Story 15 | The Accidental Socialite, Chapter Two
A sneak peek into my partially completed novel, The Accidental Socialite. A junior PR girl is mistaken for an heir in hiding and quickly realizes it’s a set-up for something more sinister.
In 2007, I resigned from my first PR job in NYC. Suspicious, HR asked if I was going to another firm. When I explained I was leaving to write a novel, they then seriously inquired if the book was about the agency. The self-centeredness of these questions was hilarious to me and told you a lot about the culture there. I was writing a historical fiction novel set in Atlanta, so nope, not about them, at all.
Meanwhile, this book, The Accidental Socialite, is also not about my old agency, but it does firmly pull from my eventful five years in NYC PR, when I got an up-close-and-personal look into both the flashy veneers and grubby underbelly in the world of socialites, celebrities, luxury brands, Fashion Week and gossip columns.
Below, I offer you a couple introductory elements and chapter 2. Key set-up point: our protagonist’s name is Enid Kent, and the agency where she works is called QPR.
I have a full outline and maybe a third of the draft completed. There’s a strong world being built here, but I need to restructure to delve more quickly into the action.
Curious for your reactions to this one!
The Accidental Socialite
The New York Post, Page Six
June 12, 2007
By Dyan Story
The Kent Hunt Is On
Activity continues at the Kent Towers this week, supporting rumors that the Kent heir has returned to New York City may indeed be true. Without a motivated leader helming The Kent Company board of directors, the once famed towers have been sorely neglected since the 9/11 attacks damaged the buildings, resulting in their condemnation. As Vanity Fair’s January issue reminded us all, it’s been 25 years since vivacious mogul Adelaide Kent Ryker abruptly left her husband Leif amid a cheating scandal. He discovered she was pregnant shortly after her departure – neither mother nor child were seen again. Adelaide has since passed, but it stands to reason that her offspring and heir to her company, valued at $4.3 billion, would eventually surface. The resurrection of Kent Towers, once a source of great pride to the company, would provide perfect fanfare to reclaim the throne. Somewhere in New York City, there is a currently anonymous 24-year-old woman who is quietly preparing to upset our social hierarchy and international economy with the simple revelation of her identity. One powerful unanswered question: who is the Kent heir?
It should come as no surprise that the balance of power is intimately connected to the distribution of wealth. The New York City social scene strictly obeys this law, where the same families have ruled for generations, their names perhaps transformed by marriage but bank accounts staying within the family, an impenetrable stratosphere of influence. This was of no concern to me; I was not one of the fortunate few, of the gilded Upper East Side apartments preternaturally attractive genes, sleek car services and bottomless trust funds.
Starting out in public relations in New York City is tantamount to signing up as an indentured servant. Simply because my employer paid my passage to the fair isle of Manhattan, I owed them seven years of anonymous hard labor. Well, I didn’t stay nameless for long.
Despite these deeply ingrained societal laws, contrary to the very natural order by which the City thrives, well, I didn’t stay nameless for long.
Five months ago, the New York City tabloids purposefully and duplicitously outed me as the heir to the famed Kent fortune. Despite my every effort, I was unable to point the finger away from me because there was no one else to point to. Well, tonight I can. I know who the real heir is.
—
CHAPTER 2
When I got back to the apartment, Dani was waiting for me. I was hungry, so when I beelined to the kitchen for a snack, Dani’s eyes followed me. I could tell she was trying to be patient, though she was so eager to get started on my “Manhattan-over.”
I had stuffed envelopes straight through lunch, which was the right decision. I barely finished in time and had to hustle to get the boxes of invitations down to the mailroom before the 3 p.m. pick-up. Under normal circumstances, this task wouldn’t have been particularly taxing, but the combination of the mind-numbing monotony and the pressure of the deadline made me wish I could take a nap when I was back at my desk. Instead, I had an inbox full of client emails, three status reports to update, last-minute pitching to complete so we had something to say in said status reports, and Kaitelyn was still in her TODAY Show frenzy, texting me updates and requests as she zoomed between lower Manhattan and the studios uptown. Nourishing myself somehow came second to a fully addressed inbox.
