The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes

  “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live—” began the minister solemnly.

  “—that minister can resurrect me any time,” murmured Marci, flushing a hot pink.

  “—and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die—”

  “Do you think ministers are allowed to have girlfriends?” said Marci in a low voice.

  “I thought you were getting back with Christopher,” I whispered.

  “I am!” said Marci, affronted. “It’s in negotiation, I told you that before.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s really good news.”

  The minister continued.

  “We brought nothing into this world and it is certain…” (he paused, regarding the congregation to make sure they were paying particular attention to a passage relevant to themselves)…“and I repeat, it is certain we carry nothing out…”

  “It’s a shame they don’t tell you this stuff before you’re dead,” said Alixe. “It’s such good advice. What am I going to do with all the stuff I’ve bought when I croak?”

  “Let us pray,” ordered the minister.

  The congregation knelt as one, and silence fell. Suddenly from behind us I heard the church door creak open. Who could be this late? I turned to look. Dressed in long, flowing black chiffon, Sophia D’Arlan appeared. I literally felt my intestines curdle at the sight of her. I tapped Lauren on the shoulder, and we both followed Sophia with our eyes. She walked silently up the aisle, her dress flowing romantically behind her. I think everyone in the congregation looked at her.

  “This is not her wedding,” said Lauren disapprovingly. “How inappropriate.” She sighed, exasperated, and bent her head in prayer again.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but watch while Sophia walked brazenly to a pew right at the front. Everyone was forced to shuffle up to allow her to sit down. God, she was selfish! She took a seat next to a man in a dark suit who looked, from behind, vaguely familiar, but it was too far away for me to really see who it was. He leaned in to talk to her. Maybe I could see who it was. NO! Was that—

  “Lauren,” I nudged her. “Is that…Giles?”

  Lauren’s head shot up. She stared at the man in question, transfixed.

  “What is he doing…in the family pew…and…is that Sophia whispering to him?” she said crossly.

  “…Amen,” said the minister. “Now we continue with our first reading, the psalm read by Giles Monterey.”

  “What?” gasped Lauren, as Giles made his way silently up to the pulpit.

  “Oooh. The cute stepson. We see him at last!” giggled Salome. “My God, he’s adorable.”

  “Salome, did you just say that is Sanford’s stepson?” uttered Lauren, amazed. “Are you sure?”

  “His mom—Isabel Clarke Monterey—was a model with my mom in the seventies in London. I used to play with him when we were three. He was hot even then,” said Salome. “It was a whole huge scandal. My mom says Giles never forgave Sanford for breaking up his mom’s marriage and then leaving her two years later. I guess he’s here with his mom—look, there she is.”

  Salome pointed at a woman sitting in Giles’ pew. When she turned to the side, I could see that she was beautiful, if fragile-looking. Lauren meanwhile had turned ashen, as though the blood had drained from her body. She was obviously madly in love. She didn’t move her eyes from Giles while he read: “The Lord is my shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing.”

  He paused, and regarded the congregation, as though looking for someone.

  “He shall feed me in green pastures,”

  He paused again, and seemed to catch Lauren’s eye. For a moment the two of them seemed locked in each other’s gaze.

  “And lead me forth beside the waters of comfort—”

  THUNK!

  Lauren had fainted.

  “Yeah,” sighed Salome unsympathetically, as she regarded Lauren collapsed on the pew. “He had that effect on all the girls at pre-school too.”

  “It’s so 1987 here, I love it,” declared Salome, as she walked into Swifty’s. “If nothing else we are guaranteed an Ivana sighting. Is that Bill Clinton?”

  Swifty’s, on Lexington and Seventy-second Street, isn’t the most obvious spot for a wake. Still, Sanford Berman had lunched there three times a week, and had decreed in his will that his wake would take place there, mainly because he thought the Swifty’s caviar would cheer up the mourners.

  While Lauren recovered from her love-faint in the restroom, Marci, Alixe, Salome, and I had promised to observe the UnGoogle-able man and Sophia D’Arlan on Lauren’s behalf. She was convinced Sophia had designs on Giles. The trouble was, none of us could see either of them. The restaurant was so crowded it was impossible to see where anyone was.

  “This is almost better than my New Year’s ball,” huffed Alixe, as she surveyed the crowd. “If it wasn’t a funeral I’d be having the most amazing time. “Look, there’s Margarita Missoni.” She looked over at a willowy girl dressed in a floor-length knitted black dress with silver leaves embroidered around the hem. She was surrounded by older men. “I’m so desperate to get her to use the Arancia bubble bath. Do you think it’s a sin to network at a wake?” Alixe didn’t wait for an answer. She bounded straight after her.

  “Girls! She’s over there!” said Salome suddenly. She nodded discreetly toward an alcove on the far side of the room, in which were framed the silhouettes of Sophia D’Arlan and Giles. “They’re…chatting.” She looked piqued. “It’s outrageous. Grave-side flirting is unforgivable.”

