Southern Charm (4 page)

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I was actually calling to talk about jobs. I just moved here and I've been interviewing and—”

“Wait. You're in New York?”

More typing.

“Yes,” I said. “I got an apartment on Sixty-first and Lexington and I've been trying to find something entry-level in—”

“Hold on,” she said.

It sounded like a tornado was coming through her office, there was so much noise, buzzing, and shouting. About thirty seconds later she came back, even more out of breath than before. “Minty, actually, are you busy today?”

I almost laughed out loud.

“Not really.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “How quickly can you be dressed and out the door?”

E
mily explained she was in desperate need of a “seat filler” for a Saks charity luncheon. One of the VIP guests had dropped out at the last minute, leaving her with an empty seat, and she was panicking. She told me all I had to do was put on a cute dress, sit there, and look pretty, maybe have a glass of champagne and make conversation.

“This is right up your alley, Minty,” Emily said. “You're a natural. It's that Southern charm.” She hung up.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over my dresser drawers, bed head and footie pajamas and all. I looked more like a five-year-old at a slumber party than someone who might be invited to attend a charity luncheon at Saks Fifth Avenue. Call me naïve—and I was at the time—but I had never been to anything with VIPs and free champagne and “seat fillers.”

Okay, so I could certainly put down a glass of champagne, but what in God's name was I going to wear? I immediately called Emily back.

She did not seem as happy to hear from me this time around.

“Minty! You've been to a million parties. Just wear a dress.”

“But what kind of dress? Short? Long? Dressy or more casual?”

I had already pulled out the majority of the contents of my closet—everything from BCBG to Céline—and had started a pile on my bed, a vortex of ruffles, bows, and various shades of pink.

“Minty, I have to get back to work,” Emily said. I heard the tap, tap, tap of her fingers on the keyboard. “I don't have time for this.”

“But, Emily, I don't even know where to begin!”

“Just wear what you feel most comfortable in!”

Click.

I had less than two hours to be washed, primped, and ready to attend my very first New York event.

W
hen I walked into Saks, I felt like a kid in a candy store. That is, if candy came in patent leather, ostrich, and sumptuous suede. Ladies in sleek black suits offered me a sample of the latest designer perfume. Women popped in from work to fawn over the latest handbags: Burberry, Dior, Marc Jacobs, Prada. Even the elevators were glamorous—gilded and polished, lined up at the back of the store like gateways to heaven.

“Wow,” I said out loud.

There's a Saks in Charleston, but compared to the Manhattan
flagship it might as well have been a Piggly Wiggly. It didn't buzz like this. It didn't sparkle like this. For a moment I was so dazzled that I almost forgot I had somewhere to go. I rushed for the elevator just as the doors began to close and pressed “8.”

Emily greeted me straightaway. She looked different than she had in college. Slimmer. Sleeker. She wore black from head to toe and a little headset like you sometimes see PR girls wearing in the movies.

“Minty, honey,” she said. “You look so . . . colorful.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, smiling.

The outfit I'd eventually decided on was a bright pink Alice and Olivia baby doll dress with an empire waist, with black patent leather Mary Jane Manolo heels. I'd had only half an hour to do my hair, but I made sure every curl was perfect. I'd recently taught myself how to apply false eyelashes, the ones that come in long strips and make your eyes pop like a movie star's, and that morning I'd applied them liberally.

My outfit
was
colorful. But what's the point of getting dressed up to go out if you look like you'd rather be at a funeral?

Emily guided me toward the back of the floor. “How are you?” she asked. “I can't believe you're in New York!” She paused. “Wait, is Ryerson here?”

I looked at her, then down at the floor.

“Oh,” she said. “I see. We'll get to that later.” She narrowed her eyes and looped her arm through mine. “Come on, we have a charity lunch to attend.”

The luncheon was being held in the midst of the designer collection section. About ten round tables were set up in a figure-eight formation, topped with cool silvery gray tablecloths and flower arrangements, bursting with some of the largest white peonies I have ever seen. The sparkle of the tables complemented the surrounding clothing. There were beaded gowns from Elie Saab hanging gracefully in one corner and structured cashmere trousers from Ralph Lauren in another. I had never seen so much amazing fashion in one place.

The guests ranged from an elderly woman in a colorful caftan and large, round, black-rimmed glasses to a twentysomething man in
high-water pants and shiny brown oxfords. The guests stood in little clusters in front of the tables, holding delicate champagne glasses by the stems and staring over one another's shoulders. No one was making conversation. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement: they were there to observe and judge, not to interact.

I leaned in and whispered to Emily. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

She gave me an exasperated look, then grabbed my arm and ushered me to the side of a photographer who was furiously snapping away. I watched him, mesmerized. He had longish hair and a weathered Irish face. He moved sporadically, instantaneously, like he had the power to disappear and reappear.

