Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  “Oh great,” I said.

  “What’s going on?” Darby asked.

  “Word is out about what happened at Cipriani.” I closed my eyes. “I can only imagine what kind of story ‘Page Six’ is drumming up right now.”

  For a minute I felt like I might have another breakdown. Then I read the rest of Kevin’s e-mail. He said he thought my bag sketches were “phenomenal” and that the design team was “eager” to meet with me to get started on production. Could we set up some time as early as this coming Monday?

  I closed out of my BlackBerry. I was needed back in New York.

  Darby put her arm around me.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I looked back at her and smiled.

  “Yes,” I said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  Make an Entrance

  I had a career now. Pretty much my dream career. I had a life too, even if that didn’t necessarily include Tripp. And it was all north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

  So I did what any self-respecting southern belle would do. After some rest and relaxation, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and sprang for a first-class flight back to New York. The flight was less than two hours. Typically, I was happy to fly coach on such a short trip. But now was not a time for frugality. I deserved the legroom and the free champagne. I owed it to myself.

  New York is one of the most magical cities in the world for many reasons, but the view from an incoming plane is, by far, my favorite reason. I’d been visiting the city since I was eight years old, but it still impressed me every time. It was like each structure had fought for its place in the terrain. For a newcomer to stake a claim, you had to knock something down and rebuild. I guess it was my turn to rebuild.

  “Hot towel?” the stewardess asked.

  I had my forehead pressed to the window, staring out as we circled over the island. I thought I spotted my building for a moment and I surprised myself by feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. I was dreading the experience of walking through my front door. But stronger than that feeling of trepidation was a feeling of . . . home.

  “Hmmm?” I jumped, turning around. “Oh yes, thank you.”

  I took the towel and held it over my face and let it sink in. When I pulled the towel away, I felt fresher, ready to face the Delta terminal and all that lay beyond.

  As I walked off the plane and toward the baggage claim, where my driver was waiting for me, I knew the first thing I had to deal with was Tripp. I called him as I made my way down the escalator. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Meet me at my apartment in about an hour,” I said before he could get a word in edgewise.

  “Minty, I—”

  “I’ll see you soon, Tripp,” I said. I hung up.

  It only took about forty minutes to get from LaGuardia Airport to my doorstep, which was record time. There was something quiet about the city that Sunday. The temperature had started to rise, and at five o’clock the sun was still high enough in the sky that people walking the streets needed sunglasses. I noticed a new energy in the way they walked. There was more smiling, more stopping on a street corner to chat. Some people weren’t even wearing jackets. It was like New York had been hosed down and polished while I was away. I guess sometimes it takes a long winter to appreciate the benefits of spring. Living in constant tank-top weather had its merits, but there’s something to be said for those first few days of spring in New York, when it’s pretty clear that winter is gone for good.

  I opened my door, thankful for the few extra minutes I had to compose myself before Tripp arrived. Before everything happened, I’d started to accept the concept that my apartment was no longer the place I would call home. And now I’d come full circle.

  Since I’d escaped to Charleston, Spencer, Emily, and even May had reached out in one way or another to show their support, which was nice. Emily sent a sweet e-mail saying she hoped I was doing okay and if I needed anything to let her know. Spencer informed me in a voice mail that there had been a few mentions in the press about what happened at Cipriani, but he didn’t seem too concerned about it. May sent a BBM that said, simply, Let me know when you’re back in New York.

  The doorman announced Tripp’s arrival just as I was finishing freshening up. I had already taken my engagement ring out of my purse and had placed it on the sink as I dabbed concealer under my eyes and fluffed my hair with a little dry shampoo. It sat there next to the soap dish like an afterthought. It wasn’t part of me anymore.

  Tripp walked into the apartment with his head hung low. He didn’t look as homeless and bereft as I had hoped. There wasn’t even a sign of stubble, no stray stains on his khakis. All I kept thinking was, Do not let him charm you, he’s already made too many excuses.

  We sat down in the living room on either end of the sofa. I hadn’t felt this much adrenaline surge through my veins since my last tennis match in college.

  “We’ll start off with this,” I said, placing the engagement ring on the cushion next to his leg. A facet was hit by the light coming from the lamp on the side table and sparkled. He glanced at it and gawked.

  “Minty.”

  I took a deep breath. “You were always the one guy I daydreamed about, Tripp. I romanticized you, all of these years. And then when you came back into my life, I was willing to do anything to make it work.” I shook my head. “I mean, Jesus, I got married to you in a courtroom!”

  He stared at me.

  “I was willing to put up with a lot. Looking back, I put up with a lot more than I ever should have. And even after all of the humiliation, the fact that I had to crawl under a table at Cipriani on my hands and knees, I have to say, it’s the dishonesty that got me in the end. Regardless of what you’ve done, who you’ve done it with, the fact that you’ve lied to my face about it makes it a million times worse.”

  Tripp sighed. “I can see why it might be hard to trust me,” he began. “I know what you think you overheard at Cipriani, and yes, there was a girl in London but we, we just had a drink!” He gulped and looked around the room. “If you were there you would see there was nothing to it.”

