Language—cursing—was my one bad habit. And here I was at a private luncheon in the middle of Saks Fifth Avenue, standing in front of some sort of society photographer, and I had just used a not-very-ladylike word. I pictured my grandmother, six feet below in the Charleston cemetery, clutching her Hermès Kelly bag to her chest and having a dead-person heart attack.
Richard cocked his head. Then he started nodding up and down until his whole upper body joined in on the motion, shoulders moving, chest heaving. He was laughing. Laughing at me, really. But there was nothing mean-spirited about it. He grabbed a napkin, dipped it in water, and helped me clean up.
“Much better,” he said, examining my arm. He stepped back again, raised an eyebrow. “Photo?”
“Really?” I asked. I was still recovering from the chicken skewers mishap. He motioned for me to get in place, so I obliged. Oh well, why not?
I stood back a little and smiled toward the camera.
Click, flash! And it was over.
“Minty, there you are!” Emily had magically reappeared just as Richard finished taking the shot. She pulled me toward one of the tables at the center of the room.
“Wait!” Richard called out after me. He was holding his camera up in the air. I noticed a tiny microphone tilted toward me.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Over there,” Emily said to me, ignoring him. She pushed me gently toward the grouping of tables in the back. “Table six, toward the corner on the right.”
“Emily, dear, what’s your friend’s name?” Richard yelled after us. I turned around in time to see him wink in my direction.
Emily looked at him and laughed. “Richard, she’s no one.”
It was Richard’s turn to laugh now. “Not for long,” he yelled after us. “Not for long.”
I took my seat at the table next to a girl who was wearing really expensive clothes that didn’t actually look expensive: a Dries Van Noten T-shirt that hung over her skin-and-bones frame, Helmut Lang jeans so skinny I swear they were child size, and some sort of bondage wedge that could only have been Alexander Wang. Her long, dark hair looked unwashed but smelled like lavender.
I tried to introduce myself, but she just looked at me and raised an eyebrow. So I tried again. “I’m Minty,” I repeated, holding out my hand.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she made that sound people make when they’re not impressed: humpf. Was I hurt? A little bit. But I figured maybe she was just having a bad day. Or maybe she hadn’t heard me. I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Minty,” I said for the third time in a row, making eye contact.
She tilted her head and looked right back at me.
“Julie,” she said flatly.
“Nice to meet you, Julie.”
I always repeat a person’s name out loud. It helps me to remember it and—as my mother has been telling me since I was basically an infant—people are usually charmed by the sound of their own name. It’s an icebreaker, a peace offering. And if I were going to get through this lunch without stabbing my eyeball straight through with my salad fork, I needed all of the icebreakers and peace offerings I could get.
Julie grumbled, “You, too.”
“Minty, I see you’ve met Julie Greene from Harper’s Bazaar.”
It was Emily. Wow, I thought, Julie works at Harper’s Bazaar? I was beyond impressed (and jealous!). When Emily sat down, Julie perked up immediately. It was like we’d just gone from being enemies to old friends in a matter of seconds.
“Oh, you know Emily?” Julie asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We were actually sorority—”
“Minty, honey,” Emily interrupted. She leaned over me, speaking to Julie, and said in a very knowing tone, “Minty just moved here from South Carolina.”
Julie raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How . . . nice.”
She smiled at me like most people smile at small children.
“Julie handles the party pages for Bazaar,” Emily explained.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “I’ve been reading Harper’s Bazaar since I was five!”
Julie responded to my enthusiasm with a smirk.
Just then, our waiter arrived. Or, I should say, waiters. It seemed as if there was one impossibly good-looking and impeccably outfitted man for every two people. They placed the food down in front of us in one single swoop and promptly disappeared. In front of me was the most gorgeous arrangement of ripe, red tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella I had ever seen. Although the portions were so tiny!
“Olivier Cheng,” Emily said, pointing at the dish.
Olivier who?