As I was standing next to Emily, waiting for some direction, he turned toward me.

“Oh, wow,” he said. His eyes traveled up and down and zeroed in on mine. “Look at you! You're like a little doll—all prim and proper.” He stepped back and held the camera up. “You're like something from a bygone era. I've
got
to get your picture. Do you mind?”

I just stared.

Did I mind?

Gosh, I wasn't sure. No stranger had ever asked to take my picture before. For one, who was this man? And why would he want to take my picture? What was he using these photos for? Where the hell did Emily go?

“Richard Fitzsimmons,” he said, holding out his hand. “You're new to this stuff, aren't you, honey?”

I shook his hand and looked around again. No sign of Emily.

“Yes,” I said, smiling. I always smile when I'm nervous. “Yes, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Richard? Sorry, so nice to meet you. I'm just—I'm a friend of Emily's and . . . Oh gosh, I'm rambling.”

Richard just smiled. “I like the accent!” he said. “Sort of Scarlett O'Hara meets Delta Burke. Charming, just charming.”

I was about to curtsy as a joke, but just then a waiter came out of nowhere with a tray full of little chicken skewers. He ran right into me. The peanut sauce landed squarely on my arm and began dripping
toward my dress. I held my dripping arm out in front of me, mortified, watching the peanut oil run down my fingers and swan-dive toward the pristine silvery carpet.

Oh, shit! I thought.

Only I didn't just think it—I said it aloud as well. The moment I realized that I'd cursed aloud, I cupped my hand over my mouth, mortified. I gaped at Richard, shaking my head as if to say, “That did
not
just happen!”

Language—cursing—was my one bad habit. And here I was at a private luncheon in the middle of Saks Fifth Avenue, standing in front of some sort of society photographer, and I had just used a not-very-ladylike word. I pictured my grandmother, six feet below in the Charleston cemetery, clutching her Hermès Kelly bag to her chest and having a dead-person heart attack.

Richard cocked his head. Then he started nodding up and down until his whole upper body joined in on the motion, shoulders moving, chest heaving. He was laughing. Laughing at me, really. But there was nothing mean-spirited about it. He grabbed a napkin, dipped it in water, and helped me clean up.

“Much better,” he said, examining my arm. He stepped back again, raised an eyebrow. “Photo?”

“Really?” I asked. I was still recovering from the chicken skewers mishap. He motioned for me to get in place, so I obliged. Oh well, why not?

I stood back a little and smiled toward the camera.

Click, flash! And it was over.

“Minty, there you are!” Emily had magically reappeared just as Richard finished taking the shot. She pulled me toward one of the tables at the center of the room.

“Wait!” Richard called out after me. He was holding his camera up in the air. I noticed a tiny microphone tilted toward me.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Over there,” Emily said to me, ignoring him. She pushed me gently toward the grouping of tables in the back. “Table six, toward the corner on the right.”

“Emily, dear, what's your friend's name?” Richard yelled after us. I turned around in time to see him wink in my direction.

Emily looked at him and laughed. “Richard, she's no one.”

It was Richard's turn to laugh now. “Not for long,” he yelled after us. “Not for long.”

I
took my seat at the table next to a girl who was wearing really expensive clothes that didn't actually look expensive: a Dries Van Noten T-shirt that hung over her skin-and-bones frame, Helmut Lang jeans so skinny I swear they were child size, and some sort of bondage wedge that could only have been Alexander Wang. Her long, dark hair looked unwashed but smelled like lavender.

I tried to introduce myself, but she just looked at me and raised an eyebrow. So I tried again. “I'm Minty,” I repeated, holding out my hand.

She didn't take it. Instead, she made that sound people make when they're not impressed: humpf. Was I hurt? A little bit. But I figured maybe she was just having a bad day. Or maybe she hadn't heard me. I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt.

“Minty,” I said for the third time in a row, making eye contact.

She tilted her head and looked right back at me.

“Julie,” she said flatly.

“Nice to meet you, Julie.”

I always repeat a person's name out loud. It helps me to remember it and—as my mother has been telling me since I was basically an infant—people are usually charmed by the sound of their own name. It's an icebreaker, a peace offering. And if I were going to get through this lunch without stabbing my eyeball straight through with my salad fork, I needed all of the icebreakers and peace offerings I could get.

Julie grumbled, “You, too.”

“Minty, I see you've met Julie Greene from
Harper's Bazaar
.”

It was Emily. Wow, I thought, Julie works at
Harper's Bazaar
? I was beyond impressed (and jealous!). When Emily sat down, Julie perked
up immediately. It was like we'd just gone from being enemies to old friends in a matter of seconds.