by Plum Sykes
8
Paranoia Party
“You’ve got everything to worry about,” shrieked Tinsley. “I’m more afraid of Sophia than I am of Saudi Arabia withholding oil, I swear.”
I’d just told her the news about Hunter hiring Sophia.
“Hush! Tinsley!” chided Lauren. “The main thing, Sylvie, is, worry, but don’t let your husband know that you’re worried. Just freak out silently inside. Don’t spiral into total paranoid fear, even if it means talking to yourself and telling yourself everything’s OK when it isn’t. That’s what I did when my marriage was falling apart.”
“But my marriage isn’t falling apart,” I insisted, wondering, Is it?
I was sitting with Lauren and Tinsley in the oval-shaped gallery at the Carlyle Hotel the night before Hunter was due home. This is where Tinsley likes to come for a “paranoia party,” as she calls it. She thinks the place is soothing. Indeed, there is nothing as calming as relaxing deep into one of the Carlyle’s red velvet armchairs, nor is there a sight more reassuring than that of a white-jacketed octogenarian waiter with a linen napkin thrown at precisely ninety degrees over his left arm. But that night I felt like nothing could calm my sense of mounting anxiety. The only things that vaguely cheered me up that evening were Lauren and Tinsley’s outfits. They’d gone nuts at Chanel earlier that day. Tinsley had come away with plus fours and a tweed jacket, and Lauren was wearing a severe black coat fastened tightly at the neck with a huge ruby brooch by James de Givenchy. “I’m channeling Nan Kempner,” she said, “and Tinsley’s the gamekeeper.”
A waitress approached our table. She had an incredible red bouffant hairdo and was wearing a little black dress and high, black patent heels. She walked with a pronounced bounce, as though she were in a Broadway dance troupe.
“What can I get you ladies?” she said.
“Mini-hamburgers,” cried Lauren and Tinsley simultaneously.
“I’ll have a green salad,” I said. I really wasn’t hungry. “Shall we get some champagne?”
“Coming up,” said the waitress, turning sharply on her heel.
“I don’t know if I can not say anything to Hunter about Sophia, I mean—” I started.
“—never mention it. He’ll think you’re being paranoid,” said Tinsley. She was fidgeting like mad. “God, tweed is so scratchy. Can you die of itching?”
“Am I just being paranoid?” I said.
If I was just being paranoid, that was a good thing. That meant, by definition, that there was actually nothing untoward going on.
“Not necessarily. I remember calling Louis thinking he was in New York, and there he was, in Rio with this fifteen-year-old model!” said Lauren. “If only I had been properly paranoid, I might have figured things out sooner.”
This was awful. Why had I even told Tinsley and Lauren about Sophia? They were only making things worse.
“I say call in the lawyers now,” giggled Lauren. “It’s so much easier being divorced.”
“Agreed,” hooted Tinsley. “By the way, I’ve made a resolution. I’ll take a billionaire or a busboy, but they’ve got to be under twenty-five. I’ve got to be trashier now that I’m single. I’ve been too proper for too long. This outfit is a segue; don’t ask me how, but I know it is.”
I didn’t join in. All this joking around only made me feel doubly depressed. I didn’t find Lauren and Tinsley’s squealing and laughing at all appropriate under the circumstances. Tinsley prodded me, but when she saw my gloomy expression, she looked mortified.
“God, sorry. We’re being terrible,” she said, shame-faced.
Just then the waitress appeared with three glasses of champagne, the salad, and the miniature hamburgers. Lauren and Tinsley diligently removed the bun and the mini fries from their plates until they were left with two quarter-size burgers each. It was less food than you’d give a Smurf.
“The only weight-loss junk food in town,” said Lauren, nibbling at her beef. “Super-downsize me.”
“Mmm,” said Tinsley, sipping her champagne. “The thing is, I don’t want to confuse you, Sylvie, but you should be paranoid. But that doesn’t mean there is actually anything real to be paranoid about. The truth is all wives have to be subconsciously paranoid, if you like. Girls like Sophia are very cunning, you know,” she continued. “So even if there is nothing going on, one must always be suspicious just in case there is. A bit like with the Saudis and the oil, to get back to where we began.”
