The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes

  “Don’t you like it?” said Hunter, looking worried.

  “Oh, yes, it’s…amazing,” I said. “Absolutely exquisite.”

  “I meant to give it to you at Christmas, but the clasp wasn’t right. They had to redo it.”

  Was that true? Had Sophia worn it first? I was mystified.

  “Aren’t you going to try it on?”

  I took the necklace out of the case and fastened it around my neck. I turned and looked in the mirror behind me. The amethyst hung in exactly the right spot, just below my clavicle. It gleamed and sparkled in such a seductive way. It would be lovely to wear to Alixe Carter’s ball.

  “Hunter, it’s lovely, but—”

  “—grrrrrrr!” purred Eartha Kitt, as she started her set.

  Hunter suddenly got up and came and sat on the banquette next to me. He put his arm around me and kissed me affectionately. This wasn’t the moment to start accusing him of all sorts of craziness. Maybe I would delay, just for tonight.

  When I told Lauren and Marci what had happened, they were just as puzzled as I was. We were having breakfast the next morning at a quiet corner table at Jack’s on West Tenth Street.

  “But I saw Sophia last night, at Alixe’s. She was wearing the pendant,” said Marci.

  “No,” I shuddered, unable to hide my worry. “That’s impossible. Look,” I added, showing her the pendant, which was still around my neck.

  “It’s identical to the one she was wearing,” declared Marci. “That’s so bizarre. Weird.”

  “Marci, you have to find out what’s going on,” ordered Lauren. “Get Sophia on the phone, now.”

  Marci got up from the table and headed over to a secluded nook. Lauren and I watched anxiously as she dialed Sophia. A few seconds later Marci mouthed “it’s her” and spent the next five minutes whispering down the line. I was so nervous I could feel a piercing headache coming on above my left eye.

  Eventually she hung up and came back to the table. She looked troubled.

  “What did she say? Come on,” said Lauren bossily.

  “Well…I think she said…” Marci looked confused. She put her hand to her forehead and pressed it hard as though solving a complicated algebraic equation. Finally she went on, “OK, this is what I think happened. I told Sophia that I loved the necklace she was wearing last night. So, I asked her where it was from. Anyway, she just said ‘He gave it to me.’ I think. Yes. That’s what she said, or…”

  “Get on with it,” scolded Lauren.

  “Don’t stress me out. I’m trying to get the story right,” replied Marci anxiously.

  I drew in a large breath and held it, terrified.

  “So, I told Sophia ‘He’s given his wife the same necklace.’ So Sophia said that He had to do that after his wife saw her wearing it in Megève. She thinks you don’t have a clue, Sylvie, and she said she felt sorry for you. Anyway, she made me promise not to say a thing but she said that necklace was always meant for her. Always.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I whispered, “How can you be sure?”

  Marci looked bleak. “Because, darling, Sophia went and got the necklace with him. They went to some jewelry store together in…Italy, or, no…in London! That’s it! Some jewel store in London the Queen likes—”

  “Shut up about the Queen! What else,” demanded Lauren.

  “She says he’s leaving you for her. She thinks people are already talking about it. She told me that Hunter has been in love with her since high school and that it’s hard for you to compete when you’ve only known him for two months…Or did she say six months?”

  Marci paused as though she had lost her thread. Then she continued, “Or something like that. I can’t remember every exact word she said. I’m really sorry, Sylvie. I don’t know how I’m going to get my Jet Set outfit back now, since I will never speak to Sophia again.”

  I felt very very ill. Then Lauren said, “Did she say anything else at all?”

  “She asked if I’d seen some blind item about her and Hunter in Page Six yet.”

  Lauren was silent. I was in a state of shock. Suddenly Marci grabbed an abandoned copy of that morning’s New York Post off a neighboring table. She opened it at Page Six and we all crowded over the page. Under a small headline reading “Which Husband…?” were the words “…likes to give his wife and girlfriends the same very expensive jewels?”

  “Girlfriend-s!” I snapped. “There’s more than one? Oh, God.”

  “Sylvie, you have to be the one to leave,” said Lauren. “Don’t let him leave you. It’s better to be the leaver than the leavee, self-esteem-wise.”

  “I agree,” said Marci. “I felt really good kicking Christopher out. Really good. Look how happy I am now.”

