the Overnight Socialite (2 page)
Read the Overnight Socialite Online
Authors: Bridie Clark
Leaving Cornelia whimpering at Doubles had left him feeling empty and alone. Something deep inside Wyatt--as well as something shallow--demanded that he make his world right again.
2
You're invited to attend
Nola Sinclair's Holiday
Resort Collection
Wednesday, December 2nd
The Armory
643 Park Avenue
Show begins promptly at 8 PM.
This invitation is nontransferable.
A
t exactly seven o'clock, Lucy Jo Ellis emerged slightly breathless from the East Sixty-Eighth Street subway stop. It would have been better to arrive fashionably late, but she couldn't bear to sit home a minute longer. Not when the biggest night of her life lay ahead of her, wrapped up in shiny paper like the most fabulous gift ever.
t exactly seven o'clock, Lucy Jo Ellis emerged slightly breathless from the East Sixty-Eighth Street subway stop. It would have been better to arrive fashionably late, but she couldn't bear to sit home a minute longer. Not when the biggest night of her life lay ahead of her, wrapped up in shiny paper like the most fabulous gift ever.
Her big break had come that afternoon, when one of Nola's assistants--Clarissa, the red-haired one never seen without a Starbucks double espresso clutched in her white-knuckled fist--had come sprinting into the workroom, waving the extra invitation. Lucy Jo dove on it before anyone else could. "Take it easy," Clarissa had muttered. "Just get there on time, okay?"
Nola Sinclair--technically her boss, although Lucy Jo was such a peon that the designer never bothered to offer eye contact--had decided to create a show around the collection she'd unveiled to buyers and press the previous spring, adding a few new pieces, in order to take advantage of the way the city was done up for the holidays and to drive some more press. The collection was just arriving at the hippest, hautest boutiques, and the designer wanted to give it some extra buzz. No expense had been spared in transforming the inside of the Park Avenue Armory into the world's largest igloo, with a clear plastic runway customized to look like ice. Nola had wanted the real thing, and pouted for weeks when her father--the sole investor in her company since its inception--deemed it too dangerous for the models. Silvery cocktail tables had been set out for the glitterati, with a mink muff (theirs to keep, of course) waiting on each tufted white leather seat.
All this Lucy Jo had garnered from trade rags, gossip columns, and at the watercooler. Now she'd be seeing the spectacle in person.
Too bad she hadn't gotten the nod just a day earlier--then she could've whipped up a one-of-a-kind creation that really showed her design chops. As it was, she'd barely had time to slice-and-dice a flamingo pink chiffon gown (Loehmann's, $19.99) into a kicky little minidress, using some of the extra fabric to add a flounce at the hem. The color was a little brighter than she remembered from the store--but the whole point was to make an impression, not to blend into the sea of little black dresses.
She squared her shoulders and marched toward the huge brick Armory on Sixty-Seventh. Tall, with a tendency to stoop, Lucy Jo had often been called big-boned. She'd never once been called beautiful, which had more to do with the people she knew than her looks.
You can do this,
she coached herself. She took a breath so deep she could feel the chiffon strain against her rib cage.
she coached herself. She took a breath so deep she could feel the chiffon strain against her rib cage.
How could she not feel nervous? Madonna was being flown in for the night. Margaux Irving, the fiercely chic editrix famous for her withering stare and influence throughout fashion's highest echelons, had RSVP'd yes and was bringing along Roger Federer. The glossy posse, comprised of the chicest girls from the chicest magazines, would be present and accounted for, along with everyone from Uma to the Olsens. And now Lucy Jo Ellis--the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of a manicurist from Dayville, Minnesota; assistant patternmaker in a packed Garment District workshop that always reeked of BO and Funyuns; and aspiring designer--would be there, too. Feteing with the best of 'em. And with any luck, landing that coveted job doing creative design work . . . the job that narrow-minded Nola Sinclair refused to consider her for.