  “Is Sophia wearing…sequins with that chiffon?” asked Marci, with slight disdain. She craned her neck to get a better look at her outfit. “That is a woman interested only in perpetuating the myth that she wears Valentino.”

  Marci obviously loathed Sophia at this point. I, meanwhile, observed the scene pensively. What was Sophia up to, flirting with Giles like that, while planning to run off with my husband too? The girl was unbelievable.

  “OK, I’m going over there to break it up,” said Salome, marching off in the direction of Giles and Sophia. She had an enormous grin on her face, as though she was enjoying herself immensely.

  “Shall we sit down for a moment?” said Marci, suddenly looking serious. “I need to talk to you.”

  We ventured out of the main room and wandered along a side corridor. Two little armchairs perched invitingly at the end of it, and we headed straight for them.

  “Uggh!” sighed Marci, collapsing into one of them.

  Marci waited for me to be seated and then said, “Listen, I heard something I thought you might want to know. Hunter and Sophia are meeting tomorrow at MOMA.”

  “They are?” I whispered. “You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m really sorry, Sylvie. I overheard something yesterday. Apparently Sophia was having tea at The Mark with Phoebe when she suddenly got a phone call. I’m told that she made a plan for a sexy rendezvous with a married man. She’s picked the most romantic spot in the museum: she’s meeting him at six o’clock in front of the Monet on the mezzanine.”

  20

  MOMA Madness

  Later on that afternoon—it must have been four o’clock—Hunter finally got me on the phone. I hadn’t meant to pick up my cell, and when I heard Hunter’s voice, I became so jittery I felt a chill come over my body.

  “Darling, where on earth are you? I’ve been out of my mind,” said Hunter.

  I couldn’t believe Hunter had finally gotten ahold of me. My friends had been sworn to secrecy about my whereabouts, and I’d barely turned on my cell phone for the last few days. But there was a little part of me that was secretly relieved that my husband had sought me out.

  “Away from you!” I cried.

  “What on earth is the matter, Sylvie?”

  “You know exactly what the matter is!” I said. “Sophia—”

  “What are you talking about?” said Hunter.


  I paused before I spoke. How was I going to put this? Finally, I took a long breath and said angrily, “Marci told me that it’s an open secret that you and Sophia are having an affair.”

  There was a shocked silence.

  “What?”

  “The fact is, you were with Sophia in London that weekend. You took her to that jewelry store. She told Marci—and half of New York apparently. And then I saw her in Megève wearing my necklace. I can’t believe you!”

  “I never gave Sophia that necklace. I can explain—”

  “She’s still wearing it.” My voice rose as my angst level increased. “No more ‘explanations.’ I know what you’re up to. You’ve been lying to me for months—”

  “Darling, it’s not what you think—”

  “Just leave me alone, Hunter. I don’t want this.” I could hear my words coming faster and faster, as though I may not have time to get it all out. “I’ve never been so unhappy. I want a divorce. I’d rather be the leaver than the leavee,” I said, echoing Lauren’s words.

  “The what?”

  “Leav-er!” I yelled at him, and hung up in a fury of misery and melancholy.

  I stared at the cell phone in my hand. Now I was full of doubt. Hunter sounded genuinely shocked. Not at all guilty. But no doubt guilty men cultivate non-guilty tones of voice, I told myself. And then, Lauren had said something terrifying about men being more affectionate toward their wives when they are being ultra-devious elsewhere. I had to see for myself.

  You can imagine my state when I arrived at MOMA at ten before six and saw a line that snaked all the way along Fifty-third Street as far back as Sixth Avenue. Hundreds of eager art-lovers were patiently—no, happily—standing in line to see inside the great glass box. Just then, a bus spewed out a full load of French tourists. I looked at my watch: 5:55 P.M.

  “How long does the line take?” I asked a guard hopefully.

  “Forty-five minutes,” he replied, automaton-like.

  “But—” I’ve got to catch my husband cheating on me in five minutes, I wanted to say. God, it was depressing.

  “Can I buy a ticket somewhere else?” I asked.

  It was deathly cold out here. My hands were slowly turning a ghastly shade of lilac. Devoid of Christmas lights, chilling its inhabitants to the bone, and drowning in slush—nothing is crueler than New York in January. Especially when your husband’s on the loose with a crazy Husband Huntress.

  “Yeah. Internet,” replied the guard.

  What a lot of help that was. I looked at the guard helplessly.

  “Or Ticketmaster. 212-555-6000.”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  Thank God. I could call Ticketmaster and book for 6 P.M.—two minutes hence. I dialed the number on my cell phone. Naturally, my call was answered by a computer. Ugh.

  “Welcome to Ticketmaster. Please. Listen. Carefully. The Menu. Has. Changed—”

  So slow! Impatient, I pushed zero. Maybe that would get me to an operator.