“She’s absolutely spot on,” nodded Lauren. “I couldn’t have put it more clearly myself.”
As divorcées, Lauren and Tinsley were bound to be overly suspicious, I told myself as the taxi sped back downtown later that night. Sophia couldn’t possibly be after Hunter. If she was as smart as everyone said, she wouldn’t be dumb enough to go after him in broad daylight like that, getting a job with him. It was far too obvious.
I let myself into the apartment and went into the drawing room. I lay back on the sofa that Milton had brought over a few days ago. It was lovely, really comfortable, upholstered in faded old Moroccan tapestry. Everything was almost done, and I still had a day until Hunter got back. The only thing missing was a new sink in the bathroom, but that was going to be installed tomorrow. Eventually I got up and headed for the bedroom. I flicked on the light, and suddenly there was Hunter, sitting up in bed, smiling like crazy, and holding a little bunch of white camellias.
“Hello, darling,” he said, very cool.
“Eeek!” I screamed.
I dropped my bag and flew over to him. As you can imagine, I totally melted. We had an indecent amount of very, very indecent sex, followed by at least a month’s worth of smooching. We had a lot of time to make up for. At about 2 A.M. Hunter got out of bed, opened his bulging suitcase, and took out a stiff white box. When he handed it to me, I saw two delicious words—Sabbia Rosa—printed in black script across the top. Inside was a long nightdress of turquoise silk, trimmed with antique lace. I slipped it on and twirled in front of the mirror. It was very Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour. (I say, if you’re going to dress like a hooker, she’s the one to aspire to.)
“Hunter, it’s beautiful,” I said, getting back into bed. “Thank you so much.” I snuggled up to him and shut my eyes, totally content.
“My darling,” said Hunter a few moments later, “where’s the basin from our bathroom?”
“What are you doing home one day early?” I replied dozily. “If you’d waited till tomorrow it would have been here.”
“The apartment looks amazing,” said Hunter. “How did you do it so fast?”
“For the first time in my life, I got a decorator. I’m completely ashamed.” I laughed.
“Well, I think it was a brilliant idea. We’ve got a real home. I love it. And I love you,” he said, curling up around me. “Let’s get some sleep.”
There was absolutely nothing going on. I could tell. Hunter was as cute as ever, and he was very married to me.
“Darling, you don’t have to do this, honestly,” said Hunter the next morning.
“I wanted to,” I said.
I’d brought him breakfast in bed, and we sat together on top of the duvet munching croissants I’d ordered in from Balthazar bakery. At about a quarter to eight, my cell phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hello, Sylvie. It’s Sophia. How are you?”
“Oh. Hi,” I said, slightly shocked.
“Can I speak to Hunter? It’s really urgent, and his phone must be switched off. I couldn’t get through to him.”
I reluctantly handed Hunter the phone. Suddenly the bubble of well-being vanished and the doubt of the previous night crept back.
“It’s Sophia, for you.”
Hunter took the phone. While he listened to Sophia, he started to frown.
“You think there’s nothing you can do? Oh God…no, actually I don’t fancy coming back to Paris next week. I just got back to New York…Haven’t seen Sylvie for weeks…Can it wait until my next trip?…I see. Yeah. OK. Let me get
back to you,” he said, and hung up.
Sophia was trying to get Hunter back to Paris already? I could feel my robe starting to cling to my suddenly clammy skin. Forgetting all Lauren and Tinsley’s advice, I blurted, “Darling, why didn’t you tell me you’d hired Sophia?” I was trying very hard not to sound horribly jealous.
Hunter looked surprised. “I’ve only hired her to help with the permits for filming at the chateau. Her boyfriend, Pierre, is something high up in the Paris town hall, and she said she’d get him to help out. We were having so many problems. I thought I ought to pay her something. It was inappropriate her doing all that work for free. She’s very connected in Paris, you know.”
“So everyone says,” I responded a little coldly.
“I hope I don’t have to rush back there,” sighed Hunter. “Look, if I do, would it make it up to you if we made a very long weekend out of it?”
