the Overnight Socialite Read Free

hand-me-down prom dresses barely paid one salary, let alone two, and Lucy Jo's big things remained at large.

    So on the day she turned twenty-six, with a hard-earned two thou in savings, she packed a bag, ignored her mother's watery discouragement, said a few goodbyes, traveled across the country on a Greyhound, found via Craigslist a Murray Hill studio with a floor so sloping she constantly tripped over her feet, and lucked into an entry-level job at Nola Sinclair. The job was only marginally more inspiring than working for Annie Druitt--but at least she was in New York, epicenter of all things fashion, and working for an industry darling no less.

    A year later, however, she hadn't made any progress. A year wasn't long, in the grand scheme of things, but it was too long for Lucy Jo. Her learning curve had grown flatter than Kate Moss, and Nola refused to consider anyone for a design position who wasn't vetted by the hallowed halls of FIT or Parsons.

    It didn't matter. Nola was the gateway, and tonight was Lucy Jo's opportunity to meet her real mentor--someone who would recognize that her talent and drive went far beyond assembly-line work.

    Things are finally clicking into place , Lucy Jo thought. She unzipped her enormous blue parka as she hurried down Lexington Avenue with her design portfolio clutched in one arm, wishing again that she owned a nicer coat to go with her dress. Once she got her next job, she'd buy herself a cashmere overcoat suitable for evening events. And she'd walk right into Saks Fifth Avenue and buy a pair of strappy gold Louboutins, no matter how much they cost. She hoped that tonight nobody would notice the scuff marks on her Aldo heels.

    Shoes and coat aside, Lucy Jo was ready. She'd read The Secret . Her handshake was strong. She'd practiced maintaining eye contact. And she knew exactly what she wanted--an opportunity with a designer who wouldn't consign her to stitching zippers. Though she was slightly terrified to show her design portfolio to the design stars who'd be in attendance--not to mention the business cards she'd had printed up at Kinko's and planned to distribute like party favors--she knew she had to get the word out that Lucy Jo Ellis would make Thakoon, or Brian Reyes, or Rachel Roy a fabulous assistant designer. (Only Nola would have the cojones to stock the crowd with competitors, and only Nola could inspire them to say yes--presumably because they knew how much press she'd draw.) Lucy had even jotted down some conversation starters on index cards, stashing them in her bag just in case. If she happened to find herself standing next to Margaux Irving, there'd be zero chance of dead air.

    She'd put equal effort into her appearance. She'd bought her first-ever pair of Spanx, holding her breath hoping that the $40 charge would go through on her credit card. She'd fake-tanned, smearing toxic-smelling cream all over her body and face. Now it looked as if she'd spent Thanksgiving in St. Barts, not on her futon nursing pad thai every night. She'd curled her hair. Wonderbra-ed. Applied three coats of mascara to make her eyes really pop. Painted her nails and toes bright pink to match her dress. And then there was the dress itself--a walking advertisement, she hoped, for what she could do with a needle, thread, and twenty bucks.

    You can do this , she repeated to herself, climbing the stairs toward the velvet rope at the Armory. The other arrivals swirled around her, the women's bare legs goose-pimpling beneath the flourishes of designer frocks, the men looking sexy and severe in black jackets and skinny ties. Lucy Jo stopped briefly to reapply her lipstick, give her hair a quick flip-and-brush, and spritz herself with a Chanel perfume sample she'd been saving for a special occasion. Then she marched herself up to the velvet rope.

    "Name?" said the PR flack with a clipboard, eyeing her.

    "Lucy Jo Ellis," she replied, flashing her brightest smile.

    The girl scanned her list, then