Wolves in Chic Clothing

by Carrie Karasyov

  When the Pelham’s heiress announced her engagement at Le Cirque, Polly knew she had to get pregnant to stay ahead of her, so she and Henny pulled the goalie that night. Nine months to the day later, she bore a son, Henderson Mecox V, whom she called Quint. He was only three months old now, but looking at Polly’s South Beach diet bod, you’d never have known she’d borne fruit. Little Quint was originally going to be her next project, but most of the duties—the tedium of diapers and nocturnal cries—were left to Daria, her full-time live-in nanny, and Daria’s day-off substitute, Lima. She just didn’t know what to do with Quint, and was even a little scared to be in charge of such a fragile little thing. And with the nannies being so much better equipped to handle him, she felt it was better to leave him in their perpetual care. Besides, how could she show up at La Goulue with spit-up on her Lora Piana cashmere sweater sets?

  As Polly flattened the skirt of her gown, she was starting to think she needed a new project. Something different, something that hadn’t been done before. A baby shower for her friend Lily Adams? Maybe she could host a trunk show? No, retail was too subservient. What kind of project could it be, she wondered. Then, amid the frenzied excitement of Lell stepping into her dress, the new project walked right in through the arched doorway.

  The Pelham delivery girl, Polly saw immediately, could have easily been a model. A tall, stunning blonde, she had every ounce of style of a glossy magazine regular, and a cool, edgy confidence that made her magnetic. Attractive blondes were a dime a dozen in their social set, but there was some sort of aura that hung over this girl that made you look at her carefully. Polly found herself flicking through the Rolodex of her brain trying to place this obviously special person. But of course, she was a nobody.

  “Hi—so sorry to . . . interrupt,” said Julia, feeling as if she needed a visa to enter. Fortunately her passport happened to be locked to her arm. “I have your necklace, Ms. Pelham—”

  Lell looked up and smiled. “Please, call me Lell.”

  “Lell soon-to-be Banks,” smiled Polly, curiously looking over the gem-transporter. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Hi, I’m—”

  “Julia Pearce,” said Lell, facing her makeup artists for a powder touch-up. “I’ve seen you around.”

  “Oh,” said Julia, looking amazed to have caught her boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s eye at all. Weirdski. “Yes. Nice to meet you. And best wishes, you look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” said Lell, knowing it.

  “Hello,” said Emily, walking in after a hairspray. “Are you the one with the necklace?”

  “Yes.” The guard unlocked the cuffs and then the briefcase, removing the velvet box. When he opened it, the eight eyes of Lell’s four bridesmaids popped. Even they were sufficiently dazzled.

  “Oh. My. God,” said Hope.

  “That is stunning, Lell,” said Meredith.

  “It is really quite something,” said Emily with evident pride.

  Polly checked out the rocks but looked back at Julia, who in her own downtown-chic way was even more bling-bling than the velvet-packed ice. Her style wasn’t polished but it was eclectically chic. Her clothes could have come from a flea market and her granny’s closet, but somehow it all looked great. She had a way. A look. Something that Lell, with all her consultants and unlimited funds, could never pull off. Money couldn’t buy Julia’s kind of fashion savvy.

  Julia studied the necklace, which was the most spectacular thing she had ever seen. She watched Lell remove it from its case, and motion for her mother to clasp it.

  “So what’s your deal, you work at Pelham’s?” Polly asked Julia.

  “I’m the heavily guarded messenger,” she replied. “I felt like I was in charge of the Lost Ark.”

  “Thank you, that will be all,” said Emily dismissively.

  “Okay, sure—”

  “No, no—” said Lell, shooting her mother a look. “Please, Julia, stay. Have something to eat.”

  Lell blithely gestured at the smorgasbord spread of towering brioche tea sandwiches, salads, caviar, toast points, champagne-filled flutes, and chocolate-dipped strawberries, all untouched.

  Julia was obviously pleased with the offer but apprehensive. She didn’t want to piss off the boss’s wife. “Oh, thank you . . . I’d love to, but I should probably get back to the store—”

  “I am the store. Stay and hang out.”