At QPR, I was more likely to receive congratulations than sympathy if I mentioned to someone that I hadn’t found time to eat lunch. In an industry that so valued image, the closer we appeared to looking like a model, the better. I had a decent metabolism, and I was quite happy as a size 6, though the fact that I hadn’t formally exercised since moving to the city weighed on me. Hopefully walking the city and running around like a crazy person at work would suffice until my life regained some balance.
I tore open a bag of pretzels and turned to consider my roommate. She was still watching me, quietly waiting for this much-anticipated dressing session to start. She had rearranged our living room, turning it into the ultimate primp station. Our kitchen table had been reappropriated and was now covered in hair and makeup tools as well as jewelry. Dani must have borrowed a rack from the office, because it loomed large behind her, draped with a sheet so I couldn’t see any of the options. I selected a yogurt from the refrigerator, filled a glass with water and picked up my pretzels. Armed with a little sustenance, I was ready to succumb to my fashion genius of a roommate.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Dani practically fell off her stool with excitement to start. She took a deep breath and then launched right into what quickly started to sound like a rehearsed speech. She really had spent the entire day working on this.
“Yay! Everything is ready for you. Rule number one. As you promised this morning, you may not alter your outfit, accessories, hair or make-up once set. For one night, you will just have to follow my vision. Agreed?”
“Yes…”
“Perfect. Rule number two. You will not see any of our preparations until the look is complete, and we’ll do an official reveal. All reflective surfaces have been obstructed. No peeking, okay?”
“Sounds like fun!” My enthusiasm was only half forced.
“Rule number three. This one is kind of cheesy, but it’s really important to me.”
“Sure.”
“Always remember that I’m your best friend, and I love you. I think you’re amazing no matter what. I just for once want you to look like the best version of yourself. This is not about you fitting into that crazy QPR world.”
“I’m a little nervous, this doesn’t seem like me, but it’s just for fun, right? I guess it’s just a dress.”
“You don’t need to be nervous! But it’s more than just a dress. People will get to see you how I see you, not how you see yourself. It’s going to be different, they may not be ready to understand how amazing you are.”
“Dani, you’re amazing, thank you for doing this. I totally trust you. Primp away.”
“Yes!” Dani hissed, barely containing her excitement. “Go change into that awful robe of yours, wash your face and come back. We’ll do hair and make-up, then I called in some options for dresses, but I have a clear favorite so I think we’ll be set.”
“What do you mean you ‘called in options’?” I called to her as I changed in our bathroom, slipping on my jersey GAP bathrobe. The fabric was incredibly soft, which is why I loved it, but Dani was right, the tan color washed me out and made me look deceased, which was particularly difficult to deal with in the morning after waking, when I already looked a little rough.
“What’s the event you’re going to again tonight?”
“It’s pretty cool, actually. QPR partnered the half of the designers whose shows we’re handling for a combined powerhouse Fashion Week kick-off party. It’s the third year running, and apparently, it’s pretty legendary at this point. Everyone likes it because it’s fairly relaxed, considering the impending stress ahead. Maybe it’s relaxed for the guests, but the fashion team has been completely nuts for a month getting this ready.” I walked back out to the living room where Dani stood, arms crossed and with a stern look on her face. “What?”
“Do you honestly think I would send to you a major fashion event in something from your closet? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I pulled options for you. Sit down.”
She settled me in a chair next to her prepped table. I recognized her arsenal of hair and makeup supplies from our bathroom, but sure enough, the accessories she had laid out were not ours. I couldn’t see the dresses on the rack, but they must have been borrowed as well.
“You called designers to request samples for me? Who did you tell them they were for?”
“Oh, gosh, as soon as they heard I was dressing the Enid Kent, everyone was just falling over themselves to have a chance for you to wear their gowns,” Dani said sarcastically.
“I’m surprised there aren’t flowers and a car service.”
“Ha, no, I told them I was shooting a fashion story, which isn’t completely a lie. You know how it is, everyone is used to having their stuff pulled, and it’s almost never used because editors call in so many options. I couldn’t get the best styles because no one takes Real Life Magazine seriously, but we’ve got a decent circulation. If only my readers had good taste,” Dani sighed. “I think it helped that they liked the pieces I chose, they trusted my taste. Now shush, we don’t have a lot of time, and there’s much to do!”