“Yes, darling, of course it would,” I said.
It would, I was sure of it. I shrugged off my slight feeling of irritation. I had absolutely nothing to worry about, I told myself. I quelled an urge to check with Lauren and Tinsley as to whether I should be suspicious about the invitation to Paris. Was this a bluff? No, they would only convince me that Hunter and Sophia were going to rendezvous. I had to stop listening to them. After all, I was the happy wife, they were the singletons. Marriage was infinitely preferable to divorce.
9
The UnGoogle-able Man
Everyone working at A La Vieille Russie, the discreet jeweler on the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, looks like they just died. Inside, the place feels more like a mausoleum than a jewelry boutique, with dusty, meringue-thick moldings and lights trained on glass cases housing “important” Russian gems. Lauren adores the place. She thinks it’s the finest jeweler in New York because it’s so old-fashioned and un-starry. It was to be her first stop in her search for the Fabergé cuff links, and a few days later, she persuaded me to accompany her there.
“I’m wearing this new perfume called Park Avenue,” she said on the way uptown in the car. “I’m trying to seem uptight, to go in there. That’s their thing.” Having said that, Lauren didn’t look uptight: she was wearing a vintage, cerise Giorgio di Sant’Angelo dress that plunged almost to her waist. She was dressed for Studio 54, not Fifty-ninth Street.
After the divorce shower, Sanford had given Lauren specific details about the cuff links he wanted. He said they were “the mother of all Fabergé cuff links,” given to Tsar Nicholas by his mother, the empress dowager, on Easter 1907. They were egg-shaped, yellow enamel, with the imperial crown worked in the center in gold filigree. The genuine pair had an inventory number scratched on the back with a diamond, which was only visible with a loupe. Sanford had lost them to an unknown telephone bidder, but Lauren suspected that the staff at ALVR could find the buyer or may, possibly, have bought the cuff links anonymously on behalf of one of their clients.
Sanford had always wanted, being Russian, to own a piece of Russian history. He’d also heard Tom Ford collected Fabergé cuff links, which made him feel very much OK about spending over $100,000 on two pieces of yellow enamel that each measured less than half a square inch.
“Ah, yes, I do know of the Easter cuff links,” whispered Robert, the corpse-slash-salesperson in the store that morning. He spoke quietly, as though he was afraid of waking the dead.
“Yeeaay,” said Lauren, as quietly as she could. “I knew you guys would find them for me.”
“Miss Blount, we have no idea where the cuff links are now,” said Robert. He started tidying a few things on his desk, as though that was the end of the conversation.
“Who bought them?” I asked.
“We can’t talk about our clients, miss,” said Robert with a disapproving glare.
“Robbie, stop it!” said Lauren. “Come on, please, I have a very important client who will pay anything for them. He lost them at auction and he’s devastated. I could cut you in on the deal.”
“Miss Blount, the answer’s no. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“—can I try this?” interrupted Lauren.
She was leaning over a glass case, pointing at an antique turquoise and diamond bracelet that was shaped like a serpent. Robert sighed.
“Certainly, Miss Blount,” he replied, unlocking the case and delicately lifting out the object.
Lauren put it on and slid it up her arm as far as it would go, Egyptian-style.
“Oooh,” she breathed. “Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”
“It’s awesome,” I said.
“It’s twenty-two awesome big ones as well,” she said, looking at the price tag dangling under her arm. “I’m not sure, Robbie—”
“—No doubt we could work something out for you, Miss Blount. You are a regular client,” said Robert, watching Lauren like a hawk.
“Could that something include the mysterious Mr. Fabergé cuff links?” Lauren was deadpan, suddenly all business.
Robert huffed. He tipped his head to one side. He glowered slightly at Lauren.
Then he beckoned us to follow him into a back office. It was cramped, with a huge leather desk piled with books, jewel cases, and sketches of gems. Robert somehow squeezed himself behind the desk and tapped at an ancient-looking PC. A photograph of the cuff links appeared on the screen. They were beautiful and delicate, and the yellow enamel was so intense it seemed to glow. Underneath, a few particulars were listed:
Price: $120,000
Client: G. Monterey
Payment type: Bank Transfer
“G. Monterey,” I asked. “Who is he?”
