by Plum Sykes
Much to my surprise, Lauren was already at Blue Ribbon, on the corner of Downing and Bedford, when I arrived. She was sitting at a round table by the window of the cute little restaurant. She was draped in a ruffled mocha-colored chiffon dress. Despite the autumnal chill in the air, her legs were bare, and she had pastel pink Jimmy Choo alligator mules on her feet. A soft green fox fur stole was thrown casually over her seat back. She looked remarkably rested for someone who had flown across the Atlantic twice in as many days. As I walked over to her, I scanned the restaurant. There were at least four girls in white car coats, I noted, disappointed in myself. In New York the fashion cycle is always on fast forward. In any other American city it takes at least a season for something to be “over.” Here, it takes just one lunchtime.
“You look like Jackie O,” said Lauren when I reached her. She got up, hugged me, and kissed me on both cheeks. “I love that coat.”
“It’s hideous. You look amazing,” I replied, kissing her back.
“Ugh! I look horrible,” said Lauren, pulling at her dress. “I feel like a hog.”
Although both of us looked fine, it is compulsory for lunching girls, wherever they are in America, to swap compliments on the other’s incredible fashion sense. They must then swap remarks of a self-loathing nature about their own style. You learn the script in high school, right after the pledge of allegiance. The main point is never to ad-lib and mistakenly accept a compliment.
When that was out of the way we sighed simultaneously and sat down. A waiter came up and took our order—two Cokes, steak frites, no salad.
“I’m starving.” said Lauren. “Let’s get right down to it. What can I help you with?”
“Well, it’s about your friend, Alixe, the one who invited me to the shower.”
“That’s so weird. I was going to ask you something about Alixe,” said Lauren, looking surprised.
“What?” I said, suddenly intrigued.
“No, you ask first,” said Lauren, smiling.
I just came out with it and told Lauren the whole sorry story, from start to finish.
With that, Lauren picked up her cell phone, dialed Alixe Carter, and ordered her to wear Thackeray Johnston to her ball in January. From what I could gather from the conversation, Alixe Carter did whatever Lauren told her.
“Done. Alixe will be at the studio for a fitting this Monday, September 20th, at 2 P.M. I’ll wear Thack to her ball too if it helps,” she promised, snapping her phone shut. “Oh, God, delicious, thank you,” said Lauren as a waiter appeared with two Cokes. Lauren drained hers in two seconds flat, as though she hadn’t drunk in month. “Isn’t Coke the most delicious thing in the world? I’ve tried giving it up a thousand times, but I absolutely can’t. It’s easier quitting smoking, which I also can’t do.”
A few minutes later, the waiter brought our food and set it on the table. Lauren looked at hers and said, “Can I just get a radish salad?” and handed it straight back to the waiter. Then she said, “I was going to ask you a huge favor, to help me out with something—”
“Of course,” I said. “You’ve just done me the biggest favor ever.”
“I want you to be my maid of honor,” said Lauren with a sweet smile.
“You’re marrying Matador Make Out?”
“No. For my divorce shower.”
“I’d love to,” I said. It sounded hilarious.
It soon became clear that Lauren’s main directive for the maid of honor was for her to ensure that no husbands were brought to the event. Each guest must bring one eligible man, as specified on the invitation, but a “good one,” as opposed to one of a handful of known walkers who reappeared year after year on the party circuit, mainly because they were unmarriageable. A “good one” was defined as a man in possession of an interesting, high-paying career, although the higher paid the career, the less interesting it needed to be. Computer work was OK, for example, if you were Mr. Skype. Other requirements included a full head of hair, real estate (“No renters,” Lauren decreed), and, if possible, an inheritance.
“Not that I’m looking for a husband,” said Lauren coyly. “I’m only looking for Make Out Number Two. The main point is that the divorce shower is a smoocherama where the divorcée finds herself in a room of married women and single men. Zero competition. Oh, except I might have a select few of the Debutante Divorcées there…Salome, and Tinsley…they’re so fun. God, I hope you don’t mind organizing this at the last minute. I can give you a list of guys. I hope I’m not being too…flaky,” she said.