  “Marci, stop it,” said Lauren. “The fact is, we need to get Sylvie into a hotel. You shouldn’t speak to Hunter or see him for at least a week. Plan your exit. Only see him when you’re not so emotional. Then you can start thinking about your divorce.”

  All I could do was mumble agreement, my eyes heavy with tears.

  “Oh, my God,” said Lauren grimly. “You’re so pale. You’re the same color as that Limewash paint everyone’s getting from London now. You totally clash with the walls. Here’s the one thing you’ve got to do when you leave your husband: get an illegal vitamin drip from Dr. Bo Morgan. You know the high you get from buying a fur coat? It’s way better than that. And it makes your skin look like Sophie Dahl’s. I’m calling him now,” she added, flipping out her cell phone and dialing.

  The Pucci Suite at the St. Regis Hotel on East Fifty-fifth Street is not the ideal color scheme for a girl transparent with grief. The place is meant for tan, happy, rich Italian people under the age of twenty-five, like those gorgeous Brandolini sisters you see everywhere. The walls of the drawing room, which looked right over Fifth Avenue, are upholstered in the famous hot pink Venus silk. Even another of Marci’s Klonopins hadn’t put me to sleep last night. Forget the Corpse Bride; this morning I looked paler than The Grudge.

  It hadn’t been difficult, logistically, to get out of the apartment with a small hold-all last night before Hunter got home. Emotionally, however, I was in meltdown. As I’d snuck out past the doorman, hoping he wouldn’t notice my full bag and my tear-stained face, I’d felt as though I’d become sick with a disease from which I’d never recover. As the evening had worn on, there were more and more messages on my cell from Hunter, asking where I was, but I didn’t call back. I felt horribly guilty, but Lauren was right. I couldn’t speak to him until I’d figured things out, calmed down. But how, I had wondered as I unpacked my little case in the suite, would I calm down from this? Did one ever calm down from this kind of thing? How would I ever erase the sight of Sophia in that necklace from my mind? How had I gotten Hunter so wrong? Didn’t Phoebe once say he used to be quite a player? The only thing that had gotten me through the night was watching E! True Hollywood Story: The Barbi Twins. Late-night TV always put things in perspective: I might be about to get a divorce, but at least I wasn’t a bulimic porn sister, I reminded myself, trying to feel grateful.

  “I feel feverish,” I said to Lauren. I was lying on the drawing room sofa, which was upholstered in lime linen. It made me feel slightly delirious. My body seemed to be pulsating with emotional inflammation. I was as furious as I was devastated. “What am I going to do?”

  “You are going to eat breakfast, and then Bo will come and inject you, and then you are going to go to the office, as usual,” replied Lauren, dialing room service. “Two orders of scrambled eggs and fruit salad please…no, with yolks…and the toast in a toast rack… thanks.” She came and stood over me. “Finding a silver toast rack in a hotel is harder than locating a Democrat in Texas.”

  “I think I’m going to call Hunter,” I said. “He’ll be going out of his mind with worry.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m going to get an attorney on stand-by,” insisted Lauren.

  “Shouldn’t I find out what’s really going on?”


  Lauren ignored my question and just said, “You’ve got to get up and get ready for work.”

  “I can’t go to work,” I objected. I was far too over-wrought to go to the studio.

  “Sylvie, there are a million girls going to the studio today for fittings for Alixe’s ball. You’ve got to be there. Particularly for my outfit.”

  Lauren had a point. Alixe’s imminent party had become a fashion project unto itself. Then there were Nina’s movie premiere looks to work on. The premiere of The Fatal Blonde was tonight, and although Nina already had those four dresses, she was bound to demand something completely different at the last minute.

  “I can’t. Thack will have to cope by himself. Do you have any more Klonopin tablets?”

  “Wait!” said Lauren excitedly. “I’ve got the best idea. Get Thack uptown, have the fittings in here. I mean, this is the most beautiful suite in all of New York. Everyone will think Thack is so glam…” Lauren handed me a glass of water and two little pills.

  “Here, take these.”

  “It’s sick,” said Marci. “I love it. I feel très C. Z. Guest.” She was wearing a pale lemon lace column dress that swirled into a giant puff at her feet. She was focusing hard on her reflection in the gilt deco mirror above the fireplace while I pinned the hem. “I look so…Palm Beach in a good way.” Then she lowered her voice and whispered, “Are you doing OK, Sylvie?”

