the Overnight Socialite Read Free Page B

other hello. Lucy Jo watched Carla Bruni and Naomi Campbell gossip in one corner, Naomi stubbing out her cigarette in one of the abstract ice sculptures. There was Patrick Demarchelier, just five steps away; Gray-don Carter kissing Natalie Portman hello; Jennifer Lopez showing off pictures of her twins to Kelly Ripa; Caroline Kennedy waiting for a martini behind Ian Schrager. It was like visiting some kind of fabulous zoo, where the exotic animals were very expensively dressed.

    "Stop staring," Clarissa whispered after Lucy Jo had whipped her head around to get a closer look at Sting, who was chatting with Julianne Moore at the martini bar. "And hurry up. You heard Nola--I have way too much to do right now."

    Why was Clarissa cattle-prodding her through the hall? The question flew out of Lucy Jo's head when they stepped into the enormous Drill Room, the main chamber of the old Armory. It was like stepping inside a dazzling glacier that had cracked to form a hidden cave of ice. Cocktail tables, covered in virgin linens and crystal votives, dotted each side of the sleek runway. Enormous white imported peonies that looked like giant snowballs were piled up haphazardly around the runway, and art deco chandeliers hung low, casting a glittery cabaret light. All that was missing were the models, the clothes, the audience--and Lucy Jo striding down the runway, the designer modestly accepting her end-of-show accolades.

    "This is amazing!" Lucy Jo was struck still with awe.

    Clarissa glanced up at their surroundings. "Yeah, well, it better be. There's a lot at stake. Nola's super stressed." She grabbed Lucy Jo's down-coated elbow and hurried her along. They passed through the backstage area, where a dozen cadaverous models were wriggling into their clothes, and then through the swinging double doors of a . . .

    Catering kitchen?

    "Extra uniforms are back there, I think. Get ready fast , okay? Marco--over there--will give you your marching orders."

    "Marching orders? I don't understand--"

    "What's to understand?" Clarissa's eyes widened with annoyance. "You carry a tray with caviar blinis and champagne. Offer it to the guests. You're not removing a brain tumor."

    Huh? The kitchen suddenly felt as small as a coffin. Lucy Jo just blinked. "I'm here to work?"

    "Of course! I told you, half the catering staff came down with some nasty virus, and they're super short-staffed. We got a few people from accounting to fill in, some interns, and you. Why are you looking at me like that?"

    Lucy Jo was too stunned to speak, too embarrassed to protest. She was afraid if she tried to force words, a sob might come out instead.

    Clarissa's face suddenly opened up, as she realized the extent of Lucy Jo's delusion. Then her face snapped shut again, as firmly as a Judith Leiber clutch. "Okay, well . . . see you later." Clarissa spun on a five-inch heel and shoved through the doors into the party.

    "This might be a little small." Marco, the goateed head cater-waiter, eyed Lucy Jo up and down before tossing her a skimpy black patent-leather dress that she'd be lucky to squeeze over one thigh. It had an extra bunch of fabric on one shoulder, like an abscess--a sure sign that Nola had a hand in its design. "What size shoe do you wear? Hope it's seven, cuz that's all I got left." He tossed her two dominatrix boots. They looked dangerous.

    Reality hit her with a sickening thud. How ridiculous she'd been to assume that she'd been invited to rub elbows! She was the hired help, nothing more. Lucy Jo put down her portfolio, and held the size-two dress against her size-ten hips. "Do you have anything bigger?" she gulped.

    There was a loud crash from the back of the kitchen. "Nah, but don't sweat it," Marco called over his shoulder as he headed to do damage control. "Nobody's gonna be looking at you tonight."

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    Yesterday's sale of Important Watches at Sotheby's in Geneva did not disappoint the packed room in attendance, most notably when a Patek