” I was put back on hold. “Spencer, of course I care,” I continued. “I’m just kind of busy right now and if I don’t get this—”

  “Jesus Christ,” Spencer yelped.

  He was waving a copy of New York magazine in my face.

  “Spencer!” I swatted him away.

  “‘Party Lines’!”

  I grabbed the magazine and skimmed over the page, which was mainly made up of pictures of people from various parties and events in New York. And there I was, wearing a light blue Dolce & Gabbana corset dress at the Cinema Society after-party. Spencer was standing over me, his mouth open.

  “This is a big . . . fucking . . . deal, Davenport,” he said.

  Spencer pointed to Kirsten Dunst’s boldface name on the page. “She’s a celebrity, Minty. They didn’t even run her picture. And they ran yours!”

  I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t really exciting. But I was so busy I didn’t have the luxury of thinking about it. All I knew is that I had twenty-three more car reservations to change and less than an hour to make it happen. Just as I shooed Spencer away and turned to pick up the phone again, an envelope was deposited in front of me. I glanced up to yell at Spencer again, but it wasn’t Spencer. It was a strange man in a navy blue outfit. I screamed and nearly fell off of my seat.

  “The mail guy,” Spencer deadpanned from his cubicle. “Right up there with Jack the Ripper and Freddy Krueger.”

  “Thank you,” I said to the unfazed mailman.

  The envelope was thick and square, the size and weight of a typical wedding invitation—or at least wedding invitations I’d seen over the years, which were mainly for Charleston weddings and were about as formal and over-the-top as they come. My name was spelled incorrectly: Mintzy Darvenport. Whoever sent me the invitation apparently read WWD. And maybe was only inviting me because I appeared in WWD?

  “I have a feeling I know what that is,” Spencer said.

  “How on earth would you know just by looking at the envelope?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “These things are like clockwork, Minty,” he explained. “New Yorkers for Children Fall Gala, the Whitney Gala, the Apollo Circle Benefit for the Met, etc. etc. And then, everyone goes to Vail or Aspen and forgets about charity balls for—supposedly—the rest of the year. But the Frick always sends its save-the-date before everyone zones out for the holidays. The actual party doesn’t happen until January, but think of it as an early Christmas present.”

  I’d heard about the Whitney Museum and New Yorkers for Children, but what on earth was the Frick? And how was anyone supposed to keep track of all of these parties?

  “The Frick Collection is only one of the most venerable museums in the city,” Spencer explained. “Once Henry Clay Frick’s private home.” He looked at me for a reaction, but nothing was ringing any bells. “Ugh,” he said, disgusted. “You get invited to one of the most exclusive events of the year and you act like you might as well be going to a five-year-old’s birthday at Chuck E. Cheese.”

  He held the invitation up to the light and gazed at it lovingly.

  “If you love the Frick so much, why don’t you go?” I asked naïvely.

  Spencer glanced around the office, ascertained that Ruth was indeed on the phone with her door closed, and pulled his chair up next to mine.

  “Mary Randolph Mercer Davenport.”

  Apparently he knew my full name.

  “One doesn’t just go to the Frick ball. One doesn’t even just get invited to the Frick ball. One gets chosen.” He straightened his posture and crossed his hands over his knees. “Wake up, Minty. You have been plucked from virtual obscurity and placed into the upper echelons of New York society.” He broke character for a moment. “Albeit, on the lowest rung of the upper echelons, seeing as this is only your first time.” He cleared his throat and resumed the deep voice. “But this is a momentous occasion nonetheless. One that should be taken very seriously.”

  He swiveled around in his chair, just in time for Ruth to emerge from her office looking like, well, a fright.

  “Minty, why aren’t you in my office right now?”

  Ruth was standing over my cubicle with her hands on her hips. I looked at the clock: 3:02. We were supposed to meet at three P.M.

  “Oh! Sorry!” I promptly deposited the save-the-date on the floor. “I was just—Oh. I was . . .”

  In the last two days I’d left eighty-four voice mails and sent one hundred and twenty-one e-mails to various celebrity publicists and a few well-known socialites who hadn’t responded yet. But apparently celebrity publicists didn’t really answer their phones or respond to e-mails. The socialites just assumed we knew they were coming and often showed up unannounced. Regardless, I’d managed to confirm Jules Gregory, the daughter of an aging rock star; Tamsen Little, a well-known celebrity stylist; and Bernadette Flannery, a pretty downtown art dealer. They were not exactly Gwyneth Paltrow, but they were “boldface” names in their own right. Jules, for one, had been popping up on “Page Six” for the last couple of months and was rumored to be signing a deal for her own reality show.

  At the last minute, I’d also added a few “fill-ins” like Spencer and two of his friends from college, who promised they would bring two attractive, chic girls. I also included Emily, who was thrilled when she heard I was helping plan a party for Kevin Park.

  “I have a really good feeling about this, Minty,” Emily had said. “If this goes well, Kevin could be an instrumental person for you.”

  I wasn’t so sure what she meant by this.

  “The fashion industry is New York’s answer to Hollywood,” she continued. “Designers hold a ton of power in this town. If you’ve got one in your corner—better yet, by your side—you’re pretty much golden. I mean, name one social girl who hasn’t served as a ‘muse’ to a designer. And let’s face it, Kevin’s style is perfect for you. His last collection was inspired by Eloise, of all people!”

  “Really?” I probably should have known that already.

  By the time I made it to Ruth’s office to go over the guest list, I was already four minutes late. She grabbed the list from me and scanned it in record time. I sat across from her desk, leaning forward slightly, praying to God that I’d done something right.

  “What the hell is your boyfriend doing on here?”

&nbs
p; But I guess God wasn’t answering my prayers that day.

  I’d invited Tripp at the last minute, thinking it might be nice for him to experience one of my first big events, but his lack of enthusiasm was surprising. He’d said something about “trying” to make it, then when I called him that morning to ask again, he said he was sorry but it wasn’t really “his scene.” As a concession, he said he’d head to my apartment straight from work and would be waiting for me when I was done with my event. I was lukewarm on the compromise. If our relationship had one roadblock so far, it centered on the fact that he was not entirely supportive of my career. Sometimes I felt like he was a little threatened that I was going out a lot, meeting new people, and starting to carve out a niche for myself in New York.

  Whatever his issue was, I guess it worked out for the best.

  “Oh, sorry, that must be a mistake,” I said.

  She crossed his name off the list, pulled out a highlighter, and started marking up the list. Shoot, I thought. Ruth had told me it was “my” list to manage, but I guess she didn’t exactly mean I could invite whomever I wanted.

  “What is this, Minty’s New York coming-out party?” She slammed the list onto her desk and several other pieces of paper flew up around it.

  I gulped.

  “I mean, seriously, Minty, I love Emily to death but she is no A-lister.” She shook her head. “And this plus-two bullshit? Plus fucking two who?”

  “Sorry,” was all I could manage.

  Ruth buried her face in her hands.

  “I have The New York fucking Times and Gotham magazine covering this party exclusively, Minty. I can’t have a bunch of nobodies showing up and making it look like a second-rate event.” She put the list down and glanced at the clock. “Go back to your desk and tell your grade school friends and their third cousins once removed they’re not coming.” She glanced at the list again. “Tamsen Little is a good add. But I want to see at least three additional notable fucking people at this party who have accomplished something beyond taking you to dinner.”