The Overnight Socialite

by Bridie Clark

  "You think I'm wearing this again? When I get home, I'm going to have this dress incinerated." Cornelia grabbed her purse. "Have fun tonight, Lily."

  "Lucy," she said. But Cornelia had already sailed out of the bathroom.

  Wyatt forced himself to stay at the table, watching Lucy work the crowd from a distance. You could see at a glance that there was something different about her, he thought, something that marked her apart from the other women in the room. As she drifted effortlessly from one conversation to the next, he fought off the urge to guard her, to stand by her side and make sure nobody else latched on too tight.

  "I'm going to lose this bet, aren't I?" Trip sat down next to Wyatt, drink in hand.

  "Looks that way."

  "Eloise thinks she's a great girl." He paused. "That what you think, too?"

  Wyatt knew what his friend was asking. "I think you're going to lose this bet."

  "Dance with me," Cornelia purred, pulling Wyatt toward the dance floor crowded with cheek-to-cheek couples. Lucy Ellis was nowhere to be found. The Starlight Orchestra was playing the first notes of "It Had to Be You." Cornelia had changed out of her bridesmaid dress into a slinky Halston; after her run-in with Lucy, she'd dispatched her driver to fetch it from home. This wasn't the time to play with one arm tied behind her back. Now she felt sexy again--and she didn't care whether Tamsin was pouting about her perfidy to the other girls. As far as she was concerned, Wyatt Hayes IV was the main attraction tonight. Tamsin might as well have eloped with her vodka-sponge of a husband.

  "This is our song," she told Wyatt over her shoulder, finding an empty spot.

  "We don't have a song, Cornelia."

  "We don't? We should. What about 'I Want You Back'?" She laughed softly, pressing her body into his as they moved deeper into the crowd.

  "Subtlety has never been your strong suit." Wyatt straightened his arms to create some distance.

  "Subtlety is overrated. How about 'Endless Love'?" She pulled him right back.

  "That'd be inaccurate," Wyatt said evenly, "considering that our relationship did end."

  "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" She breathed the words into his ear in a perfect French accent. Wyatt let out a small sigh. I'm getting to him, Cornelia thought with satisfaction. He had that unmistakable, thirsty look in his eyes, as much as he tried to fight it. Cornelia loved that look. From her cousin Selden to the college history professor to the string of men she'd dated in New York--some married, some not--that look always made her feel powerful. Seductive. Like her mother's daughter. Wyatt was the anthropologist, but it was Cornelia who understood how helpless the male of the species could become when attractive females signaled their desire. As Wyatt lowered his lips to her ear, Cornelia felt a delicious shiver pass through her. Victory was imminent.

  "Cornelia, it's not going to happen," he whispered. She reared back, and saw that the look had vanished.

  "You don't mean that." She kept moving her body in time to the music, but inside she felt slightly panicked. It was hard to feel seductive in the face of cold rejection. How would her mother take control of the situation?

  "I do," he said, more firmly this time. "And it'd be a good idea for you to accept that. You have your choice of men--"

  "Is this about that girl you brought? Your childhood buddy? There's something sketchy there, Wyatt, I can't put my finger on it--"

  "Cornelia, lower your voice." Wyatt tried to edge her off the dance floor. She dug in her stilettos so the two of them spun right where they were.

  "If you're even thinking about choosing that nobody with child-bearing hips over me--"

  "This has nothing to do with Lucy," Wyatt said between gritted teeth.

  Cornelia, her glance roving over his shoulder, noticed a scene that made her very happy. "I hope not, because she's practically sucking face with Max Fairchild by the bar." She grabbed Wyatt's chin and turned him around--just in time to see Lucy and Max down shots and then burst into a spasm of hysterical laughter that practically drowned out the trumpet solo. Cornelia felt Wyatt's bicep tense.

  "Excuse me," he said. He unlatched himself from Cornelia and strode off toward the bar.

