Southern Charm (6 page)

I called my mother.

“Tripp du Pont,” she repeated. “If I do recall, not the most
solid
of citizens.”

“Mother, we were teenagers.”

“You were enamored with him,” she reminded me. “And he spent all of Christmas break acting like your boyfriend.”

“All right,” I said. “He hurt me.”

“Do not write him back,” she said.

“But, Mother, it's been years. Maybe he's matured! I can't just ignore his friend request.”

“What the hell is a friend request anyway?”

“Well, it's when—”

“Heavens, Minty, I know what it is. What I'm trying to say is . . . couldn't he have found you some other way? It just feels cheap to me. I say you make him wait.”

“Of course I will make him wait.”

“One week, Minty.”

“One
week
?”

“One week.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it.”

“Fine! One week.”

I
accepted the request approximately twenty-four hours later. I wrote him a quick, cute message about how I thought I'd spotted him at the Saks luncheon, how he looked nice and I hoped all was well.

I didn't disagree with my mother, but the thought of waiting an entire week was overwhelming. I figured that a day would be enough. It would seem as if I were simply busy, nonchalant, running around town with so many things to do that I hadn't had a moment to check my Facebook profile. A week just screamed “overthinking it” to me. I didn't want him to think I'd spent the last seven years dwelling on what happened between us.

Of course I liked the thought of his sweating it out even if just for twenty-four hours. I pictured him sitting by his computer, clicking the “refresh” button over and over again, pounding his fist onto his desk in frustration. So when I finally, officially accepted, I figured he might jump at the chance to perhaps drop me a line and, I don't know, ask me to dinner.

But there was silence.

A day later, Saturday morning to be exact, I was still waiting for a response when Emily called.

“Wake up,” she said. “We're going to Swifty's for brunch. It's, like, a crime you've been in New York for almost two months now and you haven't been to brunch at Swifty's. Also, someone is coming who you need to meet, so we're doing it. We're going to brunch.”

“Emily,” I groaned. “The last thing I need right now is to be set up.”

“Don't be ridiculous, this is not a setup. It's more of a . . . networking opportunity. And this person is rarely available, so I'd get my act together if I were you.”

“On a Saturday morning?”

“Minty, this is New York.”

“
Right
.”

I'd mentioned my desire to break into the fashion world to Emily at the Saks luncheon and she seemed to think it would be easy to find me something (which was surprising, seeing as I'd been on more interviews than I could remember in the last month). She said a friend of hers owned a PR firm and that she would check with her to see if they were hiring. I never thought she might actually make something happen.

“Gosh, Emily,” I said. “I'm not sure I'm ready for this.”

“Give me a break, Minty,” she said, “I have been up since six
A.M
. for hot yoga and I'm currently alphabetizing my fall wardrobe by designer.”

Her voice echoed like she was speaking through a bullhorn into a microphone. She must have had me on speakerphone.

“Hot yoga?” I said. “That sounds like torture!”

“It's a necessary evil, Minty,” she explained. “Size two isn't small enough anymore. Just the other day, Marchesa sent me some samples for the Whitney Art Party, and—hand to God—they were size double zero. What am I supposed to do, send them back and tell them that nothing worked?”

“I think my left pinkie might be a size double zero,” I sighed.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “Anyway, this networking opportunity . . . well, I wasn't going to say anything because I didn't want you to get all nervous and overthink as you tend to do, but it could lead to an actual job.”

At that point, my idea of a “job” had nothing to do with the reality of an actual entry-level position: twelve-hour days filled with constant coffee runs and standing in front of the paper shredder so long you go to bed with a buzzing noise in your ear. Instead, I thought the perfect job in New York would be something extremely glamorous and would signal my acceptance into the exclusive club of New York career girls who ruled the city. In my imagination, these girls did little more than sit inside large, glass-walled offices all day drinking skim lattes from Starbucks.

“Meet me on Seventy-third and Lex at eleven. And don't be late,” Emily said.

She hung up the phone.

S
wifty's was dark, with lots of oil paintings of dogs and pheasants and crisp white tablecloths.

For the one billionth time, I felt completely out of place. Nearly everyone was dressed like they'd just come from a ride at the stables. I had never seen so many shades of brown! I, on the other hand, was wearing a floral-print tea-length dress, platform Brian Atwood pumps, and a white overcoat with a ruffled collar. As I approached Emily, who was already seated at a table in the back, I could tell from the expression on her face that I had swung at the fashion fastball and missed.

Emily was wearing a camel cashmere sweater and khaki-colored stretch pants tucked into knee-high cognac riding boots. It worked on Emily but when I pictured myself in the same ensemble, all I could think was, Frumpety frump frump.

“You look adorable,” she said.

But her tone did not say “adorable.” It said “interesting.”

“I have a hard time dressing for day,” I admitted.

It was true. I don't even own that many items of clothing that might be described as appropriate for day. Every once in a while I find J Brand jeans and a pair of Delman flats in my closet and wonder how they got there.

“I remember,” Emily said, smiling. “It's nothing a little trip to Bergdorf's
won't fix.” She leaned in. “So, quickly, what happened with Ryerson? I thought for sure you'd be married by now. You two were like the perfect little couple.”

