Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  Tripp laughed. Barbara finally managed to crack a smile.

  “Well,” Tripp continued, “the good news is, he finally agreed to help us out. He should be calling right now.”

  “Well,” Barbara said, “y’all can have a seat over there”—she pointed to a hard, cold bench in the hallway—“and I’ll let you know when the waiver comes in.”

  “‘Y’all’?” I repeated. “Are you southern?”

  She softened a bit. “Mobile, Alabama,” she said.

  “Charleston.” I beamed.

  We smiled knowingly at each other for a moment. It was funny how even in the midst of downtown Manhattan in one of the coldest, most unfriendly buildings I’d ever been in, there was something comforting about hearing that little twang. I took it as a sign. Maybe Barbara was a good-luck charm.

  After about an hour, Judge Beekman came through for us and we finally got the go-ahead. We then stood in line for another hour or so, watching couple after couple disappear behind the closed doors and emerge looking happy and married. Actually, some of them looked tired and annoyed. Others looked really young and scared. The experience wasn’t turning out to be as romantic as I’d anticipated.

  By the time our names were called, we were exhausted. The actual “ceremony” took all of three minutes. Tripp and I signed another piece of paper, walked into a little room in the back, and swore that the information we were providing was accurate. And that was it. The judge looked at us, pronounced us man and wife, and sent us on our way. Tripp and I stood there for a minute wondering, Should we kiss? So we pecked quickly in front of the man, who looked on with a bored and impatient expression on his face.

  We walked out of the clerk’s office and past Barbara’s desk.

  “Y’all went through with it, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “We sure did.” I smiled.

  “Thank you again for all of your help,” Tripp said.

  “Oh, honey,” Barbara said. “Don’t thank me.”

  “Well,” I said, still smiling, “we appreciate your help.”

  “Tell ya what,” Barbara said. “I’ve been married three times. You come back and thank me in ten years. If you still feel like thanking me, that is.”

  She was kidding, kind of, but her words still settled strangely with me.

  On our way home, Tripp and I sat in the back of the cab in silence. I’m not sure if it was Barbara’s comments or the “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” ceremony, but being married didn’t exactly feel the way either of us had expected it to feel.

  “We’re married,” Tripp finally said.

  “I know,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure how else to respond.

  Part of me loved that we’d done something so rebellious, so reckless. But there was also a small part of me that felt like maybe we had done it for the wrong reasons. I guess I thought that if Tripp agreed to marry me then and there, I’d have proof that he really, truly wanted to marry me. But why did I feel like I needed proof?

  We pulled up to my apartment. I wanted to change quickly before we headed out for an early celebratory dinner at Daniel. We only had a few hours before my mother got back into town . . .

  Oh, no! Mother! I glanced at my watch.

  “Aren’t I supposed to carry you over a threshold or something?” Tripp asked, swooping me up in his arms.

  “Tripp! Stop!” I said, squirming. “Scarlett!”

  He kept moving though, past my doorman, into the elevator and right up to my front door. He somehow managed to pull the keys out of his pocket, unlock the door, and push his way through in one single motion.

  “She’s going to be here any—”

  There she was, standing in the foyer with her arms crossed over her chest, her luggage stacked neatly by her side.

  Tripp almost dropped me on the floor, he was so surprised.

  “Tripp, honey,” she began, her eyes big and suspicious, “what are you doing carrying your fiancée over the threshold like that? Don’t you think that’s—” She stopped and glared at the piece of paper—our marriage certificate—in Tripp’s hand. “What is that?” Before he could even react, she snatched it away and held it up to the light. She read it carefully, then put it down on the side table and stared at us. “Y’all are joking, right? Is this what I think it is?”

  Tripp calmly put me down. He looked like he was standing in front of a firing squad.

  “Mommy,” I began.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Don’t ‘mommy’ me.” She turned to Tripp. “What on earth is going on here?”

  “Um, um,” Tripp stammered. “We just—I—we just thought it—I don’t know, Mrs. Davenport.”

