Tripp just stared at the floor.
“Tripp, do I have to get online now and go through this thing myself or are you going to tell me? What else does it say?”
“There’s bad stuff on there, babe,” he admitted. “There’s a bio of you that has stuff about your family, how your mother claims to be FFV. What’s FFV, anyway?”
“First Family of Virginia,” I said. (Didn’t everyone know that?)
“Anyway,” he continued, “that story about your father being a door-to-door salesman of course. There’s a whole paragraph about Tabitha, which I won’t even get into. Then there’s a whole other section where people can comment, and let’s just say no one’s pulling any punches when it comes to voicing their opinion about you.”
“Who? What are they saying?”
“All of the comments are anonymous,” Tripp said, “but they’re just mean. One person went off about how you curse all the time and eat too much Domino’s pizza. Oh, and how sometimes you sleep in your makeup from one party and wear it to a party the next night, or something?”
I gulped. All of those things were kinda true.
“Eyelashes!” I shouted. “I keep my eyelashes on!” I was actually pretty angry they didn’t get that detail straight. I thought my false-eyelash trick was a pretty good one. “Oh my God, who cares?”
“Mints . . .” Tripp put his hand on my knee.
He looked so lost and upset, I almost felt bad for him when I should have been feeling bad for myself. “Like I said, I didn’t come over to tell you this to upset you, but I didn’t want you to come to the party unprepared. Maybe you should cool off on some of this stuff for a while?”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The fashion stuff? All of the parties you’ve been attending? It’s putting you in this very vulnerable position where people think they know things about you. It doesn’t look good.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Babe,” I said, “the ‘fashion stuff’ is kind of my job these days.”
Tripp sighed. “Maybe just keep a lower profile for a while. Especially before we get married. You know, my parents will probably lay off once we get through the wedding and the dust has settled a bit.”
I buried my face in one of the pillows. I couldn’t understand what all of the fuss was about. Why did Tripp’s parents care so much about what a few people were saying on the Internet?
“Point taken,” I said.
“I love you,” Tripp said.
“Love you too,” I said. “Make sure you tell your mother I plan on spending the rest of my life sitting in bed with a black veil over my face reading Jane Austen novels.”
“I think that’s exactly what she had in mind,” Tripp said, shaking his head. “You know, I don’t think anyone else in this world would handle the pressure of my family as gracefully as you have.”
We kissed the kind of kiss that happens only when one person is trying to assure the other person that everything is going to be all right. I walked him to the door.
Once he was gone, I’ll admit it, I ran to my computer to check out this SocialRoster.com. I have to say, navigating through page after page of gossipy stories and personal details didn’t make me feel any better. It was anonymously written (how convenient) and the home page featured a photo of me, along with nineteen other girls, ranked according to how many times our photo had appeared on Richard Fitzsimmons’s website, how many mentions we received in the press each week, and so on.
I pushed myself away from the computer. My mother emerged fully dressed and coiffed from the powder room at that point, wearing her most innocent expression. I’d almost forgotten she was there. It was immediately clear that she’d heard some of Tripp’s and my conversation. Luckily, she’d had the wherewithal to wait until he left to come out.
I glanced at the clock.
“Oh, fuck!”
“Minty Mercer Davenport, you watch your—”
Boys Will Be Boys
Mother always says that it’s in good taste to arrive either on time or a few minutes early if you are the guest of honor at a party, but never more than that. Just to be safe, I’d told Bebe ahead of time that we would be there a few minutes before six o’clock. I didn’t want to ruffle any more feathers.
The du Ponts’ apartment reminded me of Baron Guggenheim’s place. It was like everyone on the Upper East Side had gotten together at some point in the 1950s and decided on one acceptable way of decorating: dark wood, oriental rugs, chinoiserie lamps, oil paintings from the mid–nineteenth century, and so on. Not to say there was anything wrong with any of that. But there was no color! No flair! Standing in the living room, I felt like I was tucked away somewhere in the English countryside, not riding high over the glittering sidewalks of Park Avenue.
