Southern Charm (8 page)

“Yes?” I shouted, limping in the direction of her voice.

“I need you on the door,” Ruth barked, emerging from the back room wearing a little headset and holding the clipboard I'd brought from the office.

I noticed the clipboard was already locked and loaded with a copy of the massive Excel list I'd been working on since my first day. Ruth shoved the clipboard in my direction and handed me a headset.

“But I thought Nina was handling the door.”

Nina was one of the more senior assistants. I was told that maybe I would “shadow” her and observe the process of manning the guest list, but it wasn't even a possibility that I would handle the entire operation. What on earth was going on? I started to hyperventilate slightly.

“I just fired her. So, anyway, I need you to be wearing this at all times. There are going to be cancellations and additions and fires to be put out and they're all going to happen last-minute,” Ruth explained, not missing a beat. She stared directly at me. This was Ruth's way of saying, “Are you in or are you out?”

“Okay.” I gulped. “Got it.” I grabbed the headset and put it on. I held the clipboard over my chest like it was a bulletproof vest.

“Right at the door. List only. No exceptions,” Ruth said. “If you have any problems, you just radio over to me. But I don't want to be bothered with bullshit. Got it?”

“Yes, of course. Got it,” I said.

The guests started arriving almost immediately, and the process seemed simple enough at first. I would just ask for their name, they would give it to me, I would find it on the list and then check them off. They would smile at me and enter the party. And that was that. But sometime around six thirty
P.M
., the guests started to arrive at a more rapid pace. Maybe it was my nerves or inexperience (or both), but it seemed like it was taking me longer to find names and the line of people waiting outside was growing longer and more impatient.

“Hellloooo,” I heard one voice screaming from the back of the line. “Are you
kidding
me? Honey, pick up the pace!”

One man, who was wearing a floor-length mink coat and a pair of oversized, black-rimmed plastic glasses, insisted that he had received an invitation but had forgotten to RSVP and could I please just let him in? He said he was a friend of the president of Hermès and it would really be a problem if I turned him away.

As he made me flip through the list again, five more people tagged onto the back of the line until it was looping halfway around the block. I had no choice but to radio Ruth over.

She arrived in less than thirty seconds.

“What's the problem here, George?” she said, not so much as glancing in my direction. Ruth knew
everyone
.

“Oh, Ruth, hi!” he said, suddenly turning very shy and conciliatory. “How are you? I'm just explaining to this lovely young lady here that I received an invitation but I totally forgot to RSVP. Can you believe it? So sorry, I'm such a flake.”

“You're not on the list, George, go home,” she said.

She turned around and walked away.

I stared back at him, shocked. He returned my stare with a squinty-eyed sneer and stomped away, as if it were my fault that not only was he
not
on the list, but he was also
lying
in order to try to gain access to a private event. I couldn't believe it.

The next twenty or so guests went pretty smoothly. Rockefeller? Check. Gugelmann? Check. Hearst? Check. And everyone, for the most part, was lovely and polite. I thanked them for waiting. They
obliged. And they all looked drop-dead gorgeous, I might add. I had never seen so much style in one place. Every outfit looked like it was straight out of magazine photo shoot. And then a youngish-looking Asian man stepped up. He was wearing a thin, drapey T-shirt; faded, distressed jeans; and limited-edition Nike Air Jordans. He had an air about him that said,
I am important enough to get away with wearing an outfit like this to a fancy party
.

“Kevin Park,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“Park, Park, Park.” I searched my list. I flipped back to the first page and searched again. “Could it be under any other name? Maybe it's under Kevin?” I searched for “Kevin” and came up short.

In the meantime, he looked at me like I had five heads and a tail.

“I'm sorry, sir, I can't find your name,” I said.

“You're kidding, right?”

A man behind him stepped forward.

“Sweetheart, we're late for the party. Let us in, will ya?” he said, raising an eyebrow and turning his head to the side. Kevin Park laughed.

