Southern Charm (14 page)

“You sound like my mother.” I laughed.

I always knew, deep down, that Emily was playing for Team Minty, but that night solidified it.

As Emily took one last drag of her cigarette and flicked it over the building's ledge, a couple stumbled onto the terrace, wrapped up in an embrace.

“I guess that's our cue to leave,” Emily said, standing up. She glanced at her watch. “Anyway, it's after-party time.”

Kill Them with Kindness

I
n New York, the clubs you go to—or don't go to—speak volumes.

The good clubs have very long lines. But the even better, more exclusive clubs have smaller lines, because most people know they have no chance of getting into a top place unless they are officially on the list. And by “list,” I don't mean some promoter's list thrown together with a group of NYU students celebrating a birthday. Those who are granted entrance into the best clubs are part of an elite group that rarely changes, much like the membership roster at an exclusive country club.

The Boom Boom Room at the Standard Hotel—where Baron was hosting his after-party—had one of the most impenetrable doors in the city.

“Supposedly Jessica Simpson tried to get in last week and they had to turn her away,” Tripp explained as Zeke zoomed down the West Side Highway.

Emily had hitched a ride with us. I sat in the middle with my head rested on Tripp's shoulder.

“No way,” Emily said with just a hint of disinterest.

“There was some sort of private party and she wasn't on the list,” Tripp said, laughing.

Unlike in L.A., where clubs and lounges court every actor and actress with a YouTube profile, in New York, often the coolest clubs were the ones that
didn't
let celebrities in. Boom Boom was notorious for choosing class and connections over the latest cover of
Us Weekly
.

We pulled up to the entrance, which was an unassuming, industrial-looking doorway on West Thirteenth Street. There was a lone doorman standing outside wearing a large fur coat and looking like he had better things to do. To his right, a small group of women milled around, furiously typing away on their BlackBerries. They were probably trying to reach the person who had
promised
they were on the list. When we walked up to the doorman (Tripp referred to him by name, Sebby), he didn't even reference a clipboard or his BlackBerry. We just waltzed inside.

We walked through a dark hallway and into the elevator, which had mesmerizing, heaven-and-hell-inspired video art built into the walls. Finally, we were greeted by red-lipped models/cocktail waitresses, who ushered us into a hallway, which opened up into a huge room decorated in shiny gold finishes and sumptuous cream leather, like the inside of a genie's bottle meeting 1970s glam. I didn't know where to look, because the interior of the club was almost as stunning as the sweeping city views.

Tripp guided us straight to the center bar, where we ordered cocktails from a handsome, tattooed bartender with a mustache that was curled up at the tips. He and Tripp did a quick, familiar sort-of handshake, and he immediately began pouring our drinks. Once we were set, we found Baron and a few others holding court in one of the sunken banquette areas.

“You ladies take a seat here,” Tripp said. He waited until we looked comfortable, then he touched the top of my head and gave me a quick kiss. “I'm going to find Harry. Be right back.” He disappeared into the crowd.

Emily sat next to me quietly and sipped her cocktail. She hadn't said much since we left Baron's apartment. She leaned in, a bit tipsy.
Her eyelids were getting heavy and she pronounced each word slowly. “Forgive me for asking but I just can't help myself, have you slept together yet?”

My mouth dropped open and I slapped her on the knee.

“Emily Maplethorpe!”

“It's an honest, relevant question.”

“Which I'm not going to answer.”

“So you have?”

“No! Emily! Oh my God, I'm turning beet red.”

“Oh, bummer, you haven't.”

“Emily, we are ending this line of questioning immediately.” I pulled away from her and crossed my legs in the opposite direction. “Honestly.”

“It's probably good that you haven't,” she continued, ignoring my protests. “I mean, a guy like Tripp is used to—how shall we say this—getting what he wants when he wants it. I imagine part of the reason he's so into you has something to do with the fact that he hasn't had the chance to actually
get into you,
if you know what I mean.”

“Emily.”

Okay, so she wasn't just tipsy. She was drunk.

I turned around and Tripp was standing there.

“You girls look like you're up to no good,” he said, smiling.

Sometimes when I looked at him, I had to stop myself from swooning. He was like a present-day JFK Jr. He'd often been compared to him in the press. He was taller, though, more of a presence. He had the swagger of a Division I athlete.

“Always,” I said coyly.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Your girlfriend's being her old uptight, southern belle self again,” she said with a grin.

“Girlfriend, eh?” he said, elbowing me playfully.

I gulped.

“I guess you
are
my girlfriend,” he said.

I'd thought about this moment several times since Tripp and I started dating. How would it happen? When would it happen? Would it ever happen? But I definitely never questioned how I would feel
when it happened. I thought I would be happy, elated even, and part of me was. But I couldn't get what Emily had said about Tabitha out of my mind.

He wrapped his arms around my waist. “You're my girlfriend,” he said. He kissed my forehead, then my nose.