How did it happen, Ms. Ellis?
Lucy Jo could imagine some deferential fashion reporter asking her years from now.
How did you go from being an anonymous worker bee to one of the most influential designers in the history of the industry?
Lucy Jo could imagine some deferential fashion reporter asking her years from now.
How did you go from being an anonymous worker bee to one of the most influential designers in the history of the industry?
And Lucy Jo would sit back in her chair, tickled by the memory of her humble start. She would recall her early days spent huddled over a crowded worktable, barely looking up until she sensed that her fellow workers had gone home. Only then could she pull out her design portfolio, diving into the sketches that would one day thrust her to the center runway of American fashion. She would tell the reporter how some nights she could feel the folds of lustrous silk run through her fingers, so real was the illustration she'd painstakingly created.
Then, of course, she would fondly recount the night she was about to experience, the turning point in her career. "I always knew," she'd tell the admiring reporter, "that it was just a matter of time before my life caught up with my dreams."
And she had, truly, always known. Growing up in a small town two hours outside Minneapolis, Lucy Jo Ellis had harbored a secret belief that life would deliver on its big promises. Fashion had been her passion ever since she could remember; at age four, she'd pointed her little index finger at a gown in one of her mother's celebrity magazines and declared, "Too much ruffle." She'd started making her own clothes when she was only twelve, mimicking the trends she could never afford to buy. As a teenager, she'd memorized tattered copies of
Vogue
, absorbing how iconic '90s designers such as Gianni Versace and Azzedine Alaia glorified the female form, delighting in the gritty glamour of Herb Ritts's photography. On the walls around her bed, she pinned fashion ads from the old
W
, and they hovered like sophisticated, angular angels over her sleep.
Vogue
, absorbing how iconic '90s designers such as Gianni Versace and Azzedine Alaia glorified the female form, delighting in the gritty glamour of Herb Ritts's photography. On the walls around her bed, she pinned fashion ads from the old
W
, and they hovered like sophisticated, angular angels over her sleep.
After high school, with no cash for college, she'd tried working for Annie Druitt, the local seamstress. Annie was a sweet woman and enjoyed having company in her shop--but hemming pants and taking in hand-me-down prom dresses barely paid one salary, let alone two, and Lucy Jo's big things remained at large.
So on the day she turned twenty-six, with a hard-earned two thou in savings, she packed a bag, ignored her mother's watery discouragement, said a few goodbyes, traveled across the country on a Greyhound, found via Craigslist a Murray Hill studio with a floor so sloping she constantly tripped over her feet, and lucked into an entry-level job at Nola Sinclair. The job was only marginally more inspiring than working for Annie Druitt--but at least she was in New York, epicenter of all things fashion, and working for an industry darling no less.
A year later, however, she hadn't made any progress. A year wasn't long, in the grand scheme of things, but it was too long for Lucy Jo. Her learning curve had grown flatter than Kate Moss, and Nola refused to consider anyone for a design position who wasn't vetted by the hallowed halls of FIT or Parsons.
It didn't matter. Nola was the gateway, and tonight was Lucy Jo's opportunity to meet her real mentor--someone who would recognize that her talent and drive went far beyond assembly-line work.
Things are finally clicking into place
, Lucy Jo thought. She unzipped her enormous blue parka as she hurried down Lexington Avenue with her design portfolio clutched in one arm, wishing again that she owned a nicer coat to go with her dress. Once she got her next job, she'd buy herself a cashmere overcoat suitable for evening events. And she'd walk right into Saks Fifth Avenue and buy a pair of strappy gold Louboutins, no matter how much they cost. She hoped that tonight nobody would notice the scuff marks on her Aldo heels.