“Bebe,” I said, kissing my new mother-in-law on the cheek, “I just want to say I’m so sorry for the way you heard about everything.” I took a deep breath. “I know you’ve already spoken to Tripp, but honestly, we really didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
She looked at me and managed a patronizing smile.
“No worries at all, dear,” she said. “I’ve dealt with my son already. Unfortunately we don’t have the luxury of better timing, but that’s life. Shall we step into the library for a drink?”
My mother had a smile painted on her face.
“That sounds lovely,” she said.
The library had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which were lined in vintage, leather-bound books. Bebe sipped from a glass of what looked like straight vodka on the rocks. When the waiter came over to take our drink order, my mother asked for a Campari and soda.
“To go with my lipstick,” she explained.
Tripp walked in wearing his usual uniform of a dark blue suit and a striped tie. He looked so much more confident and assured than he had just an hour or so before.
“The guests are starting to arrive,” he announced. I noticed Emily stepping off the elevator. He turned to me and whispered in my ear, “Are we okay?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
Tripp was a smart boy. He knew things weren’t exactly “fine,” but what were we going to do? The party was starting to fill with some of the du Ponts’ oldest and dearest friends. We had to keep our cool. We had to keep up appearances, at least for the duration of cocktail hour.
“You holding up?” Emily asked, kissing me on the cheek. She had on a simple black shift and minimal makeup. I was grateful that she was one of the first people to arrive. I could always escape to her side if I found myself trapped in the middle of a right-wing debate with Tripp’s father and his friends. She glanced across the room. “Looks like someone needs you, babe.”
Tripp was motioning for me to join him. He was standing with an older gentleman in tartan plaid pants and a navy blazer.
“Oh, awesome,” I laughed. I kissed Emily on the cheek.
Tripp had just finished introducing me to the fifteenth family member in a row when I saw May and Harry making their way through the crowd. I steeled myself for a minute and then relaxed. She looked more friendly and enthusiastic than ever.
“Minty!” she squealed. “Sweetie, you look adorable.” We double kissed. Harry nodded in my direction and started talking to Tripp. “I’m sure you have about a million people to say hi to, but we need to get together! Breakfast or something? Oh my God! The Post!” She leaned in closer. “I knew about the secret wedding all along, you know. Harry told me. Total blabbermouth.” She flashed a megawatt smile. “Wait. Are you going to Carolina tomorrow?”
I stared back at her.
“Um, yes, I think so?” I said, dumbfounded.
The Carolina Herrera show was at ten A.M. the next morning. Thankfully, yes, I’d been invited. I had planned on attending with Emily but she’d had to cancel at the last minute because of a work commitment. If I hadn’t been invited it could have been a problem; in May’s world, not being invited to the Carolina Herrera show was t
he definition of social suicide.
“Perfection.” May smiled. “Palm Court at nine?”
The last time I’d had breakfast at the Palm Court at the Plaza, I must have been no more than twelve years old. My innocent dreams of Eloise’s New York life had never seemed so naïve.
“Um, sure.”
“See you then, honey,” she said, turning to Tripp. “You boys are off to London on Saturday?” she asked him.
“Ugh,” I groaned. Tripp had just found out he was going to London on business for two weeks.
“Yeah.” Tripp grinned, turning to Harry, who shrugged.
“Danger,” Harry said.
I glanced at Tripp. As forgetful as I was feeling, I was certain he’d never mentioned that Harry was joining.
May leaned toward me. “Harry always finds a way to tag along when Tripp has to work out of the London office,” she said. “It’s like they get separation anxiety.”
I nodded.
From what I understood, Harry ran his own “investment firm.” I guessed he could work from anywhere. It wasn’t like Tripp was keeping the information from me, but hearing that he would be in London with his partner in crime was not exactly the most comforting piece of news.