  Julia glanced at Lell’s mother, who had already moved on to pruning the bridal bouquet, and acquiesced.

  “All right . . . thanks.”

  “I asked Gisele to send you over instead of one of those creepy PR flacks. They all try to harvest details of my life, and I know for certain there have been leaks from the press department to Page Six. I wanted someone out of the loop.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Julia, “I don’t have Richard Johnson on speed dial or anything.”

  “Have a seat,” said Polly, making room for the newcomer. “I’m Polly Mecox. This is Hope Matthews and Meredith Knight. And this is Lell’s cousin Samantha—”

  “Hi, nice to meet you all. You all look fierce.”

  “Aw, thanks,” said Hope.

  “Thanks,” said Polly, taking her pashmina from her shoulders. “I just feel a little naked with this strapless gown.”

  Lell pretended not to hear the comment. She had bought all the girls couture bridesmaid dresses and had thought of giving them each a floating diamond necklace as well, but her mother dissuaded her. She presented them instead with sterling silver jewelry boxes.

  “Well maybe you could wear a fun chain or necklace from our—I mean Pelham’s—Waterbury Collection, or something,” Julia offered.

  “We’d thought about it,” said Lell, looking at Polly’s bare collarbone, “but we thought it looked so long and distracted from the neckline.”

  “Maybe,” said Julia, thinking about it. “Or you could double it up and have one layer a tad longer. That would look so fierce.”

  Lell considered this. She was right, that could look very chic.

  “Hmm. I am liking that. I’m kind of liking that idea. Let’s see them in the flesh. Can you call and have someone bring over five right now?”

  “Sure, no prob,” said Julia, whipping out a cell phone.

  Emily sneered. Why were her daughter and her friends allowing this random, slightly unkempt outsider into their most sacred day? She exited to get a lip-gloss retouch.

  “So where are you from?” asked Polly, looking over Julia’s hip ensemble of vintage (yet sophisticated) threads and tooled leather boots.

  “Northern California originally. I’ve been living here, well, downtown, for about a year this spring. I love it.”

  “Cool.” Polly was a striking mix of her mom’s Swedish good looks and her rogue dad’s Italian charms. Her dark hair and catlike eyes lent her good looks a mystique that coupled nicely with the cool confidence she’d developed as a lifetime head-turner. But she worked on her looks. Plenty. With weekly blowouts, manicures, and makeup applications galore, she pumped plenty of cash into her appearance. And before her was this Urban Outfitters–esque Julia chick who clearly just threw herself together in two seconds with a sexy 1940s blouse, fishnets, black boots, and a tad too-short skirt. And it worked.

  “Okay, Miss Pelham, we’re ready,” said the photographer, who, with his three assistants, had been tinkering with the extensive lighting equipment for over two hours. And now the portrait moment had finally arrived. The girls were positioned around Lell, who sat erect in an upholstered settee. Hair and makeup artists swarmed to comb errant hairs and pat cheeks with a last-second puff, while Julia looked on from the side, beside an arched-browed Emily.

  “Oh, there’s a little fold in your veil,” observed Julia, who rushed over to Lell to tend to the unsightly crinkle in the tulle. “There we go.”

  “Thanks,” said Lell. “You’re sweet.”

  Gene walked in, snapping his cell shut. “Hey, look at this bevy of beauties. If I onl
y were twenty years younger!”

  He caught sight of Julia, as did every man who came within a block-long radius. “Hiya, Gene Pelham—”

  “Hello, Mr. Pelham. Julia Pearce. I actually work for you. At the store—”

  “Well we’ve definitely never met because I would not forget you, my dear.”

  “Daddy, Julia brought me my necklace—look!” she pointed at the blinding collier eclipsing her delicate clavicle.

  “That’s my girl. I’m so proud of you, Lellie sweetheart. That necklace is going to be in every magazine.”

  A few minutes later, a sweat-covered assistant from the Pelham’s PR department arrived with the bridemaids’ necklaces, an old Pelham’s standard involving cultured pearls and clusters of diamonds set in platinum.

  “Oh, God,” said Lell, “I’m thinking no . . .”

