Page 37 of Meant to Be

CHAPTER 10

Cate

Just as I expected, Joe didn’t call after that day on the beach. I think Curtis, who had already begun to plan my wedding makeup, was more upset than I was. I was definitely disappointed, but told myself that it was a much-needed reality check and a great reminder not to get my hopes up. What had I been thinking, anyway? Obviously, Joe Kingsley was from a different world—and it seemed pretty clear that he had gone home and concluded the same. My work might put me on private beaches in the Hamptons, and in proximity to a certain class of people, but that didn’t mean I actuallybelongedwith them.

It was probably a blessing in disguise. I knew Joe had a reputation for being a bit of a playboy, and I had no interest in being his flavor of the month. A fling with a man like him could only break my heart, something I had so diligently avoided.

When I shared all of this with Curtis, he gave me his usual speech about how I was not a second-class citizen just because I hadn’t grown up with a silver spoon. He also reminded me that Joe had dated “that train wreck Phoebe Mills.”

“Gee, Curtis. Are you trying to say that I’m a train wreck, too?” I said, smiling.

“Oh my God! No!” Curtis said, objecting a little too much. “I’m saying that I saw what I saw. That man was drawn to you. Like a moth to a flame.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, thinking that Curtis might be right about our attraction, but that there was still a massive difference between wanting tosleepwith someone and wanting todatethem. Joe clearly had no interest in the latter, and apparently not enough interest in the former to even make a phone call.

A few weeks later, my theory was confirmed when I saw in the tabloids that Joewas,in fact, still dating his college girlfriend. I couldn’t decide whether that made him a bad guy for getting my number in the first place—or a good guy for not having called me. In the end, it didn’t really make a difference, but I found myself perusing more of those magazine articles, searching for clues in the photos. I was especially interested in the ones of Joe and Margaret doing all their preppy activities: sailing, skiing, rare-book browsing. It made me a little ill, but I refused, on principle, to be jealous of a woman with an uninspired bob haircut who wore Fair Isle sweaters and pearls, sometimes at the same time.

What Iwasjealous of, though, was the respect that came with Margaret Braswell’s credentials, from her Harvard degree to her work in the Peace Corps to her noble teaching profession. There was no way I could compete with a woman like that. It made me think a bit more than I usually would about who I wanted to be, other than just a survivor. As Daisy had told me years before, my modeling days were numbered, and it was clear that my mom was never going to leave Chip, no matter how much money I made or help I offered. The end game had changed, and it was time to make a move. For myself.

—

That fall, anopportunity came along when Wilbur Swift, an up-and-coming British fashion designer whom I’d befriended during his Burberry days, offered me a role at his new label. I said yes, quitting modeling for what I hoped would be for good.

Initially, Wilbur hired me to work on the creative side, but he ultimately moved me to sales, praising my people skills and deciding that I should have a more “visible role.” As I traveled back and forth between our Madison Avenue store and our flagship in Sloane Square, he had me working with our most prominent clientele. I styled socialites and actors, dressing them for parties and weddings and charity balls, as well as editorial shoots and red-carpet appearances. It was a pay cut from modeling but a huge step up in my quality of life, and I felt more respected and valued than I had before. Don’t get me wrong, I still had massive insecurities about my lack of a formal education, but by that time, I had seen enough of the world and been around enough wealthy, high-profile people to know how to fake it. I think it also helped that I began to develop relationships with some of my clients and to see that no matter how rich or successful someone was, they still had problems. As the expression goes: more money, more problems. I didn’t think that was true—they were just different problems.

I found myself remembering my high-school days in Montclair—when I’d used clothes to feel better about myself—and how I’d ultimately created a new identity—or at least masked my real one. I channeled that energy when dressing my clients, especially the ones who seemed depressed or worried about something. I’d usher them into my dressing room, sit them down on a comfortable chair, and hand them an espresso or a glass of champagne. Then we’d have a chat—and I’d ask them questions about what they were looking for. Sometimes they didn’t know. But I’d find out, putting them at ease before assembling a great outfit. The moment when they looked into the mirror and smiled filled mewith satisfaction and a sense of purpose. There was so much that was shallow about the fashion industry—but it could also be transformative.

—

About six monthsinto my gig, Wilbur and I were flying from New York to London together, enjoying cocktails in first class, when he asked me, out of the blue, who would be my dream client. Without hesitation, I said Princess Diana. In the middle of divorcing Prince Charles, she was technically no longer in the British royal family, but that didn’t diminish her star power in any way whatsoever.

“Dreammaleclient?” Wilbur asked.

I shrugged, finding men’s fashion significantly less interesting, then said, “I don’t know. Robert Redford…Paul Newman…maybe Brad Pitt.”

Wilbur took a sip of his Kir Royale (he traveled with his own crème de cassis, adding it to the airline champagne). “What about Joe Kingsley?” he asked.

My heart skipped a beat as I shrugged, squeezing more lime into my gin and tonic, feeling relieved that Joe hadn’t crossed my mind for a while.

“Yeah. He’d be up there, too, I guess.”

“Cate,” Wilbur said, smiling and shaking his head. “Why inGod’sname didn’t you tell me that you know Joe Kingsley?”

“What?”

“I ran into him at a party—he told me he knows you. You’re my director ofcelebritysales, and you don’t mention that you know the most famous man in the world?”

“Well, first of all, I don’tknowhim. Not like that,” I said. “And second of all, there are plenty of men more famous than he is.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know…plenty of people.”

“Name them.”

“As I said: Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Brad Pitt.”

“Rubbish,” Wilbur said. “Nobody knows those guys’ parents. Or cares about theirbabypictures.”

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