Read the Overnight Socialite Online
Authors: Bridie Clark
the Overnight Socialite (40 page)
34
Please come celebrate the debut of
Carlton-Ellis
Saturday, March 21st
Presentation begins at 4 PM
800 Park Avenue, PH A
Lucy crouched behind a rack of clothes in Dottie's spacious guest bedroom, which had been transformed into a backstage area. The girls were all ready, just getting the finishing touches from the top-flight entourage of hair and makeup artists Eloise had recruited. From this vantage point, all Lucy could see was shoes--sexy snake-skin stilettos, red velvet platforms, lace-up ballerina flats--stepping briskly in every direction, like rush hour in fashion heaven. She'd dipped beneath the fray, out of sight, under the auspices of searching for a vintage clutch that one of her models had misplaced. Really she'd just needed a moment to catch her breath.
"Room down there for me?" asked a voice belonging to a pair of Brian Atwoods that could get a girl in trouble. Eloise ducked into view, bending legs as skinny as a heron's. "You're hiding. The most thrilling day of your entire career--
our
entire careers--and you're hiding behind a clothing rack!"
our
entire careers--and you're hiding behind a clothing rack!"
"I'm just . . . you know, breathing. Or trying to."
"You have nothing to worry about, Luce. The sets are amazing and the place will be packed. Are you kidding? After the Ball auction, this is the place to be. Your dresses are
gorgeous
. Come on, stand up."
gorgeous
. Come on, stand up."
Lucy forced in some air, standing. She'd been so busy for the past week, she hadn't allowed herself to get nervous. Now, with the presentation about to start, she was making up for lost time. Maybe there would be goodwill in the room--at least for a while. But once the fashionistas and the society editors and
Margaux Irving
saw that her influences weren't just Paris and Milan and the ladies who lunch on the Upper East Side, maybe they would start to suspect the truth about her. And then at the end of the show, when she would have to stand before them all and . . . she shuddered. For a painful moment, as she stood there with Eloise, Lucy wished that instead of getting on that New York-bound Greyhound from Dayville she'd thrown herself under the front tires.
Margaux Irving
saw that her influences weren't just Paris and Milan and the ladies who lunch on the Upper East Side, maybe they would start to suspect the truth about her. And then at the end of the show, when she would have to stand before them all and . . . she shuddered. For a painful moment, as she stood there with Eloise, Lucy wished that instead of getting on that New York-bound Greyhound from Dayville she'd thrown herself under the front tires.
"Think it's time?" Eloise asked gently.
Lucy nodded, pushing some of her dark curls behind her ear. "Here we go," she said, catching her mother's eye across the room and flashing a thumbs-up.
"Girls, places!" Rita barked, understanding the unspoken order. When it came to corralling models, her brassy nature was an asset, and she'd done a beautiful job with all the models' manicures, giving each the dark red talons of a 1940s starlet.
As they emptied into the library, which rivaled a New York public branch in size and grandeur, Lucy surveyed the whirling blur of energy and vibrant hues around her. There was Fernanda, radiant in a daffodil-yellow frock with a flirty full skirt and a skinny belt, taking her place on the roller coaster set that Max had designed, her beautiful hair teased to look as though the wind were whipping through it. Dottie, regal in a cantaloupe-colored silk taffeta wrap dress that had a crisp yet feminine ruffle at the collar, took her place--as a shopper in a megastore aisle, inspecting the back of an open Cheetos bag with the gravitas of a philosopher. Her fingertips had been dusted orange, matching her frock.
Mimi, now hives-free, wore a dark gold linen-silk gown with hand-beading at the neck. Since her tableau had her shoveling fake snow (an homage to the Minnesota winter), Lucy had made her a fetching flax-and-gold puffer vest to layer on top. Anna, a sizzling vision in crimson, popped against the red-and-white checkered tablecloth of the Dayville pizza parlor Max had replicated based on Lucy's description. Lucy had also used the classic tablecloth fabric to make Anna's sash. And lastly Libet, who now filled out the bodice of her little white dress perfectly, sat in a truncated version of bleachers, watching a ball game wearing a foam finger and a backward cap. The red stitching of a baseball--iconically American--had been used, sparingly but evocatively, in a straight line down her back. Eloise made one last sweep, adjusting straps and pinning hair.
So far, so good,
Lucy had to admit. Everything had shaped up beyond their expectations. Over the next hour, Eloise would squire buyers from Barneys, Bergdorf, and Saks, gathering their feedback and, Lucy hoped, orders. Lucy knew it was a long shot: all the other designers' fall collections had been presented weeks before. All they could do was pray that the buyers decided to do the unimaginable: exceed their open-to-buy dollar allocation toward a fall delivery because they strongly believed in the viability of the Carlton-Ellis brand.
Lucy had to admit. Everything had shaped up beyond their expectations. Over the next hour, Eloise would squire buyers from Barneys, Bergdorf, and Saks, gathering their feedback and, Lucy hoped, orders. Lucy knew it was a long shot: all the other designers' fall collections had been presented weeks before. All they could do was pray that the buyers decided to do the unimaginable: exceed their open-to-buy dollar allocation toward a fall delivery because they strongly believed in the viability of the Carlton-Ellis brand.
