Southern Charm (24 page)

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

L
incoln 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?