Southern Charm (36 page)

The thing is, in such a short period of time, my world in New York had come to revolve around Tripp. His friends became my friends, the restaurants he liked to go to became my favorite restaurants. I even watched the same TV shows as Tripp! I knew if I was ever going to get over him and move on, I had to start over. I had to remove myself from all of the things that reminded me of him and start fresh.

So I reprogrammed my DVR. I went through my closet, weeded out any clothing that reminded me of him and gave it away to charity (and yes, my debutante gown from the Frick ball was the first to go!).
The one thing I couldn't bring myself to do was delete his number from my phone. I called Darby to discuss the matter. I thought it might mean something more, like I wasn't truly moving on.

“Oh please, you're being ridiculous,” she said. “Anyway, who knows? I mean, Tripp definitely isn't the right guy for you in the long run but maybe someday you guys can be friends.”

Friends? I wasn't so sure. But I also wasn't willing to rule it out. So the number stayed.

In the meantime, I was able to keep busy with my job, which was a lifesaver. With all of the design meetings, leather scouting, and sketching, I barely had a moment to catch up with Spencer or Emily, let alone think about missing Tripp. Before I knew it, April was almost over and the weather was finally turning springlike. March hadn't exactly gone out like a lamb, but it looked like May might be the light at the end of the tunnel.

O
ne morning, I woke up early for a meeting downtown with Kevin. As I got ready to the sound of Z100, taxi horns, and a pigeon ruffling its wings on the windowsill, I realized it was the first time in a while I actually felt normal minus my engagement ring. I felt proud of myself and more ready than ever to face whatever the future had in store.

I was standing on Lexington hailing a cab when Spencer called. It was his work number, the famous “286” exchange of the Condé Nast building. I stared at my phone as his name flashed, one ring after another. We'd been trying to meet up for almost a month now and had only had a few conversations over the phone.

“Hey, honey,” I said.

“She's alive,” he said.

“Sorry,” I replied. “I've been so crazy with work.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “I get it. I'll see you when I see you. Anyway,” he paused, “I'm actually calling with some good news.”

A cab pulled up. I swung open the door and flung myself inside.

“Washington Street and West Eleventh,” I said. “Good news? God, I hope you're not kidding.”

“For once, no,” he said. “I've actually been wanting to tell you this for ages, but I didn't want to jinx it. You know how print is. You never know if it's actually going to happen until you're literally holding a copy of the magazine and there it is.”

“What are you talking about, Spencer?” I asked.

He paused. I could tell he was smiling.

“I'm talking about
Vanity Fair,
baby.
Vanity Fair!
”

“
Vanity Fair
what?”

What about
Vanity Fair
? He'd just started; I couldn't imagine he'd already landed his big exposé on the Kennedys.

“You're . . . gonna . . . be . . . in . . .
Vanity Fair
!”

Deep breath.

“What? Are you kidding me?!” I shouted. “I mean, wow. Are you sure? But how? What? Oh God, Spencer, are they going to be nice?”

“That depends,” he said, laughing.

“Spencer!”

He stopped laughing.

“Gorgeous,” he said, “you're killing me. It's not exactly a feature-length story but it's a start. It's an amazing shot of you in the party pages from the Frick.”

“Spencer!” I squealed. “Oh my God, thank you! I can't believe it!”

He laughed. “And you look gorgeous. It's out on Monday, by the way.”

The cab pulled up in front of Kevin's studio. I paid the driver and stepped out onto the street.

“Spencer, that's so exciting. Really. I'm beyond thrilled.”

“Good,” he said. “I can't wait for you to see it.”

M
y mother always says it's better to be overprepared than underprepared. Ever since I was little, whenever I was given a task, I went above and beyond. This opportunity to create a line of handbags for Kevin was another level, of course, but I also looked at it like any other project. I did my homework, I tirelessly researched the competition, and I gave it everything I had.

When I walked into the design office, Kevin was sitting at the conference table with the two accessories designers, Gerald and Lucy.

“Here's our little designer,” Kevin said, giving me a kiss on each cheek. “Minty, you know Gerald and Lucy, yes?”

“Of course!” I said.

Kevin stared at me. “How are we feeling?”

I stared back at him. “Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

“Shall we get to work then?”

I never realized how many details went into one bag! It was overwhelming. But at the end of the process, we had three amazing designs that I couldn't have been more proud of. There was the Emily, a sleek shoulder bag with a cross-body strap in a dove-gray shade; the Darby, a going-out clutch that came in black or hot-pink leather and featured stud detailing; and, finally, the Scarlett, a top-handle-style handbag in the most beautiful red leather. The hardware was all gold and each bag would come with a special “MD” charm.

“Minty,” Kevin said, “if all goes well I'm going to need you on board for countless more collections, got it?”

“Oh my God, of course, are you kidding me?”