While Eloise was trying to pull off this miracle, Lucy would be attempting one of her own: winning over Margaux Irving and the cabal of powerful fashion editors who'd agreed to spend their Saturday afternoon viewing the presentation. And, more frightening still, she'd reveal her story, which could leave these buyers and editors feeling tricked and hoodwinked, ready to rip apart the clothes--and their designer--thread by thread. If the Carlton-Ellis launch didn't succeed, and instead caused a stampede of cold feet, Mallory would have to run the original story she'd planned. It would be too late for a comeback.
"This is it," said Lucy, giving Rita a squeeze. She felt an involuntary twitch of missing Wyatt. Wyatt would look her over, tell her to stand up straight, hold her hand, the way he had done every single time she'd appeared in public as Lucia Haverford Ellis--his was a level of scrutiny that would drive most women crazy, but she found an odd reassurance in knowing that nothing escaped his critical eye. Besides, she'd always felt more confident, more sure of herself, when he was at her side, and when he said he believed in her, she believed him. But Wyatt had built her up only to knock her down. Now she had to stand on her own two feet.
"Open the doors!" she called out to Margaret.
Cornelia's bloodshot eyes opened a crack. Squinting half-blindly at the antique brass clock next to her bed, she was dismayed to see that it was four in the afternoon. She'd slept through the day again, following another sleepless night. Then she remembered:
Townhouse!
She sprang from the covers. The magazine with the expose of Lucy was due to land on newsstands today, which meant that for the first time in a week, Cornelia had something worth getting out of bed for. She pushed the frizz out of her eyes and into the Scrungi she'd left on the nightstand. The photo of Lucy crashing through Nola's runway--would Mallory run that as the cover? Cornelia ached with suspense. Throwing on the hooded sweatshirt and yoga pants she'd been wearing for four days--slightly crusted with Domino's pizza sauce, but she was just running to the Korean deli on the corner and back--she flew out the door.
Townhouse!
She sprang from the covers. The magazine with the expose of Lucy was due to land on newsstands today, which meant that for the first time in a week, Cornelia had something worth getting out of bed for. She pushed the frizz out of her eyes and into the Scrungi she'd left on the nightstand. The photo of Lucy crashing through Nola's runway--would Mallory run that as the cover? Cornelia ached with suspense. Throwing on the hooded sweatshirt and yoga pants she'd been wearing for four days--slightly crusted with Domino's pizza sauce, but she was just running to the Korean deli on the corner and back--she flew out the door.
"Pack of Marlboro lights and this," she said, grabbing the magazine off the stand and waving it at the cashier. Giddy with anticipation, she stared at the cover. Fatso Mimi, surrounded by Romanian orphans?
What?
What?
"Fifteen dollars and fifty-six cents," said the cashier.
Cornelia patted the front pouch on her sweatshirt. No wallet, just her BlackBerry. "Sorry, I don't have any money on me."
"Okay," he said, reshelving the cigarettes. "I'll hold magazine for you. No pay, no read."
"You see me every day!" She couldn't catch her breath. "You know I'm good for it!"
"Never seen you before, Miss. Can't give things away for free."
She scowled at his obvious brain damage. Turning her back on him, she flipped through the magazine as fast as she could. Where the hell was the article? She reached the back cover--still no mention of her sworn enemy's fraud. A dark feeling began to spread inside of Cornelia. She flipped back to the table of contents.
No mention of Lucy Jo Ellis.
Her rage washed everything in white light and her head felt like it was going to blow up. She would strangle Mallory Keeler.
No mention of Lucy Jo Ellis.
Her rage washed everything in white light and her head felt like it was going to blow up. She would strangle Mallory Keeler.
"Miss, you okay?" yelled the cashier. "You need nine-one-one?" Cornelia closed her mouth. She hadn't realized she'd been screaming.
"Your phone! Your phone is ringing!" the cashier said, looking at her as if she'd escaped from Bellevue. "Maybe somebody who can come get you?"
Cornelia pulled her BlackBerry out of her sweatshirt.
Theo Galt.
She picked up.
Theo Galt.
She picked up.
"Hey, there," he said. "So I've been thinking about your musical aspirations. We should talk. Are you heading over to Lucy's thing? Maybe we could grab a bite afterward."
The only words Cornelia heard were: "Lucy's thing." She forced herself to focus. "Mmm. What's the address again? Can't find it anywhere."
"Eight hundred Park. So . . . dinner afterward?"
But Cornelia didn't answer. Unable to control herself, she was already running as fast as she could toward Dottie Hayes's apartment.
"This could be a terrible idea." Wyatt, straightening his tie in the reflection of the elevator doors, felt like he and Trip were seventh grade boys heading to a high school dance. His heart was knocking against his Adam's apple. "Eloise and Lucy don't want us there. I mean, they won't even talk to us. Maybe crashing--"
"Nut up!" Trip commanded. His face was pasty pale, but his gaze was steady. "This could be our only chance. We know where they are, and we know they won't run away. All I need is less than a minute." He wiped the edges of his mouth with his thumb and index finger, then reached into his blazer and pulled out a velvet box.
