Southern Charm (20 page)

W
hen I walked up the steps of the Frick that first time, I suddenly understood all of the fuss. It was like walking into Edith Wharton's New York, when society lived in houses instead of apartments and an entire staff of servants inhabited a wing of the mansion. Situated on the corner of Seventieth Street and Fifth Avenue, the Frick was impressive for a museum, let alone a private home. “Mr. Frick designed the house with the idea that he would leave it—and his art collection—to
the public when he died,” Emily explained as we entered the main foyer.

She guided me toward the coat check. I realized I was already starting to get a few stares, especially seeing as I could barely get through the crowd without forcing couples and groups of people to part down the middle and navigate around me.

“You're causing quite the stir,” Emily said as we walked into a large room where all of the guests were gathering.

“Really?” I asked, adjusting uncomfortably, and glanced around.

Emily lifted a glass of champagne off one of the trays being passed around and took a sip. We stopped in the center of the room next to a huge column, one of several that lined the sunken atrium in the center. There were only a few other girls who had taken the theme to heart. One walked by us wearing a dress with a huge hoop skirt. Her makeup was like a mask, and her hair was piled high with extensions. She looked like she'd stepped off the stage at Lincoln Center.

“That's Yasmin Beak,” Emily said, noticing my mesmerized expression. “She's some sort of artist. She shows up at a lot of these parties looking like a freak with the same makeup: powder-white skin, black liquid liner, and red lips. She adjusts the outfit accordingly, of course.”

“Well, she's stealing some of my thunder,” I said, laughing.

We walked farther into the main room, toward the fountain in the center of the atrium. Guests, dressed in floor-length gowns and tuxedos, milled around the fountain and sat on the benches surrounding it. The art collections were through a large doorway toward the back, but not many people were taking the opportunity to check out the sixteenth-century portraits. The real live people were far more interesting to behold.

“This is amazing people-watching!” I said.

Emily laughed. “I'm sure a lot of people are saying the same thing about you.”

“Oh God.” I took a sip of champagne and straightened my posture. My mother was always on me about my posture.

We stopped next to one of the fanlike fern plantings and tried to look nonchalant. Or, at least,
I
tried to look nonchalant. Not the easiest
task considering my getup. Of course, Emily had done this type of thing a thousand times before. I wondered when it started to get easy—when it started to feel comfortable. I hoped never! It was all so exciting and glamorous and fun.

We passed by a well-dressed couple standing with an impossibly thin, petite woman. She was wearing a floor-length, boho-inspired dress. Emily smiled and waved.

“That's Amanda and Barry Greenway,” she said as we passed by, motioning toward the couple. “They've been together forever. She's a well-known interior designer. Oh! And supposedly he's gay and they have some sort of arrangement.”

“Emily!”

“And the other chick is Beth York. She's the fashion director at
Marie Claire
. Generally nice and gracious.”

I nodded, taking it all in.

“Harriet Blake,” she said, motioning toward a chic-looking woman with platinum-blond hair and a slim man with tanned skin and slick, dark hair. “She's a stylist. Works with Kate Bosworth and Keira Knightley.”

Suddenly a tiny, almost birdlike man with a shock of white hair swooped in front of Harriet Blake and snapped a few photos. He was wearing a simple black jacket, but it wasn't a tuxedo or a blazer. It was made out of the same type of flimsy fabric they use to make doctors' scrubs. He didn't ask permission to photograph her ahead of time like Richard Fitzsimmons would have, but his movements were so effortless that she barely noticed. I could tell after he scooted away that she was flattered and excited to have had her picture taken by this man. Who was he?

“Bruce Williams,” Emily whispered into my ear. “He covers parties and street fashion for
The New York Times
. He's a legend!”

“Oh!” I said. “I've heard of him. ‘Sunday Styles'?”

“Yes.” Emily nodded. “That's him. He has a different style from Richard. But it's hard to pinpoint what he's going to go for. He goes for what he likes. It's totally singular.”

“I want him to take my picture,” I admitted.

Just then, the DJ started playing dance music in the next room, a large, circular space with ornate wood paneling. I peeked in and noticed a few couples milling around the perimeter, contemplating making their way onto the dance floor. Bruce followed them inside.

“Classic tactic,” Emily whispered. “The first people on the dance floor are pretty much guaranteed to have their photo taken by Bruce.”

I turned around then. I'm not sure why. I felt someone behind me or someone coming toward me and I was right. It was Tripp, sheepishly straightening the bow tie on his tux. He'd made it to the Frick after all.

“Tripp,” Emily said flatly.

“Emily,” he replied. He pecked her on the cheek. “It's nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she said.

I stared at him. “You made it.”

“I was able to move some things around,” he said.

I noticed Emily rolling her eyes.

“Can I have this dance?” he said in a mock-serious tone.

I glanced at Emily, who waved me away. I was actually surprised—Tripp had always hated dancing.

“Go on,” she said.

He pulled me onto the dance floor and started twirling me around, gigantic dress and hair and all. I was immediately brought back to the days when my parents forced me to go to cotillion in order to prepare for my debut. I spent hours waltzing awkwardly with pimply-faced boys who definitely would have rather been playing video games. But we had no other choice. We were supposed to know how to dance properly, so we danced. I'm not saying that Tripp danced like a thirteen-year-old boy, but it was pretty clear he hadn't updated his moves since his own cotillion days. He had a few crowd-pleasing moves that he kept coming back to, like the Pretzel and dipping me. Before I knew it, his hand was behind my back and my head was nearly touching the floor. And what was that? A camera flash? It happened so fast I barely had time to process it, but as Tripp pulled me back upright, I saw Bruce Williams scampering away. He was quick!

