Bergdorf Blondes (18 page)

“No, wait,
maybe
I could manage it. I could meet you at the party?”

“Are you sure?” I said. “I don’t want to interrupt your vacation.”

“Hey, I’m
always
on vacation. I need a break from vacations actually. They get
so dull
.”

I said, “How will I find you at the party?”

With a giggle she replied, “I’ll be the girl in the shortest skirt with the best tan.”

How one dresses as a doge of Venice in a miniskirt I know not but if I had legs like Jazz’s I would rewrite fashion history, too.

“God, it’s very S.P.D.V tonight,” said Julie with a sigh, scanning the Save Venice crowd, which was gathered in the grand ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel.

We were hanging at the bar drinking strawberry cocktails. Julie was dressed in a long, narrow column of gold lamé—vintage Halston, which is so in right now it’s insane. She refused to dress for a theme after the Ali MacGraw scenario had sent her into a fashion depression. I didn’t exactly look Venetian either, but I was living for the draped navy evening gown Carolina had sent over for me. It would be a tragedy to have to return it.

“S.P.D.V?” I said. Sometimes Julie’s lingo is way too abbreviated for me.

“Same People Different Venue,” she explained, looking supremely bored.

Julie was right. The Save Venice party was a jungle of the same socialites, dresses, and jewels you see at every benefit in New York. I roved the party looking for a beauty in a mini but all I saw were girls in apartment-sized ball gowns. That much net in one
dress can be majorly traumatic sometimes. The congestion in the restroom when two girls wanted to pass by each other was worse than the New Jersey Turnpike at rush hour.

Lara and Jolene were there in matching pink and blue Bill Blass dresses. They’d recently started shopping in duplicate in case they wanted to dress the same. Neither of them had seen Jazz. In fact, no one had seen Jazz at the party. I was getting stressed out. Was I ever going to get another story done? I took my seat and tried not to worry.

Julie, Lara, and Jolene were all at my table. They were overexcited because they’d been given the task of judging the best-dressed girl at the party.

“I nominate you,” said Lara to Jolene.

“No,” said Lara, “
you’re
the prettiest.”

“No way. You’re the prettiest,” said Jolene.

“You are!” said Lara.

“Okay, girls. Let’s just be honest,” interrupted Julie. “
I’m
the prettiest, but we can’t award the Dolce & Gabbana gift certificate to ourselves, so let’s get on and choose the winner.”

I couldn’t see the fun in the best-dressed competition. All I could think about was how I was ever going to write my story if my subject was constantly unavailable. This career thing can really upset your social life if you aren’t careful.

I chatted a little with the man to my left, a Wall Street hedge-fund guy. I didn’t even notice the seat to
my right was empty until I heard a voice saying, “I’m sorry I’m late. So rude of me.”

“No problem,” I said, looking around. I found myself face-to-face with a man wearing an immaculate tuxedo with a freshly laundered handkerchief in the front pocket. His fair hair was combed back and he was smiling. This person was 100 percent charm school.

“I’ve been chatting with our sponsors and we got very involved. But the main thing is to raise as much as we can for this charity.”

I hadn’t caught the guy’s name. As he went to sit down, I sneaked a peak at his place card. It read P
ATRICK
S
AXTON
.

Sometimes I could literally murder Muffy. Even if Patrick was some kind of total saint who gave all his money and time to Venice, that didn’t mean I’d changed my mind about not being interested in an almost-divorced movie mogul who probably had future-ex-wife issues I couldn’t even imagine. Across the table the negotiations for the best-dressed guest were getting more intense than the nominations for the Pulitzer Prize.

“Louise O’Hare deserves to win. Who else actually personally commissioned Olivier Theyskens to design a Venetian dress?” said Jolene.

“No way,” said Lara. “Kelly Welch got Lars Nilson over from Paris to make her frock, which counts as more effort.”

“Apparently Louise has a backup dress from Un-garo,” said Jolene.

“It’s
Ooon-garo
. Not
Un-garo
,” said Lara. “And anyway, having a backup dress is a sign of terrible insecurity. We need to consider the girls’ personalities, too.”