From that point on, Dani was silent in her concentration, murmuring little directions as needed. I knew better than to ask any questions, she wasn’t giving anything away. Her practiced hands had my hair up in rollers in a few quick minutes, before she started on my makeup. I could picture her doing this backstage at Texas pageants, her efficiency and focus a sharp contrast to what I imagined was a chaotic setting. I loved my friend and her quiet boldness. Seated and with nothing more to do than to be still, it was my turn to watch her. She idly pushed her wavy hair around as she considered me and plotted my look, her hair getting bigger and bigger as she went on. I could only imagine what she had in store for my own hairstyle.
When she started on my makeup, I started getting nervous again. I tended to keep things more minimal, and Dani was using what seemed like a lot of everything – a pink blush, bronzer, gold and purple eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara, tons of mascara. I had deduced a smoky eye was in store, hopefully not too dramatic. But she catered to me so carefully, her wide brown eyes intently and patiently tracing her work, that I regained my trust and stopped worrying. I had no doubt she would only make me look good. I just had to be ready for what would be in that reflection. She said it would be different.
I thought about my colleagues who were constantly suggesting upgrades to my look. What would they think of this? I supposed it would be best to figure out what I thought of it; I hadn’t even seen the outfit yet.
I really needed to relax! Dani wasn’t giving me a personality adjustment; it was just a dress and some makeup. If I didn’t like it, I could take it off at the end of the night and resume my normal wardrobe.
When it comes to team-building exercises, a trust fall is nothing compared to standing in my bra and thong with my eyes closed while my roommate helped me step into a unknown dress. Laughing hysterically was doing nothing to help our clumsy coordination. I almost fell twice, slamming into the table once. Dani was having the best time with it, I’m sure the sight of me in my underwear pawing at the air and wriggling into this dress was one to behold.
The dress was eventually zipped, and I stepped into pumps and held out my arms as she bedecked me in jewelry that landed coolly on my skin. Dani circled around me to complete a few finishing touches. I knew we were almost done when there was silence. She was reviewing my final look and deciding if it fit her vision. When she giggled, I was officially dying to see what she had done. The giggle meant she was proud of herself.
“Show me already! Let me open my eyes, I want to see!” I bounced unsteadily in foreign heels to convey my excitement.
“One second, let me get you in position.” She steered me presumably before a mirror. After an hour with my eyes closed, I was no longer exactly certain where I was in the apartment. “You are beautiful,” she whispered in my ear. “Take a look.”
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. “Oh my.” It was all I could say.
It was as though someone had finally drawn me in color. I appeared sharper, like I had finally come into focus and all the details were flatteringly obvious. I zeroed in immediately on my eye makeup, all smoked out with an accent of gold. My hair was artfully tousled and casually tucked behind one ear. Though the silhouette was classic, the dress was a knockout. A sleeveless sheath, the dress had an edgy architectural shoulder, slightly more overt dip at the neckline and a flat ruffle coming down around each hip. The deep hunter green fabric gave off the slightest sheen, just to make it clear that this was no ordinary dress. Dani had selected another jewel tone for a towering platform pump, this time a deep violet. The shoes appeared to be velvet, but I couldn’t move to touch them, I was so in shock at the sight of my own reflection.
“Oh my,” I repeated.
“I know. You look really hot.” Dani seemed a little surprised herself.
I turned in the mirror, and my shoes didn’t slow me down, which was almost never the case with such a dramatic heel. “How are these shoes so comfortable?”
“They’re expensive.”
“So that’s what you pay for. Are these velvet?”
“Yes, but it’s not supposed to rain tonight, so it’s fine.”
“Dani, thank you. How did you do this? It’s not me, but it’s so totally me at the same time.”
“There’s a little science to that. I basically upgraded your black sheath and pumps from this morning. This is the high-fashion version.”
“You’re telling me. This is insane.”
“You said you didn’t have to wear black tonight. This green is so rich, and still appropriate. No one wants you in neon. I kept it pretty conservative so you might let me do this again.” Her eyes flicked up at me cautiously, as she revealed her agenda. “See how it’s better? We can see your silhouette, your hair is down for once. You could do this every day.”
“Hey, I love my hair like this, but there’s no way I could pull this off when I’m rushing to work in the morning.”