  I shook my head and carried on working.

  “Lauren made me get some intravenous drip this morning. I felt like my blood was on fire,” I said.

  The aforementioned Dr. Bo Morgan had appeared at 9 A.M., dressed like a rock star in Paper Denim & Cloth jeans and a white shirt so well starched it rustled when he moved. From a Goyard case he’d produced a drip and a bottle of brown liquid labeled Pirateum. While he hooked me up to the drip and the liquid seeped into my veins, he told me all about his super-model clients. He didn’t seem like a doctor at all. When I told him how young he looked, he’d smiled and said, “I take my own advice.”

  “Bo! I love Bo,” said Marci. “Did he tell you your immune system is blown out?”

  “Yes, he said my adrenal system is on over-drive, but I know why I feel so wiped out. I’m furious about everything. Lauren won’t even let me call my husband,” I said.

  “She’s right. He needs to know what he’s lost—”

  “—Is this actressy enough for me?” interrupted Tinsley. She was floating toward us in a red ball dress with thick frills at the shoulders. “How will people know I’ve decided to become an actress? I look like a flamenco dancer.”

  “All actresses dress to look like flamenco dancers, so there’s no problem there,” said Marci dismissively.

  “My wrists look…fat in this…thing.” Salome was standing at the door to the bathroom wearing a silver satin charmeuse dress with long, billowy sleeves and black grosgrain bows that tied at the cuff. “Ugh…I’m disgusting,” she added.

  “Wrists can’t put on weight,” said Tinsley, nudging Marci out of her way so she could get a better view of herself in the mirror. “You look great. Now, Sylvie, what about me—”

  “Sylvie, I want the dress I had on hold before. The black satin,” Salome declared.

  Oh, God! Nina had that dress in L.A. Mind you, the premiere was tonight, Wednesday, and Alixe’s party was on Friday. I could easily get the dress back from Nina by then.

  “It’s out…on a fashion shoot,” I lied.

  “Oh, OK,” said Salome grumpily. She wandered into the bedroom, where Thack was working on Alixe, who’d demanded total privacy.

  “What are you all doing in there?” asked Tinsley suspiciously. She followed Salome into the bedroom, Marci followed her, and I was finally alone.

  I let the dress I was working on fall to the floor and stared listlessly out of the window. All this seemed so superficial and unimportant. Who cared about some stupid party outfits and whether or not Salome had put on half an ounce on her wrist? How was I going to survive this craziness without my husband? I wiped a tear from my face. I just had to get through the next couple of hours. Sometimes, even the most exclusive illegal vitamin drip can’t make you smile.

  “HELLO!!! MISCHA! BARTON! You! Look! STUNN!-ING! Tonight!” shouted Access Hollywood’s Nancy O’Dell in the booming awards voice required on red carpets. She sounded like she had a loudspeaker installed in her neck.

  I was watching the show from the hotel suite. Thack was so excited about Nina appearing in his outfit that he had organized an early-evening screening at his studio for staff and friends. Feeling bleak, I’d decided to watch alone. Hunter had left more messages today, but Lauren and Marci had convinced me that calling him back would be unwise at this point. Maybe I should get Marci to let him know I was OK, I thought. I hated the thought of Hunter worrying about me like this. It made me feel terrible. But, if Marci called, she’d tell him where I was. She couldn’t even vaguely keep a secret. This was awful. I turned my attention back to the TV: maybe Access Hollywood would take my mind off things.

  “JUST STUNNING!!!!” yelled Nancy, who was dressed in a blue gown covered in white rhinestones. She looked exactly like one of the chandeliers downstairs in the St. Regis lobby. “Can you tell us all what you’re wearing!!!!”

  “Chanel couture,” replied Mischa, looking bored.

  “Chanel!!! Koo-tooor!!!” repeated Nancy. “IN! CRED! IBLE! You look lovely!!! I understand the lace is from—Oh!!! I see Nina Chlore! Coming over!” Now Nancy looked bored with Mischa Barton. “ThankyouMischagoodbye—” she said, in the your-time-is-up tone of voice TV hosts reserve for evicting celebrities from their turf.

  On the screen, Nina floated toward Mary in a cloud of chiffon. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but be excited. I was suddenly glued to the screen, inspecting every last detail of Nina’s look.