“It’s not flaky at all,” I said, thinking, How could anyone be flakier?
6
Husband-hunting
Was there something slightly dangerous, I asked myself later that Friday night, when I’d got home after my impromptu lunch with Lauren, about a new wife like me organizing a husband-free party that was celebrating a divorce? Something was bothering me. It wasn’t that I felt guilty exactly, but I did have some sense that it wasn’t quite appropriate for a newlywed to be involved—or to be quite so thrilled with her role. The truth was, I secretly found other newlyweds insufferable. The divorce shower, I thought, would be a marvelous antidote to the bourgeois fixations of newly married couples, who seem unable to discuss anything other than the Waterworks tiling in their new kitchens or their attempts to “try” for a baby. Episiotomies and ovulation cycles should be banned as conversation topics after 7 P.M. in mixed company. It makes everyone feel queasy.
Early that evening I called Hunter—it must have been eleven o’clock his time—to tell him about the divorce shower. As long as my husband knew what I was up to, I was doing nothing wrong. And if he said he didn’t want me involved, I’d quit as maid of honor.
“Darling, can I call you back later? I’m still at dinner,” he said when I got through on his cell.
I could hear lots of jollity in the background, and several American and British accents. It sounded as though Hunter was having fun.
“Yes, of course. Miss you, honey,” I said, putting down the phone.
I wasn’t going out that night, so I decided to eat dinner in bed, watch an episode of Entourage I’d missed, and wait for Hunter to call back. This felt deliciously decadent. Hunter absolutely forbids eating in bed—he thinks it’s indecent or something—but I think it’s unbelievably civilized. It felt amazing to be bed-bound, eating Chinese food in a vintage silk nightdress, with no one to worry about. Before Hunter could call back, I had fallen asleep. He must have known not to disturb me, because when I woke up that Saturday morning, he still hadn’t called.
As soon as I had roused myself I called Hunter at his hotel. He was living—in some style, I imagined—at the Hotel Bristol when he was in Paris. It’s one of the nicer old hotels there.
“Monsieur Mortimer is not ‘ere,” said a rather curt Frenchman at the other end of the line. “’E not ’ere all day.”
I wondered what he had been doing. Wistfully strolling the streets of Paris thinking of me, I hoped. Maybe he was buying me unbelievable handmade lace camisoles at Sabbia Rosa. Except I hadn’t told him about Sabbia Rosa, and we all know that husbands have to be told exactly what to surprise their wives with. I made a note to myself to mention it, extremely casually, the next time I spoke to him.
“Can you give Monsieur Mortimer a message when he gets back?” I said.
The reception desk put me through to a voicemail, where I left an overly long, lovey-dovey, missing-you type message involving sending many smooches over the line to Hunter.
“Kiss-kiss-kiss darling.”
Next I called Hunter on his cell. It rang a few times, and then there were three beeps and a voice said, “Please. Try. Later.” I called back a few times, but the phone obviously wasn’t working. Maybe the French made it impossible for U.S. cell phones to function there, just like they did everything else American. Oh well, I’ll email him, I thought. I sat in my dressing gown at the desk Milton had provided for Hunter in the library and typed the following:
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Dearest darling husband,
Your wife misses you very much. She has been sucked into a terrible Debutante Divorcée plan involving non-husbands and hopes you don’t object. By the way, if you are in the Rue Des Saintes Pères and are uncontrollably drawn toward a store called Sabbia Rosa, do follow your instincts and go in, as your wife loves Sabbia Rosa–type surprises. Call me, baby!
xxxx S
Having come clean about the divorce shower, I went to bed dreaming of Sabbia Rosa satin. On Sunday morning, Hunter still hadn’t called, so I rang the Bristol again. The hotel operator took a little while trying to find Hunter’s room, and then announced, “There is no Monsieur Mortimer staying here. He must have checked out.”
“No, he’s definitely there,” I insisted. Where else would he be?
“I check again…” there was a pause and I could hear the operator tapping at computer keys. “No. It says here he checked out on Friday. 2 P.M. Au revoir.”
