The following excerpt is taken from “The Art of Social War: A Novel” by Jodi Wing – a must-read fictional tale of a New York transplant in tinsel town who quickly learns how to maneuver the socialite battle grounds in her effort to acclimate among the wickedly rich and famous … and the climbers in between.
Girls’ Night
When a chieftain fights in his own territory, it is dispersive ground. On dispersive ground, fight not. On dispersive ground, I would inspire unity of purpose.
–Sun Tzu, The Art of War
I was extremely way the day of Julia’s “gathering.” None of the women I had yet come into contact with seemed to be going—including a very offended Mallory, but then again, Simon had said it would be a small group. I couldn’t begin to imagine why Julia would want to include me with her friends unless, of course, she wanted to vilify me further, as an extension of Jamey.
To that end, the groundswell of resentment and aggression toward us continued unabated. Oh, make no mistake: the SmackDown I’d witnessed during the Bring Your Wife to Work field trip had sealed the deal. I knew now, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that what we were dealing with was a very singular, very calculated, and very intense Social War. Whether Jamey agreed with me or not.
In the short time we’d been in town, I had a pretty clear understanding that while everything looked social and brimming with glamour, it was simply high-stakes ruthless roulette with only a thin overlay of varnish disguised as pleasure. So much was on the line at any given time: money, reputation, position, access—and the corresponding social accolades these things afford. And that is the major problem with living in a one-industry town: there is only one ladder, and everyone is on a different rung, trying to get higher.
Jamey and I entered the game late, from the outside and on a very high rung. This was bound to arouse jealousy, especially in Simon and Julia, who obviously felt that one piece of the pie for us was one less for them. There being, of course, only one pie. It was a hopelessly perplexing dilemma to try to figure out how to coexist peacefully. The upshot? It was not possible to do so, and the battle lines were drawn. It was all just unfortunately designed that way.
Having to live our lives like this, as a competitive game fraught with warlike overtones, was exhausting. It certainly was far from what we had in mind when Jamey was offered the career-defining opportunity to oversee Pacificus Studios. The relentless negativity and disinformation meted out by Simon and crew was triggering demoralizing feelings, fears and insecurities I hadn’t felt for years. They were coming back to me now, all right—full-blown and triply enforced, and I could sense an oppressive, aggravating road continuing on up ahead.
During a barrage of cross-country conference calls I debated whether to go to Julia’s at all. “But you have to!” cried Nancy. “You can’t just roll over and let them win. You know, if it weren’t for this insane power struggle, you and Julia might very possibly be friends.” I waited; her statement didn’t warrant a reply. “Well, probably not,” she admitted, “but you’d certainly be able to get along with her. I know: call your colorist!” she teased. (I winced; I already had. Magda the Colorblind’s daily clairvoyance pronounced ‘quartz and orange blossom with a smidge of propitious tartan…’) “I mean—really, Stace, what’s the worst that could happen?”
My mind raced with neurotic fantasy: a collage of angst-filled teenage scenes, in varying degrees of awfulness. Humiliation, flagellation, melodrama, tears… “Melinda DeMarco. Cafeteria. Eighth grade,” I blurted darkly, and silence hung heavy in response.
“Yeah, well, you’re all grown up now. It’s just a few women bitching and moaning over wine for a few hours, like we do all the time. Nothing you can’t handle,” said Leslie. “Same conversation, different town.”
“Maybe,” I relented slowly. “It’s just that anything that would normally seem simple ends up really complicated out here. It’s like high school on crack, but with loads of money and power at the center and absolutely no rules. I hope I’m overreacting, believe me, but I just can’t shake this weird feeling… So, what do we think? Jeans, butterfly top, Stevie Nicks shawl, silver Pradas?”
“Perfect!” they agreed. “We’ll be at the Museum benefit until late, so call first thing in the morning,” said Leslie.
I turned into an impressively gated, landscaped drive, which led to an even more impressively landscaped Tudor mansion. Instantly, something didn’t seem right: lights blazed, strains of lite jazz emanated from within. A team of tuxedoed valets waited atop the patterned-stone motor court, next to a high-end bar-mitzvah’s worth of cars. The other side (the service area) was reserved for the limo-and-driver set. I considered the bevy of uniformed drivers, sipping coffee and joking, and gripped the wheel tightly, heart pounding. This can’t be the right house for a few women sitting around drinking wine… I glanced down at my California-chic ensemble, the style of which I’d only just begun to master, and… Oh great:
A setup. I knew it. What a shock.