“Is this the appetizer?” I leaned in and asked.
“Eating is not exactly the main priority at these things, Minty,” Emily explained.
Oh.
I looked at Julie, who was sipping slowly from her glass of water, her salad untouched. The small piece of bread that had been placed on the plate next to her salad had somehow migrated toward the center of the table, as far as Julie’s tiny arm could reach. It was as if she didn’t even want to smell the bread, let alone eat it.
A woman came over to the table and whispered something into Emily’s ear. She wore a severe, pulled-back hairstyle and a very form-fitting shift dress. I wondered how she could breathe. Emily immediately put down her fork, got up, and followed the woman over to the other side of the room, near the elevators. Their pace was more of a slow run than a fast walk. Then, a group of young women carrying notepads joined them, followed by Richard Fitzsimmons and a trail of other photographers. The guests put down their drinks and glanced casually in the direction of the elevators as a hush came over the room. Julie sat up in her chair, yawned slightly, and checked her BlackBerry.
The elevator doors opened then and a woman exited, followed by a younger man in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He stood aside as the photographers screamed, “Tabitha! Tabitha! Over here!”
It was like the biggest celebrity in the world had just entered the room. I strained to get a better look, but all I could make out were flashes and hands waving in the air and a glimpse of Tabitha’s long, bright blonde hair. At one point I even saw Emily shouting at one of the photographers to step back. Her face was the color of rhubarb pie and she looked like she was going to pass out.
“Tabitha! With Tripp! Get together, you two! Come on!”
Tripp, I repeated to myself. I craned my neck for a better look. The broad shoulders; the dark, almost black hair; the piercing eyes and sideways grin. Oh my God, I thought. It was him. Tripp du Pont.
“You’re whiter than the tablecloth,” Julie said. “Are you okay?”
I gulped and nodded. “Sorry,” I said. “I just saw someone I used to know.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I watched as Tabitha and Tripp made their way toward their table. I couldn’t believe it. After all of these years, there was Tripp du Pont. The last time we’d been in the same room together I was fifteen years old and I thought I couldn’t be more in love with the dashing, sophisticated older boy from New York. I spent an entire Christmas break in Palm Beach with him, flirting poolside at the country club, meeting up on the golf course at night to steal a kiss. The last night of Christmas break we both attended a dinner party at the club. I was standing at the bar ordering a Diet Coke when I overheard Tripp’s mother’s friend asking someone about Tripp’s girlfriend back home in New York.
I ran out of the room crying that night and never saw him again. Luckily, a few months later I met Ryerson. But now, seeing Tripp in front of me for the first time in seven years, on the arm of a glamorous older woman, no less, all of those first-crush feelings came rushing back.
I was so in shock, I hadn’t noticed that Emily had returned to the table and was speaking to me. “This is huge for us. Tabitha Lipton!”
Tabitha Lipton.
I remembered bits and pieces of her story from reading the gossip columns. She was in her late thirties, an heiress to
the Lipton tea fortune who had married a member of the British aristocracy. They were recently divorced, and she’d managed to take a good portion of his family’s fortune in the end. And now she was stepping out with Tripp du Pont? My Tripp du Pont?
My stomach turned. He wasn’t exactly my Tripp du Pont. But at fifteen, I thought he was the most perfect boy I’d ever met, and his betrayal felt like the end of the world to me. Truthfully, I’d never stopped thinking about Tripp. And to see him now without even the slightest warning . . . it knocked the wind out of me.
The waiters removed our plates.
“She hasn’t officially been out since the divorce, you know,” Emily continued, leaning over me so Julie could hear. “We’ll set up another shot with Tabitha just for you in a few minutes, now that the rest of the photographers have left.”
Julie nodded. “Fine.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if all editors were this grumpy. I pursed my lips, dying to tell Emily about my history with Tripp.
“Anyway,” Emily continued, “you know Tabitha. I bet she’ll talk your ear off.”