, Lucy Jo thought. She unzipped her enormous blue parka as she hurried down Lexington Avenue with her design portfolio clutched in one arm, wishing again that she owned a nicer coat to go with her dress. Once she got her next job, she'd buy herself a cashmere overcoat suitable for evening events. And she'd walk right into Saks Fifth Avenue and buy a pair of strappy gold Louboutins, no matter how much they cost. She hoped that tonight nobody would notice the scuff marks on her Aldo heels.
Shoes and coat aside, Lucy Jo was ready. She'd read
The Secret
. Her handshake was strong. She'd practiced maintaining eye contact. And she knew exactly what she wanted--an opportunity with a designer who wouldn't consign her to stitching zippers. Though she was slightly terrified to show her design portfolio to the design stars who'd be in attendance--not to mention the business cards she'd had printed up at Kinko's and planned to distribute like party favors--she knew she had to get the word out that Lucy Jo Ellis would make Thakoon, or Brian Reyes, or Rachel Roy a fabulous assistant designer. (Only Nola would have the cojones to stock the crowd with competitors, and only Nola could inspire them to say yes--presumably because they knew how much press she'd draw.) Lucy had even jotted down some conversation starters on index cards, stashing them in her bag just in case. If she happened to find herself standing next to Margaux Irving, there'd be zero chance of dead air.
The Secret
. Her handshake was strong. She'd practiced maintaining eye contact. And she knew exactly what she wanted--an opportunity with a designer who wouldn't consign her to stitching zippers. Though she was slightly terrified to show her design portfolio to the design stars who'd be in attendance--not to mention the business cards she'd had printed up at Kinko's and planned to distribute like party favors--she knew she had to get the word out that Lucy Jo Ellis would make Thakoon, or Brian Reyes, or Rachel Roy a fabulous assistant designer. (Only Nola would have the cojones to stock the crowd with competitors, and only Nola could inspire them to say yes--presumably because they knew how much press she'd draw.) Lucy had even jotted down some conversation starters on index cards, stashing them in her bag just in case. If she happened to find herself standing next to Margaux Irving, there'd be zero chance of dead air.
She'd put equal effort into her appearance. She'd bought her first-ever pair of Spanx, holding her breath hoping that the $40 charge would go through on her credit card. She'd fake-tanned, smearing toxic-smelling cream all over her body and face. Now it looked as if she'd spent Thanksgiving in St. Barts, not on her futon nursing pad thai every night. She'd curled her hair. Wonderbra-ed. Applied three coats of mascara to make her eyes really pop. Painted her nails and toes bright pink to match her dress. And then there was the dress itself--a walking advertisement, she hoped, for what she could do with a needle, thread, and twenty bucks.
You can do this
, she repeated to herself, climbing the stairs toward the velvet rope at the Armory. The other arrivals swirled around her, the women's bare legs goose-pimpling beneath the flourishes of designer frocks, the men looking sexy and severe in black jackets and skinny ties. Lucy Jo stopped briefly to reapply her lipstick, give her hair a quick flip-and-brush, and spritz herself with a Chanel perfume sample she'd been saving for a special occasion. Then she marched herself up to the velvet rope.
, she repeated to herself, climbing the stairs toward the velvet rope at the Armory. The other arrivals swirled around her, the women's bare legs goose-pimpling beneath the flourishes of designer frocks, the men looking sexy and severe in black jackets and skinny ties. Lucy Jo stopped briefly to reapply her lipstick, give her hair a quick flip-and-brush, and spritz herself with a Chanel perfume sample she'd been saving for a special occasion. Then she marched herself up to the velvet rope.
"Name?" said the PR flack with a clipboard, eyeing her.
"Lucy Jo Ellis," she replied, flashing her brightest smile.
The girl scanned her list, then looked up. "Ellis, you said?"
"E-L-L-I-S. Yup, that's right."
"Sorry, I don't have you on here."
Lucy Jo's first instinct was to scream. She fought it down. The PR girl's empty eyes moved to the next person in line.
