Taking Names and Getting the Lowdown on the Upper Crust : ‘Should the pendulum swing back, and you get to a table with six forks and five spoons, you’ll know what to do.’

I always wanted to be a princess. And if not a princess, a debutante. Minimal schooling required. One must be well coiffed at all times and know the difference between a salad fork and a soup spoon. White dresses are not a preference, but a way of life.

But somewhere between preteen and puberty the desire left. “White Gloves and Party Manners” was forsaken for “On the Road,” and Chanel gave way to patchouli oil. Cotillion? The closest I came was dating a slam dancer named Tufty.

And then came the Los Angeles Blue Book, a historic tome published annually and named for its regal blue leather cover, which is adorned with frilly gilded script. The register is filled with the who’s who of left-coast bluebloods, from yacht club members to museum trustees, Phi Beta Kappas to countesses.

It also has someone with my exact same name--Laura Anne Galloway.

It is a rich man’s telephone book that would make Hedda Hopper salivate from beyond the grave: addresses, phone numbers and club memberships. Nouveau riche and Madonna need not apply.

The book was started in 1917 by William Hord Richardson, a member of Los Angeles high society who made his fortune in real estate. Upon his death in 1969, duties shifted to his wife, Luisa Hord Richardson, who has been the editor and publisher up through the printing this year of its final edition. (A key staff member died and the work had gotten to be too much, Mrs. Richardson explained.)

Until its demise with the 1994 issue, the book was funded by a $40 fee paid annually by those listed. But not just anyone could become a member of the Southland gentry. Inclusion was by invitation only, with old members recommending new entries each year. Efforts were also made to distribute the book only among the listed, although an occasional copy strayed. Ahem.

Thus to happen across a copy of the Blue Book seemed an act of fate. And the chances of finding two Laura Anne Galloways, let alone two who spelled their middle name with an E, seemed about as likely as finding a Hells Angel at afternoon tea. A call to my namesake was in order; after all, it was the socially correct thing to do.

*

For three days I planned out my initial conversation with the other Laura Anne Galloway. The possibilities seemed endless: perhaps a meeting at Le Dome, gin and tonics over a stimulating conversation regarding our lineage and the merits of crinoline over taffeta.

The other Laura, who no doubt was well connected, would be so impressed with me, her fellow Laura Anne, that she would extend an invitation to join an exclusive social circle, where I would undoubtedly meet my future husband: a member of the British Royal Family, perhaps, or maybe a James Bond type.

We settled not on Le Dome, but a coffee shop in La Canada Flintridge. Instead of gin and tonic, the sweet-faced brunette daintily sipped a chocolate milkshake, sharing bits of information about her life with the grace of a princess.

She has been dating an older man lately, a relationship that is conducted with her mother’s full approval. She’d been to Paris just a few months earlier, and greatly enjoyed the experience that France afforded her. And, as should be the case with anyone who shares my full name, Laura loves to shop.

They were all expected activities for the beautiful, friendly other Laura Anne Galloway, with a few possible exceptions. The older man is a junior in high school; the trip to Paris was with her high school band. And most of the shopping is done at the Glendale Galleria, or, as she will tell you, “Wherever my friends will drive.”

You see, the other Laura Anne Galloway is only 14.

*

Young Laura doesn’t think much about the Blue Book--she was in fact unaware that it existed until her mother, who joined us, explained what it was.

Young Laura is interested in outer space, but she hasn’t made any career choices yet. After all, she is only a sophomore, and there is plenty of time.

She has considered becoming a debutante, something that both her mother and sister did. But it is not as much for the tradition as the mandatory community service, an idea that appeals to her very much.

Her mother, Anne Galloway, explains the merits of being a debutante in this way: “If you should ever need the formality, you would feel very comfortable in any setting. This generation is more of a casual generation. Should the pendulum swing back, and you get to a table with six forks and five spoons, you’ll know what to do.”

Just think: Had I been given the chance, my habit of using steak knives for buttering bread would have ended years ago, and I could have proudly added spectator pumps to my footwear collection (now mostly Keds).

In the end, it didn’t matter much that young Laura Anne Galloway did not know Prince Charles, that she did not belong to an exclusive club or that she wore cotton instead of crepe. Because, as Laura Anne Galloway showed me, it’s not who you know, but who you are.