“I prefer to think anything’s possible. I could help you. We can talk about that later. The other thing I think is important is that you’re not too sweet or too hard, I like a mix. That’s why it’s a structured dress, but softened with the ruffle. It’s a romantic hairstyle, but you’re rocking studded accessories. If I had straightened your hair, you’d look so much colder.”
I looked into the mirror again, this odd version of myself staring back.
It took me a moment, but I finally placed the feeling: I felt powerful. I had a new power behind my gaze, like answers to my questions would be more immediately provided.
“I bet I could pass for being on the fashion team tonight.”
“Aim higher! You’re not working, you could be on the guest list, the bold-faced name every PR girl wants at her party.”
I laughed aloud at the thought. “Sure, tonight that’s the goal, I’m going to play the part, too. See what happens!”
“Yes! Though, you’re officially late, which is perfect for playing the part, but less great for your actual job.”
“Thank you so much, Dani. I really appreciate everything you did for me today.”
“Are you kidding? This is the best thing I’ve done at work in forever. You know you’ve got me started now.”
“Yes, yes, I know you’ve always wanted a human Barbie. Happy to serve. Love you, gal.”
“Love you too. Kill it tonight.”
With that, I was out the door. We weren’t allowed to bring personal effects like handbags and coats to events, so I learned from Kaitelyn to hide my metro card, identification and debit card in my bra. I would hold my phone all night, and Dani would unlock the door when I came home. I didn’t want to risk biting it on the four flights of stairs so I slipped off my shoes and carried them as I made my way down the stairs. When I finally hit the lobby, I passed a middle-aged man heading up, and I laughed to myself thinking if he only knew how ridiculous this situation was. I had glamorously done the stairs barefoot, wearing a dress that cost significantly more than my month’s paycheck, all with various bits of my purse shoved in my bra. I shook my head as I put my shoes back on and stepped out to hail a taxi, an event-night treat since we could bill cab fare back to the client.
—
Tonight’s party was being held on the rooftop of the Gramercy Park Hotel, at their quirky-modern Terrace, a penthouse bar and patio that boasted incredible views of downtown Manhattan. Or so I was told. Gramercy Park itself was the one of those rare and beautiful experiences in the city, a gated park to which entrance was only granted to those few keyholders who owned property overlooking the little green space. It was relatively quiet on the square, though we were in the heart of the city. The hotel was small and expensive, the perfect spot for a private bash to kick down the doors to the chaos that was Fashion Week.
The party was one of Quinn Osborne’s signature moments. He had found himself inviting the same socials, editors and buyers to a handful of smaller parties in the first few nights of Fashion Week, recreating efforts for a variety of clients all competing for the same people’s attention. So, he brought the designers together, added the Council of Fashion Designers of America to the mix, and all of the sudden, every social, editor and buyer attended this party because it was chicest of one-stop shopping during a week that had way too many commitments and appointments. The designers and their teams loved the break from the craze of finishing their collections and tended to come out and drink a little too hard.
Stuck in traffic and running late, I ditched my cab a block away from the hotel and scurried along the outside of this jewel of a garden. I couldn’t imagine owning one of these amazing townhouses, or if you were making that kind of money, how you could ever slow down long enough to actually sit in the park. And would you feel so obnoxious pulling out your key and letting yourself in, when you knew everyone would be watching you and wishing they could join you? Was the park really worth it? I would live here in a minute, if ever given the chance.
By the time I reached the front of the hotel, I was starting to sweat. Hurrying in heels and a restrictive skirt required incredible effort and could have been a workout for the rich and famous. Maybe that was their secret to eternal slenderness; these heels were hard work. I pushed through the revolving entry and was surprised to see the lobby thick with partygoers, dressed in downtown edge or flashy cocktail attire. There were the usual stand-outs, a gent in a top hat and eyeliner, willowy models that were a head taller than most, someone with a shock of colored hair. It was too early to have such a back-up. We were all for a packed house, but even a novice like me knew PR girl check-in etiquette was that you wanted people through the line and in the party as quickly as possible. Before my eyes could adjust to the seductively lit lobby, I could hear Kaitelyn hissing my name.
“Enid, you are so late!”