It’s a good thing Emily was speaking under her breath, because Tabitha had somehow made her way over to our table and was now standing behind Emily, holding a glass of champagne and waiting for Emily to notice.
I gasped a little, suddenly feeling like I needed a much better outfit, a nose job, and a professional blowout.
“Emily, darling,” she said. “Where is Bazaar?”
I glanced over at Julie, who seemed even more annoyed than usual, then back at Tabitha, who was searching the room with an exasperated look on her face.
Caught in the middle, Emily attempted to appease both parties.
“Tabitha, you remember Julie Greene, don’t you?”
She shot Tabitha a pointed look.
“Julie! Julie, darling, of course,” Tabitha said. She waltzed over to Julie and took her hands. Julie pursed her lips and huffed. “How are you?” Tabitha continued, oblivious. “How is Glenda? The three of us must do lunch. It’s been way too long. It’s a crime!”
Julie’s expression was just short of a sneer.
I glanced at Tripp and I think he smiled at me. But it was more like his eyes squinted first, and then his teeth showed a little, and then he turned red and looked away. I wanted to smile back, but then I noticed that Tabitha had a What are you looking at? expression on her face, and decided I should probably refrain from saying hi to Tripp. For now, at least.
Then Richard Fitzsimmons appeared out of nowhere.
“Girls. Girls,” he said. He pointed at Tabitha, Emily, Julie, and then, much to my surprise, me. “The four of you. Let’s do a picture.”
Emily immediately refused, citing that she was under strict rules not to be photographed at her own events. “Okay, fine,” Richard said. He looked at Julie, who was also opting out, minus an explanation. Which left Richard with Tabitha and me. I gulped and glanced at Tabitha, half-expecting her to laugh in my face.
“Darling,” Tabitha said. She gestured toward me. “Come over here.”
I shuffled over to her side feeling like a deer in headlights. I could see Tripp out of the corner of my eye, taking it all in.
“Look at her, Richard,” Tabitha cooed, turning her body to the left so it formed one long, lean line for the camera. She placed a bejeweled hand on her jutting hip. “You’re new.”
“She’s my latest discovery,” Richard said.
I smiled meekly and looked at Emily, who was standing to the side of the spectacle with a curious look on her face. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger and tilted her head to the side. She squinted and released the tiniest of smiles.
I was taught how to pose for a photo the moment I could stand straight on my own, but when Richard lifted his camera, I don’t know what happened—I froze. My arms hung at my sides, hands slack and motionless. The flash went off several times. With each pop, with each blast of light, Tabitha turned slightly or lifted her chin or smiled in a different way. I just stood there, terrified.
When Richard was finished, he kissed Tabitha on both cheeks and pointed toward me. “I’ve got your name, kid,” he said.
All at once, everyone in the room knew that it was time to leave.
In the midst of waiters sweeping the tables of any remnants of food, I attempted to get a word in edgewise with Emily, but she was so preoccupied that I found myself the last person at the table, watching Tabitha usher Tripp toward the elevator.
I could have sworn he looked back at me, just once, but I couldn’t tell for sure. And then—poof—Emily was thanking me for “helping out so last-minute” and I was in a cab headed home.
The next morning, I woke up to no less than seven missed calls from Emily. Thankfully, she’d only left one voice mail: “Minty. The second you wake up, run out and pick up a copy of Women’s Wear Daily,” she said. “Call me as soon as you do.”
I immediately made my way to the corner bodega, where I found a copy of the fashion industry’s go-to daily newspaper. I leafed through the contents: a story about a new beauty brand, a report on the earnings of Louis Vuitton, a fashion shoot featuring jean trends for fall. And then I saw it: the “Eye” page. “Eye” was a special section that ran stories on industry events several times a week. In the center of the page was the photo Richard took of Tabitha and me at the Saks Fifth Avenue event. And there was my name next to Tabitha’s! Well, at least an approximation of my name: Mintzy Darvenport.