  I rolled my eyes. Amazing backup, Tripp.

  I took a deep breath and tried to fill in the blanks. “Don’t over-react, now, Mother,” I began. “That is a marriage certificate. Tripp was carrying me over the threshold. We did happen to go down to city hall today and get married—”

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  “—but,” I continued, holding my hand up in the air, “it’s just a formality. It’s just a piece of paper. We’ll still have the wedding. You and I will still go dress shopping and check out some of the shows and everything will be just fine.”

  She was breathing heavily now, her nose flared around the nostrils, her red lipstick somehow more intense. The whites of her eyes expanded until her pupils were barely visible. “Are y’all goddamn crazy?” she screamed. “Just a formality? Just a piece of paper? Jesus Christ, Minty, have you lost your mind?” She threw the certificate down on the floor. “What in God’s name were you thinking doing this in secret like it’s some shotgun wedding?” She pointed at me. “Your father will walk you down the aisle, ya hear? God save me, some days I despise that man with all of my heart, but your father will walk his baby girl down the aisle!”

  “Y-yes, ma’am,” Tripp stammered. “Absolutely. Honestly, we—”

  “Don’t you say a word, Tripp du Pont.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I expect this kind of dramatic behavior from Minty, but you should have known better.”

  I scoffed. “Mother!”

  She ignored me.

  “This is a travesty,” she said. “This is a disgrace!” She threw her hands up in the air. “I can’t even look at the two of you right now.”

  And with that, she grabbed the handle of her Louis Vuitton suitcase, threw her Chanel purse over her shoulder, and bulldozed past us, until she reached the door, where she turned around, very dramatically, and made her final statement.

  “I will have you know that I am furious. I am beyond reconciliation at this point. But I will be staying at the Plaza, and, Minty, I will see you tomorrow backstage at the Kevin Park show.”

  You Catch More Flies with Honey Than Vinegar

  Lincoln Center was buzzing with activity.

  When I’d been Virginia’s guest at the Ralph Lauren show, all of the shows were held in tents in Bryant Park, but as I climbed the expansive steps past the main fountain, I couldn’t imagine them happening anywhere else.

  I immediately saw Kevin backstage, looking frazzled and standing next to a rack being loaded and organized according to which model was wearing what.

  “Oh my God, Kevin,” I said, giving him a kiss, “I don’t know how you do it. Have you even slept?”

  He laughed. “Not in three days,” he admitted. “I’m pretty sure I have nothing but Red Bull running through my veins at this point.”

  “Did you get my list of confirmations?” I asked. One of my first assignments was to make sure Kevin’s front row was sprinkled with some of the latest and greatest It Girls in the city. In the last week, I’d confirmed eleven people, ranging from a model/DJ to an avant-garde lingerie designer.

  “Yes! I nearly died when I saw Kelsey Montgomery on the list!” he exclaimed, referring to an up-and-coming artist who’d recently been featured in the Whitney Museum Biennial.

  “I’m so happy,” I said, clapping a little. It was
nice to know I’d made a contribution to the show’s success.

  Kevin guided me toward a corner where a few models were lingering, some slipping in and out of tops and skirts, others just texting in their underwear, waiting for the next look. They were so relaxed, so detached, it occurred to me they probably could have been naked and they wouldn’t have cared. I nearly tripped over one who had curled up on the floor in nothing more than boy shorts and a tank top.

  “Actually, I’m not sure who is more exhausted at this point, us or the models,” Kevin said. “They’ve been doing castings all week. They’re probably not eating much. And it’s only the first day! Some of these girls have four, five shows in a day. They really run themselves into the ground.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “I’d feel bad for them if they weren’t all stunningly beautiful with perfect bodies.”

  Kevin laughed. “Now let’s get you in the hot seat.”

  He motioned for me to stand on a little platform and told me to strip down to my underwear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. I’m pretty modest by nature, but I unzipped my hoodie, threw it to the ground, and pulled down my pants.