Kaitelyn wasn’t the typical supervisor at QPR; there was no shrill losing-of-temper that I had seen so often among the other teams. The few times she was ever short with me was generally because someone else was coming down on her in a terrible way. In this case, her stressed tone and lack of commentary on my outfit indicated she was catching flack for me. I knew I was late, but something was very wrong with our line, which means any deviation from plan would be a major issue.
I had witnessed a scary office freak-out earlier in the week. One of junior girls on the fashion team had purchased the wrong stickers for a show’s color-coded seating chart. What was originally a subjective mistake in the shade of color of a sticker turned into a sign that the entire team’s commitment to the project and general attention to detail required individual sit-downs with the team vice president to review effectiveness and generally school everyone on QPR standards. By the time that vice president was done berating her entire team, a four-hour process, three people were crying, and they had lost tons of time in a crazy busy week. I kept my head down around her now.
“I’m so sorry,” I started, trying to think if any of my excuses would improve the situation. I skipped them and jumped right into problem-solving. “What’s going on? Can I help?”
“There’s nothing we can do at the moment. The elevator that goes directly to the terrace isn’t working, so everyone’s having to take the general elevators and it’s taking forever to shuttle that many people upstairs. The hotel’s working on fixing it. Quinn is livid. He went all quiet, that’s when you know you’re in trouble. I swear the hotel’s event manager just turned white as he stared her down.”
“I hope that never happens to me, sounds terrible.”
“Hey, wait – you look fabulous! What happened to you?”
“My roommate’s been dying to give me a makeover. This outfit is her finally getting her way.”
“I need her to style me. I know those shoes, you can’t just buy those on a whim.”
“She’s an editor, so she called in some favors.”
“Girl, why aren’t we using her to place products?”
“Real Life Magazine.”
“Oh. Good call. Okay, back to work. Here’s a checklist and a headset.”
Kaitelyn dumped a clipboard, pen, walkie-talkie and headset into my arms and snaked the crowd toward the front of our check-in station. I put my cell on vibrate, shoved it into my bra and fit my headset as Kaitelyn briefed me on tonight’s check-in procedure.
“With six designers distributing invites, this RSVP list was impossible to fully capture. The first list is organized by last name, and the second by company, just in case. If someone says they are with one of the designers, and they’re dressed appropriately, they’re in. But we have to be careful to take down every single name, so they know who showed up. Something about splitting costs depending on the turnout. Such a pain. The list clearly notes who is press. Any press that check in get the tip sheet with the list of designers, celebrities and socials attending tonight, and be sure to remind them that a contact sheet is on the back with cell and email for everyone working tonight. Got it?”
“All over it,” I said smoothly. I had learned that, in times of stress, bravado gave others confidence.
At check-in, a phalanx of gorgeous QPR girls was chatting up guests in an effort to distract from the elevator debacle. Waiters dressed in black and wearing simple masquerade masks appeared with silver trays with filled champagne flutes. Quinn floated in their midst, clearly at the helm of this peace offering, as he busily handed out drinks and made sure people were having fun and thought nothing of the unfolding gaffe. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a crisp white shirt, always dressed impeccably. I was told he was constantly dating someone, but I never saw him with another man.
Checking in guests for a party shouldn’t technically be a difficult task, but it was tantamount to navigating a minefield. One wrong word and you were in trouble. One VIP that you assume a party-crasher could end your job, but if you let a party-crasher through the door, it reflected poorly on you, QPR and, worst of all, the client. To date, I had worked just a handful of events and had gotten by with little-to-no responsibility, but with the advent of Fashion Week, those days were over.
I was just getting into a routine with welcoming guests and faithfully recording their names, when Quinn was suddenly behind me, speaking into my ear.
“You’re welcome to be late to work as well, if it means you finally exhibit a hint of good style.”
With that, he was gone, and I resumed breathing. I was fairly certain that was a compliment, though considering it was the first time Quinn had ever acknowledged me, it felt as though my heart had stopped beating. Dani would be ecstatic to know he approved – this would only give her more ammo in her desire to dress me up again. Kaitelyn gave me a side-glance, too busy to stop working, but still checking in on me. I nodded to let her know I was okay and welcomed the next partygoer.