“Don’t worry, Mints,” Tripp said. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Somehow I believe Tripp,” May said. “Not so sure about Harry though.” She laughed. “Anyway, see you tomorrow, sweetie?”
She kissed me on the cheek and swirled off in another direction as Harry followed closely behind.
Tripp glanced at me and shrugged. “Like, best friends forever?”
I poked him in the ribs. May was one thing. But as I shook hands, smiled, and tried to remember the name of Bebe’s second cousin, it was pretty clear that Tripp’s family was a whole other story. The way Bebe watched me from the sidelines and hovered with every new person I encountered, it was almost like she was waiting for me to slip up, to offer up some sort of proof that I was the kind of runway-model-tripping, calculating person the press was making me out to be.
Of course, I wanted to change her mind. She was going on the opinions of other people, reporters who’d never met me or catty people who probably had nothing better to do than to tear other people down, and that just wasn’t fair.
I knew I wasn’t going to win Bebe over right off the bat, but if I could make a good impression on the people who were important to her, maybe I had a chance somewhere down the line. So I put in a little effort. I asked Betsey Stewart about her African safari. I swapped sorority stories with Tripp’s cousin Kelly. I listened intently as Phillip’s coworker described—at length—the terrain of the Shinnecock golf course.
I told Tripp’s uncle Jack a story about how I used to wet my bed when I was little and my mother gave me a “pee pill,” which was basically a little Smartie candy, to “cure” me of the habit. I wasn’t sure it was the most appropriate story, but I had him in stitches.
I told Bebe’s friend Mary about the time I tried to bleach my hair blonde at summer camp in North Carolina and turned it purple instead. My mother drove four hours at two A.M. up to Camp Moorhead, took me to a reputable salon to have it fixed, turned around, and drove back. That is how important hair is in the South.
By the end of the evening, Tripp, who was glued to my side at the beginning of the night, had left me to my own devices. Several times I even caught him gazing at me from across the room and smiling. I said good-bye to May, Harry, and Emily, who were headed to a dinner for Valentino downtown. As the rest of the guests started to file out, I actually had a moment to catch my breath. I sat down on the sofa in the living room with a glass of champagne and closed my eyes.
“Well, well, well, look what we have here.”
Spencer was standing over me smirking.
“Spencer!” I squealed.
“Sweetie, you look spent,” he said, sitting down next to me on the sofa. He already had a scotch on the rocks in his hand. “And . . . married.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Sorry.”
He waved his hand in the air. “Who cares. You’ve practically been married since the day you met Tripp anyway.” He leaned in. “Did Bebe and Phillip swallow a bottle of Xanax or what? How are they looking so calm and composed?”
I laughed.
“The best part is,” he continued, “you know underneath all of that smiling and nodding they’re bursting at the seams. How much you want to bet Bebe’s got a little Minty voodoo doll stashed in her underwear drawer?”
“Spencer, you’re too much,” I said. “Luckily Scarlett’s here to keep everyone’s mind off the scandal.”
We both gazed over at my mother, who currently had a small crowd of people roaring with laughter. I was pretty sure I even spotted Phillip in the group, chuckling to himself. Now that was a feat.
“I haven’t seen you since the show,” I said. “How has the rest of your Fashion Week been?”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “Well, Ruth didn’t take the Vanity Fair news so well,” he said.
“No!” I said with mock surprise.
“I really cried myself to sleep about that one.”
“Seriously,” I chuckled.
“Actually, it’s funny you haven’t heard yet,” he continued, “I thought for sure she’d already sent the press release out. I envisioned the headline, MEDIA ALERT: SPENCER GOLDIN SUCKS AT LIFE,” he laughed. “I have to admit, I was pretty disappointed that there were no burly security guards involved, though. She pulled out all the stops for you. All I got was a cardboard box and a swift kick in the ass.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “Whatever. I’ll write about it someday.”