“I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to let anyone in unless you're on the list,” I explained.

I continued to flip through the sheets of paper, hoping for a small miracle. Ruth must have been checking up on me, because she appeared at my side just then, and (of course) immediately double-kissed Kevin Park and his friend.

“Is all okay, sweetie?” she said to Kevin, holding him by the shoulders.

He looked at me. “We were just having a bit of a hard time at the door.”

Ruth looked horrified. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh Christ, I'm so sorry. Come in, come in.” She ushered them through the door while shooting me a look that said,
You idiot, can you do anything right?

And that's when I remembered. Kevin Park. The
designer
. He was the whole reason they were
having
the party to begin with, and I had almost turned him away at the door. Oh my God, I thought. Could it get any worse?

“Lipton,” a breathy female voice said in my ear.

I looked up to see Tabitha Lipton standing in front of me, in the flesh, the Tabitha I'd been photographed with (from the looks of it, she didn't remember me at all),
Tripp's
Tabitha. “Yes, ma'am,” I said without thinking.

“Ma'am?” Tabitha repeated, chuckling. “Ma'am?!”

I'd somehow managed to insult her, and of course Ruth chose this moment to check on me again. “Tabitha, come on in, I'm so sorry,” Ruth said, pushing me to the side. She turned to me briefly and hissed in my ear, “Get out of the way.”

I glanced through the window and watched as one of the other assistants made her way through the crowd. Ruth had radioed for her to take my spot. Just before the other assistant made it to the entrance, she squeezed past a tall, dark-haired man who was taking off his coat. I recognized him immediately: Tripp. Of course. He must have been just behind Tabitha in line, I realized. Now I was totally humiliated.

Once the other assistant had the clipboard in hand, Ruth pulled me away from the line of people and into the street.

“You're dismissed for the night,” she said. I could tell it was taking every ounce of restraint she had not to scream at me.

“Ruth, I—I'm so sorry, I don't know what to say.”

“Go home, Minty.” She stopped, took a deep breath and continued. “Get some rest. I'll see you in the office first thing.”

She turned around and left me standing on the corner, shivering in the cold October night air with no taxi in sight and no money to pay for one. I'd left my purse and jacket inside, but what was I going to do? Ask Ruth if I could go grab them? My throat tightened.

I could feel the tears coming. They were definitely coming. I was grateful for the fact that there was no one around to see me cry.

“Minty?”

Tripp.

He was out of breath, as if he had been running after me. His cheeks were all ruddy and flushed. His blue eyes sparkled even more as a result.

“Are you all right?”

I noticed he was holding my jacket and purse. How in the hell did he—

“One of the girls . . . one of your coworkers I think?” he said before I had a chance to ask him. “She was coming out to give these to you and I couldn't help but overhear,” he explained, smiling just slightly. He looked down. “You never responded to my message on Facebook.”

I scoffed. “You mean, ‘Oh, hey'?”

He stared back at me, wide-eyed.

“The message you wrote me sounded like you were writing a formal letter to your headmaster at boarding school or something!” He paused. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

I narrowed my eyes. “The mood does not feel lighter.”

“Minty.” He tilted his head to the side and made a puppy-dog face. I couldn't help but smile.

Snap out of it, Minty! Teach that man a thing or two about how to treat a lady!
This thought came out of nowhere, in my mother's voice, like she was sitting inside my head, her legs crossed, toe tapping. I stood up straight and brushed the tears away from my cheeks.

“Thank you for my coat, Tripp. And for my purse, as well.” I took the coat and the purse. “It was very kind of you to get these to me.”

“Oh come on, Minty.” He grinned, looking down at me. “Is that all you're going to say? I haven't seen you in, what, how long has it been? Seven years?”

“Something like that,” I said.

He laughed. “All right, I see,” he said. “Still as
stubborn
as ever.”