I looked at the ceiling. “Ryerson decided he had some soul-searching to do,” I said. “That was over a year ago. The last I heard he's still . . . searching.”

“I see.”

“We were young,” I continued. “I guess it just wasn't meant to be.”

I had just picked up my menu, hoping for a change of subject, when I felt someone standing just over my shoulder.

“So
this
is the perfect candidate you were referring to?”

I turned around to see a woman as thin and spindly as a daddy longlegs, her wrists so slender they barely supported the weight of her Cartier Tank watch. Her hair was the palest silver gray, shaped into a perfectly symmetrical bob. She was probably in her late forties or early fifties, but her skin was smooth, without so much as a speck of sun damage. When she spoke, she pronounced each word in a loopy, soprano staccato, like one of those European ambulance horns. She was, in one word, intimidating. If I were allowed two words to describe her, I would add “hard.”

“Ruth!” Emily exclaimed.

Emily immediately stood up. She and Ruth engaged in some form of multiple cheek-kissing that happened so fast, it was almost as if it didn't happen at all. When Emily turned to introduce me, I was already standing. From a very young age, I was trained to greet any new person at a table by standing up almost immediately and with as much enthusiasm as possible.

“And yes,” Emily said, “this is your candidate—Minty.”

I stared back at Emily, then Ruth, then back at Emily again. “Minty Davenport,” I said, smiling my best smile and making eye contact with my potential future employer. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. . . .?”

“Vine,” Ruth said. “Ruth Vine. But please, call me Ruth.” She glanced at Emily and winked. “Makes me feel younger.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ruth,” I repeated, smiling.

Ruth's handshake was firm, a bit chilly. I noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I could instantly tell she was one of those New York power women my mother had warned me not to become: independent, unmarried, and proud of it.

“Please, please, ladies, sit down,” Ruth said, motioning to the waiter to bring over an extra table setting. “Shall we order some wine?”

Emily nodded and shrugged. “Why not?” She grinned.

I agreed. In the South, drinking is an all-day affair, although it usually involves a little bourbon or Jack, not sauvignon blanc.

Ruth grabbed the chair from the table behind her and plopped down, swinging her body sideways so that her impossibly long, Wolford-stockinged legs extended directly into the center of the room. The waitstaff, forced to step over Ruth's legs, eyed her suspiciously.

“Darling, how is Bruce?” Ruth asked Emily.

Bruce was Emily's boss, the CEO of Saks Fifth Avenue.

“Oh, God,” Emily sighed. “What am I supposed to say these days? Cautiously optimistic? It's a whole new landscape out there. We're adjusting.”

Ruth's eyes twinkled. She leaned toward Emily, her shoulders squared, her whole body charged with conviction.

“Resilience, Maplethorpe, resilience,” she said. She stopped and fiddled with the silverware at her place setting. “Jesus Christ, what am I saying?” she continued. “It's a fucking nightmare out there right now. I'm lucky to have the means to hire an assistant”—she glanced at me—“let alone run a healthy business.”

The waiter came over and poured a generous amount of wine into each of our glasses.

“Which brings me to the blonde,” Ruth said, ignoring the waiter and turning in my direction, her eyes two sharp, inquisitive darts. “Minty, is it? You Southerners. You crack me up. So what are you all about, Minty? Tell me your story.”

I began, my voice a little shaky and low. “Well—”

Emily intercepted. “Minty's a PBP girl. Chapel Hill, cum laude, Charleston born and bred. She was my little sister at PBP, so I've
known her for years. Her mother is a descendant of Thomas Jefferson and her father is the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of James Madison. Old-school southern-belle transplant, pretty much fresh off the plane.” She grinned at Ruth, who managed a brief smirk in return.

I held up a finger. The James Madison part wasn't
entirely
true—he was actually my father's great-great-great-great-great-uncle—but Emily continued before I could get a word in edgewise.

“She'd be perfect for RVPR,” she said.

Ruth . . . Vine . . . Public . . . Relations,
I spelled out in my head.

“So, Minty.” Ruth turned to me. “How do you feel about fashion?”

“Um, my all-time favorite thing?”

Ruth laughed. “And events? How do you feel about parties?”

“Tie for my all-time favorite thing?”

Emily's expression quickly turned serious and focused.

“She's one of the smart ones, though, Ruth. I can promise you, she
gets it,
” she said, implying that the majority of the girls who worked in fashion and events neither were smart nor
got it
.

Ruth nodded and pursed her lips.

“Let me have a look at you,” she said, motioning for me to stand up.

I stood straight and proud, maintaining eye contact with Ruth as I smoothed down the skirt of my dress. I gave her another bright, sincere smile. I turned to the left, slightly, then to the right. I put my hand on my hip like a pageant queen.

Ruth seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious, because she let out a howl and slammed her hand down on the table. “You've got to be kidding me!” she said, glancing at Emily, who started to slink lower in her seat. “She's fucking adorable!” She motioned for me to sit down. “You're like a Kewpie doll . . . Anyway, let's get down to the nuts and bolts here. I'm assuming you can type?”