"Is that a
ring
?" asked Wyatt, floored.
ring
?" asked Wyatt, floored.
"If this is what it takes to make Eloise happy, I'll do it. I just want her back." Trip stuffed the box back into his pocket.
The elevator doors parted, but Wyatt seized Trip's arm and held him back with more force than necessary. "Don't you
dare
!" He spoke quietly but forcefully--no way would he allow Trip to steal the limelight on Lucy's big day. "You will keep your mouth shut, and support the girls. You will not propose to Eloise. This event is
not about you
."
dare
!" He spoke quietly but forcefully--no way would he allow Trip to steal the limelight on Lucy's big day. "You will keep your mouth shut, and support the girls. You will not propose to Eloise. This event is
not about you
."
Trip glared at him, but then begrudgingly agreed. "I'll ask her afterward, fine. Now let go of me?"
They stepped off the elevator and into Wyatt's childhood home, heading toward the library. Once inside, Wyatt couldn't help but swivel his head around like a wide-eyed tourist in Times Square, taking in the electric crowd that filled the transformed room. Everyone was buzzing over the socialites modeling Lucy's dresses on elaborate mini-stages--Wyatt's own mother was up there, he noticed, despite her general reticence to be in the spotlight. When he caught Dottie's eye, she winked at him--equally out of character, he thought, smiling nervously back at her.
As he walked closer to Libet Vance's stage, Wyatt began to clue in to what Lucy had done--the genius of the presentation she and Eloise had put together in just one week. She'd managed to marry her true down-home roots with high fashion, drawing inspiration both from the real-life American women she'd known all her life and the glamorous socialites she'd partied with all winter. Showing media savvy, she and Eloise had recruited the most press-magnetic socialites as their models--but set them in
tableaux vivants
showing life in the so-called "flyover states."
tableaux vivants
showing life in the so-called "flyover states."
"She did it," Wyatt said, feeling overcome with admiration. His eyes quickly searched the room and found Lucy--luminous, powerful, poised, and holding her own with Margaux Irving.
Margaux, sleek as a panther in a slim-cut Prada shift, swept up next to Fernanda's roller-coaster scene. She gazed at the tableau as though it were a blank wall. "We've contrasted real American experiences with the gilded socialite," Lucy explained, forcing herself to stay calm despite the editrix's unsettling lack of a reaction.
"The dress is pretty," Margaux remarked.
Pretty
. Was it a compliment? To Nola Sinclair and her cutting-edge supporters,
pretty
had been the dirtiest of words. But then again,
pretty
had been Lucy's intention. She'd designed dresses she herself craved: feminine, light, artfully and impeccably made, brimming with optimism. Clothes that made you feel just a bit more alive. The type of thing that hard-core fashionista Margaux could easily dismiss as too mainstream. She led the inscrutable editor over to Mimi's stage. "She's shoveling," said the editor coolly, casting her eye over the setting.
. Was it a compliment? To Nola Sinclair and her cutting-edge supporters,
pretty
had been the dirtiest of words. But then again,
pretty
had been Lucy's intention. She'd designed dresses she herself craved: feminine, light, artfully and impeccably made, brimming with optimism. Clothes that made you feel just a bit more alive. The type of thing that hard-core fashionista Margaux could easily dismiss as too mainstream. She led the inscrutable editor over to Mimi's stage. "She's shoveling," said the editor coolly, casting her eye over the setting.
What did that mean? What could Lucy deduce from Margaux's statement of the obvious? Her palms had started to sweat. She looked across the room--past Mallory Keeler, scribbling notes furiously, past the well-heeled flock of editors (who'd deigned to come because Margaux had deigned to come), past the socialites who added beauty and gloss to a scene already exploding with both--to see Eloise showing the buyer from Saks Anna's dress. The buyer, nodding and looking closely at the sash, seemed impressed. But how would she--
they
--feel after hearing the truth about who Lucy was? Lucy now knew how things worked. Nobody would have offered Cornelia that ill-fated perfume deal if her last name wasn't Rockman. The fashion world seemed willing to consider the design career of Lucia Haverford Ellis--at least, they'd shown up to give her a chance--but how would they feel about Lucy Jo?
they
--feel after hearing the truth about who Lucy was? Lucy now knew how things worked. Nobody would have offered Cornelia that ill-fated perfume deal if her last name wasn't Rockman. The fashion world seemed willing to consider the design career of Lucia Haverford Ellis--at least, they'd shown up to give her a chance--but how would they feel about Lucy Jo?
"Food's fabulous," gushed Rex Newhouse, snaring another sliced-up Twinkie off a passing tray. "You must share the name of your caterer." But then he noticed Margaux and retreated nervously into the crowd. The woman had a way of bringing confident men and women to their knees without saying or doing a thing.
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