The line went dead. I slowly hung up. My stomach suddenly felt like a cement mixer. Hunter had checked out? Where was he? That Sunday, for the first time in my brief marriage, I started to seriously wonder about Hunter. I adored him, but did I really know him after six months? Hunter had only been gone a week or so, but could I trust him? I felt myself sinking into a ghastly Sunday-ish depression as the day went on. Even a chirpy call from Milton saying he’d found the most beautiful antique chandelier at Les Puces didn’t cheer me up. Who cared about lighting your house with Venetian crystal when there was no husband to be lit by it?
“Have you seen Hunter?” I asked.
“Er…” Milton stuttered.
“What? What is it?”
“Haven’t even caught a glimpse of him. The chandelier is wonderful—”
“—if you see him can you, maybe, the thing is…”
Completely unexpectedly, I burst into tears.
“Sylvie, what is it?” said Milton, concerned.
“I just need to speak to him. I can’t find him, and it’s all suddenly really stressful, this whole…being married thing.”
“Well, I know we’re seeing him tomorrow.”
“We?”
“Sophia’s arranged it.”
Sophia. The Harajuku-slash-almost-queen-of-France girl, with legs.
“Why has Sophia ‘arranged it’?” I asked, slightly peeved.
“We’re all going to some restaurant in the rue Oberkampf. I think she got the table.”
Monday was not a good day. Hunter still didn’t call, I couldn’t track him down, and on top of that Alixe Carter never showed up for her fitting. I was sure I’d heard Lauren confirm the date and time—2 P.M., Monday September 20th. But Alixe didn’t telephone, she didn’t email, and her cell went straight to voicemail. Annoyed, Thackeray spent the entire day angrily sketching gloomy Oscar gowns that, hopefully, no actress would be doomed to wear. I, on the other hand, buried my head in the accounts in a poor attempt to distract myself from my own anxiety.
By the time I finally heard from Hunter that evening I was into the emotional false-positive stage of the whole not-hearing-from-your-husband drama, where you have cried and fretted and finally emerged relentlessly cheerful. I’d even told myself a million times, to the point where I almost believed it, I don’t need a husband anyway. It was almost seven in the evening when he called.
“Hello, darling,” I said cautiously when I heard his voice. My heart was beating a million miles a minute.
“I’ve been missing you like mad. Where were you all weekend?” he said.
“Where was I? I was wondering where you were. I called you, like, fifteen times. Where did you get to?” I said irritably. I felt a little annoyed suddenly.
“Here,” said Hunter. “Where else would I be?”
What? This was bizarre.
“The hotel said you checked out,” I replied.
“That’s odd. I was here all weekend. I couldn’t call when I wanted to because…I had endless business…meetings and then with the time difference…”
“I wonder why they said you weren’t there,” I said, trying not to sound accusatory.
“The hotel must have made a mistake,” said Hunter. “Now, about that divorce shower of Lauren’s…I think you should definitely be the maid of honor. And I want a full report of all the evil goings-on that night.”
“Oh, absolutely.” I laughed. Maybe everything was all right.
“And about that other item…Sabbia Rosa…nice store—”
“—did you get me something?” I asked excitedly.
“I couldn’t possibly divulge, darling…”
“Darling, I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
How could I have not trusted Hunter? Going to Sabbia Rosa like that after only one tiny email hint was admirable husband behavior. The mixup this weekend was obviously the hotel’s fault. Still…it was odd, the whole thing. But…well…what did it matter? I was probably just being overly paranoid with Hunter away for such a long time and everything.
“For missing you so much,” I lied.
“I think about you all the time. I keep thinking Paris isn’t really Paris without my beautiful wife beside me.”
“You’re my favorite,” I said. He was. Period.
“So, listen, I found the most amazing location last week for the country house scene. It’s this fantastic old chateau, about two hours north of Paris.”
“How did you find it?”
“Milton. He called out of the blue last week, and we had breakfast at Café Flore. We got chatting about interiors. He mentioned that Sophia had shown him this incredible space, so I took a look. The whole team’s up there now working on it.”