  “I just can’t give you the benefit of the doubt anymore, Tripp,” I said. “And I wish I could. I’ve always wanted to trust you because I love you, but I’m done doing that now. I just can’t. I’m done.”

  Tripp looked at the ground.

  “I get it, Minty,” he said, gulping. “And all I can say is I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

  For some reason, that last part really hit home. My entire face flushed with a mix of anger and disappointment.

  “I’m glad you’re sorry.” I gulped. “You should be.”

  Tripp tried to get me to keep the engagement ring, which made me so angry that I almost threw it out the window.

  “I need you to get out now,” I said, hoping that he’d leave before the tears I was holding back started to flow.

  “Fine,” he said, standing up from the sofa and depositing the ring into his pocket. “I wish you wouldn’t do this, but you’re the boss.”

  Finally, I thought to myself. As I closed the door behind him, the tears started to fall.

  There’s a saying that March “comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” I tried to keep this in mind in the weeks following the breakup. Because not having Tripp in my life was definitely an adjustment, to say the least, but things could only get better, right?

  The thing is, in such a short period of time, my world in New York had come to revolve around Tripp. His friends became my friends, the restaurants he liked to go to became my favorite restaurants. I even watched the same TV shows as Tripp! I knew if I was ever going to get over him and move on, I had to start over. I had to remove myself from all of the things that reminded me of him and start fresh.

  So I reprogrammed my DVR. I went through my closet, weeded out any clothing that reminded me of him and gave it away to charity (and yes, my debutante gown from the Frick ball was the first to go!). The one thi
ng I couldn’t bring myself to do was delete his number from my phone. I called Darby to discuss the matter. I thought it might mean something more, like I wasn’t truly moving on.

  “Oh please, you’re being ridiculous,” she said. “Anyway, who knows? I mean, Tripp definitely isn’t the right guy for you in the long run but maybe someday you guys can be friends.”

  Friends? I wasn’t so sure. But I also wasn’t willing to rule it out. So the number stayed.

  In the meantime, I was able to keep busy with my job, which was a lifesaver. With all of the design meetings, leather scouting, and sketching, I barely had a moment to catch up with Spencer or Emily, let alone think about missing Tripp. Before I knew it, April was almost over and the weather was finally turning springlike. March hadn’t exactly gone out like a lamb, but it looked like May might be the light at the end of the tunnel.

  One morning, I woke up early for a meeting downtown with Kevin. As I got ready to the sound of Z100, taxi horns, and a pigeon ruffling its wings on the windowsill, I realized it was the first time in a while I actually felt normal minus my engagement ring. I felt proud of myself and more ready than ever to face whatever the future had in store.

  I was standing on Lexington hailing a cab when Spencer called. It was his work number, the famous “286” exchange of the Condé Nast building. I stared at my phone as his name flashed, one ring after another. We’d been trying to meet up for almost a month now and had only had a few conversations over the phone.

  “Hey, honey,” I said.

  “She’s alive,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I replied. “I’ve been so crazy with work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “I get it. I’ll see you when I see you. Anyway,” he paused, “I’m actually calling with some good news.”

  A cab pulled up. I swung open the door and flung myself inside.

  “Washington Street and West Eleventh,” I said. “Good news? God, I hope you’re not kidding.”

  “For once, no,” he said. “I’ve actually been wanting to tell you this for ages, but I didn’t want to jinx it. You know how print is. You never know if it’s actually going to happen until you’re literally holding a copy of the magazine and there it is.”

  “What are you talking about, Spencer?” I asked.

  He paused. I could tell he was smiling.

  “I’m talking about Vanity Fair, baby. Vanity Fair!”

  “Vanity Fair what?”

  What about Vanity Fair? He’d just started; I couldn’t imagine he’d already landed his big exposé on the Kennedys.

  “You’re . . . gonna . . . be . . . in . . . Vanity Fair!”

  Deep breath.

  “What? Are you kidding me?!” I shouted. “I mean, wow. Are you sure? But how? What? Oh God, Spencer, are they going to be nice?”

  “That depends,” he said, laughing.

  “Spencer!”

  He stopped laughing.

  “Gorgeous,” he said, “you’re killing me. It’s not exactly a feature-length story but it’s a start. It’s an amazing shot of you in the party pages from the Frick.”

  “Spencer!” I squealed. “Oh my God, thank you! I can’t believe it!”

  He laughed. “And you look gorgeous. It’s out on Monday, by the way.”

  The cab pulled up in front of Kevin’s studio. I paid the driver and stepped out onto the street.

  “Spencer, that’s so exciting. Really. I’m beyond thrilled.”

  “Good,” he said. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  My mother always says it’s better to be overprepared than underprepared. Ever since I was little, whenever I was given a task, I went above and beyond. This opportunity to create a line of handbags for Kevin was another level, of course, but I also looked at it like any other project. I did my homework, I tirelessly researched the competition, and I gave it everything I had.

  When I walked into the design office, Kevin was sitting at the conference table with the two accessories designers, Gerald and Lucy.