Half an hour later, the penthouse elevator came back online, and soon after our lobby cleared out, leaving us with a much more manageable stream of attendees. Quinn’s champagne service had done its job, most guests were too busy drinking and talking to notice they weren’t yet at the party.
“It’s already 9 p.m., and we’re missing some of our key press,” Kaitelyn commented, surveying our press list during a brief lull in activity.
“Who are we waiting on?”
“The gossips mostly. This party won’t go past midnight, so if they don’t get here soon, they’re not coming.”
One of the senior fashion girls leading check-in, Jax, leaned over to Kaitelyn and said, “Yvette just texted me from her cab, she’s on her way.” Point proven, she turned back to her friends from her team and continued bragging on her media relationship, “She’s bringing her boyfriend, I can’t wait to meet him.”
Kaitelyn looked away. I could tell she was annoyed, but something caught her eye, and she snapped to attention, nudging my side to clue me in.
“Look who’s here,” she whispered.
I followed her stare to a man pushing through the front doors. He was dressed all in black, like a light extinguished, with a silk shirt with a few buttons undone, velvet blazer and dark jeans. His loose curls were mussed, and his eyes shifted from side to side as he surveyed the scene. He was attractive, his slight frame and delicate features somewhat at odds with his bad boy posture. I felt oddly drawn to touch him, but the way he slid through the crowd made me uneasy.
His hands shoved in his pockets, he kept his head down as he breezed by check-in without even a glance in our direction. This was where party crashers borrowed their m.o., their aloof attempt at belonging and falling in step with the crowd. Jax finally spotted him and jumped to help him. “Vic, so happy you’re here, the elevator is—”
He waved her off and broke in: “I’m good, sweetheart. I’ve been here a time or two, you know.” He offered up a wink and a smile as consolation for missing the opportunity to dazzle him, ducked behind closing elevator doors and was gone.
“Who was that?” I asked Kaitelyn.
“Vic Samson. He’s a major social. His family owns a battery company, and then his dad helped finance FedEx or something equally lucrative. Vic’s better known for his hot, highly publicized romances and cheating scandals. He just dumped another socialite, Tatiana Bellamonte, after almost a year together. That’s forever for him, so I bet he’s on the hunt for his next conquest tonight.”
Jax squealed as she read an incoming text message. “Yvette just pulled up!” She hurried to the door, as a blonde wrapped in a short fur walked in. The two women shared a Parisian double cheek kiss before Yvette silently indicated to her man, allowing him to introduce himself. Headed toward the elevator, Jax and Yvette quickly fell into step. As Jax filled her in – Vic this, designer that, the gossip said nothing but watched everything, scanning the crowd and our check-in team. Jax grabbed a couple girls from her team to join them and help properly entertain the gossip reporter from the most important column in town, leaving me and Kaitelyn alone to man check-in.
Forty-five minutes later, the fashion girls still weren’t back, but the arrival of guests had slowed considerably, so I slipped away to the restroom. On the way back, I took the opportunity to look around a little more, I had never been inside such a designer hotel like this before. The lobby reflected such a strong point of view, boasting bold furniture in saturated blues and reds, luxurious twenty-foot ceilings and artwork that I actually recognized on the walls. There was a sense of modern tradition between the original fixtures and slicker furniture.
“This place is so cool.”
I barely realized I said the words aloud when someone responded.
“I love this hotel.”
Surprised, I looked over to the stranger with whom I had inadvertently shared my inner monologue. He peered right back at me, with clear blue eyes and an easy smile. The planes of his face were softly chiseled, his chin and upper lip covered in a nonchalant shadow of stubble. With his olive skin, crooked nose and brown hair piled a little too tall, he was another model-like deity trying to pass as a normal human. What was it about this city that everyone was so attractive? He wore a beautiful but worn gray linen suit with a knit tie. He seemed right at home, wearing the suit in such a relaxed manner as to undermine its formality.
He sensed my shock and kept on talking. “I overheard you – I agree. Most places, when they renovate, are so intent on attaining a sense of new that they drown out all sense of history. They didn’t do that here.”
“Yeah, this hotel has such a soul. But it’s a little off-balance, right? I can’t help but think that Salvador Dalí would love this place. Random thought.”
“A soul, yeah, exactly. I could see Dalí flying through the lobby, disregarding structure. Are you a guest? First time to New York City?”