“True,” I said. “By the way, on top of everything else, Bebe discovered Social Roster today.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Oh Christ. Are you okay?”
“I will be,” I grumbled. “I mean I’d barely looked at it myself until I was basically forced to read it this afternoon. Tripp said it was like the apocalypse over here today.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Spencer said, “what would life be without a crazy mother-in-law? You’ve got to stand strong, though. Remember, I have to write about you one day. And I want it to be a glamorous and triumphant story. I can’t have you go all Grey Gardens on me.”
“Oh God, no,” I said.
Bebe was now standing in the entrance seeing people off. I wondered where Tripp was. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in what seemed like almost an hour.
“Spence, can I get you anything?” I asked. “I’m just going to try to find Tripp. I’m exhausted.”
“No, sweetie,” he said, taking a gulp of his drink. “I’m actually about to head to dinner.”
“Anyone special?” I asked, smiling. I still couldn’t get over the fact that someone so socially and sartorially driven dated women.
“Nah,” he said. “Some girl named Poppy.”
“Not Poppy Hansen?” I asked, impressed.
Poppy Hansen got her start in modeling and had just recently segued into a starring role in one of the hottest new TV shows. Spencer was always going out with starlets or models. Being famous was like a prerequisite.
“Maybe.” He grinned, puffing his chest out. “Until next time, Mrs. du Pont. Don’t let the bottom-feeders get to you, got it?”
“Got it,” I said, smiling.
I wanted to find Tripp, but I also had to use the ladies’ room. I made a right turn down a long hallway and followed it to the end, remembering a small bathroom somewhere in the vicinity. As I approached a door slightly ajar at the end of the hallway, I heard a muffled male voice speaking to someone. It was unmistakably Tripp’s voice. It sounded like he was reassuring someone. He kept saying, “It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could do.” And then he called whoever was on the other end of what could only have been a phone conversation “sweetie.”
Sweetie?! What the hell?
I burst through the door. Tripp was sitting at the edge of a bed in what must have b
een a guest room. When he saw me, he was so taken aback that he dropped the phone. I could hear a female voice on the other end yelling something back. What the hell was going on?
We locked eyes for what seemed like forever, then I turned around and ran out of the room toward the elevator. I didn’t even say thank you or good-bye to Bebe and Phillip. I didn’t have time to grab my coat, or my mother for that matter. I just got on the elevator, pressed the “ground floor” button, and prayed that it would spit me out onto Park Avenue before Tripp or anyone else had a moment to catch me.
How many more times could I catch him in a lie and watch as he wormed his way out of it? I was at my wit’s end. I wasn’t going to settle for a truth that seemed to change with each person who told it.
When I got to my apartment, all I could do was sit on my bed and stare at the wall in front of me. What on earth was I going to do?
“Minty!”
My mother appeared in the doorway.
“What on earth is going on? Tripp followed me out of the apartment and begged me to help him. The boy is a mess!”
In between sobs, I somehow managed to form a sentence.
“He was talking to that woman,” I blurted, reaching for a box of tissues. I had a mixture of snot and tears running down my face—not a good look.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” I shouted.
“You’re a hundred percent sure?”
I paused. “Like, ninety-seven percent!”
“Well,” she said, “then there’s a three percent chance he was not talking to that woman? And maybe you have nothing to be worried about?”
I blew my nose.
“Mother, he called her ‘sweetie’!”
She looked at me and frowned.
“Okay,” she said, “but this conversation you’re saying you overheard. Are you sure it was Tabitha?”
“It was a woman,” I said, “I heard her voice.”
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice calm and soothing. “All I’m trying to say is that these things are not always what they appear to be. Boys will be boys. They make terrible decisions. Then they lie because they’re afraid of the consequences. Then they’re angry that there are consequences to begin with . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “What I’m trying to say is, I know the boy has his flaws. But one thing is clear: he loves you.”
Southern Charm Page 18
