Southern Charm (5 page)

“Oh, you know Emily?” Julie asked.

“Yes,” I said. “We were actually sorority—”

“Minty, honey,” Emily interrupted. She leaned over me, speaking to Julie, and said in a very knowing tone, “Minty just moved here from South Carolina.”

Julie raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How . . . nice.”

She smiled at me like most people smile at small children.

“Julie handles the party pages for
Bazaar,
” Emily explained.

“That's amazing,” I said. “I've been reading
Harper's Bazaar
since I was five!”

Julie responded to my enthusiasm with a smirk.

Just then, our waiter arrived. Or, I should say,
waiters
. It seemed as if there was one impossibly good-looking and impeccably outfitted man for every two people. They placed the food down in front of us in one single swoop and promptly disappeared. In front of me was the most gorgeous arrangement of ripe, red tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella I had ever seen. Although the portions were so tiny!

“Olivier Cheng,” Emily said, pointing at the dish.

Olivier who?

“Is this the appetizer?” I leaned in and asked.

“Eating is not exactly the main priority at these things, Minty,” Emily explained.

Oh.

I looked at Julie, who was sipping slowly from her glass of water, her salad untouched. The small piece of bread that had been placed on the plate next to her salad had somehow migrated toward the center of the table, as far as Julie's tiny arm could reach. It was as if she didn't even want to smell the bread, let alone eat it.

A woman came over to the table and whispered something into Emily's ear. She wore a severe, pulled-back hairstyle and a very form-fitting shift dress. I wondered how she could breathe. Emily immediately put down her fork, got up, and followed the woman over to
the other side of the room, near the elevators. Their pace was more of a slow run than a fast walk. Then, a group of young women carrying notepads joined them, followed by Richard Fitzsimmons and a trail of other photographers. The guests put down their drinks and glanced casually in the direction of the elevators as a hush came over the room. Julie sat up in her chair, yawned slightly, and checked her BlackBerry.

The elevator doors opened then and a woman exited, followed by a younger man in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He stood aside as the photographers screamed, “Tabitha! Tabitha! Over here!”

It was like the biggest celebrity in the world had just entered the room. I strained to get a better look, but all I could make out were flashes and hands waving in the air and a glimpse of Tabitha's long, bright blonde hair. At one point I even saw Emily shouting at one of the photographers to step back. Her face was the color of rhubarb pie and she looked like she was going to pass out.

“Tabitha! With Tripp! Get together, you two! Come on!”

Tripp, I repeated to myself. I craned my neck for a better look. The broad shoulders; the dark, almost black hair; the piercing eyes and sideways grin. Oh my God, I thought. It was him. Tripp du Pont.

“You're whiter than the tablecloth,” Julie said. “Are you okay?”

I gulped and nodded. “Sorry,” I said. “I just saw someone I used to know.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I watched as Tabitha and Tripp made their way toward their table. I couldn't believe it. After all of these years, there was Tripp du Pont. The last time we'd been in the same room together I was fifteen years old and I thought I couldn't be more in love with the dashing, sophisticated older boy from New York. I spent an entire Christmas break in Palm Beach with him, flirting poolside at the country club, meeting up on the golf course at night to steal a kiss. The last night of Christmas break we both attended a dinner party at the club. I was standing at the bar ordering a Diet Coke when I overheard Tripp's mother's friend asking someone about Tripp's girlfriend back home in New York.

I ran out of the room crying that night and never saw him again. Luckily, a few months later I met Ryerson. But now, seeing Tripp in front of me for the first time in seven years, on the arm of a glamorous older woman, no less, all of those first-crush feelings came rushing back.

I was so in shock, I hadn't noticed that Emily had returned to the table and was speaking to me. “This is huge for us. Tabitha Lipton!”

Tabitha Lipton.

I remembered bits and pieces of her story from reading the gossip columns. She was in her late thirties, an heiress to the Lipton tea fortune who had married a member of the British aristocracy. They were recently divorced, and she'd managed to take a good portion of his family's fortune in the end. And now she was stepping out with Tripp du Pont?
My
Tripp du Pont?

My stomach turned. He wasn't exactly
my
Tripp du Pont. But at fifteen, I thought he was the most perfect boy I'd ever met, and his betrayal felt like the end of the world to me. Truthfully, I'd never stopped thinking about Tripp. And to see him now without even the slightest warning . . . it knocked the wind out of me.

The waiters removed our plates.

“She hasn't officially been out since the divorce, you know,” Emily continued, leaning over me so Julie could hear. “We'll set up another shot with Tabitha just for you in a few minutes, now that the rest of the photographers have left.”

Julie nodded. “Fine.”

I couldn't help but wonder if all editors were this grumpy. I pursed my lips, dying to tell Emily about my history with Tripp.

“Anyway,” Emily continued, “you know Tabitha. I bet she'll talk your ear off.”

It's a good thing Emily was speaking under her breath, because Tabitha had somehow made her way over to our table and was now standing behind Emily, holding a glass of champagne and waiting for Emily to notice.

I gasped a little, suddenly feeling like I needed a much better outfit, a nose job, and a professional blowout.

“Emily, darling,” she said. “Where is
Bazaar
?”

I glanced over at Julie, who seemed even more annoyed than usual, then back at Tabitha, who was searching the room with an exasperated look on her face.