I double-checked the address with the valet, who nodded, confirming my fears. I assessed: Jamey was inside a movie theater with Simon; he’d have his cell turned off. And it was still too early for my girlfriends to be home from their evening event to start dialing for sympathy.
I entered an octagonal foyer, twenty feet high and twice as wide, all hunter green marble and well-polished mahogany. Across the way were oversized French doors draped in aubergine velvet and gold braid, leading out to a lush, English-style garden. A flashbulb went off. I no sooner whirled around (yup- the ubiquitous Shinier Sheet stringer strikes again!) than I caught sight of Libbet Fauning’s Pepto Bismol boucle back, gold Manolos click-clacking as fast and far away from me as possible. As Mallory had predicted, she’d evaded my follow-up calls magnificently after word ‘leaked’ of our Gloss-induced tea. I’d bet all my Stevie CD’s that I’d feature prominently in the next issue, my White Witch gear blaring ‘Glamour Don’t’ among the best of European Couture.
Thirty or so homogenously expensive women mingled in clusters, intently drinking some kind of punch, a Pantone palette of blond hair highlighted within an inch of their lives, like Julia. Also, like Julia, they seemed to be on a sliding scale in age from thirty-five to fifty-plus. So hard to tell but, I had to admit, they did look fabulous, if slightly underfed. I felt as though I’d stepped through the looking-glass and into a tableau from W magazine: each was dressed to the nines in top-of-the-line, Rodeo Drive, third-party approved chic. Nothing unbranded; obviously no casual wear, no jeans in sight.
Except on me: Alice in Wonderland.
With a serene smile fixed wide, I meandered through the cliques, ostensibly seeking my hostess. As I cased the rooms, absorbing the Shiny floorshow, I managed to pick up some fascinating snatches of conversation:
“No, it was his pancreas. Our night nurse says it’s only gonna get worse. I’ll ship him off to Mayo when it does and have the bedroom redone at the same time!”
“…his son is only three years younger than me. He finally dumped that snippy bitch of a wife from back East and he’s staying with us for a while. At least I’ll have someone to escort me to the Blood Clot fundraiser next week. The Doobies don’t start until ten and you know Marvin won’t be able to stay awake…”
I strolled out one of the French doors to escape the chatter. The garden was beautiful, even in this late fall season, and the chill felt refreshing after the haze of melodrama inside. I checked the clock on my cell phone and was surprised to learn I’d only been there twenty minutes. I’d already seen plenty. I heard a rustling sound and braced myself, my eyes darting in the dusk: a provocative, golden blond in tiger-print Cavalli was approaching stealthily, a paperweight-sized heart-shaped diamond bulging at her neck. Grrr! I smelled a showdown. There was no one else around; I was her prey. “I’m Ritzy Snippington.”
“Stacey Makepeace,” I shook her hand.
“Ah, yes. Stace.” She snapped imaginary gum. “I’ve heard all about you. You moved from… where?”
“New York,” I replied.
She gave me a protracted once-over, taking painstaking mental notes. “Right. From somewhere between the two airports. Well! You certainly look… comfortable.”
As if the fates had heard my silent plea, another woman (think the unflappable Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief) wedged in on the other side of me, bumping Ritzy off balance. “Sarah Truehart,” she introduced warmly, ignoring Ritzy. “You must be Stacey. My husband had breakfast with yours this morning. Charlie said he and Jamey really hit it off, and he mentioned you’d be here tonight. I thought I’d come look for you—very brave stuff, by the way, walking into the lion’s den all alone…”
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For more information on Jodi Wing and her book, visit her website.
When it comes to defining a French woman’s personal style, Ines del La Fressange, who modeled for the House of Chanel during the ’80s says, “French women feel comfortable wearing clothes from past seasons or mixing styles from different designers. That is what makes her look special and distinguishes her from what is conventional and trendy.”
Every time I travel to New York, I marvel at how wonderful the restaurants there are. In my most recent trip there, even though we walked miles everyday, and I used the stairs rather than the elevator to go up to the 8th floor of where we stayed, I still gained at least five pounds! How? Because we had incredible meals every night…and day.
