Southern Charm (25 page)

“Look at you, gorgeous,” Spencer said.

Betsy smiled as she applied mascara to my bottom lashes.

“There!” she said. “You're all done here, love.” She blew me a kiss and moved on to the next model.

Spencer grinned. He was clearly in hog heaven.

“I've missed you!” I said, blowing him an air kiss so as not to mess up the makeup.

“Of course you have,” he said, glancing around.

“So tell me,” I said, lowering my head. “I totally forgot Ruth was going to be here! Do I need, like, backup security or something?”

Spencer leaned against my chair and shook his head.

“I wouldn't worry about it,” he said. “She's so caught up in launching Alexis's ‘career' these days. You know, the girl they mentioned in ‘Page Six'? Ruth somehow convinced Kevin to let Alexis walk in the show. She doesn't have a good spot in the lineup—she's somewhere in the middle from what I heard—but she's walking.”

“Well, that's a relief,” I said. “At least she found someone else to torture.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “They get along like two peas in a pod. Each one is more vapid than the other,” he said. “Oh!” He jumped a little. “I have a little secret to tell you.”

I squirmed in my seat. I desperately wanted to tell Spencer that Tripp and I were married. I had to will myself not to form the words. I decided I'd wait to hear what his secret was first and see if it might be worth the trade. Or not! But then I thought, No, I should wait. Spencer was a lot of things, but a secret-keeper was not one of them.

“Tell me! Tell me!” I said.

Spencer paused dramatically.

“You are looking at the new assistant features editor of
Vanity Fair,
” he said.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Oh my God, Spencer, that's amazing!”

“I know,” he said. “I haven't told Ruthless yet, though. And somehow she hasn't found out. Or maybe she doesn't care? God knows I'm dead weight at that place. I think I spent four hours yesterday navigating that new socialite website. Have you seen it? OMG, it's ridiculous.”

“What socialite website?” I asked. Kevin was motioning for me to join him on the other side of the tent.

“SocialiteRoster.com?” Spencer said, following me as I made my way over to Kevin. “It's kind of a . . . what's the best way to describe it? It's like the
Blue Book
meets Zagat. It ranks each socialite by how many parties she attends, how many times her picture appears in certain outlets, you know, that kind of thing. You're all over it.”

“Seriously?” I said. I couldn't believe I hadn't heard of it yet. It must have been brand-new.

“Minty, babe, we need you back up on the platform,” Kevin said, appearing in front of me.

“Later,” Spencer said, disappearing into the mob scene.

Kevin took off my robe and smoothed out my dress. I noticed that every person in the tiny space was in a similar state of frenzy. Models were lined up along one side of the room standing still as stylists put the final touches on their looks and sent them to the front, where the rest of the girls were already lining up for the start of the show. Damien came over at one point with a comb, pulled out my rollers
in a single swipe, and teased and styled my hair. Betsy's assistant had barely finished touching up my makeup when I heard my name called.

“Minty! Minty! The show is about to start. We need you lined up with the rest of the models in thirty seconds!”

Thirty seconds! I jumped out of the chair and headed in the direction of the other models. I heard the music start and suddenly each was disappearing through the dark hole of the opening of the runway, one after the other. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts, and suddenly I was being pulled toward the opening as well. Oh my God, this was it.

“Go!”

I've heard that speaking in public can be an out-of-body experience, like you're hovering over yourself watching, fingers crossed, praying you don't trip over any of the words or die of embarrassment.

Walking in public—walking on a runway, that is, in front of every important person in the fashion industry—is similar. You take that first step into the lights and the crowd and the music and everything goes blank. Suddenly you're taking another step forward, but you're not exactly sure how. And then another and another, until you're nearing the end of the runway and you realize it's almost halfway over. For a split second you might glance at someone in the crowd.

For me that person was Tripp, who was seated front row, looking somewhat bewildered but also amazed and proud. He started whistling and clapping. And then I saw my mother, who was so overwhelmed with excitement she was fanning herself. A row behind her was Emily, slightly more composed but beaming nonetheless.

Suddenly I was a few feet from the end of the runway. All I could think about was remembering to do “the Minty” like Kevin had reminded me a thousand times over. I placed my right hand on my hip, crossed one leg over the other, and struck a pose. Cameras flashed; the audience clapped and cheered. A few people yelled my name. Were they actually cheering for me?

When I made it backstage, the other models were already starting
to walk out again for the finale. Kevin grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze.

“One last time before we can celebrate,” he whispered in my ear.

The finale was even more of a blur, as I stood at the end of the runway with Kevin and everyone in the audience gave him a standing ovation. So many camera flashes went off, I started seeing spots!

After, we all surrounded Kevin backstage and raised a glass of champagne as he thanked the production team, makeup artists, hairstylists, and models who had worked so tirelessly to make the show a success. I was listening to him speak, my heart still racing from the thrill of the runway, when I noticed a girl across the way looking at me—no, staring at me. She was pretty, with catlike eyes, and long platinum-blonde hair. I looked back at her and smiled; it was the only thing I could think of to do. But she didn't smile back. She looked startled for a moment and then turned away.

Kevin came over then and put his arm around me.

“You're a natural, babe,” he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

Flashes started going off and I realized people were taking
my
picture. Wow, I thought. Just a few years before, I was happy to even be allowed backstage. Now I was part of the show. Richard Fitzsimmons ran up and gave me a quick double kiss.

“Did I not say you were going to be someone?” he said, snapping away.

