the Overnight Socialite Read Free Page A

looked up. "Ellis, you said?"

    "E-L-L-I-S. Yup, that's right."

    "Sorry, I don't have you on here."

    Lucy Jo's first instinct was to scream. She fought it down. The PR girl's empty eyes moved to the next person in line.

    "Hang on!" Lucy Jo said loudly, diving into her tote bag and pulling out the now-creased invitation. "I have the invitation right here! Nola's assistant Clarissa gave it to me. I work at the company--there's just been some mistake!"

    "What can I tell you? You're not on my list. The only Ellis we have is Bret Easton Ellis. Why don't you call Clarissa?"

    "I--I would, but I left my cell phone at home. Please." Lucy Jo cursed herself for buying groceries instead of paying the phone bill. The service had been cut off last week.

    "Sorry, but I can't let you in if you're not on--"

    "Your list. I know. Could you call Clarissa, by any chance?" she pleaded, but the girl just shook her head.

    Before Lucy Jo was reduced to plopping her knees down on the cold steps to beg, the front doors parted and a flash of red hair caught her eye.

    " Clarissa! " she screamed at the top of her lungs, wild in her desperation. The red hair turned around--and sure enough, it was Nola's assistant, looking as though the strands of black pearls around her neck were choking her. Relief surged through Lucy Jo's body. "Thank God! For some reason my name's not--"

    "You're the girl from the workshop, right? You're totally late!" Clarissa hissed. She motioned for Lucy Jo to hustle through the doors and then grabbed her wrist. "Didn't I tell you to get here at six?"

    "What? No, I'm sure it said eight on the invitation--"

    They were interrupted by the woman of the hour, Nola Sinclair, cutting through the crowd with her usual look of hell-bent determination. Lucy Jo shivered.

    "Clarissa!" Nola called, jerking her head toward a vacant room off the main hallway. Clarissa, still gripping Lucy Jo's arm, followed her boss with terror in her eyes. Lucy Jo could understand why. At five-two, with a thick shock of prematurely white hair, Nola commanded a presence far bigger than her actual size. Though her look hadn't deviated in ten years--spiky hair, bleached skin, kohlrimmed eyes, black long-sleeved shift, and dominatrix platforms--there was something about her that never failed to startle. Nola was a mercurial personality who loved to take risks with her collections, and move in unexpected directions, and her unpredictability was sometimes hailed more than her actual talent. Lucy Jo, though she didn't always "get" Nola's style, knew she had something to learn from her moxie.

    "The seating is a fucking train wreck," Nola hissed once they were sequestered from overhearing ears. "You have Margaux Irving four seats away from Menon Whittemore! Fashion One-Oh-One: they loathe each other! I distinctly told you that they should be seated on opposite sides of the runway." She noticed Lucy Jo and pulled a face. "Who is this?"

    Clarissa's face blanched. "One of the girls from the workshop--she came to help out--"

    "She's wearing color ," Nola said, revolted. Then she cast her eyes over Lucy Jo's face, neck, and decolletage. "And why does she look like a human carrot?"

    "I, um--" Lucy Jo felt her cheeks turn crimson.

    "Whatever. One disaster at a time. You need to fix the seating immediately." With that, she stormed off. Clarissa rushed after her, and Lucy Jo scurried after Clarissa, into the central hall that seemed to be filling up by the minute. She was winded from Nola's harsh appraisal, and her face burned with embarrassment. Maybe the self-tanner wasn't so St. Barts after all; maybe her dress wasn't quite ready for its close-up in Vogue . Fortunately, the crowded hall was illuminated by long tallow candles that cast dramatic but shadowy light, so nobody could see her blush.

    Beneath magnificent vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany, the who's who of the fashion scene sipped cocktails and air-kissed each