Julie butted in. “Hey, this isn’t a Miss Universe competition! My god! I think someone else should decide. You two are too obsessed to pick a fair winner. Why doesn’t he choose?” said Julie, looking at Patrick.

“Absolutely not,” he smiled, raising his palms. “I’m not qualified.”

“Dude, you don’t need qualifications to say who’s the cutest,” said Julie. “Just decide who deserves to win.”

Patrick gazed around him, wide-eyed. It was like he’d never seen a pretty girl before. For a movie tycoon he seemed kind of cute, personality-wise, which is very rare, actually. He quickly pointed at a girl sitting alone in a corner.

“I think she took the most trouble,” said Patrick.

Jolene and Lara gasped. “Madeleine Kroft!” they said in unison.

Lara and Jolene were alarmed. Madeleine Kroft was exactly who they
wouldn’t
have chosen. She was a sweet, preppy, twenty-three-year-old who hadn’t lost her puppy fat. She was dressed like she had hired her outfit from a Halloween store on Bleecker Street. She
was painfully shy, and rarely spoke without turning a violent shade of tomato.

“No way!” hissed Jolene. She cleared her throat. Collected herself. “That is
so nice
. I never would have thought of giving the prize to her.”

“Oh my god,” echoed Lara. “This is like the nicest thing that’s ever happened to Madeleine Kroft. I feel
so bad
for not suggesting her. She’s like the nicest girl ever.”

Patrick got up and went over to Madeleine. We all watched as she started jumping up and down with excitement. Julie snuck around and sat in his empty seat. Then she whispered to me, “He’s cute. He’s rich. He’s the nicest person we’ve ever met in New York. You should date him.”

“Even if he were available, which he isn’t, I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in me, which is lucky because I wouldn’t be interested in him,” I said.

He returned with Madeleine to the table. “Oh my god!” she gasped to Lara and Jolene. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life. You two girls are the best. You’re both really special people. Thank you so much for choosing me. You can come down to the compound on Hobe Sound whenever you want.”

Jolene handed her the Dolce & Gabbana shopping certificate. Madeleine looked at it and suddenly seemed sad.

“What is it?” said Jolene.

“I can’t fit into any of the clothes at that store,”
wailed Madeleine desperately. “Why do you think I have to dress like this?”

“Well there’re tons of accessories there you can buy instead,” said Jolene.

“That’s even worse. I hate it here. I feel like a meringue in a room full of chives.”

“You’re a very beautiful girl, Madeleine. Don’t be upset, this is a good thing!” said Patrick.

“Really?” she said.

“I promise. You’re a lot prettier than all those chives,” said Patrick.

Madeleine beamed at him and took off into the crowd. The whole way through dinner, Julie, Lara, and Jolene gazed at Patrick like he was Mother Teresa or something. After coffee was served he turned to me and said, “Can I offer you a ride home?”

“Yes!!!” shrieked Julie excitedly. “She’d love a ride.”

We took a cab. Patrick said he never used drivers for parties because he hated the thought of them waiting outside all night for him. Maybe Patrick really was as down to earth as he seemed. I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone in New York who can have a driver but doesn’t.

“Listen, I leave for Cannes tomorrow night for a couple of days for the film festival. Would you like to be my guest? I’ll be doing a lot of business, but it could be fun,” he said.

I would love to be your guest
, I thought.
But you are
married and I have my career to think of. And I don’t want to give the impression that you have any chance of any extramarital predivorce Brazilian activity with me tonight, which I would if I said yes
.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, smiling sweetly.

Do you know what a huge self-esteem boost it is to turn down a trip to Cannes? I highly recommend it when you are feeling a little low about yourself; it’s as effective as an Alpha-Beta peel. The cab came to a halt outside my apartment.

“Sure?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, thinking,
Am I?
“Good night,” I added, getting out of the cab.

As I walked into my apartment my cell rang. It was Jazz. I’d totally forgotten about her no-show.

“Hey! It’s me,” she said. “I got so, like, totally beyond delayed tonight and then it seemed so rude to show up three hours late to the party so I just stayed here at the 60 Thompson. We can do the interview now.”

