Overnight Socialite

by Bridie Clark

  Lucy took this in. She was starting to enjoy Wyatt’s theories. “So why are you and I here, if Howard’s party is just about racking up the IOUs?”

  “If you’re going to be the reigning socialite in this city, you need a foothold in all these different worlds. The Howard Galts of the world hold a certain kind of power. I’m not so naïve as to think that the old WASP establishment is the only one that still matters.”

  “Admit it, you came for the caviar,” she teased, watching him spoon still more onto his plate.

  “Wyatt! Lucy!” Meredith Galt, a petite, surgically beautiful brunette, darted toward them like a silverfish. She pressed each of them against her sequined gown, her protruding ribs making for a notably uncomfortable embrace. “I’m so glad you could be here. It means the world to Howard to be surrounded by his close friends tonight.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it, Meredith,” Wyatt said.

  “Yes, thanks so much for having us,” Lucy said. “This party must’ve taken months to plan—”

  “A year, darling, with a dozen so-called ‘planners’ on board to help. Of course, I ended up doing almost everything myself. When you have the vision of what you want, it’s easier to do than to delegate.” She spoke as though her inspiration were on par with that behind the Sistine Chapel. “I told one of the planners that we wanted doves to be released at midnight, and she brings me these mottled, gray birds—I swear they were pigeons! Can you imagine? But it’s done. All for Howard, you know?” She smiled with feigned modesty.

  “And it’s amazing,” Wyatt said. He took a deep breath, inhaling for two.

  “Isn’t the air especially amazing?” asked the hostess.

  “The air?” Lucy and Wyatt looked at her blankly. The caviar, the monogrammed everything, the ski run—amazing. But the air? Come on, now.

  “Imported from Switzerland. Cost a small fortune. But it adds a certain authenticity, don’t you think?” Then, remembering the business at hand, Meredith fixed Wyatt with her dark eyes. “Make sure you find Howard, won’t you? You know my husband. He’ll get deep into conversation with some brilliant curator—we’ve got several here tonight, of course—and completely lose track of the hours. He has such an insatiable passion for art!”

  “We’ll make sure to find him,” Wyatt said.

  “Howard’s into art?” asked Lucy as they made their way further into the vast tent. It surprised her—although she’d met him only once, at a dinner for the Central Park Conservancy, from the way he’d massacred his steak and limited his conversation to berating tax hikes on the nation’s top-earning one percent, it was hard to imagine he had a softer side.

  “Doubtful. Meredith’s been buttering me up for weeks; she wants Howard’s name on a wing of the Vanderbilt, and she knows I’m on the board. Nobody’s going for it, no matter how big the check.”

  This was even more surprising. “But there are names plastered all over the museum. The bathroom stalls are in somebody or other’s honor.”

  “Howard’s richer than Croesus, but he’s rubbed a lot of the board members the wrong way. Still, Meredith’s his most ambitious wife yet, so maybe she can pull it off.”

  Lucy suddenly felt a blast of the chilled mountain air. “I never realized the social world was such a calculating place. Doesn’t anyone operate without an agenda?”

  “Not really. But you’ll get used to it.”

  Lucy shivered. “I hope you’re wrong about that.”

  Theo Galt remained quiet and watchful. Over the shoulder of one of his father’s business associates, his eyes were trained on a gorgeous gazelle in a saffron silk dress. Lucia Haverford Ellis. She was a stunner, but not like the dime-a-dozen beauties he collected in L.A. You could tell this girl had class. And Theo was a sucker for class.

  This wasn’t a first sighting; he’d actually done some homework on Lucia (Lucy, as she modestly preferred to be called) after glimpsing her across the room at a crowded downtown exhibit several weeks before. Some socialite had tacked the contents of her fridge on the walls. He’d been immediately transfixed as Lucy floated around the gallery kissing friends and glancing at the artwork only as much as necessary. Her apparent boyfriend—some buttoned-up dude named Wyatt Hayes, whom his stepmother seemed to revere—hadn’t left her side for a moment, but then he’d pulled her out of the party abruptly. Theo could understand why the guy was so possessive; he would be the same way, if given the chance.

