Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  Thirty seconds! I jumped out of the chair and headed in the direction of the other models. I heard the music start and suddenly each was disappearing through the dark hole of the opening of the runway, one after the other. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts, and suddenly I was being pulled toward the opening as well. Oh my God, this was it.

  “Go!”

  I’ve heard that speaking in public can be an out-of-body experience, like you’re hovering over yourself watching, fingers crossed, praying you don’t trip over any of the words or die of embarrassment.

  Walking in public—walking on a runway, that is, in front of every important person in the fashion industry—is similar. You take that first step into the lights and the crowd and the music and everything goes blank. Suddenly you’re taking another step forward, but you’re not exactly sure how. And then another and another, until you’re nearing the end of the runway and you realize it’s almost halfway over. For a split second you might glance at someone in the crowd.

  For me that person was Tripp, who was seated front row, looking somewhat bewildered but also amazed and proud. He started whistling and clapping. And then I saw my mother, who was so overwhelmed with excitement she was fanning herself. A row behind her was Emily, slightly more composed but beaming nonetheless.

  Suddenly I was a few feet from the end of the runway. All I could think about was remembering to do “the Minty” like Kevin had reminded me a thousand times over. I placed my right hand on my hip, crossed one leg over the other, and struck a pose. Cameras flashed; the audience clapped and cheered. A few people yelled my name. Were they actually cheering for me?

  When I made it backstage, the other models were already starting to walk out again for the finale. Kevin grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze.

  “One last time before we can celebrate,” he whispered in my ear.

  The finale was even more of a blur, as I stood at the end of the runway with Kevin and everyone in the audience gave him a standing ovation. So many camera flashes went off, I started seeing spots!

  After, we all surrounded Kevin backstage and raised a glass of champagne as he thanked the production team, makeup artists, hairstylists, and models who had worked so tirelessly to make the show a success. I was listening to him speak, my heart still racing from the thrill of the runway, when I noticed a girl across the way looking at me—no, staring at me. She was pretty, with catlike eyes, and long platinum-blonde hair. I looked back at her and smiled; it was the only thing I could think of to do. But she didn’t smile back. She looked startled for a moment and then turned away.

  Kevin came over then and put his arm around me.

  “You’re a natural, babe,” he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  Flashes started going off and I realized people were taking my picture. Wow, I thought. Just a few years before, I was happy to even be allowed backstage. Now I was part of the show. Richard Fitzsimmons ran up and gave me a quick double kiss.

  “Did I not say you were going to be someone?” he said, snapping away.

  I laughed and struck a pose. When Richard was finished, he started taking photos of Kevin with the models. That’s when I saw Ruth. She was standing just behind Kevin’s right shoulder with the girl who had been staring at me!

  “That’s Alexis.”

  I jumped.

  Spencer was standing next to me with his headset around his neck. As I turned to him, Ruth looked up and our eyes met. She shot me one of the coldest, most evil glances I’d ever experienced. If she had the ability to fly over the crowd at that moment, swoop down and bite my head off, she would have. Then Alexis whispered something in Ruth’s ear and they both looked at me. I literally got chills.

  “Why are they staring at me?” I asked.

  “Who knows,” Spencer said. “Ruth is probably annoyed you’re getting all of the attention.”

  Two of the seamstresses came over and started undoing the stitching in my dress. Right in front of Spencer, they pulled it off and handed me a white robe. And, just like that, my Cinderella moment was over. Except I still had the shoes, and both shoes at that. I stared down at my feet.

  “You think they’ll let me keep them?” I asked Spencer.

  He glanced around.

  “If you make a run for it now, I won’t tell anyone.”

  Put On a Brave Face

  The day of the engagement party, I woke up in a cheerful mood.

  I got up, made coffee, and picked up my newspapers. The review for Kevin’s show was front and center in WWD, glowing about his fall collection. There was even a note about how I’d modeled the final look. The writer said I’d really “held my own” in comparison to other socialites and celebrities who’d all walked the runway at one time or another. Then there was a quote from Kevin about our meeting that fall and how my personal style actually had a hand in inspiring the fall collection.

  “Wow,” I said out loud.

  My phone rang. I picked it up—it was Tripp.

  “You haven’t read the Post yet, have you?” he asked. He sounded annoyed but not exasperated. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.

  “No,” I said, “I’m about to though.”

  “You know where to look,” he said. “I’ll wait on the phone.”

  And there it was: QUICKIE MARRIAGE AND RUNWAY DRAMA SIGNAL TROUBLES FOR SOCIAL SWAN.

  The story that followed went on for nearly half a page. It started with the “rumor” that Tripp and I had “tied the knot” at city hall a few days before, citing public records and “inside” sources that had tipped them off to the news. It then went on to say that I’d tripped Alexis Barnaby on the runway at the Kevin Park show and insinuated that I’d done it out of jealousy. I thought for a moment. I hadn’t, at any point during the show, been within ten feet of Alexis. Who was feeding the Post this garbage?