  “I’m ready for ya, Kev,” I said, laughing.

  Kevin’s assistant approached with the dress I was going to wear, a bright pink floor-length gown with a high neck and a plunging back. I’d already had one fitting so it wasn’t my first time trying it on, but it never failed to make me gasp. It was beautifully constructed and light as air. I lifted my arms as the dress was hoisted over my head and pulled down over my shoulders. Kevin watched in the mirror as the assistants tugged and pinned in several places.

  Kevin pursed his lips and turned me to the right so I was standing in profile.

  “Get her some shoes,” he barked to one of the assistants. “Size eight! The petal-pink pump with the bow! Not the pointy toe. Almond. Four inches. Not three.”

  All of this was communicated across the expansive space of backstage, which was starting to fill up with makeup artists, hairstylists, and various assistants lugging equipment. Kevin’s voice carried like it was on a loudspeaker.

  It was interesting to see Kevin in boss mode.

  When I stepped into the shoes, it was like I was wearing a totally different dress. My posture changed. It wasn’t just straighter, but my back arched, forcing my hips forward and my shoulders back. My body looked completely different.

  I wasn’t really sure what to do, so I started modeling a bit, putting my hands on my hips and tilting to the right. At one point I crossed the right leg over the left and dropped my left arm down so it ran straight along the side of my body. I kept my right arm bent, my hand on my hip.

  “That’s it!” Kevin exclaimed.

  “What?” I looked back at myself.

  “That’s the pose!” He snapped his fingers at an assistant. “Get the effing camera!”

  The assistant produced a digital camera from her back pocket and handed it to Kevin without blinking an eye.

  “Look at me—right at me,” Kevin said.

  I stared back at the camera and smiled as he snapped away.

  Kevin put the camera down.

  “Never, ever pose any other way,” he said. “Ever.” He cupped his hand over his mouth. “I’m going to have the models do that at the end of the runway. I’m calling it ‘the Minty.’”

  At first, all I could do was laugh. I felt so silly and self-conscious. I’d posed this way for a picture before, but I’d never really thought about it. Emily was always talking about having a “signature,” something that stood out from the rest, so why not have a signature pose? It was genius, come to think of it.

  I clapped my hands. “The Minty,” I repeated. “I love it.”

  I stood still for about half an hour as a swarm of seamstresses sewed me into the dress and made sure every last detail was perfect. I’d never felt more special. I almost had to pinch myself. I had found a mentor—someone who believed in me. While it was one thing to have Tripp, Kevin’s wholehearted faith in me made me feel that success—whatever that meant; I still wasn’t sure—wasn’t just possible, it was inevitable. Kevin felt more like a fairy godfather than a boss. I knew that I was very, very lucky to have crossed paths with him, even if it meant going through some pretty harrowing experiences to get there. And now, New York Fashion Week was about to start . . . and somehow I was a part of it.

  When the dress was so perfect I could barely move, Kevin helped me down from the platform.

  “Amazing,” he said, gazing at me. “Now get over to Damien for hair.”

  He patted me on the behind and hopped off to greet another model.

  Damien the hairstylist was impossibly sexy—French, with dark, Johnny Depp–esque looks.

  “Darling, pleasure to meet you,” Damien said in his throaty, pack-a-day voice.

  I settled into the chair and gazed at myself in the mirror—one of ten or so set up in a row. Damien said something in French to a girl wearing a fanny pack and she started handing him hot rollers.

  Within minutes, backstage had gone from calm quiet to borderline chaos. There were barely dressed models everywhere, video cameras equipped with blaring lights, reporters equipped with intrusive microphones, and makeup artists working under the gun to create the perfect cat eye. In the midst of all of that, Kevin and his team were trying to get the clothes not only on the girls but styled just so.

  “Wow,” I said to Damien, “this is intense!”

  Damien shrugged. “Always craziness,” he said.