“How nice of Sophia,” I responded—very generously, I thought.
Then something struck me. Hadn’t Milton just told me yesterday that he hadn’t seen Hunter yet? Maybe I’d misheard him. Still, I felt a little peculiar suddenly.
“Yeah. She’s a useful contact here. Look, I must run to dinner, we’re all meeting up. I’ll say hi from you.”
“Lovely,” I said and hung up.
Why was everyone, including The Woman Who Only Dates Husbands, having dinner in Paris with my husband when I was in New York? This was all wrong. I must plan a weekend in Paris, soon.
7
The Divorce Shower
Alixe Carter’s parties always live up to her nickname: Spenderella. Spenderella is the only girl in New York under thirty-five who can honestly say that she has a ballroom, which is the location for her annual New Year’s ball. She says, and honestly believes, that she paid for her palace on Charles Street with royalties from her Arancia di Firenze soap line. Even though everyone knows that Alixe’s husband, Steve, actually pays for everything with revenues from his chain of casinos, this is never mentioned by writers from women’s magazines or Alixe’s coterie of slavishly devoted girlfriends, a.k.a. the ladies in waiting.
“Did I overdo the pear blossom? Or underdo?” she asked with a worried expression as Lauren and I arrived, just after midnight, at the penthouse suite of the Hotel Rivington, the location for the Divorce Shower. She was wearing a white Ungaro gown, printed with crimson poppies. It perfectly suited her floral theme. “If anything’s wrong, I completely blame Anthony Todd, whom I adore. He did the flowers, you know.”
Anthony Todd, had, as usual, wildly overcompensated on the $60-a-stem pear blossom front. The absurd price was justified by the fact that pear blossom is completely out of season on October 2nd, which was, of course, the main reason Alixe wanted it. (Now that status handbags were gauche accoutrements, status blooms filled that gap in her life.) The rumor was that she’d done more damage to New Zealand’s pear orchards to create her spring garden than McDonald’s ever did to the rain forests. “Rebirth!” declared Alixe, explaining the reason for creating a spring blossom orchard in the fall, although everyone knew the only criterion Alixe ever used for deciding floral themes was that the latest one should be more glaringly costl
y than the last.
“It looks amazing, Alixe,” I said, reassuring her.
“Sylvie Mortimer? So thrilled to finally meet you. Bon divorce, girls,” she squealed, turning to greet another guest.
Alixe didn’t mention the missed dress appointment. Nor did I.
“Right, let’s get alcohol fast,” said Lauren, leading the way to the bar. “Two champagne on the rocks, in tumblers,” she said when we arrived. “I read somewhere that Fred Chandon used to drink it like this. Isn’t that glam?”
The barman poured our drinks, and Lauren handed me one.
“Can you see anyone cute here?” she asked as her eyes scanned the room. “Do I look tacky?”
Lauren’s flawless outfit conformed to the unspoken dress code of the Hotel Rivington—unreconstructed black tie. She was wearing a cloud-gray, floor-length, ruched Tuleh dress, with tiny white polka dots. A jacketini—a small, barely shoulder-length garment made of approximately half an inch of illegal monkey fur—covered her shoulders. Her eyes were framed by false eyelashes and lashings of kohl, and her hair was falling in unbrushed waves around her shoulders. I, on the other hand, was dressed in one of Thack’s most demure white lace dresses. I wanted to make it quite plain that I was not on the prowl for cute guys.
“You look really great,” I told her.
“I feel weird,” she said, her eyes darting around the mass of guests. “It’s all way too cool in here for me.”
The party wasn’t exactly your typical girly shower (thank God). The wraparound glass windows of the penthouse, through which you could see the street-lights shimmering red and orange below, were a glittering backdrop for the party scene. Here and there I could make out silhouettes of men with their arms wrapped around girls’ waists, little groups perching on tiny sofas that had been brought in for the night, and intimate twosomes lounging on giant fur poufs that were scattered about the party. There was even already some kissing going on beneath the pear blossom, whose blooms were so lusciously puffy they looked fluffier than whipped cream.