Eeek. It wasn’t the most flattering photo I’d ever seen of myself. I put the paper down and grumbled.
My phone started ringing.
“Minty!” It was Emily. “Minty, did you see it? Did you see WWD?!”
“Yes,” I said.
I walked toward Lexington Avenue and waited for the light to change. I wasn’t sure how I felt. It was cool to see my photo in a newspaper and to be standing next to someone like Tabitha Lipton. But I couldn’t get over the fact that I looked, well, awkward.
“What’s wrong?”
“They spelled my name wrong.”
Emily laughed. “We’ll have them do a correction.”
“And I look kind of fat.”
She laughed again. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I could have smiled better.”
“Minty, sweetie,” Emily sighed, “you’re in WWD!”
I looked up as the light turned green. “Is it that big of a deal?”
“Yes, Minty,” Emily said. I could hear the smile in her words. “It’s that big of a deal.”
The second I hung up with Emily, my BlackBerry buzzed. For a second I almost thought she was calling me again, but instead I found an e-mail notifying me of a Facebook friend request.
It said, simply, “Minty, is this you?”
The note was accompanied by Tripp du Pont’s handsome profile photo.
Smile through the Pain
I couldn’t help myself—I was excited that Tripp had reached out. I tried to look on the bright side of things. It was very possible that twenty-four-year-old Tripp was more mature than seventeen-year-old Tripp. Maybe he’d even learned from the mistakes he made with me. Then I remembered he had a girlfriend. Or at least I thought Tabitha was his girlfriend. So . . . should I take the friend request at face value? Tripp was never my “boyfriend,” but we were certainly more than friends. And while he’d hurt me, there was always . . . something between us. Even the way he looked at me during the lunch. I was more confused than ever.
I called my mother.
“Tripp du Pont,” she repeated. “If I do recall, not the most solid of citizens.”
“Mother, we were teenagers.”
“You were enamored with him,” she reminded me. “And he spent all of Christmas break acting like your boyfriend.”
“All right,” I said. “He hurt me.”
“Do not write him back,” she said.
“But, Mother, it’s been years. Maybe he’s matured! I can’t just ignore his friend request
.”
“What the hell is a friend request anyway?”
“Well, it’s when—”
“Heavens, Minty, I know what it is. What I’m trying to say is . . . couldn’t he have found you some other way? It just feels cheap to me. I say you make him wait.”
“Of course I will make him wait.”
“One week, Minty.”
“One week?”
“One week.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it.”
“Fine! One week.”
I accepted the request approximately twenty-four hours later. I wrote him a quick, cute message about how I thought I’d spotted him at the Saks luncheon, how he looked nice and I hoped all was well.
I didn’t disagree with my mother, but the thought of waiting an entire week was overwhelming. I figured that a day would be enough. It would seem as if I were simply busy, nonchalant, running around town with so many things to do that I hadn’t had a moment to check my Facebook profile. A week just screamed “overthinking it” to me. I didn’t want him to think I’d spent the last seven years dwelling on what happened between us.
Of course I liked the thought of his sweating it out even if just for twenty-four hours. I pictured him sitting by his computer, clicking the “refresh” button over and over again, pounding his fist onto his desk in frustration. So when I finally, officially accepted, I figured he might jump at the chance to perhaps drop me a line and, I don’t know, ask me to dinner.
But there was silence.
A day later, Saturday morning to be exact, I was still waiting for a response when Emily called.
“Wake up,” she said. “We’re going to Swifty’s for brunch. It’s, like, a crime you’ve been in New York for almost two months now and you haven’t been to brunch at Swifty’s. Also, someone is coming who you need to meet, so we’re doing it. We’re going to brunch.”
“Emily,” I groaned. “The last thing I need right now is to be set up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, this is not a setup. It’s more of a . . . networking opportunity. And this person is rarely available, so I’d get my act together if I were you.”
Southern Charm Page 3