  She froze. Cornelia Rockman had never been abandoned on a dance floor. She had certainly never been abandoned for another girl. If the band was still playing, Cornelia couldn't hear the music--she was deafened by her inner scream. She watched with incredulous revulsion as Wyatt eased Lucy away from Max and started to hustle her outside. Then she felt every other couple on the dance floor notice that she was alone, the still point in their turning universe.

  "Exactly where you want him?" asked Leslie Reynolds, who happened to be dancing with Jackson a few feet away.

  Cornelia went stiff with rage. "Twins run in your family?" she countered. Then, fuming and humiliated, she charged off the dance floor.

  "I think we should dance!" Lucy said, leaning into Wyatt as he swept her past the dining tables toward an outside door. She twisted away from Wyatt's grip and busted out her best disco strut in the middle of the crowded room.

  "We're going to get some fresh air," Wyatt repeated.

  "Are you upset about something?"

  Without another word he herded her out into the hall and down the steps into the humidity, then past the valet area where some older guests were already lining up to go home.

  "Uh-oh, Wyatt is unhappy!" she said, giggling--and then shut up when she saw the hard angle of Wyatt's jaw. "What's the matter? I'm just having fun." What a killjoy. He might be irritated, but she was having, bar none, the best night of her life! Five glasses of champagne had washed away the sting of Cornelia's rudeness and filled the party with instant best friends. How had she ever thought of these good folks as snobby? And then there was Max, who'd come right up to her after dinner while Wyatt was off having one of his cigarettes. They'd been doing tequila shots and cracking each other up ever since. Max was telling her about how the bride had pulled him into the coat closet just weeks before and tried to mack with him. Now it seemed kind of sad--but the way Max told it made her want to bust a gut. Anyway, she was just thrilled to have made another friend. Eloise, Trip, and now Max. Her circle was rapidly expanding!

  "Will you stop weaving like that? You're making a fool of yourself!"

  "I'm tipsy. There was barely any food on the plates!" Lucy cupped her hands around her mouth and pressed against his ear. "I guess they had to cut corners somewhere--"

  "Daniel Boulud catered. What did you expect, the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler?"

  That seemed a little harsh, but she wouldn't let it spoil her mood. "So I got a little carried away. Max kept--"

  "Right. You got carried away by Max Fairchild."

  "What? Max is a nice guy. Oops--" She would've tripped on the curb if Wyatt hadn't grabbed her arm in time.

  "You're not right for each other." Wyatt pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his tux.

  "You said you'd stop!" Then his statement pierced through her haze. "Why aren't Max and I right for each other? Because he was born into some fancy family and I wasn't? Not everyone sees the world that way." Without warning, hot tears sprang to her eyes. Why had Wyatt spent weeks building her up, making her believe she could fly in this crazy world of his--only to trash her when she did?

  "Relax! Relax." Wyatt met her eyes for an instant, then looked away. "I meant, you could do better. Max is fine, but I see you with someone more dynamic."

  Lucy's spirits lifted as quickly as they'd dropped. Wyatt cared about whom she dated? It was the first glimmer that he saw her as more than a vehicle for winning his bet with Trip. "I'm flattered," she said.

  "Yeah, well--I see how hard you're willing to work. And I know that you help your mother financially. It's admirable. You've turned out to be a much finer person than I'd originally judged."

  "Thank you," she said, touched by the rare praise. They endured a strangely uncomfortable moment of silence before Wyatt found more words. "We should go back inside so I can
introduce you to people. Don't lose sight of tonight's mission: it's your chance to connect with the who's who of society. Maybe they'll even want to buy a dress from you someday. Are you feeling a little clearer?"

  "Yes, thanks," Lucy said. She straightened her dress. "Do I look okay?"

  Wyatt lifted a stray piece of hair from her face, grazing her cheek. She inhaled sharply at the unexpected touch, and he retracted his hand as though he'd been burned. "Perfectly fine," he said crisply.

