The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes

  “I can’t believe you’re taking no for an answer, Lauren. That’s not like you.”

  “You know what? For once, I’m going to quit immediately. There was something about the look on Giles’ face when I mentioned Sanford. He won’t change his mind.”

  “Really?”

  “No way. The only trouble is, you know how I said, a while ago, that I was madly in love with him?”

  “With who?” I asked. I couldn’t even vaguely keep up with Lauren’s sexual schedule anymore.

  “With Giles,” she said, clutching my arm. Her expression suddenly became unusually vulnerable and sweet. “Well, I actually am. Sylvie, I’m madly in love with him. Exactly as I predicted.”

  “Already?” I said doubtfully.

  “It’s hopeless. I’m never gonna see him again. And he’s got the pick of the most beautiful girls in Moscow. Why would he want a divorcée?” she sighed. “He’s UnGoogle-able and unmakeout-able. Drat.”

  For the first time, I saw a little chink in Lauren’s party girl armor. It was disarming, actually, although she did her best to disguise it, exclaiming, “I don’t care! There’s a Make Out Number Three waiting for me somewhere back in New York—”

  —Rap-rap-rap.

  Someone was banging on the glass. I pulled back the black curtain. Giles Monterey’s wild blue eyes were peering right into mine. The snow was swirling about him, and—I have to say, no disloyalty to Hunter—he was devastatingly handsome. He saw Lauren and gestured for me to open the window. I did so, and he said, “Lauren, I need to talk to you.”

  “Meet my friend Sylvie Mortimer,” said Lauren.

  “Sylvie?” said Giles. “Sylvie Mortimer, you said? You live in New York too?’

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Ah…you’re Sylvie. Very interesting,” he said, staring at me curiously. Suddenly he snapped out of it and said to Lauren, “Look, I know you want the cuff links, and I said I’d never part with them, but, well…there is one thing that could cause me to part with them.”

  “Do tell,” said Lauren, pointedly not inviting Giles into the stationary car.

  “I want the Princess Letizia diamond. If you can get it for me, I’ll sell you the cuff links.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s one of the most priceless gems in the world. Sally Rothenburg has owned that blue diamond heart since 1948. She’s refused every offer,” said Lauren, sounding flabbergasted.

  “You’re a very persuasive girl,” said Giles with a charming smile. He was almost as good a flirt as Lauren.

  “So are you, Mr. Monterey. Maybe I’ll try. It’s a challenge. But tell me something, what would a man like you want with a piece of history like that?”

  “Well…,” said Monterey, looking deep into Lauren’s eyes. He trailed off, and just gazed at her. Lauren, never shy, gazed right back, flopping her long eyelashes back and forth, back and forth, like a hypnotist. I felt like I was intruding on a very intimate moment.

  “Yes?” said Lauren, breaking the spell.

  “Let’s just say…it would be an engagement present.”

  With that he turned and walked briskly away. Lauren looked as deflated as a cold cheese soufflé. She leaned over to me and said, dejected, “He’s engaged. Of course he is! Why wouldn’t he be? He’s perfect. She’s probably the next Natalia Vodianova, or something like that. Or maybe she’s some incredible eighteen-year-old Bolshoi ballerina. I feel even worse than a hog. Alas.”

  The trouble with Moscow is that there’s only one way out: Aeroflot. The only thing to recommend it is that it’s the one airline that still takes bribes. A hundred dollars slipped to a hostess facilitates an instant upgrade to first class, which roughly compares with a coach class seat on American.

  Our illegal upgrade did little to lift Lauren’s spirits. Since Giles Monterey had revealed his engagement, she had taken on the severely disappointed air of a jilted fiancée, who had fully expected to marry the man in question. It was extreme. Lauren had barely removed her sunglasses or her iPod earphones since we’d left the Park Hyatt a few hours earlier. Even coming across a lone issue of New York magazine in the airport hadn’t cheered her up. One of the cover lines read “NYTV: The city’s small screen players.” Maybe Hunter’s new show would get a mention.

  I was just flicking through the magazine to find the story when Lauren took out her earplugs and moaned, “Engaged! I have never met a more beautiful or hot polo player, and just when I decide I want to…kiss him, he’s all taken. Do you think I can get him back?”

  “How can you get a man back if you never had him?” I asked.

