Read the Overnight Socialite Online
Authors: Bridie Clark
the Overnight Socialite (11 page)
"I don't know." Her voice was muffled by whatever she was pulling over her head. "Outdated?"
"
Essential
. Charming, stylish, erudite men never go out of style. I've booked you several lunch dates at La Goulue with the best in the business, so to speak. I won't be able to go with you to every event, you know. I've got my own work to do."
Essential
. Charming, stylish, erudite men never go out of style. I've booked you several lunch dates at La Goulue with the best in the business, so to speak. I won't be able to go with you to every event, you know. I've got my own work to do."
Lucy pushed back the curtain, flush-faced from the exertion of trying on three racks of clothes in record time. Now she modeled a sophisticated Rodarte cocktail dress in muted pink chiffon. It showed off her figure, which had already been significantly whittled thanks to Derrick. Wyatt gave a thumbs up.
"Give me three
As Mother always says
," he said.
As Mother always says
," he said.
Back in the dressing room, Lucy was working her way into a cashmere sweater-coat and black cigarette pants. "
As Mother always says
, better to be overdressed than underdressed.
As Mother always says
, you can tell a great deal by the way a man eats his soup." She threw back the curtain for Wyatt's input on her latest ensemble.
As Mother always says
, better to be overdressed than underdressed.
As Mother always says
, you can tell a great deal by the way a man eats his soup." She threw back the curtain for Wyatt's input on her latest ensemble.
He nodded appreciatively. "Perfect for weekends, you know, around the house."
"Around the house?" Checking the price tag, she pulled a face. "You seriously think an eight hundred dollar sweater is appropriate loungewear for a Sunday at home?"
"Of course. You have to be camera-ready at all times. What else does Mother always say?"
Lucy sighed. "One can't put a price on quality."
Wyatt smiled. She was learning. And he was getting everything he needed for his book, working feverishly at night after fourteen-hour days with Lucy.
The Overnight Socialite
, he and Kipling were thinking about calling it. This experiment would be a landmark in anthropology--and it could jump-start his stalled career.
Day Seven, 1:54 AMThe Overnight Socialite
, he and Kipling were thinking about calling it. This experiment would be a landmark in anthropology--and it could jump-start his stalled career.
"How many times do I need to tell you? The
G
in Gstaad is silent!" Wyatt circled the couch where Lucy was now slumped like a wilted tulip. Though they'd been working tirelessly on her elocution, Lucy's
a
's remained as wide as the Great Plains, and her frequent "you knows" and tendency to rush-right-through-a-sentence-without-pausing-for-air were putting up a tenacious fight.
G
in Gstaad is silent!" Wyatt circled the couch where Lucy was now slumped like a wilted tulip. Though they'd been working tirelessly on her elocution, Lucy's
a
's remained as wide as the Great Plains, and her frequent "you knows" and tendency to rush-right-through-a-sentence-without-pausing-for-air were putting up a tenacious fight.
"The snow in Aspen puts Gstaad's to shame," Lucy repeated lifelessly.
"Get the marbles out! You're still mumbling." Growing impatient, Wyatt tapped his notebook with his pencil. "From the top."
Lucy held up an index finger instead, taking several thirsty gulps from her water glass.
Another ugly habit
. Would he have to reteach the girl everything?
Another ugly habit
. Would he have to reteach the girl everything?
"Can we finish this tomorrow?" she whined. "I'm seriously about to pass out. And it's Christmas Eve."
"We'll be finished when you've got it right!" Wyatt barked. Did she think he was enjoying hour six of listening to her butcher the English language? That he wouldn't rather be drinking southsides on his mother's terrace, the white lights of her twelve-foot Christmas tree twinkling behind him? "From the top, Lucy. And for God's sake, sit up straight."
She cleared her throat and collected herself into an erect posture on the front of the couch. "Didn't we meet in Capri last July?" she continued, saying each word cautiously.
"Yes!" Wyatt stopped in his tracks. "Yes!" It was the first time she hadn't pronounced the name of the island like those unflattering three-quarter-length pants. "Go on, go on!"
"I don't want to be known merely as the
Ellis heiress
," Lucy continued, looking surprised herself. "I prefer to be judged on my own merit."
Ellis heiress
," Lucy continued, looking surprised herself. "I prefer to be judged on my own merit."
"Yes! That was actually good!"
"I was raised in Chicago, and my family summers in Nantucket." Lucy looked equally shocked by the patrician accent leaving her lips. "You remind me of my roommate from boarding school." They stared at each other in disbelief as she continued. "Who sets foot in Manhattan after Memorial Day?"
"That's it!" Wyatt could barely restrain himself from jumping up and down. He closed his eyes. "Again!"
"The snow in Aspen puts Gstaad's to shame!" Lucy shouted.
"I think you've got it!" Wyatt exclaimed. For six entire sentences she had sounded like a born-and-bred socialite, blue blood coursing through her veins. He grabbed her by the hands and pulled her up off the couch.