I turned to Tripp. “Did you see that?” I asked.

He looked at me blankly. “What?”

“Bruce Williams!”

“Who?”

“Bruce Williams.” I poked him in the arm. “The
New York Times
photographer. He just took our picture!”

Tripp shrugged. “Oh.”

“You don't think that's exciting?”

“What, some photographer taking our picture? Please, Minty.” He pulled me off the dance floor and toward the bar.

I stood to the side and frowned. It
was
kind of thrilling. Like Emily said, Bruce didn't take just anyone's photo. It was a major compliment! I didn't understand why Tripp felt the need to be so dismissive.

“Please, yourself,” I said, swatting at him. Suddenly I wasn't so thrilled that he'd decided to show up out of the blue.

Tripp walked off toward the bar.

I looked over and saw Emily standing a few feet away with an attractive Wall Street type—it had to be Nate. They looked happy, flirtatious even. I swear I saw her bat her eyelashes a few times. Could this be more than the “platonic friendship” she was making it out to be? After watching them for a few seconds, I couldn't help but wonder, where was the romance and happiness I'd been looking forward to that evening? I was dressed like a princess, after all. Where was my prince?

Tripp handed me a champagne.

“You know,” I said, “I'm not feeling so well after all.”

He looked surprised but also relieved, like he was just waiting for me to say the word.

“You want to get out of here?”

To be completely honest, I wanted
him
to get out of there so I could enjoy the rest of my evening. Tripp's appearance should have made everything perfect, but instead I just felt deflated.

“Yes, let's go.”

We walked over to Emily and Nate and explained we were going to head out.

“Early morning,” Tripp said.

“I see,” Emily said. She gave me a quick hug. “I guess I'll see you on Sunday?”

Sunday, Sunday . . . I stared back at her blankly.

“Mandarin Oriental? Spa day?”

“Oh!” I jumped. “Oh yes, of course! I have to stop in to meet with Kevin for a bit in the morning and I'll head over there right after.”

Tripp stood to the side, looking impatient.

“Break a leg,” Emily said. “Can't wait to hear all about it.”

Sticks and Stones Can Break Your Bones

O
ne thing I'd learned so far about New York people is that they are always working. It begins with the workday, which flows into after-work drinks with colleagues, which flows into after-after-work dinner with more work-related people. And weekends are just an opportunity to get more work done.

Sundays are official “unofficial” workdays, even in the fashion industry, and especially in the weeks leading up to Fashion Week, which happens twice a year. When I started working for Kevin, he was days away from his show and beyond crazed, but he asked that I come in for a quick meeting the Sunday after the Frick ball to go over my contract. It was the only spare moment he had.

Walking out the door, I grabbed my copies of
The New York Times
and the
Post
to read in the cab. As I headed down Fifth Avenue, I opened up the
Times
“Styles” section and there, as the centerpiece photo of Bruce Williams's column, was a very large photo of Tripp dipping me on the dance floor at the Frick ball! I skimmed the page. Underneath the photo was a caption with our names, and mine was
spelled correctly this time! I couldn't believe it. As the cab pulled up to Kevin's office building, I quickly folded up the section, grabbed the rest of my stuff, and hurried out of the cab. The
Post
would have to wait for after the meeting.

When I arrived at Kevin's office on the tenth floor, his assistant ushered me into an open, airy conference room adjacent to his studio. He was sitting at the table with his director of public relations, Jenny Severs, a perky brunette with a sallow complexion and big saucer eyes, and Jenny's assistant, Lane Beekman, who was so busy taking notes, she barely looked up when I walked into the room.

“Sooo,” Kevin began, smiling. “How are you?”

He looked at me a bit longer than I was comfortable with, as if my response might not be so positive. I smiled back at him.

“Great!” I said. I didn't know whether to mention the
Times
or not. I wasn't one to brag. I decided to let them bring it up. Or maybe they hadn't seen it yet?

“Good to hear, sweetie,” he said, nodding his head solemnly. “So, let's get down to business, shall we?” He turned to Jenny. “I hate to say this but we're a bit strapped for time!”

“First off,” Jenny began, “welcome to Kevin Park.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I'm so excited!”

Jenny smiled and slid a folder across the table. “I've put together a press strategy that's pretty straightforward,” she said.

I pulled the folder toward me and opened it up gingerly, not sure whether I should look at it in front of them or not. Kevin had already quoted a pretty generous salary, so I was curious about what else they could be offering. I started reading from the top.

“I hope you'll find it satisfactory?” Jenny asked.

This kind of thing always made me uncomfortable. I glanced down at the bottom of the page and there was a “clothing allowance” in addition to my salary, which could be used toward clothing purchases in any of the Kevin Park boutiques and for shoes from a list of approved designers such as Christian Louboutin and Manolo Blahnik.

And, I must say: OMG.

It was a lot of money, especially considering the fact that, as far as
I could tell, they didn't even expect me to come into the office every day. In a nutshell, I was expected to attend all Kevin Park events and make myself available for press opportunities such as magazine profiles and television spots. There was also the possibility of my appearing in upcoming Kevin Park advertising campaigns.

“We have yet to launch a formal campaign,” Kevin explained, “but hopefully that's next up on the agenda and if we do, of course I'd love for you to be the face of the line.”

“Wow,” I said. “This is amazing!”