  Reluctantly, Lauren laughed.

  “I guess there is that,” she said. “My one hope is that heart. It’s my only chance of seeing him again. I’m convinced he was flirting with me at the polo. But engaged men are always the biggest flirts. Oh! But Sally will never let the heart go. Never. Even if I could get it, how would I find Giles again? I don’t even have his email.”

  It was true. Giles was beyond Un-Google-able. He wasn’t even there in the normal sense. Secretly, I thought it was a good thing he was taken. He would have driven Lauren crazy.

  “Look, there’s a photo of Hunter,” I said. The New York article included a paragraph about Hunter’s show, and there was a photo of Hunter in one corner with the caption Manhattan’s Hot TV Guy!!! underneath it.

  “How cute,” said Lauren. She took off her dark glasses and examined the photo closely.

  “Mmm…” she said. “What good taste your husband has. He’s coming out of S. J. Phillips on Bond Street. I know it really well, believe me. Best jeweler in London. What did he give you?”

  “Oh. Well. Nothing,” I replied, feeling somewhat perturbed. What had Hunter been doing in a jewelry store in London?

  Lauren wasn’t really listening. She was holding the magazine about an inch from her nose and examining the photograph closely.

  “My god. That operator. I don’t believe it. That,” declared Lauren, “is Sophia D’Arlan’s foot.”

  I took the magazine from Lauren and looked closely at the picture of Hunter. There was indeed a woman’s foot and ankle peeking into the edge of the photograph. The foot was clad in a high-heeled gold shoe with a large cluster of pearls on the toe.

  “Lauren, how could you possibly know that is Sophia’s foot?” I asked. I tried to sound nonchalant, but I was half-concerned.

  “The gold shoes. Couture Bruno Frisoni. I tried to order them, but Sophia got there first. He makes only one pair of each, and he’s obsessed with Sophia, so she got first dibs. It made me mad because those are the prettiest shoes ever.”

  I looked at the photo again. Was that Sophia’s ankle in the gold shoes? The leg did look rather slim and tan, just like hers.

  “I’m sure it’s not her,” I said, trying to end the conversation. I was tired and wanted to sleep now. I pulled my mask over my eyes.

  “What was Hunter doing in London anyway?” asked Lauren. “Did you ever find out?”

  “He said it was some last-minute business meeting,” I said with a yawn.

  “A last-minute business meeting at a jewelry store?”

  I didn’t sleep a wink.

  15

  The Power Christening

  The night before Phoebe’s daughter’s christening, I was restless. I hadn’t seen Hunter for almost two weeks, but he was finally coming home the following night. We’d been speaking constantly, but the thought of actually being back together with him was almost too much: I couldn’t possibly sleep. At 2 A.M. I was still tossing around unhappily under the comforter. Wide awake, I finally decided to get up for a while and catch up on some emails—there was no point staying in bed any longer. I slipped on my cashmere robe and wandered into the study.

  I sat down at Hunter’s desk and switched on the study lamp. I had left my laptop in the office, so I turned on Hunter’s desktop computer, which I occasionally used when I was home. I was about to type an email when I noticed a file on his desktop I hadn�
��t seen before: underneath it read, sjphillipssketch. jpeg.

  S. J. Phillips, I mused to myself. Wasn’t that the name of the jewelry store Lauren had mentioned when we were on our way back from Moscow? Feeling tremendously guilty, I clicked on the icon. It popped open, showing a one-page document. The following was written on the page in a curly, old-fashioned typeface:

  S. J. Phillips, Jewellers, 139 New Bond Street, London, W1

  By Royal Appointment

  Underneath was an intricate sketch, in pencil, of an oval-shaped, amethyst pendant with an S snaking elegantly around it in tiny diamonds. “The necklace will be ready for collection after November 20” was written next to the sketch. I gulped. So that was what Hunter had been up to in London! He had commissioned a special jeweled pendant for me. How sweet of him to pretend he had been at a last-minute business meeting. No wonder he had sounded so vague when I had interrogated him so ferociously about it—he was covering up his beautiful, romantic little love project. Hunter could go on last-minute business trips to S. J. Phillips anytime he wanted. Hopefully, I thought, as I returned to bed, suddenly sleepy and relaxed, Hunter was picking up the jewel while he was in Europe. I could hardly wait to see him. (And not just because of the jewel, honestly.)