It took everything inside me not to smile again. It was impossible to deter Tripp du Pont. Where some men might turn away and give up, he forged forward until he got what he wanted.

“Anyway,” I said, “shouldn't you be tending to your girlfriend?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”

“Oh, come on, Tripp.” I rolled my eyes. “Let's not go down that road again.” He laughed, shocked I'd dared to go there. “That Tabitha lady?”

“Oh,” he said, suddenly growing quiet and awkward. He looked around impatiently. “That's kind of a long story. But she's
not
my girlfriend.”

Interesting, I thought.
Kind of
a long story? Classic Tripp.

“Right,” I said.

“Let's get you home, shall we?” he said, resting his hand on the small of my back. “Where are you staying?”

Avoiding his hand, I stepped into the street as one off-duty taxi passed after another. “Sixty-first and Lexington,” I said under my breath. “And I'm not just
staying
somewhere. I have my own apartment, you know.”

“Got it,” he laughed. “Listen, you're never going to find a cab this time of night. And it's raining. Even the gypsy cabs will be taken.”

“I'll walk,” I said over my shoulder, glancing down at my swollen, blistered feet.

Tripp smirked. “In those heels? You've got to be kidding me.”

“It's only a couple of blocks.”

“Don't be ridiculous, I have a car right here.” He gestured toward a black town car that was conveniently pulling up to the curb. “Zeke will drop you off. Come on. It will take two seconds.”

I clenched my fists and checked one more time for a taxi. Nothing. And the rain was starting to come down even harder. I couldn't believe it. He was going to win.

“Jesus, fine,” I said. “But keep your hands to yourself.”

He shook his head and opened the back door for me. “Point taken, Ms. Davenport.”

Once we were in the car, I crossed my legs and positioned myself as far away from him as possible. He shut the door.

“I really could have walked,” I said, staring out the window.

“Please,” he said. “It's nothing.”

When the car pulled up to my building, I felt like I couldn't get out fast enough. I was confused to say the least. On one hand, sitting next to him was intoxicating. He made me feel like I was fifteen again, discovering that someone like Tripp even
existed
, let alone liked me
back. On the other hand, he hadn't earned the right to spend time with me yet. Call me old-fashioned.

Tripp looked out the window. “I actually grew up a few blocks from here, Sixty-fifth and Park. My parents are on Seventy-first and Park now.”

“Oh,” I said. “And where are you?” I put my hand on the door handle.

“Zeke will get that,” he said, ignoring my question. With those words, Zeke, the driver, popped out of the driver's side and opened the door for me.

“Thank you,” I said to Zeke. Tripp followed me to the awning.

“I'm in the same building as my parents, actually,” he said, leaning toward me. “Super convenient,” he laughed. “My father and I even walk to work together every day.”

“You're working at your father's investment firm?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I'm definitely still the low man on the totem pole. You know, my father always said,” he continued, lowering his voice and turning his chin down, “‘All du Ponts have to learn the value of working your way up. You're not going to start from the top just because you can.'”

“I can see your father saying something like that,” I said. Our eyes met and for a moment I was taken back to the first night in Palm Beach. We were at a dinner party with our parents. He whispered in my ear that he thought I was the prettiest girl in the room. I remember feeling dumbfounded—I'd secretly thought Tripp was Prince Charming incarnate for years but I couldn't believe he felt the same way. “So, anyway, thank you for the ride.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Davenport.”

“Good night,” I said.

“Good night.”

As I turned away, Tripp grabbed my arm. I felt my heart levitate. I couldn't control the way I reacted to Tripp. It was like he happened
to
me, and I was just a bystander, attempting to deal with the aftermath.

“I'm thinking I should get your number,” he said.

I had hoped he was going to kiss me.

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” I said.

“Come on, Minty,” he said. “What else am I supposed to do, tap-dance? Stand-up comedy? Pull a rabbit out of a hat? Recite the alphabet backward while standing on my head?”