  “Your father was among the brilliant few to foresee the subprime disaster,” gushed the associate, who seemed to be squeezing in as many compliments per minute as he could. “He deserves every penny of the billions he made.”

  Theo watched Lucy laugh at something her date whispered in her ear. From the way she tilted back her head, exposing her graceful throat, he could almost hear her tinkling laugh from across the room. According to Rex Newhouse (the authority on such matters, his stepmother informed him), Lucy hailed from an old-line Chicago family who’d made their fortune in the timber industry. She devoted her time to philanthropy and fashion, wrote Rex. And the dozens of photographs confirmed that her legs put Elle Macpher-son’s to shame.

  When Wyatt strayed momentarily to pick up the seating cards, Theo gave a discreet nod to a lanky blonde bombshell in a dress the size of a Post-it note. She quickly descended from her box in the Metropolitan Opera tent and glided across the room to intercept him.

  With Lucy unguarded, Theo made his move. He didn’t bother to excuse himself mid-conversation from his father’s drone. He knew the man would be forgiving. The gazelle looked up when he was less than ten feet away, as though sensing his approach. Up close, Lucy’s neck was long and graceful. You could tell she’d studied ballet for years.

  “Theo Galt. I’m Howard’s son,” he told her, stretching out his hand. There was no better opening line, as long as the girl knew who his father was—and more importantly, that his net worth equaled the GDP of Cyprus. And, of course, everyone in attendance tonight knew both.

  But Lucy only blinked, as though stunned that anyone would dream of approaching her. It was appealing. A challenge. When she spoke, Theo was surprised by the strength of her voice. “Lucy Ellis. Good to meet you.”

  “I know who you are.” He smiled confidently. “I saw you at that gallery opening, the one with all the fruit, but you left before I could get to you.”

  He made her laugh. “You must not have been trying hard enough.”

  So there was a flirt underneath her icy heiress façade! “You’re right, and I take full responsibility. But I didn’t give up after one at bat. I asked my stepmother to make sure we were seated next to each other this evening.”

  “How flattering. I assume she granted your request?”

  I assume she granted your request, Theo repeated in his head. He would’ve gotten a giggle from a girl in L.A. He really had a thing for this Lucy. Perfectly proper, but there was something behind those extraordinary eyes that suggested she might be fun, too. “Actually, no. She didn’t want to piss off your date, some hoity-toity dude I apparently should’ve heard of?”

  Lucy laughed again. He was on a roll. “That would be Wyatt,” she said.

  “So I had to switch the cards without her knowing. Now Wyatt’s seated next to my date. Look, they’ve found each other.”

  Lucy followed Theo’s pointed finger. The blonde was draped over Wyatt’s arm, laughing way too hard at some story he was telling. Lucy turned her attention back to Theo. “You’re telling me that you gave up Irina Natrolova to sit next to me? In case you didn’t realize, she’s the face of Prada. I’m the face of nada.” She laughed, and a tiny snort escaped. Blushing, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “No-brainer,” Theo said, worshipping her.

  “No, seriously, that trade is just foolish. You could bounce a quarter off that girl’s—” Lucy quickly stopped herself. “I mean, she’s gorgeous.”

  Theo laughed. “And here I thought you society chicks were supposed to be all reserved.”<
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  Lucy looked upset, as though he’d criticized her by saying she had a personality. When she spoke again, it was in a more subdued voice. “So do you work in finance, like your father?”

  “Nah, I’m kind of the black sheep. I dropped out of college—my old man was horrified, which was only one of the reasons I did it—and fled to Los Angeles when I was twenty. I’ve never looked back. I needed to make something of myself, without his help.”

  “I get that,” Lucy said. “So, may I ask what you made of yourself?”