  “Here is Nina Chlore!!! The star of The Fatal Blonde…” Nancy was saying as she approached. “Nina! Chlore! You! Are! Amazing!”

  “Stop!” said Nina sweetly as she arrived at the Access Hollywood stage. “You are amazing, Nancy. How are you?”

  “I’m good! Whose is this…magical gown, Nina?”

  “The designer made it specially for me,” smiled Nina.

  “How wonderful!!!” screamed Nancy, over the yells for Nina behind her.

  “It’s Versace,” said Nina. “There’s no one I love more than Donatella.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Thack would be devastated. And I was in no state to cheer him up. Just then, my phone started beeping. I looked at the screen. Alixe was calling. I decided not to take her call. The last thing I wanted now was a change of dress before Friday. After a few seconds her call went to voicemail.

  A few moments later, the phone started ringing again. Alixe was obviously desperate to get through.

  I picked up. Alixe sounded blocked up, like she was sick with a cold.

  “Is the dress OK?” I asked.

  “I love the…d-d-dress,” stuttered Alixe. God, was she weeping?

  “Alixe, are you OK?”

  “It’s not me. It’s S-s-s-ugh-sanford. He’s dead.”

  “How awful.”

  I’d had no idea Alixe was so close to him. She sounded cut up.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Alixe. You sound so distressed,” I added.

  “I a-a-a-amm!” she howled. She sounded hysterical. “It’s so incons-s-s-iderate! D-d-d-ying! Like that! Two days before my lovely ball! If only he could have died on Saturday. Then I could still have had the party. Now everyone’s got to go to the wake on Friday,” she wept. A sound like a pig hoovering a trough of swill shuddered down the line. Alixe had uttered a long, ugly snivel to clear her nose. Finally, brightly, she said, “Now, can we discuss my outfit? For the funeral?”

  19

  The See-and-Be-Seen-Funeral

  “What a fabulous place to be dead,” breathed Lauren.

  A glamorous funeral at Saint Thomas Church, the Gothic pile on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fif
ty-third Street, presided over by a minister who happens to be an Orlando Bloom look-alike, is enough to send even the most superficial New York girl straight around the religious bend. For a start, it’s right opposite the Gucci store, so it’s convenient, and, secondly, there was more brain candy at Sanford’s funeral (Charlie Rose / Bloomberg / Oprah) than at one of Rupert Murdoch’s Sun Valley summits.

  Sanford Berman had died of vanity. One minute he was at the dentist being fitted for a new gold crown for a lower right molar—an item for which he had an aesthetic passion—the next he was choking on it, and dead.

  Lauren had begged me to accompany her to the funeral. Her sense of regret—regret that she’d argued with Sanford, regret that they hadn’t remained friends, regret that she hadn’t said au revoir, regret that she hadn’t had an affair with him (in her grief she even wished she had slept with the waterbed after all)—hit her, she said, almost as badly as a Marquee Club hangover. She was so headachey on the morning of the funeral that she was completely unable to choose between her black Chanel shift and her black Dior shift, despite the fact that there was zero difference between them. She’d ended up in the Dior and had pinned a giant Verdura sapphire brooch at her neck. I, meanwhile, was so traumatized by not having spoken to Hunter for three days that I was equally inept that morning. The only thing I could pull myself out of my gloomy retreat for was a funeral. I had even pinned a black veil to my hair, hoping that no one would be able to see the distress in my eyes. Inevitably, we both arrived at Saint Thomas so late there weren’t even any service sheets left.

  No wonder Sanford had wished for a funeral here, I thought, as we stepped inside. The place is so cavernous you could fit Disneyland inside it—and 600 friends. As the giant oak door echoed closed behind us, the frenzy of Fifth Avenue was replaced by the comforting hush peculiar to a church.

  “Over here,” came a voice from our left.

  Marci, Salome, and Alixe had saved us a spot in their pew. We squeezed in. Salome was looking particularly devastating today in a knife-sharp, black silk faille skirt suit from Roland Mouret. She even had black gloves and a black lace handkerchief to complete her look. Marci was in a black crepe-de-chine, tiered-ruffle shift dress, and Alixe was wearing one of Thack’s boxy jackets with a short skirt, and had a black rose pinned to her lapel. They looked like three very glamorous extras from The Godfather.