I wasn’t sure if I should have been flattered that he thought I could stay somewhere so amazing or insulted that I seemed so new to the city. I guess six months didn’t count for that much that I could be put off. “Sure, I just bop from hotel to hotel, that must be the life. I’ve just stopped in for the week. Are you staying here?”
“No, I’m here for a Terrace party upstairs.” That switched me right back into work mode.
“Oh, I’m working for that party. I can check you in. Come on over.”
Kaitelyn straightened on our approach and addressed the stranger. “Hey Tyler, how are you? So glad you were able to make it.”
I almost groaned aloud at the revelation. Tyler Charles, gossip reporter for the Daily News. I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t think I said anything offensive, but suddenly I was flustered and couldn’t remember anything I had just said.
“Yeah, I almost wasn’t able to come,” Tyler explained. “I had to cover another event uptown, but then Bernie said she was on her way here. Fair warning – she should be here any minute.”
“Thanks, I think we’re ready. I see you’ve met Enid?”
“Not officially.”
“Oh, well, this is Enid Kent.” Kaitelyn gave me a little look as if to tell me to start talking. I was at a complete loss at what to say to this guy. I couldn’t comment on his work, I hadn’t read a single item from that column, ever. Had I just talked to him about Dalí? I grimaced at the thought, then realized they could all see my facial expressions. “She just started at QPR a few months ago.”
“What did you say your name is?”
“Enid Kent,” I repeated for him. I had that answer down. “It’s a great party upstairs. So maybe you should go,” I blurted out.
That was definitely not the gracious invitation I had intended. Kaitelyn’s eyes widened at the comment, Tyler looked slightly taken aback.
I was saved by commotion coming from the door.
“God, is anyone from QPR working this party or not?”
A gorgeous redhead wearing a relaxed white blazer and skinny black pants stood poised in the middle of the lobby. She appeared to be in her late thirties – her long, red hair fell in sculpted waves reminiscent of old Hollywood. She strode right up to Kaitelyn as though she was expecting something, her metallic gold leather clutch catching the light as she moved. She was the epitome of chic, with the outfit and the amazing hair, but there was something to her narrowed eyes and obnoxious tone, that distracted you from her beauty.
“Bernie, thank you so much for coming tonight.”
“Quinn called me, so of course I’m here.”
“Bernie, I wanted to introduce you to my colleague—”
“I need to be at the party already. Tip sheet, tip sheet,” she commanded.
“Absolutely, here you go.” Kaitelyn dutifully handed over a tip sheet, which Bernie then waved off for Tyler to take.
“Thanks, see you guys later,” he offered as he followed his boss onto the elevator.
Kaitelyn and I didn’t dare even look at each other until the doors closed. I was holding my breath.
“Wow, what is her deal?” I asked Kaitelyn. “She acted like a four-year-old who thought she was hot shit.”
“She’s known for being blunt. All business. The real story is what just happened with you in front of Tyler. Holy goodness, you completely froze and then – I don’t even know what that was! Did you get lost in his hotness or something?”
“Don’t remind me! I can’t believe I just did that. I didn’t know who he was and got so thrown when I figured it out.”
“You were, like, crazy rude,” Kaitelyn said, dragging out her pronunciation to make her point in teasing me. “So rude that it was obvious you were just super awkward, but man, I’m not letting you anywhere near the gossips if that’s how you react.”
“I’m so sorry, Kaitelyn.”
“It’s okay, I’m sure he’s not thinking about it, he’s so chill. Imagine him going out with the socialites. He’s so attractive and so nice, those girls start flirting, let down their guards and suddenly they’re spilling their guts to him. He gets the best scoops that way, doesn’t even have to try.”
I sighed and thanked my lucky stars that Kaitelyn herself was so chill. I had seen people at QPR flip for far lesser infractions. We resumed our check-in duties, though the arrival of guests eventually slowed to a trickle and the wear of standing for hours on end started to take its toll.
“How are you not dying in those heels? Those are fabulous, though,” Kaitelyn asked. “It doesn’t matter how much you do this, standing on marble or concrete this long is always the worst.”
“It’s weird, we’ve been standing forever, but my feet are fine.” I silently thanked my roommate for being a kook and finding the only fashion-forward skyscrapers of platformed heels that were comfortable.