  Before I knew it, I was being ushered into the chair of the key makeup artist, Betsy McHale. Kevin had mentioned that she was one of the most famous makeup artists in the world. They were friends at Central Saint Martins College in London, where they both studied fashion together.

  “No one at my level gets Betsy for their show,” he said. “She’s like the Jessica Stam of makeup artists.”

  “Dahling, dahling, dahling,” Betsy said, inspecting my skin. “You’re a baby, but you’re dehydrated.”

  This was probably true. With the stress of, well, everything, I hadn’t really been taking good care of myself.

  Within seconds, a girl was standing in front of me exfoliating with one hand and moisturizing with the other. Then she stepped back and let Betsy assess.

  “Much better,” Betsy said.

  She was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around to see Spencer, a huge grin on his face. He was wearing a headset and holding a clipboard. Oh my God, I thought. RVPR is overseeing Kevin’s show? Why hadn’t I thought of that?! I glanced around instinctively. Where the hell was Ruth?

  “Look at you, gorgeous,” Spencer said.

  Betsy smiled as she applied mascara to my bottom lashes.

  “There!” she said. “You’re all done here, love.” She blew me a kiss and moved on to the next model.

  Spencer grinned. He was clearly in hog heaven.

  “I’ve missed you!” I said, blowing him an air kiss so as not to mess up the makeup.

  “Of course you have,” he said, glancing around.

  “So tell me,” I said, lowering my head. “I totally forgot Ruth was going to be here! Do I need, like, backup security or something?”

  Spencer leaned against my chair and shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “She’s so caught up in launching Alexis’s ‘career’ these days. You know, the girl they mentioned in ‘Page Six’? Ruth somehow convinced Kevin to let Alexis walk in the show. She doesn’t have a good spot in the lineup—she’s somewhere in the middle from what I heard—but she’s walking.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said. “At least she found someone else to torture.”

  Spencer rolled his eyes. “They get along like two peas in a pod. Each one is more vapid than the other,” he said. “Oh!” He jumped a little. “I have a little secret to tell you.”

  I squirmed in my seat. I desperately wa
nted to tell Spencer that Tripp and I were married. I had to will myself not to form the words. I decided I’d wait to hear what his secret was first and see if it might be worth the trade. Or not! But then I thought, No, I should wait. Spencer was a lot of things, but a secret-keeper was not one of them.

  “Tell me! Tell me!” I said.

  Spencer paused dramatically.

  “You are looking at the new assistant features editor of Vanity Fair,” he said.

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh my God, Spencer, that’s amazing!”

  “I know,” he said. “I haven’t told Ruthless yet, though. And somehow she hasn’t found out. Or maybe she doesn’t care? God knows I’m dead weight at that place. I think I spent four hours yesterday navigating that new socialite website. Have you seen it? OMG, it’s ridiculous.”

  “What socialite website?” I asked. Kevin was motioning for me to join him on the other side of the tent.

  “SocialiteRoster.com?” Spencer said, following me as I made my way over to Kevin. “It’s kind of a . . . what’s the best way to describe it? It’s like the Blue Book meets Zagat. It ranks each socialite by how many parties she attends, how many times her picture appears in certain outlets, you know, that kind of thing. You’re all over it.”

  “Seriously?” I said. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard of it yet. It must have been brand-new.

  “Minty, babe, we need you back up on the platform,” Kevin said, appearing in front of me.

  “Later,” Spencer said, disappearing into the mob scene.

  Kevin took off my robe and smoothed out my dress. I noticed that every person in the tiny space was in a similar state of frenzy. Models were lined up along one side of the room standing still as stylists put the final touches on their looks and sent them to the front, where the rest of the girls were already lining up for the start of the show. Damien came over at one point with a comb, pulled out my rollers in a single swipe, and teased and styled my hair. Betsy’s assistant had barely finished touching up my makeup when I heard my name called.

  “Minty! Minty! The show is about to start. We need you lined up with the rest of the models in thirty seconds!”