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “Yup,” he replied.

  “Are your parents freaking out?”

  I was referring to the city hall thing, of course. Bebe and Phillip were already so used to reading gossip about me in the papers, they probably skipped over the whole part about Alexis. That was for me to deal with on my own.

  “They’re okay,” he said. “They were disappointed, of course, and there will be more discussion to come, but they have a cocktail party to host.”

  “Ugh, why does this always happen?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I was planning on telling them after tonight anyway. They just found out a bit earlier. I mean, what can we do?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he said.

  The next person to call was Emily.

  “Is this true?” she asked. Her voice sounded shaky and shell-shocked.

  I was silent.

  “Minty.” She let out a huge sigh.

  “Emily, I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s just, we were going to try to keep it a secret for a while. It’s really just something we did for ourselves, you know, we didn’t plan it or anything.”

  “I’m just . . . shocked,” she said. “I don’t get it.” She paused. “I mean, what’s the rush? You’re planning a wedding for June. Isn’t that fast enough?”

  “Yes, of course it is,” I said. I couldn’t really explain to her exactly why we did what we did. “Listen, Em, it’s just a formality. We’re still having the wedding.”

  “I just wish I didn’t have to read about your wedding in the Post.”

  “I know,” I said.

  There was a long period of silence.

  “Anyway,” Emily began, “I’ll see you tonight at the du Ponts’? I imagine you and Tripp have some explaining to do in the meantime.”

  Oh God, she was right. Bebe and Phillip were going to be livid. And on top of it I had to face them and a hundred or so of their closest friends and family in a few hours.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said.

&n
bsp; As I hung up the phone, I heard the lock turn and the familiar click-clack of my mother’s Chanel pumps on the parquet.

  “Where is my recalcitrant daughter?” her voice bellowed down the hall. She appeared in front of me, slipping out of her mink. “I hope you and Tripp are happy. Your father’s gone and canceled his flight over this city hall business; he’s furious.”

  “Daddy isn’t coming?”

  “Sadly, no,” she said. “I knew this would shatter him.”

  “Mother, he can still walk me down the aisle!”

  “It’s not the same.” She shook her head. “Just not the same.”

  I groaned. I felt terrible about my father, but at least Scarlett was there to smooth things over a bit. Yes, she was less than pleased about the whole thing, but she would get over it. She’d smile and nod her way through the entire party and convince everyone that Tripp and I were just being silly kids in love. She was good at playing to the public and I was glad to have her on my side.

  “Now,” she said. “Shall we get down to business before we find ourselves with less than an hour to get ready for the party?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, sitting down. “Fire away.”

  She bulldozed through her list of various updates: the service was confirmed at the French Huguenot Church in downtown Charleston; the combination guest present/menu holder would be handmade picture frames made from green velvet Cowtan & Tout fabric to match the wedding colors, pale green, cream, and white. She’d decided on hydrangeas, orchids, and roses for the florals. Each program, engraved by Bernard Maisner, would feature “Minty and Tripp” in a pale green Edwardian script on a cream card, tied with a ribbon at the top. As our four hundred guests arrived in the church, a string quartet would play music from the balcony.

  “The reception is a whole other animal, Minty,” Mother explained. “I’ve practically slaved over the menu. We’ve got waiters standing in the reception area of the club offering mint juleps in silver cups when people walk in. Also, the martini bar will have a big ice sculpture martini glass. I thought that was cute, no?”

  I nodded. “It all sounds amazing, Mother.”

  “We’ll have passed crab cakes and tea sandwiches,” she continued. “And when the main doors to the ballroom are opened, everyone will see the gorgeous Sylvia Weinstock cake in the center of the room. This cake is going to be incredible, taller than you and Tripp! And I have Sylvia doing lily-of-the-valley flowers wrapping around each tier.” She sat down, took a deep breath, and opened up her scrapbook. “And then we have this pale green moiré for the tables covered with this sheer overlay cloth. Each place setting will have a clear square box tied with ribbon and a clear sticker that says ‘With love from Minty and Tripp,’ with mini three-tier wedding cakes inside.”

  She showed me a picture of the mini cakes.

  “Wow, Mommy, you’re really outdoing yourself.”

  She let out a little “ha!” because she would never think for a minute to not create the most extravagant, amazing, breathtaking wedding anyone had ever seen, including the most jaded New Yorkers. It comforted me to know that she understood how important it was to show them that we southerners were known for our hospitality for a reason. No one can throw a party or a wedding like a southern belle.

  “And I’ve confirmed Peter Duchin, honey,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’re flying him and his orchestra down from New York. It’s like I’m dealing with a rock star or something. Would you believe it?”

  I laughed. “Yes.”

  “Now,” she continued, “when everyone leaves at the end of the night we’ll do little cones of Smythson paper stamped with the family crest. We’re going to fill them with rose petals and everyone will throw them in the air when you and Tripp leave for the honeymoon. It will be a real ‘moment.’”