“Listen, you worked like a crazy person to get those invites out today. Take this last hour off, go enjoy a drink upstairs. I can close us out.”
“Are you sure?”
“You have to check out upstairs! I’m good here, but I’ll text you if I need something.”
“Awesome, thank you so much! I will be watching my phone; I can come right back if you need me.”
In the elevator, it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually done what I set out to do tonight, act the part of the dress. I checked my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. My roommate’s Texas hairspray strategies hadn’t let her down; my hair was still perfectly set, and my makeup appeared to be intact as well. As I stepped into the party, I shook off my work role and pretended I was one of the crowd. Of course, I was still basically alone at this party, so letting go of my awkwardness entirely was impossible. A drink, I would start with a drink.
I made a quick tour of the space on my way to the bar. The Terrace was essentially a penthouse that could lose its exterior walls, opening up to a huge wrap-around balcony. Each room had a distinct focal point, a light-bulb installation crowned a ceiling, ornate mirrors and sculptures set a stylish tone. The outside terrace was far more relaxed, thick ivy covered every wall and dark rattan loungers hosted the pretty and the powerful. The dj was spinning non-descript cool music, and with a group of models bouncing in front of his speakers, it could have been a photo shoot. The flash of a camera and the appearance of a certain three-piece suit, I realized Quinn was orchestrating just that.
The party appeared to be a major success. The space was comfortably packed with bold-faced names and VIPs laughing and gossiping, some playfully running about while others were deep in conversation.
It was late, so the usual throng of people around the bar had thinned out a little. I chose a champagne over the signature cocktail, made from our sponsor’s vodka and sugarless mixer. I took a sip of the bubbly and considered what it would be like if I had actually been invited to this party. I suppose if I stayed in the PR game long enough, I would get more comfortable and feel like I belonged here, but mostly this was a fascinating opportunity to observe people who were completely unlike me.
I took a deep breath and turned toward the party. Come on, I could do this. I just needed to find someone to talk to, maybe I could find one of the girls from the firm. I was feeling pretty good, bopping my head to the dj and caught myself grinning. This party had a great vibe! I scanned the crowd looking for signs of QPR until I came to Quinn Osborne, across the room, ignoring the conversation around him because he was staring at me, concerned – in a furious sort of way. Couldn’t I have one drink now that I was done for the night? His eyes moved away from me, and I followed his gaze to a figure dressed in black. A shift in the crowd, and I saw it was Vic Samson, who had that look in his eye of a guy about to make his move, headed to the bar.
I looked up and down the bar and then realized why Quinn had been so intent on me. Vic was headed straight for me. What had Kaitelyn said earlier about him? He was out to find his next conquest? Uh oh.
My phone vibrated in my hand. The screen said I had an incoming text from an unknown number. I clicked it open, hoping it might be Kaitelyn in need of help, giving me a perfect excuse to avoid Vic. But what I read froze me on the spot.
Just walk away. Trust that Vic would be bad news for you.
I could still see Quinn, but I couldn’t tell if he had a phone out through the people milling about him. I looked back down to the text. Was someone else watching me? There was no time to figure out what was going on.
“Hi. I’m Vic. I don’t know you.” His voice was deep, and he smelled so good, noticeable because he was so close to me.
“Uh, hi. I’m Enid.” Best to stick to my one line of the night.
“You look stunning tonight. I had to come over and introduce myself,” he said, slickly. Before I could say anything, he lifted the half-empty champagne flute from my fingers, purposefully brushing my hand with his. “Barkeep, would you please top off my date’s drink?”
Vic slipped his hand around my lower back, swinging his free arm before the scene in front of us. “So, what do you think of the party?” He looked at me, entirely too expectantly, his intentions plain.
How was I going to get out of this?
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Next Week’s Plot Twist…
As an adult, I’ve written one lone poem, completed in one draft, no edits, just a natural flowing of an idea. I’m not a poet, but I’ve always cherished this piece. Plus, a short poem will be a nice balance after these last two longer pieces!
Last week’s story:
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Oh boy! Can't wait to read the book!
Same! It's going to be a good one. The plot has been building in my brain - the act of writing it should work out some of the final kinks and twists!