  The PR girl looked as though she felt personally responsible for Lell’s displeasure. “I, uh, I . . .” she said, faltering.

  “We could freshen them up a bit,” said Julia. “With your permission . . .” She looked to Lell for the okay.

  Lell was intrigued. “Be my guest.”

  Julia took out her trusty toolkit and began to work magic, rehooking the clasps, fashioning an almost new necklace for each girl, checking each from the front before putting on the finishing touch. Lell looked on in amazement as Julia practically reinvented the old Pelham’s standby, breathing a new freshness into it with the new length and better closure.

  “It’s really sexy now, more modern,” Julia observed. “Love it.”

  “It looks really great,” Lell agreed. “Thanks.”

  Polly and Hope admired themselves in the mirror.

  “This looks so much better!” Polly squealed. “Love.”

  “Okay, ladies, we’re ready to go,” the photographer signaled. “Please take your seats.”

  The shutter of the camera clicked for seven rolls of film as the girls tilted their coiffed heads and straightened their necks like glitter-dipped swans for the readers of Vogue. Their high cheekbones blushed to perfection: they were the pinnacle of breeding, class, and sophistication. And of course, the one uniting bond that tends to tie the elite establishment together: money, honey.

  chapter 4

  Money was actually exactly what was on Hope’s mind as she stood with her frozen smile clasping her bouquet ever tighter as the photographer snapped away. She and her husband, Charlie, had just found out this morning that their bid on a classic seven on East Sixty-ninth Street had been rejected. And as happy as she was for her friend Lell, she was having trouble masking her disappointment. The real estate agent had told her that they had low-balled by two hundred grand, but there was no way they could afford to go any higher. And unlike Lell, Polly, and Meredith, Hope didn’t have the endless trust fund to dip into whenever she wanted.

  Although Hope and her husband had both grown up with affluent parents and gone to the “right” schools and belonged to the “right” clubs, their friends definitely had much bigger vaults of dead presidents in their family trees. This greenback gap seemed to lead perpetually to situations where Hope felt the impossibility of keeping up with the Joneses—when the “Joneses” were really the likes of Mecox, Knight, and Pelham. The irony was that out of all of her friends, Hope was not in the least bit a social climber. Although she was smart, she was not a snob and never tried to vault upward and forge merger friendships, or what Charlie called “agenting” friendships—where someone profited 10 percent from the relationship. She truly never wanted anything from anyone. She genuinely liked her “posse” as they dubbed themselves. She’d known Polly since they were roommates at Groton, and when she went to stay in the city with Polly on weekends (Hope grew up in Westport, Connecticut), she’d met Lell and Meredith, who had been friends of Polly’s since kindergarten at Brearley. But as the rest of her posse acquired ten-room apartments on Fifth Avenue or Park, Hope was biding her time in a rental in the East Seventies, trying her best to make do in the cramped apartment with Charlie and her two small boys, Gavin and Chip. She needed a break.

  “Okay, ladies, thank you very much. I want Miss Pelham alone now,” commanded the photographer.

  “Thank God, I need a total reapplication. My makeup has melted away,” Polly said with a groan.

  “You look great,” said Hope.

  “I’m shiny! You could fry an egg on my T-zone. Where’s the chick with the powder puff?”

  “I’ll go get her,” said Meredith, on her way out the door. “I want to get my hair redone anyway.”

  “Good, let’s sit down now, you and me,” said Polly, pulling Hope onto the couch. She looked both ways, eyeballs darting for eavesdroppers, then whispered, “Meredith is totally bugging.”

  “I think we’re all just nervous. I mean, I never had to walk anywhere with so many eyes on me. And there are going to be celebs and even world leaders there! Nausea.”

  “No, forget ‘nerves.’ Meredith is being a total bitch. Did you notice how she pushed her way so she was next to Lell? It’s like, what the heck? We’re all going to be in the picture, sweetie, so you may as well put your fat ass in the corner.”

  “Polly!”