  Oh God, the honeymoon.

  Tripp and I had discussed spending a few weeks in the Maldives, but we hadn’t had a moment to iron out the main details. It felt like every time I had something crossed off my list, another thing was added!

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  She showed me an example of the Smythson paper, which was no less beautiful than everything else, even though some people might have treated it as a throwaway detail. “Mommy,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

  She closed the scrapbook and the buzzer rang. It was Jenny, Kevin’s PR director. She was stopping by to drop off my outfit for the evening as well as some sketches for the bridesmaid dresses. I’d always dreamed of a wedding dress from Oscar de la Renta, so when I broke the news to Kevin, I asked him to design my bridesmaid dresses. He was completely gracious and understanding about the whole thing, and anyway, he had a lot of work cut out for him with the bridesmaid dresses alone.

  There were twelve—count ’em—twelve bridesmaids: my sister, Emily, five cousins, three childhood friends, and two of my best friends from college. I was also mulling over the possibility of asking May to be the thirteenth bridesmaid. Tripp had mentioned a while back that it might be a nice gesture since Harry was his best man and oldest friend.

  At first I’d recoiled at the idea. May hadn’t exactly been the most welcoming person in Tripp’s circle of friends. But in the last month or so (around the time I started working for Kevin) things had started to take a turn for the better. We’d run into each other a few times and she couldn’t have been more lovely.

  Of course, I had a feeling her recent interest in me had more to do with my rising profile than any heartfelt interest in being my friend, but that was the way things worked in New York. One day, May acted like she could barely believe Tripp was dating someone like me. The next, we were gossiping over champagne.

  When the front door opened, Jenny was standing there holding a garment bag and a portfolio. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

  “Oh my God, Jenny,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be relaxing right now? The show is over!”

  She laughed.

  “The phone has been ringing off the hook since the WWD article,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe it, the collection is such a success. Anyway,” she said, handing me the bag and the portfolio, “I have to get going. Kevin said he’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay,” I said, waving her good-bye.

  The door had barely shut when it opened again. I figured Jenny had forgotten something. Instead, Tripp was standing there, dressed in khakis, a button-down, and a battered white college hat. The engagement party was supposed to start in less than two hours.

  “Tripp, what the hell are you doing here?!” I said.

  “Scarlett,” he said, walking toward my mother, who was standing near the kitchen with her mouth hanging open. “How are you?”

  He kissed her on the cheek.

  “Tripp, honey, I’m just fine,” she said, her southern drawl a bit more pronounced than usual. That happened when she was either nervous or stressed out or both. “I must mirror my daughter’s sentiments. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I just have a few things to discuss with Minty if you don’t mind,” he said.

  She pursed her lips.

  “Of course, darlin’,” she said, painting a sugary-sweet smile on her face. “I was just going to pop into the powder room anyway and start to pull myself together. You all right, baby girl?”

  “I’m just fine, Mommy,” I said. “You go get ready.”

  She disappeared toward the back of the apartment.

  Tripp lowered himself into the sofa and rubbed his forehead.

  “I know it’s barely four P.M. but do you have any scotch?” he asked.

  Of course I had scotch. I went over to the bar and poured him a glass. He took it from me, sipped slowly, and sighed.

  “Tripp, Christ, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I thought the drama was over with my parents, but then something else came up of course. We just need to address something before tonight.”

  My heart was in my throat.

  “Anyway,” Tripp c
ontinued, “you’ve probably heard about this website already.”

  “What website?”

  “The social register one. Social something. I don’t know. My mother told me about it. It’s got all the girls on it. Even May’s on it. And you’re on there.”

  I stared back at him.

  “Social Roster?”

  Tripp blinked. “Yes. How do you know about it?”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “Spencer mentioned it at Kevin’s show. What’s going on?”

  “Some woman from my mother’s bridge club just sent her a bitchy e-mail about all of the stuff with ‘Page Six’ and then mentioned the website, how the site says I’m making a mistake marrying you.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Minty, I’m serious,” Tripp said. “I only say this because I love you and I don’t want these people to be saying such terrible things about you at all, let alone to my parents, who are not the most open-minded people, to say the least.”

  I frowned.

  “And,” he continued, “I should mention that there’s another layer to the story, which, again, is ridiculous and totally unfounded, but you should know what people are saying.”

  “All right,” I said. I steeled myself for part 2.

  “There are some people,” he began, “who think you might have something to do with it. With the website, that is.”

  “What?!”

  Tripp sighed. “They have this ranking system on it, something having to do with how many times you show up in the press. I don’t know. Anyway, some people, I’m not sure who, but this is all according to my mother, so take it with a grain of salt—”

  “Tripp! On with it!”

  “Some people,” he continued, “think that because you’re number one on this ranking list, and apparently you’ve been number one since the site launched, you may have something to do with it. Or at the very least that you’re friends with the people who started it and you’re supporting it. Or something.”

  I held my head in my hands. “What else does it say?” I asked.