The Max Azria show was jam-packed with socialites and celebrities alike, but none of them seemed to matter once the lights dimmed and Nicole Richie — wearing a bump-concealing, floaty thing — made a beeline for her seat. "You can only tell she's pregnant by her boobs," squealed the girl next to us. "She looks so much better with the baby weight on," announced another as we all stared at the wings tattooed on her less-bony shoulder blades. Well
comparatively less bony. But it's a start.
Nicole eagerly hugged Molly Sims as Natasha Bedingfield, a crisp-in-white Ivanka Trump, and Mya looked on — the latter in a boobalicious peach dress that had members of the event staff angling for pictures with her. Ciara, who we never knew was model tall until we suddenly found ourselves in her shadow, gushed to a reporter that the only fashion pain for which she'll gladly suffer is a pair of shoes. Carrie Underwood, meanwhile, gave mostly pageant-perfect, carefully vague answers to every reporter's question — Max is one of her favorites, she wears a lot of his clothes, she's just happy and honored to be here, hooray for world peace, give it up for the children, etc. But despite this cadre of boldfaced names, there were a few notable no-shows, including Padma Lakshmi, Jaime King, and last season's Queen Bee, Tinsley Mortimer. Surely curling her hair doesn't take so long that she missed her car?
Too bad she did, too, because there was an interesting little frosty silence coming from her socialite pals, aimed at a morose Olivia Palermo, who slumped a little in her seat as a trio of her seatmates — two girls making an Arden Wohl sandwich — studiously pretended she didn't exist. We didn't see Byrdie Bell acknowledge her either, although it's possible they got together after the show and gossiped about whether Olivia had accidentally put on too much makeup (yes) or should've worn a bra (double yes). Still, once the lights came back up, Olivia managed to snag some face time with Vogue's Meredith Melling-Burke, so maybe she'll yet have the last laugh, perhaps by sweet-talking her way into a job at the magazine and doing an exposé called "Socialites With Wicked Cankles" (or something equally fraught with secret shame). You never do know — and frankly, that might be a fantastic read. —The Fug Girls