  Theo took a sip of his drink. Lucy didn’t waste much time with small talk, which he found winning. “Well, I drifted around for a few years, promoting parties, pretending to produce films. BS-y Hollywood stuff. Then one night I was in a club in Compton, and I heard this fierce young rapper by the name of Sweet T. Somehow I convinced him to let me represent him. Things just went from there; now I work with a few dozen performers and have my own label. It sounds corny, but I kinda fell ass-backward into my calling.”

  “You seriously discovered Sweet T?”

  “You’ve heard of him?” Was it Theo’s imagination, or did she look impressed? He was shocked. Sweet T hadn’t permeated the “mainstream” market yet—let alone the rich New York heiress market.

  “Uh, well”—Lucy seemed to falter—“my, um, staff used to play his stuff. I’m not a huge rap fan. Classical music and opera are so much more my thing. But I appreciate talent when I hear it.”

  There was definitely more to this Lucy Haverford Ellis than met the eye. Theo was intrigued. “I’m glad I switched the seats,” he said, guiding Lucy toward their table. He noticed that she glanced over her shoulder, presumably to look for her lost date. But Wyatt was too preoccupied with Irina, who was listening to him with wide-eyed interest, to notice.

  “Me, too,” Lucy said, accepting Theo’s arm.

  Lucy tried not to panic.

  She could totally handle dinner without Wyatt next to her, kicking her foot whenever she started talking too much. Theo’s full-court press was nothing to worry about. Nor was the fact that Mallory Keeler, the editor-in-chief of Townhouse, was right across the table, watching her closely through her horn-rimmed glasses. Wyatt had warned her that Mallory made a business of knowing who everyone was, whom they were sleeping with, where they got lipo, how much they’d overpaid for their apartment, which nursery schools had wait-listed their tykes. It was no secret that Mallory had been digging for information about Lucia Haverford Ellis, the enigmatic newcomer who was suddenly turning heads.

  I can handle this, she thought.

  She got through the first five courses—there were nine total, each served by her own personal server. But when she was taking the first bite of the seared duck foie gras, Meredith Galt—surprisingly strong given her Chihuahua proportions—pulled her stepson away from the table to introduce him to a few guests. And Mallory, barely missing a beat, slid into his empty chair.

  Lucy put down her fork. She felt her posture straighten. She’d met Mallory at Topsy Matthews’s at-home trunk show for the baubles she’d collected in India, but she and the editor had barely spoken.

  “Stunning dress, Lucia,” Mallory said, eyeing Lucy from head to pin-thin heels. It didn’t feel like a compliment, not the way she said it.

  “Please, Mallory, call me Lucy.” She fought down her nerves. “You look lovely, too.” Mallory was dressed in black Armani, a little severe but it suited her.

  “Fendi, right?”

  Lucy was surprised by Mallory’s accurate guess. “That’s right. The invitation said the dress was ‘bear market,’ and I had no idea what to wear. I would’ve shown up in a fur coat and shopping bag, if my friend Eloise hadn’t stopped me.”

  Mallory smiled. She should smile more, Lucy thought. Softens her whole face. “Mind if I run that in my coverage of tonight’s party?” Mallory asked.

  “You’re covering the party for Townhouse?”

  “Just a little something for the social diary section. We’ve only got a skeleton crew of reporters, so I write whatever needs to be written. Speaking of, I hear Cornelia Rockman was vetoed from the guest list by Galt’s wife. Any truth to the rumors that the two of you are at each other’s throats? She doesn’t seem like your biggest fan.”

  “Is that right?” Lucy remained carefully wide-eyed. No way was she going to get dragged into mudslinging. She didn’t need Wyatt to tell her that was a bad idea. “I think Cornelia’s lovely, actually, and she does so much good for the city’s public institutions.”

  Theo, having wrested himself free from his stepmother, returned to the table. He hovered, clearly wanting his seat back.

  “I meant to tell you, Mallory, that article you wrote on the history of tuxedos was riveting,” Lucy said. “I read that issue cover to cover.”