  “Here’s our little designer,” Kevin said, giving me a kiss on each cheek. “Minty, you know Gerald and Lucy, yes?”

  “Of course!” I said.

  Kevin stared at me. “How are we feeling?”

  I stared back at him. “Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

  “Shall we get to work then?”

  I never realized how many details went into one bag! It was overwhelming. But at the end of the process, we had three amazing designs that I couldn’t have been more proud of. There was the Emily, a sleek shoulder bag with a cross-body strap in a dove-gray shade; the Darby, a going-out clutch that came in black or hot-pink leather and featured stud detailing; and, finally, the Scarlett, a top-handle-style handbag in the most beautiful red leather. The hardware was all gold and each bag would come with a special “MD” charm.

  “Minty,” Kevin said, “if all goes well I’m going to need you on board for countless more collections, got it?”

  “Oh my God, of course, are you kidding me?”

  “Also, I’m not sure if you already have a date for the Met Ball, but I’d love for you to join me. It would be a pity if I had to show up stag.”

  My eyes widened. The Met Ball was the Oscars of fashion, hosted by Vogue and featuring only the crème de la crème of fashion, society, and—yes—a jaw-dropping roster of Hollywood A-listers. In fact, the Met Ball was so exclusive and so impenetrable that it was arguably a more glamorous event than the Oscars. The guest list was curated by none other than Anna Wintour herself. To be invited was the New York equivalent of being knighted by the queen of England. I’d secretly hoped I was going to get an invite but at the end of the day I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t. I was still a relative newcomer on the circuit.

  “Kevin,” I said. I held my hand to my chest. “You’re joking.”

  “I am not joking,” he laughed. “And just to prove I’m not joking, turn around.”

  I swiveled around in my chair just as two of Kevin’s assistants walked in carrying one of the most incredible dresses I have ever laid eyes on. All I can say is this: tulle, embroidery, corset, hand-stitching, hidden seams, fishtail train, backless, and the most amazing shade of peony pink, a delicate, dazzling, barely-found-in-nature-let-alone-on-a-couture-dress color. It took everything inside of me not to faint.

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “No,” Kevin joked.

  “Stop it!”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Kevin’s team carried the dress over and held it in front of me for inspection. It was so beautiful it rendered me speechless. And I have to say, it was a nice alternative to the wedding dress I wasn’t going to be able to wear. In fact, it was a better alternative. It was like my wedding dress got a makeover . . . a little dusting of blush, a little nip and tuck. I wrapped my arms around it and took in the smell of a custom ball gown.

  “Minty, let’s not smother the dress, all right?” Kevin joked.

  I turned to him and a single tear rolled down my cheek. I don’t know where it came from exactly. It was a lot to process, being back in New York, that final conversation with Tripp, Vanity Fair, the Met Ball. Not to mention, an amazing dress made especially for me!

  I stepped away from the dress.

  “Sweetie,” he said. “Don’t cry. Oh gosh, please don’t cry.”

  You know things are bad when you start crying and no one asks why.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I’m not crying,” I said, which was a lie, but it made me feel better. And then I brushed the tears away from my cheeks and smiled. “The dress is just so beautiful, it’s actually moving!”

  “Awww,” Kevin said. “You’re too kind.”

  As I stood in front of the mirror in my underwear and the dress was pulled over my head, I had to give myself a bit of a pep talk. A special dress can do that to any girl, send her into a tailspin and make it nearly impossible to have a coherent thought.

  Once everything was zipped and butto
ned and tugged in just the right direction, I allowed myself a glimpse. With one eye open, I saw pink. And then I allowed myself to slowly open the other eye and there it was in all of its jaw-dropping glory.

  I clapped my hands over my mouth.

  “How do we feel?” Kevin asked, beaming.

  I looked at him through the mirror. I had no words to describe how I felt. All I could do was try to breathe. I held out my hand and Kevin grabbed it.

  “This is good,” I finally mustered the strength to say. “This is really good.”

  Kevin grinned.

  “Listen,” he said, “I put a lot of thought into who I wanted to bring on Monday night. Anna doesn’t hand out those invitations like it’s nothing, you know.”

  I nodded. “Of course, of course.”

  “At first I was worried that you might not be up for it. I heard through a friend in the industry that Tabitha is taking Tripp as her guest, so odds are he’ll be there.”

  I gulped. The thought of seeing Tripp again at one of these things had crossed my mind, yes. I’d even pondered the possibility of Tripp and Tabitha continuing their romance now that he was pretty much a “free man,” but wow. They were going to the Met Ball together? That was a lot to digest.

  “Not to mention,” Kevin continued, “every single reporter in the world is going to be on the red carpet. And you have about forty-eight hours to get ready.” He paused. “I’m not trying to scare you, I just want you to be prepared. The last thing I’d want is for you to feel blindsided in any way.”

  All right, I said to myself. This is the big leagues now. This is how the game is played. I’m either in or I’m out.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” I began, looking Kevin dead in the eye. “Tripp is no longer a factor in any decision I make.”

  “I see,” Kevin said. He couldn’t help but smile a little.