"Hang on!" Lucy Jo said loudly, diving into her tote bag and pulling out the now-creased invitation. "I have the invitation right here! Nola's assistant Clarissa gave it to me. I work at the company--there's just been some mistake!"
"What can I tell you? You're not on my list. The only Ellis we have is Bret Easton Ellis. Why don't you call Clarissa?"
"I--I would, but I left my cell phone at home. Please." Lucy Jo cursed herself for buying groceries instead of paying the phone bill. The service had been cut off last week.
"Sorry, but I can't let you in if you're not on--"
"Your list. I know. Could
you
call Clarissa, by any chance?" she pleaded, but the girl just shook her head.
you
call Clarissa, by any chance?" she pleaded, but the girl just shook her head.
Before Lucy Jo was reduced to plopping her knees down on the cold steps to beg, the front doors parted and a flash of red hair caught her eye.
"
Clarissa!
" she screamed at the top of her lungs, wild in her desperation. The red hair turned around--and sure enough, it was Nola's assistant, looking as though the strands of black pearls around her neck were choking her. Relief surged through Lucy Jo's body. "Thank God! For some reason my name's not--"
Clarissa!
" she screamed at the top of her lungs, wild in her desperation. The red hair turned around--and sure enough, it was Nola's assistant, looking as though the strands of black pearls around her neck were choking her. Relief surged through Lucy Jo's body. "Thank God! For some reason my name's not--"
"You're the girl from the workshop, right? You're totally late!" Clarissa hissed. She motioned for Lucy Jo to hustle through the doors and then grabbed her wrist. "Didn't I tell you to get here at six?"
"What? No, I'm sure it said eight on the invitation--"
They were interrupted by the woman of the hour, Nola Sinclair, cutting through the crowd with her usual look of hell-bent determination. Lucy Jo shivered.
"Clarissa!" Nola called, jerking her head toward a vacant room off the main hallway. Clarissa, still gripping Lucy Jo's arm, followed her boss with terror in her eyes. Lucy Jo could understand why. At five-two, with a thick shock of prematurely white hair, Nola commanded a presence far bigger than her actual size. Though her look hadn't deviated in ten years--spiky hair, bleached skin, kohlrimmed eyes, black long-sleeved shift, and dominatrix platforms--there was something about her that never failed to startle. Nola was a mercurial personality who loved to take risks with her collections, and move in unexpected directions, and her unpredictability was sometimes hailed more than her actual talent. Lucy Jo, though she didn't always "get" Nola's style, knew she had something to learn from her moxie.
"The seating is a fucking train wreck," Nola hissed once they were sequestered from overhearing ears. "You have Margaux Irving four seats away from Menon Whittemore! Fashion One-Oh-One: they loathe each other! I distinctly told you that they should be seated on opposite sides of the runway." She noticed Lucy Jo and pulled a face. "Who is this?"
Clarissa's face blanched. "One of the girls from the workshop--she came to help out--"
"She's wearing
color
," Nola said, revolted. Then she cast her eyes over Lucy Jo's face, neck, and decolletage. "And why does she look like a human carrot?"
color
," Nola said, revolted. Then she cast her eyes over Lucy Jo's face, neck, and decolletage. "And why does she look like a human carrot?"
"I, um--" Lucy Jo felt her cheeks turn crimson.
"Whatever. One disaster at a time. You need to fix the seating immediately." With that, she stormed off. Clarissa rushed after her, and Lucy Jo scurried after Clarissa, into the central hall that seemed to be filling up by the minute. She was winded from Nola's harsh appraisal, and her face burned with embarrassment. Maybe the self-tanner wasn't so St. Barts after all; maybe her dress wasn't quite ready for its close-up in
Vogue
. Fortunately, the crowded hall was illuminated by long tallow candles that cast dramatic but shadowy light, so nobody could see her blush.
Vogue
. Fortunately, the crowded hall was illuminated by long tallow candles that cast dramatic but shadowy light, so nobody could see her blush.
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