“Also, I'm not sure if you already have a date for the Met Ball, but I'd love for you to join me. It would be a pity if I had to show up stag.”

My eyes widened. The Met Ball was the Oscars of fashion, hosted by
Vogue
and featuring only the crème de la crème of fashion, society, and—yes—a jaw-dropping roster of Hollywood A-listers. In fact, the Met Ball was so exclusive and so impenetrable that it was arguably a more glamorous event than the Oscars. The guest list was curated by none other than Anna Wintour herself. To be invited was the New York equivalent of being knighted by the queen of England. I'd secretly hoped I was going to get an invite but at the end of the day I wasn't surprised when I didn't. I was still a relative newcomer on the circuit.

“Kevin,” I said. I held my hand to my chest. “You're joking.”

“I am not joking,” he laughed. “And just to prove I'm not joking, turn around.”

I swiveled around in my chair just as two of Kevin's assistants
walked in carrying one of the most incredible dresses I have ever laid eyes on. All I can say is this: tulle, embroidery, corset, hand-stitching, hidden seams, fishtail train, backless, and the most amazing shade of peony pink, a delicate, dazzling, barely-found-in-nature-let-alone-on-a-couture-dress color. It took everything inside of me not to faint.

“Stop it,” I said.

“No,” Kevin joked.

“Stop it!”

“Absolutely not.”

Kevin's team carried the dress over and held it in front of me for inspection. It was so beautiful it rendered me speechless. And I have to say, it was a nice alternative to the wedding dress I wasn't going to be able to wear. In fact, it was a better alternative. It was like my wedding dress got a makeover . . . a little dusting of blush, a little nip and tuck. I wrapped my arms around it and took in the smell of a custom ball gown.

“Minty, let's not smother the dress, all right?” Kevin joked.

I turned to him and a single tear rolled down my cheek. I don't know where it came from exactly. It was a lot to process, being back in New York, that final conversation with Tripp,
Vanity Fair,
the Met Ball. Not to mention, an amazing dress made especially for me!

I stepped away from the dress.

“Sweetie,” he said. “Don't cry. Oh gosh, please don't cry.”

You know things are bad when you start crying and no one asks why.

I took a deep breath.

“I'm not crying,” I said, which was a lie, but it made me feel better. And then I brushed the tears away from my cheeks and smiled. “The dress is just so beautiful, it's actually
moving
!”

“Awww,” Kevin said. “You're too kind.”

As I stood in front of the mirror in my underwear and the dress was pulled over my head, I had to give myself a bit of a pep talk. A special dress can do that to any girl, send her into a tailspin and make it nearly impossible to have a coherent thought.

Once everything was zipped and buttoned and tugged in just the
right direction, I allowed myself a glimpse. With one eye open, I saw pink. And then I allowed myself to slowly open the other eye and there it was in all of its jaw-dropping glory.

I clapped my hands over my mouth.

“How do we feel?” Kevin asked, beaming.

I looked at him through the mirror. I had no words to describe how I felt. All I could do was try to breathe. I held out my hand and Kevin grabbed it.

“This is good,” I finally mustered the strength to say. “This is
really
good.”

Kevin grinned.

“Listen,” he said, “I put a lot of thought into who I wanted to bring on Monday night. Anna doesn't hand out those invitations like it's nothing, you know.”

I nodded. “Of course, of course.”

“At first I was worried that you might not be up for it. I heard through a friend in the industry that Tabitha is taking Tripp as her guest, so odds are he'll be there.”

I gulped. The thought of seeing Tripp again at one of these things had crossed my mind, yes. I'd even pondered the possibility of Tripp and Tabitha continuing their romance now that he was pretty much a “free man,” but wow. They were going to the Met Ball together? That was a lot to digest.

“Not to mention,” Kevin continued, “every single reporter in the world is going to be on the red carpet. And you have about forty-eight hours to get ready.” He paused. “I'm not trying to scare you, I just want you to be prepared. The last thing I'd want is for you to feel blindsided in any way.”

All right, I said to myself. This is the big leagues now. This is how the game is played. I'm either in or I'm out.

“Let's get one thing straight,” I began, looking Kevin dead in the eye. “Tripp is no longer a factor in any decision I make.”

“I see,” Kevin said. He couldn't help but smile a little.

“But you're right, forty-eight hours is not a lot of time for a girl like me to prepare.”

I winked playfully, but I was also serious. The list of preparations immediately popped up in my head: highlights from Kyle at Oscar Blandi, a training session at Equinox, costume jewelry from Kenneth Jay Lane . . . what else?

“Kevin,” I continued, “I don't mean to run out on you like this but, holy shit, I have a lot of things to do!”

Kevin laughed. “We'll have the dress messengered over once the final alterations are in place,” he said. “See you Monday!”