  “She’s totally gained weight, and even you cannot deny it. Probably why she’s being such a jerk. Meanwhile Lell’s obese cousin Samantha is now Karen Carpenter! Remember what a lard-ass she was at Cotillion? But you still see the ghost of the fatty within. It’s like, she’s a stick next to Meredith right now! It’s so weird, ’cause like, Merde knew this wedding was coming up, and she still hoovered down all those Christmas cookies. It’s totally because Andrew hasn’t proposed yet.”

  Whenever Polly was in a fight with one of her friends—which was often, as it was a serious hobby for her—she loved to flaunt whatever she held over them. With Meredith, a frequent target for Polly, it was the fact that she was still unwed and that she usually carried around an extra five pounds that were noticeable only to Polly.

  Hope didn’t want to get into Meredith bashing with Polly. It was Lell’s day. It wasn’t right to be squabbling bridesmaids. She looked around the room and noticed the girl who had brought the necklace leaning against the wall in the corner watching the photo shoot intently. Hope caught her eye and motioned her over.

  “Hey, I’m so sorry, tell me your name again?” asked Hope gently.

  “Julia.”

  “Sorry, I’m like, retarded with names. Please, come sit with us. Polly, smush over.”

  “Thanks,” said Julia as she sat down.

  Polly studied Julia carefully. She liked that the girl didn’t seem at all intimidated to be there.

  “So, Julia, do you like New York?” asked Polly.

  “Yes, I’m having a great time.”

  “And where do you hang out?”

  “Mostly downtown. I live in the East Village.”

  “Interesting.” Polly was about to continue her third degree when Mr. Pelham approached.

  “You ladies look just gorgeous,” he said, staring straight at Julia.

  “Thanks, Mr. P.”

  “Julia,” said Mr. Pelham, staring even more intently. “Why don’t you come join us later for dancing and dessert?”

  “Oh, well, I—”

  “No, you should,” said Polly, eager to study her specimen more closely. “It’ll be a blast.”

  “I don’t, well . . .” Julia was unsure what to do. She really actually was dying to see how the whole affair would go down, but it would be strange to be there not only as an outsider but as an employee. Fuck, Douglas would freak out to see this scene.

  “You can go home, get all dolled up as you ladies do, and even grab a date if you can get one at such late notice. Through I am sure that will not be a problem for a knockout like you.”

  Julia blushed. “Dancing will start around ten,” said Mr. Pelham, more as an order rather than a request.

  “Okay, thanks, but is it okay with Lell?”

  “I’m sure it is. The entire B li
st is invited just for dancing and champs, so like, two hundred other people will be rolling in as well,” said Polly.

  “You should come,” said Hope, nodding.

  Julia hesitated.

  “Lell, can Julia come for dancing?” yelled Polly over to her friend.

  “Great idea! Come,” said Lell, distracted by a small rose petal that was wilting in her bouquet.

  “We need some new blood around here. It’s always same old same old buncha stiffs. Snooze,” said Polly.

  “There’s about a thousand people out there!” laughed Julia.

  “Yeah, but we know them all, and their stories. We need a fresh face,” said Polly in all seriousness. And this Julia Pearce person could be it.

  Emily Pelham reentered the room. “Ladies, Lell, darling,” she said, clearly excited, “the cars are waiting. It’s time to get to the church.”

  chapter 5

  “Eagle is moving.” A serious-looking woman in all black, wearing a headset à la Susan from Time/Life standing by to take your order, spoke in curt tones. “Repeat: Eagle in motion.”

  “Roger that,” nodded another sprockety clone. “All units on alert. Repeat: all units on alert, stand by for Diamond Horseshoe. Eagle is moving.”

  The Eagle was Gene Pelham, father of the bride. The bride herself was Diamond Horseshoe, with a bevy of over thirty headset-wearing facilitators broadcasting her every action on the CIA-level state-of-the-art mini-mouthpieces.

  “T minus two minutes. Repeat: two minutes and counting.”

  Emily straightened her husband’s bow tie as they awaited Lell’s move down the aisle.

  “Our little girl. Can you believe this?” Gene smiled at his wife and squeezed her hand. He leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. She retreated, staring straight ahead, watching everyone assemble.