  18

  Wyatt's Book Notes:

  There's a ritualized behavior that primatologists call "lip-smacking." Monkeys and apes are known to "lip-smack" potential rivals as a disarming gesture, putting them at ease before stabbing them in the back. Not unlike the socialite who air kisses her rival with feigned warmth, then blackballs her membership at the Colony Club.

  Cornelia waited impatiently for her PowerBook to boot up. She'd locked the door of her Old Hollywood-inspired office, decorated in dusty rose and high-gloss white, so that her nosy staff wouldn't wander in and find her incongruously seated in front of the skin-ravaging computer. Getting some dirt on her rival would be worth the extra Botox. Cornelia carefully hunt-and-pecked "Google." Then "Lucia Haverford Ellis." The screen loaded so quickly that Cornelia gasped. Twelve thousand four hundred mentions. She clicked on Rexnew-house. com and scanned the puff profile he'd written the month before. Timber family. Miss Dillard's School. Fashion aspirations. Nothing she didn't know already. There was Lucy at Save Venice, Lucy at the Explorers Club for a book launch, Lucy at a dinner party hosted by Leslie Reynolds just last night--they must have exchanged contact info at the wedding. All the mentions had occurred within the month of January, which only fueled Cornelia's gnawing question: Where had this girl been before she was suddenly everywhere?

  Frustrated, she clicked through to Parkavenueroyalty.com, only to find more infuriatingly glamorous photos of Lucy at various parties. When the home page fully loaded, Cornelia let out another gasp. Lucy, wearing a white Prada dress that Cornelia's stylist said she couldn't get for another month, had deftly scaled the ranks to number one socialite! Cornelia had been demoted to number two. She ran through the reader comments, all of which gushed over the newcomer's grace and beauty. "She and Wyatt are the cutest!" weighed in some loser with the screen name 10021diva. "So glad he dumped Cornelia and found a class act!"

  Cornelia slammed her laptop shut. It was bad enough Lucy appeared to have stolen her man. She wasn't going to steal her crown, too. She picked up the phone and dialed Anna Santiago's number.

  "Hello, darling!" Anna said breathlessly. Cornelia could hear the whir of her stationary bike. She was always working out.

  "Sweets, a favor. Are the invites for the Vanderbilt gala with the printer yet?"

  "I just sent in the proofs. Why?"

  Cornelia bit her lip. "Would it be impossible to pull them back and add just one more name to the host committee? It would mean so much to me, or I wouldn't ask."

  "Lucy! Lucy!" Lucy whipped her head around to see who'd shouted her name. To her astonished delight, it was one of the many photographers flanking the red carpet at the screening of the new Gus Van Sant film. "Who are you wearing?" he shouted, already snapping her showstopping dress.

  "Marchesa!" she called back, remembering Angelique's pose and throwing her chin back with saucy abandon. She wished she'd been able to pull together her own dress for the event, but she'd been out at parties nonstop, cutting drastically into her design time. It didn't matter, she reassured herself--the dress Eloise had pulled for her was fabulous, and the important thing, for now at least, was to boost her visibility. As the photog continued to click away, others followed suit. Some of them didn't know who Lucy was, but it was clear that she was somebody.

  After stopping to spell out her name, she made it through the press gauntlet to meet Wyatt inside Soho House's barely lit lobby.

  "We're getting there," he said, holding her hand as they stepped into the elevator.

  Friends hold hands, she told herself. Ever since they'd returned from Palm Beach, something seemed to have changed. Maybe it was her imagination, but Wyatt didn't seem as critical as he'd once been. He seemed to be actually enjoying their time together. As they settled into the darkened movie room, their arms grazing because of the tightly packed seats, Lucy felt a frisson of excitement bloom inside her. "Wyatt, thank you," she whispered.

  He looked at her and smiled. "My pleasure."

  "I'm so grateful for everything you've done for me. I--" she struggled to express herself. Maybe this wasn't the place to do it. "Do we have anything on the calendar tomorrow night?"

  "Cocktails for the School of American Ballet, then dinner with Mimi and Jack."