  “Really? It’s nice to hear that someone actually reads our stories. We’re like the Playboy of the Upper East Side—everyone picks up Townhouse for the pictures, much as I’d like to pretend otherwise.”

  Now it was Lucy’s turn to smile. Maybe Mallory wasn’t as scary as she seemed. Just a hardworking professional, like Lucy—or like Lucy would be, once this socialite nonsense had served its purpose and she was working for a designer and climbing the ladder again, a few rungs higher. “At least they’re picking it up. That’s the first step.”

  “Mal, you should convince Lucy to be your next centerfold. I’d buy a few thousand copies myself,” Theo said. “Now get out of my seat. I don’t have much time to convince her to dump her uptight boyfriend for me.”

  Lucy bristled, but Mallory didn’t seem to mind. “Actually, Lucy, we’re shooting a huge fashion spread at the Central Park Zoo—profiling the most visible, stylish girls-about-town. Cornelia, Libet Vance, Anna Santiago, and a few others have all signed on, and we’re devoting ten full pages of the next issue. We’re raising awareness for the Wildlife Conservation Society. I’d love to include you in the lineup.”

  “Really?” Could it be this easy? Could she have arrived at the top of the pecking order so soon? Lucy glanced across the room to where Wyatt was seated—but with Irina next to him, cooing in his ear, he seemed to have forgotten that she was at the same party. It irked her that he could be so easily distracted. “I’ll think about it, Mallory. Thanks.”

  As if she’d ever turn down such an amazing opportunity. Fortunately, Lucy had remembered just in time what Wyatt had taught her: Seem to take the attention of others for granted, as though it were your birthright. Never appear to be courting the press.

  “I hope you’ll do it. It’ll be very elegant, I promise.” Mallory stood up. “Theo, you’re an ass.” She said it with affection, and he laughed, jerking his thumb in the air. Then Theo plopped down next to Lucy, draping an arm over the back of her chair.

  Wyatt stifled a yawn. It always surprised him how quickly the initial enthrallment of perfect beauty could wear off. Even at the height of his modelizing, he’d recognized the need for novelty to stave off his boredom. Irina had entered hour three of detailing the petty catfights among catwalkers; she’d introduced such a confusing mosh of names that Wyatt was reminded of a Tolstoy novel, except for her lack of plot.

  At least he had all of Rome to gaze at. He had to give Meredith Galt credit—the artist she’d found had replicated the view with stunning accuracy, capturing the magic of Trinità dei Monti, St. Peter’s, and Piazza Venezia. Renée Fleming sang in the next tent, her agile soprano voice ringing through the air, supported by the thirty-piece orchestra. If he could have been spending it with Lucy instead of the drone by his side, it would have been a great night.

  “You seem distracted,” Irina said, resting a hand on each side of her twenty-four-inch waist.

  Women had been saying that to him his entire adult life, Wyatt realized. He looked over at Lucy, who was seated to the right of Theo Galt in the Metropolitan Opera tent. Ridiculous, this whole spectacle—we shouldn’t have come. Who throws a party like this in his own honor, besides perhaps Louis XIV? �
��Not at all,” he told Irina. He forced his eyes back toward his dinner companion, which shouldn’t have required as much discipline as it did. There was a time in his life when he would have listened to Irina recite the phone book, if it meant she’d go home with him. “You were telling me about how Daniella stole Dasha’s, um . . . her feathers?”

  Wyatt watched with mounting discomfort as Theo and Lucy left their seats and headed toward the empty dance floor at the center of the pentagon.

  “Her peacock feathers! Exactly,” Irina said. “She had to take the runway during the Dior show without two of her plumes. It was devastating . . .” As Irina continued her sad tale, allowing Wyatt to turn his attention back toward the central dance floor, he saw that Theo now seemed to be grinding up against Lucy. Was that his idea of a waltz? Had the man no sense of propriety? He was like a dog in heat. Worse, Lucy hadn’t slapped him yet.