"One week in Ibiza and I don't need to go clubbing for the rest of the year!" she said, pronouncing the
z
as "th."
z
as "th."
"By George!" Wyatt, unable to contain his excitement, scooped Lucy around the waist--smaller, now, he noticed--and began to dance with her around the room.
"Didn't we meet in Capri last July?" She beamed up at him.
"You've got it!" he exclaimed, twirling the girl in his arms.
12
Wyatt's Book Notes:Dominance among male cichlid fish is correlated to bright coloration. When researchers experimentally manipulated subordinate male cichlids into developing this bright coloration, they found that the fish began to exhibit dominant behavior within minutes. Similarly, the effect of a simple makeover and improved wardrobe on L.'s psyche was an astonishing phenomenon to behold. Though our work is just beginning, there's no doubt that designer clothes--and never the same outfit twice--do indeed make the socialite.
H
ow do you properly thank someone for hooking you up with a personal chef who usually keeps a six-month waiting list?"
ow do you properly thank someone for hooking you up with a personal chef who usually keeps a six-month waiting list?"
"Handwritten thank-you note, delivered by messenger the next day?" Lucy tried to hide her breathlessness as Wyatt took the front steps at the Heritage Museum two at a time. With their experiment now almost two weeks under way, Wyatt had gotten into the habit of drilling her constantly. Ever since she'd had her breakthrough, she'd stopped hating it so much. When she answered correctly, it could actually be fun--and that was happening more and more often.
Wyatt made a buzzer sound. "Wrong!"
"An elegant arrangement from Plaza Flowers?" she panted. After double sessions each day with Derrick the ex-SEAL, she should have been able to scale the side of the museum without breaking a sweat. But she was huffing for air keeping up with Wyatt's long stride. They were going to see the new Pierre Bonnard exhibition, and Lucy had been up late the night before learning about the Nabis, the group of Post-Impressionist avant-garde artists of which he'd been a member. Required reading, but it was actually pretty interesting, and Bonnard's use of intense, high-keyed color spoke to her as a designer.
"Try again," he said.
"An invitation to join my table at an upcoming benefit?"
Wyatt rolled his eyes. "Not even close."
"I know! A dozen pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes." Wasn't that what Jessica Seinfeld gave Oprah? Lucy felt sure she'd gotten it right this time. Wyatt had spent yesterday afternoon explaining to her the rules of reciprocity in establishing "tribal ties." He called it tit-for-tat behavior, explaining how chimps--and humans--used mutual back scratching to build alliances. Reciprocity was the glue that held social groups together. And what woman wouldn't appreciate Louboutins as barter?
"Unless the chef is Thomas Keller, you massively overshot. The correct answer is: invite her to your weekend home in Millbrook."
"Wyatt, I don't have a weekend home in Millbrook!"
He halted at the front entrance of the museum, considering this fact. "Fine, then, the flowers."
Flashing his "Friend" card at the ticket counter, he waltzed by with Lucy in tow. Then he typed something quickly into his BlackBerry and hit send before tossing it back into the pocket of his cashmere overcoat.
Cornelia--got your messages. Thanks for the wine. In midst of new project and very busy. Be well, W.
Be well?
Be well?
fumed Cornelia, examining her poinsettia-red thumbnail. She was lounging by the pool in Palm Beach.
He might as well have written "eat shit and die."
And who sends a half-assed text message in response to a bottle of '82 Chateau Mouton Roth-schild? How rude. She laid her right hand on her taut stomach, toasty from the morning sun, and thrust her unpainted left hand toward the manicurist.
Be well?
fumed Cornelia, examining her poinsettia-red thumbnail. She was lounging by the pool in Palm Beach.
He might as well have written "eat shit and die."
And who sends a half-assed text message in response to a bottle of '82 Chateau Mouton Roth-schild? How rude. She laid her right hand on her taut stomach, toasty from the morning sun, and thrust her unpainted left hand toward the manicurist.
Although she'd spent the past week at her parents' home (they were in London, making it an ideal time to visit Palm Beach), Cornelia had continued her now monthlong campaign of contrition for posing next to Theo Galt. Days after the
Townhouse
party, when Wyatt hadn't returned her phone calls, she'd e-mailed him a Patrick McMullan snap of the two of them, a reminder of how good they looked together. No response. Then, before leaving for Florida, she'd pounced on Margaret as she left his building, pressing into her hand a small package for Wyatt containing the handkerchief he'd forgotten at her place the first night they'd kissed at Socialista. She hoped it would spark memories of their private after-party. Apparently, it had not. Finally, after too many unreturned calls and e-mails, she'd been reduced to raiding her father's wine cellar. And still all she'd gotten in response was his stupid text!
Townhouse
party, when Wyatt hadn't returned her phone calls, she'd e-mailed him a Patrick McMullan snap of the two of them, a reminder of how good they looked together. No response. Then, before leaving for Florida, she'd pounced on Margaret as she left his building, pressing into her hand a small package for Wyatt containing the handkerchief he'd forgotten at her place the first night they'd kissed at Socialista. She hoped it would spark memories of their private after-party. Apparently, it had not. Finally, after too many unreturned calls and e-mails, she'd been reduced to raiding her father's wine cellar. And still all she'd gotten in response was his stupid text!