  Phoebe has more friends-slash-business-associates than the president of the United States. No wonder she had to take out the whole church on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twelfth Street for the christening of her newborn, Lila Slingsby. She couldn’t possibly share a christening like regular people do. Not only would she never have been able to squeeze in everyone she wanted, other parents might have objected to the commercial undertones of the Phoebe Bébé–themed christening: the entire church was decked out with yellow primroses that had been specially grown and white satin ribbons that were tied in bows absolutely everywhere you looked, even around the crucifix at the foot of the altar. Even though I was rather tired that afternoon, I was so excited about Hunter coming back that I felt unusually buoyant. I was in love. It was easy to be pleasantly amused by Phoebe’s exhibitionistic display of motherhood.

  The unborn Lila Slingsby had been present at so many parties in New York while still womb-bound that the joke at the christening was that she was the first Socialite Fetus of note in the city. Indeed, the little embryo certainly had the best introduction to the world, socially speaking. Lila Slingsby had been born at New York Presbyterian, under the care of Dr. Sassoon. (Everyone wants that hospital because you can bring in your own nurses / chef / manicurist, and everyone wants Dr. Sassoon, because he was rumored to have delivered Caroline Kennedy’s children, and every mother in New York wants an introduction to those kids.)

  “It’s a power christening,” whispered Lauren, perusing the crowd from our pew. She was dressed elegantly in a cream, ruffled Oscar de la Renta party dress. A thick rope of oversize black pearls hugged her slim neck. “No one here isn’t a someone. I love Phoebe, but she’s sick. I mean, doesn’t her kid have grandparents? Or don’t old people wear enough Balenciaga to be seen here?”

  Lauren had a point. As she and the thirteen other godparents were summoned to the altar, it was impossible not to notice that not one godfather was not a captain of industry, super-hot hedge fund manager, or a media company owner-operator. The godmothers were wealthy beauties, fashion types, or high-end socialites. Whatever little Lila Slingsby was going to need later in life—an internship at MTV, a front-row seat at Lacroix couture, a permanent table at Pastis—one of her godparents would arrange it, because they probably owned it. It was sweet of Phoebe to prepare her little girl’s life so perfectly.

  Phoebe’s double-width carriage house on West Thirteenth Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues was bulging with friends when Lauren and I arrived after the service. Lila was fast asleep in her mother’s arms, which made it all the easier to show off her outfit to everyone, and whenever anyone congratulated Phoebe, she just looked at Lila and declared, “Lila is a miracle…doesn’t yellow look spectacular on her?”

  After a few minutes I spotted Marci on the other side of the crowded drawing room. I hadn’t seen her since that dreadful night at her apartment, so I headed over to talk to her.

  “Hi Sylvie,” she said when I reached her. “I’m feeling amazing.”

  Marci looked fairly amazing. She was wearing a very pretty orange silk dress printed with posies of pink roses.

  “I love your dress, Marci,” I said.

  “Sophia sent it over to me after Christopher went, to cheer me up. I’m rather looking forward to being a divorcée now. Sophia says we’ll have such fun. She’s become an incredibly close friend of mine in the last twelve days. She calls all the time from Europe. She even says she’ll talk to Christopher for me now that he’s not speaking to me. She’s so supportive.”

  “Oh,” I said rather unenthusiastically. Still, even a mention of Sophia couldn’t dampen my mood that day.

  “Hey, I need to discuss something with you,” said Lauren, suddenly, pulling me aside.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s Monterey. I haven’t heard a thing. Two weeks and I haven’t heard a thing! I’m going nuts. I guess I’ll have to just wait, right?”

  “I don’t see what else you can do. He is…engaged,” I reminded her.

  “I guess,” moped Lauren. “Anyway, you looked thrilled with life. What’s going on? Are you pregnant?”

  “No!” I said. “Hunter’s coming back tonight. I can’t wait to see him.” I was so excited about the jewel I couldn’t help but tell Lauren about it. “And last night, I found this gorgeous sketch on Hunter’s computer from S. J. Phillips of an amethyst pendant with an S wrapped around it in diamonds. It’s so beautiful. Isn’t that sweet of Hunter?”

  There was a long pause. Lauren looked pensive, then she said, “Darling, is it for you, or…her?”