I laughed and struck a pose. When Richard was finished, he started taking photos of Kevin with the models. That's when I saw Ruth. She was standing just behind Kevin's right shoulder with the girl who had been staring at me!

“That's Alexis.”

I jumped.

Spencer was standing next to me with his headset around his neck. As I turned to him, Ruth looked up and our eyes met. She shot me one of the coldest, most evil glances I'd ever experienced. If she had the ability to fly over the crowd at that moment, swoop down and bite my head off, she would have. Then Alexis whispered something in Ruth's ear and they both looked at me. I literally got chills.

“Why are they staring at me?” I asked.

“Who knows,” Spencer said. “Ruth is probably annoyed you're getting all of the attention.”

Two of the seamstresses came over and started undoing the stitching in my dress. Right in front of Spencer, they pulled it off and handed me a white robe. And, just like that, my Cinderella moment was over. Except I still had the shoes, and
both
shoes at that. I stared down at my feet.

“You think they'll let me keep them?” I asked Spencer.

He glanced around.

“If you make a run for it now, I won't tell anyone.”

Put On a Brave Face

T
he day of the engagement party, I woke up in a cheerful mood.

I got up, made coffee, and picked up my newspapers. The review for Kevin's show was front and center in
WWD,
glowing about his fall collection. There was even a note about how I'd modeled the final look. The writer said I'd really “held my own” in comparison to other socialites and celebrities who'd all walked the runway at one time or another. Then there was a quote from Kevin about our meeting that fall and how my personal style actually had a hand in inspiring the fall collection.

“Wow,” I said out loud.

My phone rang. I picked it up—it was Tripp.

“You haven't read the
Post
yet, have you?” he asked. He sounded annoyed but not exasperated. Okay, so maybe it wasn't so bad.

“No,” I said, “I'm about to though.”

“You know where to look,” he said. “I'll wait on the phone.”

And there it was:
QUICKIE MARRIAGE AND RUNWAY DRAMA SIGNAL TROUBLES FOR SOCIAL SWAN.

The story that followed went on for nearly half a page. It started
with the “rumor” that Tripp and I had “tied the knot” at city hall a few days before, citing public records and “inside” sources that had tipped them off to the news. It then went on to say that I'd tripped Alexis Barnaby on the runway at the Kevin Park show and insinuated that I'd done it out of jealousy. I thought for a moment. I hadn't, at any point during the show, been within ten feet of Alexis. Who was feeding the
Post
this garbage?

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yup,” he replied.

“Are your parents freaking out?”

I was referring to the city hall thing, of course. Bebe and Phillip were already so used to reading gossip about me in the papers, they probably skipped over the whole part about Alexis. That was for me to deal with on my own.

“They're okay,” he said. “They were disappointed, of course, and there will be more discussion to come, but they have a cocktail party to host.”

“Ugh, why does this always happen?”

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “I was planning on telling them after tonight anyway. They just found out a bit earlier. I mean, what can we do?”

“You're right,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said.

The next person to call was Emily.

“Is this true?” she asked. Her voice sounded shaky and shell-shocked.

I was silent.

“Minty.” She let out a huge sigh.

“Emily, I'm sorry, I've been meaning to tell you. It's just, we were going to try to keep it a secret for a while. It's really just something we did for ourselves, you know, we didn't plan it or anything.”

“I'm just . . . shocked,” she said. “I don't get it.” She paused. “I mean, what's the rush? You're planning a wedding for June. Isn't that fast enough?”

“Yes, of course it is,” I said. I couldn't really explain to her exactly why we did what we did. “Listen, Em, it's just a formality. We're still having the wedding.”

“I just wish I didn't have to read about your wedding in the
Post
.”

“I know,” I said.

There was a long period of silence.

“Anyway,” Emily began, “I'll see you tonight at the du Ponts'? I imagine you and Tripp have some explaining to do in the meantime.”

Oh God, she was right. Bebe and Phillip were going to be livid. And on top of it I had to face them and a hundred or so of their closest friends and family in a few hours.

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” I said.

As I hung up the phone, I heard the lock turn and the familiar click-clack of my mother's Chanel pumps on the parquet.

“Where is my recalcitrant daughter?” her voice bellowed down the hall. She appeared in front of me, slipping out of her mink. “I hope you and Tripp are happy. Your father's gone and canceled his flight over this city hall business; he's furious.”

“Daddy isn't coming?”

“Sadly, no,” she said. “I knew this would shatter him.”

“Mother, he can still walk me down the aisle!”

“It's not the same.” She shook her head. “Just not the same.”

I groaned. I felt terrible about my father, but at least Scarlett was there to smooth things over a bit. Yes, she was less than pleased about the whole thing, but she would get over it. She'd smile and nod her way through the entire party and convince everyone that Tripp and I were just being silly kids in love. She was good at playing to the public and I was glad to have her on my side.

“Now,” she said. “Shall we get down to business before we find ourselves with less than an hour to get ready for the party?”

“Absolutely,” I said, sitting down. “Fire away.”

She bulldozed through her list of various updates: the service was confirmed at the French Huguenot Church in downtown Charleston; the combination guest present/menu holder would be handmade picture frames made from green velvet Cowtan & Tout fabric to match
the wedding colors, pale green, cream, and white. She'd decided on hydrangeas, orchids, and roses for the florals. Each program, engraved by Bernard Maisner, would feature “Minty and Tripp” in a pale green Edwardian script on a cream card, tied with a ribbon at the top. As our four hundred guests arrived in the church, a string quartet would play music from the balcony.