"Still bumpy," she whined, holding the nail two inches away from the manicurist's face. The young Hispanic woman had been sent by an agency that delivered manicurists, masseuses, acupuncturists, and yoga instructors to Cornelia's door, which kept her from having to mingle with the hoi polloi.
"I don't see any bumps, Miss Rockman," the woman answered. "I've redone the nail three times. I think it looks perfect."
"Excuse me?" Cornelia's nostrils flared slightly. She jumped up from the chaise longue and stretched her legs, casting a shadow over the shallow end of the pool. "I'm not paying for a mani-pedi that looks like it was done by a blind chimp." Mentioning the chimp reminded her of her anthropologist ex-boyfriend, of course, which made her even more irritated.
"Okay, I can redo--"
"Nor do I have time to sit here watching you botch it up again!"
The manicurist sighed. "That's fine, Miss Rockman. See you again the same time next week?"
"I suppose. But tell Esmerelda no tip. I check the petty cash, you know." The woman began to shuffle toward the house with her heavy kit. "Just because I'm a Rockman doesn't mean I'm an ATM!" Cornelia yelled after her. Her mother, Verena, had always warned her about people--from men to manicurists--looking to "get theirs." Gold diggers. Parasites. Verena knew something about the profile: she'd married Cornelia's father when she was a twenty-three-year-old Scandinavian swimsuit model and he was a sixty-two-year-old senator with a heart condition. Against all odds, Cornelia's father was now past ninety, and Verena was a smokin' fifty-two-year-old rumored to have men in many ports.
Shameless
, Verena would say if she knew about Cornelia's current situation. It was not the woman's role to woo, she would scold. Men--even rich, powerful, intelligent men--were easy to manipulate, if you knew how. Knowing how was the art of being a woman, and Cornelia's efforts had been kindergarten-level finger painting.
, Verena would say if she knew about Cornelia's current situation. It was not the woman's role to woo, she would scold. Men--even rich, powerful, intelligent men--were easy to manipulate, if you knew how. Knowing how was the art of being a woman, and Cornelia's efforts had been kindergarten-level finger painting.
But then she'd never expected Wyatt to put up such a fight! Most men would have overlooked Cornelia's minor lapse in judgment at that stupid party, and
every
man she knew (except Wyatt, apparently, the one she now wanted more than ever) would've taken her back at the first whiff of an apology.
every
man she knew (except Wyatt, apparently, the one she now wanted more than ever) would've taken her back at the first whiff of an apology.
Cornelia arranged herself in the lounge chair again, adjusting the top of her minuscule white bikini. The view of the water, contrasted with the cool pink facade of her parents' home and the gently swaying palm trees dotting their property, evoked such an air of prosperity and peace that there were days when Cornelia didn't reach for her antianxiety medication more than twice. Today, unfortunately, was not one of those days.
Her marriage to Wyatt Hayes was inevitable, thought Cornelia, reaching over to take a sip of her mint-laced iced tea. That was the conclusion she'd reached last winter, resting on this same slate blue chaise, the morning after she and Wyatt were reintroduced at a cocktail party on the Morgans' docked yacht. He'd stood at the bow, the lights of the Okeechobee Bridge dotted in the distance behind him. Cornelia was immediately riveted. Everything about Wyatt screamed aristocracy, though he wore just jeans and a white button-down rolled up to his forearms, and her immediate thought had been: "We'd look perfect together." She'd spent the night charming his best friend, Trip Peters, and feeling Wyatt's eyes on her. A month later (it would have happened sooner, but for all his safaris), he'd asked her to dinner at Per Se, which turned into drinks at Socialista. They'd been dating ever since.
The morning of the
Townhouse
party, her source at Harry Winston called to inform her that Wyatt had stopped in to do some Christmas shopping, and that before he was guided toward the tennis bracelet she'd set aside he'd cast an eye over the engagement rings. Cornelia had been pleased, but hardly surprised. It was all part of her plan. Wyatt would propose by the following spring, giving her a full year to plan a June wedding at her family's estate in Northeast Harbor. The rehearsal dinner could be at
his
family's estate in Northeast Harbor. The Hayes-Rockman wedding would net a four-page spread in
Vogue
, maybe more.
Townhouse
party, her source at Harry Winston called to inform her that Wyatt had stopped in to do some Christmas shopping, and that before he was guided toward the tennis bracelet she'd set aside he'd cast an eye over the engagement rings. Cornelia had been pleased, but hardly surprised. It was all part of her plan. Wyatt would propose by the following spring, giving her a full year to plan a June wedding at her family's estate in Northeast Harbor. The rehearsal dinner could be at
his
family's estate in Northeast Harbor. The Hayes-Rockman wedding would net a four-page spread in
Vogue
, maybe more.
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