“We never met him. Someone called on his behalf, the money was wired, and the cuff links were taken to the Park Hyatt in Moscow. They were very secretive,” explained Robbie. “Wouldn’t give us contact numbers. That’s normal with many of our clients based in Russia. It’s so dangerous, no one wants you to know anything about them. Now, Miss Blount, how would you like to pay for the bracelet?”
“I can’t believe you had to buy that bracelet,” I said to Lauren when we were in a taxi heading back downtown.
“I’ll bill it to ‘the client’,” said Lauren cheekily. “Sanford wants those cuff links so bad, he doesn’t care what it costs him. And I suspect,” she said, with a raised eyebrow, “my research is going to be quite costly.”
I laughed. Lauren didn’t get away with murder, she got away with homicide.
“Sanford is actually an angel, you know,” she said. “If he wasn’t married—twice—with two small daughters, and God knows how many other stepkids, I might, you know…”
“Really?” I said.
“—actually, I just don’t know if I could imagine—” Lauren paused. She looked over to the driver to make sure he wasn’t listening and then whispered “—it would be like making love to a waterbed.”
“Oh, God, Stop,” I begged her. “You’re totally out of control.”
“My sex life is. What I would give for a young, unmarried, weight-loss Sanford. If only he had a son.”
As the cab jerked us down Fifth Avenue, I rifled in my bag and pulled out my BlackBerry.
“OK, now I am going to find the mysterious G. Monterey,” I said.
Despite the lurches of the cab I managed to type GOOGLE into my BlackBerry, and then the name G. Monterey.
“Why don’t we go to Moscow to find him the first weekend of November? It’s the ice polo. It’ll be fun,” said Lauren.
I was tempted. I’d heard Moscow was crazily fun, and that everyone in fashion was doing amazing business there. Maybe I could score some commissions for Thackeray.
“It could be great, but can I let you know? I might go to Paris with Hunter then.”
“So everything’s good with him?”
“He’s been adorable since he’s been back,” I said.
“So sad you won’t be joining our ranks,” said Lauren. “Just kidding.”
Suddenly a message popped up onto the BlackBerry’s screen. It re
ad, Your search—G. Monterey—did not match any documents. No pages were found containing “G. Monterey.”
“That’s annoying,” I said.
Lauren looked over my shoulder at the message and frowned. She took the BlackBerry from me and tapped at the little machine a few times, trying several different versions of the name. Nothing came up.
“The UnGoogle-able man. God, how attractive,” she said finally. “I must hunt him down in Moscow.”
“What’s happened to the Make Out plan?” I asked.
“Maybe Monterey can be Number Two,” said Lauren.
“What if he’s seventy-nine years old?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not,” declared Lauren. “I can feel the vibe. I’m madly in love with him already.”
10
Gorgeous West Village Wives
Gorgeous West Village Wives, as an indigenous tribe, are pretty much at the top of the New York food chain right now. Their natural habitat—specifically, the terrace at Pastis, the doorway of the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street, and the stone steps outside their own West Ninth Street town-house—seems like a little Manhattan paradise all its own. No wonder it’s jammed with tourists all weekend now. The out-of-towners just stand there, open-mouthed, gazing at the G.W.V.W.’s blinding white teeth and wonderful hair, which is always shiny and swinging back and forth with the regularity of a metronome.
Liv Tyler, Olatz Schnabel, SJP—you can barely get a lunchtime table anymore at Saint Ambroeus on Perry Street for all the glamorous mommies and their buggies. These girls have fantasy careers (movie star being a fav), wear vintage Spanish ponchos to get coffee at Jack’s on West Tenth Street in the mornings, and never seem to leave the house without their epidermis glowing in the manner of a girl who has just had spectacular sex. They ooze happiness and contentment even while pushing a Bugaboo Frog on six-inch Roger Vivier heels.
I can honestly say there is nothing quite as demoralizing for a newlywed than bumping into one of these extraordinary creatures at seven o’clock on a cold night on your way home from work. It hurts, it really does.