It didn't take long for the entire banquette to get wind of Tripp's declaration. Baron started clapping. Then everyone was clinking glasses like they were celebrating an engagement.

“Awww, look at the happy couple,” Baron cooed.

Tripp ignored him.

“I'm going to marry you one day,” he continued. His words were mixing together. He wasn't slurring, but he'd definitely had a few drinks.

“Tripp!” I punched him in the arm.

“I mean it,” he said, “I love you.”

I took that “I love you” with a grain of salt. It was late. He was slightly intoxicated. Maybe I was too? Before it could settle in, he kissed me and everyone started cheering. He gave me a final kiss on the lips and scooted out toward the bar.

“Maplethorpe, keep an eye on my girlfriend,” he said.

Just then, Julie Greene appeared out of nowhere and inched toward my seat in the banquette. She was still wearing her coat and holding a tiny notepad. I'd always thought writing about parties sounded like the most amazing job in the world, but now I understood why Julie always looked so bored. Yes, technically, she got paid to go to parties, but she never got to let loose and have fun.

“Hi, Minty,” she said. “Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?”

“Julie! Hi! How are you? Of course!” I patted a spot next to me. I was surprised she remembered my name, let alone wanted to strike up a conversation.

“Just need to know who you're wearing tonight and I guess . . . why don't you tell me what you thought of the dinner since you're a first-time guest and all.”

“Well,” I started, trying to come up with an answer that didn't
sound too “aw, shucks,” when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there she was: Tabitha.

“Darling,” she said, scooting her way into the banquette and elbowing Julie out of the way in the process.

I glanced at Emily, whose lower lip was practically dragging on the floor. Julie immediately got up and stood over us, aghast.

“Oh, hello,” I said in my most polite tone. I glanced at Julie and mouthed a “sorry.” She rolled her eyes.

“I believe we've met once before,” Tabitha continued, “but I figured I should introduce myself in light of the fact that you're fucking Tripp du Pont.”

I have to admit, it took me a moment to regain my composure. First, I was distracted by the use of the word “fuck” (not that I never use the F-word). And she had this completely calm look on her face, like I was just a tiny flea of a person she would like to exterminate before I made her itch any more.

“You must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said with the sweetest smile painted on my face.

Tabitha laughed. “Very funny,” she said. “But you're right.” Then she leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I bet there are at least five sluts at this bar right now who would fit the same description.” Then she turned around and walked away.

T
he next day at work, I felt like my brain was being squished in an industrial-sized vise. I hadn't even had that much to drink, but before I knew it, it was three o'clock in the morning and the Boom Boom Room was still going strong. How did people stay out so late and function the next day? A little something called “not having a desk job” probably had a lot to do with it.

“Someone looks like she's been kicked in the face by a Manolo and hit over the head with a bottle of Belvedere,” Spencer observed as I dragged myself to my cubicle. “Ruthless had a breakfast meeting this morning.”

“I know,” I said, “why do you think I'm here at nine instead of eight?”

“My first guess was you overslept.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “I have three alarm clocks and a mother who shows up at my apartment at seven
A.M
. to oversee the installment of window treatments and new hardware. There is no way in hell I'd ever oversleep.”

“I need to meet your mother.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I said.

“So.” Spencer leaned over from his desk. “Fallout from the ‘Page Six' drama? Catfights?”

“Why do I have a feeling you're writing this down?”

“Because I am. In my head.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Minty, how many times do I have to tell you? One day, I'm going to be the next Truman Capote,” he said, “except handsomer and far more straight. And you're going to be the next C. Z. Guest.” He paused. “Except blonder and far more scandalous. And then I'm going to write a bestselling book about you and your life and we can both be fabulous together and operate on a plane somewhere above A-list celebrities and somewhere below the president of the United States.”

“You are ridiculous,” I said.

As Spencer was talking and I was pretending to listen, Ruth stepped off the elevator and stomped toward her office. She called me in immediately, of course.

When I arrived in the doorway of Ruth's office, she actually looked fresh and triumphant, the way she usually looked after she had placed a feature in
The New York Times
—or fired someone.

“I saw our friend Farah this morning,” she said.

Farah Hammer, the editor of “Page Six.”

“O-oh?” I stammered. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to respond.

“She's a cunt,” Ruth said. She typed something on her computer. “But I have her in the palm of my hand.” She swiveled back in my direction and pointed at me. “Fear of God,” she said.

I looked up at Ruth and nodded. She was having a conversation
ahead of me and I was attempting to catch up after stumbling a bit over the C-word.

“For example,” she continued, “you do what I say because I have put the fear of God into you.”

She was right.

“At the end of the day, it's my ass on the line at this company. And the only way I can trust that you'll actually listen and get the job done to my liking instead of spending the whole day tweeting or blogging or flirting on Facebook like Spencer does”—she took a breath—“is if I know that you're not only afraid but terrified. And that's my tactic with so-called journalists like Farah.”

I wrote down an edited version of this statement in my Smythson.