“Jazz, it’s one
AM
,” I said.

“So?”

“Why don’t we do it tomorrow?”

“Because I’m leaving for Cannes in, like, six and a half hours.”

Of course she was. Duh. FRGs are always leaving for somewhere fabulous imminently. I had no choice but to pull on a pair of jeans and hop into a cab.

Jazz never explained why she had taken a suite at 60 Thompson that night, but from the state of it she had been having a party that was way more fun than Save Venice. She plopped herself into bed, like a beautiful, tan rag doll while a maid cleaned up around her.

“Thank you so much,” she said to the maid. “You’re so nice here, I love you! You’re the best. Can you bring me a tea?”

“Of course, miss,” said the maid adoringly. “What about some cookies, too?”

“Oooh, I love you!” said Jazz.

She patted the duvet and beckoned me over. “I’m gonna tell you everything about us, the Front Row Girls,” she began. “The thing is, I just adore being a Front Row Girl. It’s so nice to
always
be in the front row…”

There is nothing like an Alexander McQueen bag arriving unannounced by messenger to distract you from all your good intentions regarding your career. The next morning one arrived containing an exquisite party dress and a handwritten note, which stated,

Teterboro! All New York girls know that that ugly word means something very pretty. Teterboro means “I have a plane.” Teterboro is a delightful airport that deals only in noncommercial flights. If you’re ever out in New Jersey on a Friday night and you’re wondering why the highway is gridlocked with chauffeur-driven sedans, it’s all the moguls running to catch their G-Vs down to Palm Beach. I consider it beyond unfair of Patrick to let it slip that he had a jet at his disposal at this juncture. It made it much harder to turn down his offer. Most New York girls have a thing about private jets that is so overwhelmingly powerful that they literally cannot say no to a trip. I would
occasionally
include myself in that particular group. However, today my inner child just wouldn’t stop reminding me that Patrick was still married, whatever Muffy said. I would forfeit the trip, even if it was a sin to turn down such a gorgeous dress.

I put the bag in the hallway to be returned. I tried to block the whole idea of a fabulous trip to Cannes from my mind. I sent Patrick a text telling him I couldn’t come.

The instant I’d sent the message, of course, I re
gretted it. How miserable it suddenly seemed not to be going to the Côte d’Azur after all. Maybe reading about some glam party would cheer me up. I flipped to the
Suzy
column in the latest
W
magazine. It fell open on a page of photographs. There, staring at me from the biggest picture on the page was Zach, with Adriana on his arm. Adriana A! The Luca Luca mannequin! How could he? He’d always said she was a nightmare. And look, Adriana was wearing the absolute latest Lanvin swingy dress, one that I coveted. Much as I didn’t want to look any closer, I felt compelled to examine the frock: as I did so, I noticed the caption beneath the photograph. It read, “Photographer Zach Nicholson with his fiancée, model Adriana A.” Zach was engaged again, already, to Adriana A? I couldn’t believe it. It was too dreadful to contemplate. I snapped the magazine shut.

How was I going to write the FRG story now? Paralyzed by a combination of sadness and jealousy, I couldn’t focus at all. Maybe that trip to Cannes
was
a good idea after all. It would certainly take my mind off how hip Adriana looked in that dress. If I stayed here I would start obsessing about Zach again, and Adriana A. or not, he wasn’t worth it. Maybe being in Cannes would improve my concentration. In fact, I told myself, there is nowhere better for attending to important work than on a PJ. I texted Patrick again:

I would write the FRG story on the plane and e-mail it back the next morning. No one had to know I was away. It was the only option for my very unstable career at that point. It’s such a comfort to be able to make a sensible decision in an emergency.

Patrick buzzed my door on the dot of five. I grabbed my little suitcase and flew down the stairs. A dark Mercedes was waiting on the street, its engine purring. I hopped in the back seat.

“Sure?” said Patrick.

“Sure,” I said.

We sped off. The interior was ice cool and very soft. For a man who never hired drivers this was not exactly in keeping with Patrick’s personality. Still, I say, complain not when you are in the back seat of a Mercedes on the way to a very glamorous trip to the Riviera.