  “What?” I said, confused.

  “Well, think. S is Sylvie, but S is also for Sophia.”

  “Of course the necklace isn’t for Sophia!” I cried, upset.

  “How can you be sure?” said Lauren in a low voice.

  “I’ll ask him,” I declared, worried.

  “Don’t do that!” ordered Lauren. “First, it’s supposed to be a surprise, so if it is for you, you’re screwing things up for yourself by admitting you’ve been sneaking around your husband’s computer. And second, a wife must never, ever confront a husband unless she has concrete proof of misdemeanors. Otherwise he’ll think you’re neurotic and scary and that will be the end of everything.”

  “It can’t be for Sophia,” I said, unsure of myself, “…can it?”

  “Look, I’m probably being neurotic,” said Lauren, “But remember that picture of Sophia’s shoe in that New York magazine story?”

  I suddenly remembered flicking through the magazine on our trip back from Moscow. I felt nauseous.

  “I’ll have to speak to him,” I said. “Tonight—”

  “—No,” interrupted Lauren. “A one-off Bruno Frisoni shoe isn’t enough…proof. There was this one time, years ago when I was first married to Louis, and he was spending all his time with my then–best friend, Lucia, and I accused them of being up to no good and…they were secretly planning a gorgeous surprise birthday for me! It was completely innocent. Sometimes I think that was one of the things that drove him to cheat on me eventually: I was so suspicious. You have to be sure before you do anything. You can’t say a word. Promise me you won’t mention it.”

  I nodded reluctantly. “OK,” I said. Maybe Lauren was right.

  “Good. Then if it turns out he is cheating,” said Lauren with a reassuring smile, “at least you can console yourself with the knowledge that you behaved with great dignity and didn’t get all neurotic and scary before it was completely appropriate.”

  16

  Christmas Card Envy

  That December, the last thing on anyone’s mind as they opened Valerie and Tommie Gervalt’s Christmas card was Christmas. Valerie had taken the personalized greeti
ng card up a very competitive notch. Smiling from a photograph on the front of the card was her three-year-old daughter, Celeste. She was wearing a pale blue tweed Emily Jane coat, of the type only found at Harrods in London. She had a gray beret on her head, and her feet were clad in black lace-up boots that looked as though they came straight from the costume department of Little House on the Prairie. Celeste was standing next to a pillbox-hatted busboy on the front steps of the Ritz Hotel in the Place Vendome. Underneath the photograph were the words:

  “Celeste—Paris Couture—Summer”

  “Her kid looks like a hobgoblin,” chuckled Hunter when he saw it. We were having breakfast together at home the morning after he’d gotten back from Europe, and enjoying opening the pile of cards that had arrived that morning in the mail. “Valerie is New York’s finest example of unvarnished social climbing,” he declared.

  “Here, open this one,” I said, handing Hunter a bright red envelope. “And I’ll open this.”

  “Oh my,” mused Hunter as he handed me the card he had just pulled out of the envelope. It was a Christmas card from Salome. The cover photograph, of herself in her Christian Lacroix wedding gown, was beautiful. She’d had her ex-husband, and the minister, Photoshopped out of the picture. Inside, she’d had the following words printed, graffiti-style:

  Happy Holidays!

  Love,

  Me, Me, and Me

  Next I opened my envelope. Almost as unvarnished as Valerie’s card in its display of gorgeousness was the missive inside. It was from Sophia and her five sisters. It featured a shot of the girls (all, naturally, Gwyneth Paltrow look-alikes) waving from the back of a 1960s pickup truck in Colorado.

  “How pretty,” I said. “They’re all so beautiful.”

  “No one is as beautiful as my wife,” said Hunter, looking at me lovingly.

  Hunter’s return last night had not, through a conscious effort on my part, been marred by the seed of doubt Lauren had planted in my mind about the pendant. (So what if Sophia was sending boho-glam Christmas cards. It didn’t mean a thing.) I had decided to remain optimistic about the jewel—and my marriage. Hunter would produce the trinket at Christmas, I was sure of it. He’d gotten home late last night, looking tired but well, and given me a wonderful cream fur stole that he’d bought when he’d stopped off for one day in Copenhagen. We’d sat up late watching Letter-man, catching up, and making out.