Caught in the middle, Emily attempted to appease both parties.

“Tabitha, you remember Julie Greene, don't you?”

She shot Tabitha a pointed look.

“Julie! Julie, darling, of course,” Tabitha said. She waltzed over to Julie and took her hands. Julie pursed her lips and huffed. “How are you?” Tabitha continued, oblivious. “How is
Glenda
? The three of us must do lunch. It's been way too long. It's a crime!”

Julie's expression was just short of a sneer.

I glanced at Tripp and I think he smiled at me. But it was more like his eyes squinted first, and then his teeth showed a little, and then he turned red and looked away. I wanted to smile back, but then I noticed that Tabitha had a
What are you looking at?
expression on her face, and decided I should probably refrain from saying hi to Tripp. For now, at least.

Then Richard Fitzsimmons appeared out of nowhere.

“Girls. Girls,” he said. He pointed at Tabitha, Emily, Julie, and then, much to my surprise, me. “The four of you. Let's do a picture.”

Emily immediately refused, citing that she was under strict rules not to be photographed at her own events. “Okay, fine,” Richard said. He looked at Julie, who was also opting out, minus an explanation. Which left Richard with Tabitha and me. I gulped and glanced at Tabitha, half-expecting her to laugh in my face.

“Darling,” Tabitha said. She gestured toward me. “Come over here.”

I shuffled over to her side feeling like a deer in headlights. I could see Tripp out of the corner of my eye, taking it all in.

“Look at her, Richard,” Tabitha cooed, turning her body to the left so it formed one long, lean line for the camera. She placed a bejeweled hand on her jutting hip. “You're new.”

“She's my latest discovery,” Richard said.

I smiled meekly and looked at Emily, who was standing to the side of the spectacle with a curious look on her face. She twisted a strand
of hair around her finger and tilted her head to the side. She squinted and released the tiniest of smiles.

I was taught how to pose for a photo the moment I could stand straight on my own, but when Richard lifted his camera, I don't know what happened—I froze. My arms hung at my sides, hands slack and motionless. The flash went off several times. With each pop, with each blast of light, Tabitha turned slightly or lifted her chin or smiled in a different way. I just stood there, terrified.

When Richard was finished, he kissed Tabitha on both cheeks and pointed toward me. “I've got your name, kid,” he said.

All at once, everyone in the room knew that it was time to leave.

In the midst of waiters sweeping the tables of any remnants of food, I attempted to get a word in edgewise with Emily, but she was so preoccupied that I found myself the last person at the table, watching Tabitha usher Tripp toward the elevator.

I could have sworn he looked back at me, just once, but I couldn't tell for sure. And then—poof—Emily was thanking me for “helping out so last-minute” and I was in a cab headed home.

T
he next morning, I woke up to no less than seven missed calls from Emily. Thankfully, she'd only left one voice mail: “Minty. The second you wake up, run out and pick up a copy of
Women's Wear Daily,
” she said. “Call me as soon as you do.”

I immediately made my way to the corner bodega, where I found a copy of the fashion industry's go-to daily newspaper. I leafed through the contents: a story about a new beauty brand, a report on the earnings of Louis Vuitton, a fashion shoot featuring jean trends for fall. And then I saw it: the “Eye” page. “Eye” was a special section that ran stories on industry events several times a week. In the center of the page was the photo Richard took of Tabitha and me at the Saks Fifth Avenue event. And there was my name next to Tabitha's! Well, at least an approximation of my name: Mintzy Darvenport.

Eeek. It wasn't the most flattering photo I'd ever seen of myself. I put the paper down and grumbled.

My phone started ringing.

“Minty!” It was Emily. “Minty, did you see it? Did you see
WWD
?!”

“Yes,” I said.

I walked toward Lexington Avenue and waited for the light to change. I wasn't sure how I felt. It was cool to see my photo in a newspaper and to be standing next to someone like Tabitha Lipton. But I couldn't get over the fact that I looked, well, awkward.

“What's wrong?”

“They spelled my name wrong.”

Emily laughed. “We'll have them do a correction.”

“And I look kind of fat.”

She laughed again. “That's ridiculous.”

“I could have smiled better.”

“Minty, sweetie,” Emily sighed, “you're in
WWD
!”

I looked up as the light turned green. “Is it that big of a deal?”

“Yes, Minty,” Emily said. I could hear the smile in her words. “It's that big of a deal.”

The second I hung up with Emily, my BlackBerry buzzed. For a second I almost thought she was calling me again, but instead I found an e-mail notifying me of a Facebook friend request.

It said, simply, “Minty, is this you?”

The note was accompanied by Tripp du Pont's handsome profile photo.

Smile through the Pain

I
couldn't help myself—I was excited that Tripp had reached out. I tried to look on the bright side of things. It was very possible that twenty-four-year-old Tripp was more mature than seventeen-year-old Tripp. Maybe he'd even learned from the mistakes he made with me. Then I remembered he had a girlfriend. Or at least I thought Tabitha was his girlfriend. So . . . should I take the friend request at face value? Tripp was never my “boyfriend,” but we were certainly more than friends. And while he'd hurt me, there was always . . .
something
between us. Even the way he looked at me during the lunch. I was more confused than ever.