  "Can we get out of it?"

  He looked at her with concern. "I'd rather not. You're on the committee now--it wouldn't look right. What's the matter?"

  "I, um"--Lucy suddenly felt shy--"I'd like to have you over for dinner. You've treated me to so much. It's the least I can do."

  "You cook?"

  "Of course I cook." A bit of a bluff, she thought, but how hard could it be?

  "I'd enjoy that." Wyatt looked touched. "How about next week, instead of tomorrow? Maybe Tuesday? We'll have Howard Galt's birthday party behind us."

  "Perfect. Show up hungry."

  "It's a date," he said. An unfortunate figure of speech. At the mere mention of the D-word, both Wyatt and Lucy riveted their eyes on the movie screen, and they didn't speak again until the lights came up.

  "What do you mean, you haven't told her?" Trip carefully lined up his Calloway driver and squinted off the roof into the distance. It was an unseasonably warm day. He'd begun renting a penthouse apartment solely for its rooftop, allowing him to practice his swing midweek by driving balls into the East River. The lavish four-bedroom apartment was now the home of two of his maids. "What happens when your book gets published and Lucy's exposed as a fraud? You can't keep what you're doing a secret from her forever."

  "I know that," Wyatt snapped. He pulled a club from his golf bag. The issue had been on his mind more and more lately, but he wasn't any closer to reaching a resolution. He'd gone through all the possible scenarios in which he could tell Lucy, but in each one, she'd be left hurt, angry, or worse. "But I can't tell her now. It would corrupt the scientific nature of the experiment--"

  "Bullshit," Trip remarked. He halted his swing and looked directly at his friend. "Be a man and admit you're scared. You like this girl. You should have told her at the beginning, but you didn't, and now you don't know how to break the news that you're planning to blow her cover."

  "I like this girl?" Wyatt repeated incredulously. He had to admit--he enjoyed her company. They'd developed a friendship, thanks to the countless hours spent working on their shared project. But if Trip was implying there was something romantic between him and Lucy--

  "Fine, don't admit it. But don't pretend you don't care about her feelings." Trip executed his swing, sending the golf ball sailing off the roof and toward a buoy marking the ferry path. "I see the way you look at her. Maybe you're in denial, but nobody else is."

  Suddenly Wyatt's interest in golf evaporated. What was supposed to be a relaxing diversion had become a reminder of the stress that had kept him awake the night before. He packed up his clubs and headed for the door. "See you tonight," he called over his shoulder, as Trip launched another golf ball over the FDR.

  Cornelia grabbed the baby from a bassinet and cradled it in her arms. It was a scrawny thing, not particularly attractive, but then she'd always considered all babies--let alone these underfed Romanian orphan babies--to be highly overrated in their cuteness, much like kitten heels. "Don't you dare spit up on my Valentino," she whispered, a beatific smile on her face, but the red-faced little creature was making no promises.

  "Cornelia, can we get a few shots?" asked one of the photographers who'd been sent to cover the Baby Love Sip 'n' See at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. As she hefted the surprisingly weighty
child in her arms, Cornelia decided that this charity, the brainchild of Mimi Rutherford-Shaw (as though she weren't procreative enough with two little brats at home), was just about the most annoying one in town. Most charities didn't require you to rub shoulders with the beneficiaries of your efforts: Cornelia was on the advisory committee for Save Our Children with Rickets, but she didn't have to stand around all day propping up knock-kneed kids. Baby Love was different. Mimi's recently launched nonprofit provided for the needs of underprivileged and orphaned infants in the greater Manhattan area, and she was vehement that this Romanian mini-crop awaiting adoption wouldn't turn out normal if they didn't get lots of kisses and cuddling from strangers like Cornelia. Puh-leeze. Growing up, Cornelia's mother had reserved displays of maternal affection for when the cameras were rolling. Her nannies had all been stiff-upper-lip Brits whose idea of warmth was an approving tap on the head. If that was such a negative, where was the outreach for underhugged daughters of privilege?