  “—sorry. I. Did. Not. Understand. Welcome to Ticketmaster…”

  This time, I listened, and pushed 5 for ticket sales.

  “Hello. What show?” said a voice. Hurrah! A person.

  “MOMA,” I gabbled.

  “Is that a Broadway production?”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Museum of Modern Art,” I said, trying not to get hysterical. I mean, it wasn’t the minimum-wage person on the other end of the phone’s fault that I was late for a spying session on my husband’s mistress.

  “Please call the dedicated reservations for MOMA at 212-555-7800.”

  I looked at my watch. It was already after six. This was hopeless. Still, dejectedly, I started to dial the new number. As I did so, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whipped around: it was Marci.

  “I can’t get in,” I wailed.

  Marci, her face unusually grim, flashed a card reading MEMBER: MOMA in front of me. She took my hand and led me straight into the museum.

  “I thought you might need moral support,” she said.

  MOMA always reminds me of a giant glass candy jar buzzing with flies. The works of art look like giant bonbons invisibly suspended in the air, and the visitors are reduced to tiny black dots swarming en masse from de Kooning to Warhol to LeWitt. Where, oh, where was the peaceful, zen-like space I had read about in all those New York Times stories? This place was more like Times Square.

  “Marci, it’s six ten.” I said anxiously looking around.

  We were standing in the vast white atrium that stretches from Fifty-third Street all the way across the block to Fifty-fourth. Straight ahead was a huge staircase leading up to the mezzanine, which now, controversially, according to those who worry about art controversy, houses Monet’s Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond. A huge glass balcony allows those below to gaze up to the crowds above, and to the giant green plastic helicopter that hangs above the staircase.

  “Sophia’s never on time. It’s part of her man-killing allure.”

  With that, Marci slipped into the throng surging toward the giant staircase leading up to the mezzanine. I followed her in a state of numb expectation: all that lay ahead was hideous dreadfulness. For once, I was relieved to be invisible, cloaked in the swell of tour groups and school parties: I didn’t want anyone to notice me ever again. What could be more embarrassing than a cheating husband? From this moment forward, I thought, I would hide: I would live on the sidelines of life, like the tourists and the out-of-town visitors around me. No doubt I would be in a very bad temper for the rest of my life.

  I followed Marci up to the mezzanine, where we were confronted by a giant, steel pin in the center of the room. Like two schoolgirls on the run, we concealed ourselves behind it. From there we could view the Monet and the austere black-leather viewing benches positioned in front of it.

  “There she is,” whispered Marci. “Alone. Weird.”

  Sophia was sitting with her back to us, but it was unmistakably her. Who else would be wearing a gold sequin jacket at six o’clock in the evening in a public art gallery?

  “This is so odd,” said Marci. “It’s a quarter after six. No! Wait! She’s answering her cell…”

  Indeed Sophia was now talking into her cell phone. She stood up and started walking right toward the steel pin. Oh, God. She stopped just the other side of the artwork. We could make out little bits of her conversation.

  “Yes, darling…I saw her at the funeral, poor thing…yes, three minutes…in the sculpture garden? It’s freezing out there. You know I can’t bear those giant blue triangles…I’d much rather meet you by the Matthew Barney…”

  With that, she snapped her phone shut, turned on her heel, and headed away from us toward the contemporary galleries.

  “I don’t know if I can go on,” I said to Marci. Hearing Sophia refer to me as a “poor thing” made me so mad, I just wanted to leave. I knew as much as I needed to know already, didn’t I? Did I really have to put myself through more agony?

  “Sylvie, you have to go through with it. Come on, we’ll watch from behind the Dan Flavin. Let’s go,” she said, following Sophia discreetly.

  Sophia had chosen the most popular gallery in the museum for her secret assignation. The room was so crowded, we could barely see her. Hidden from view behind the giant multi-colored Dan Flavin wall, there was no chance of Sophia noticing us. Once we were safely installed, we peeked out from the left side. Sophia was standing peering at Matthew Barney’s weird installation, The Cabinet of Baby Fay La Foe 2000, a plexi-glass coffin containing a top hat and an operating table. What a macabre spot for a romantic tryst.

  “Where is he?” whispered Marci.

  “Maybe…maybe he’s not coming,” I said hopefully.

  Suddenly Sophia waved across the room. As she did so her gold bangles jangled sexily—and my nerves jangled painfully. I could hardly bear to look. But I did. I barely breathed, I was so anxious. After a few seconds, a red-headed, rather short, slightly
balding man made his way toward Sophia. Marci took a sharp breath.

  “Oh, my good Lord!” she cried, as Sophia and the red-headed man hugged and then kissed in a way that you don’t usually see in art galleries, to say the least.

  A smile slapped itself across my face: it felt like it would last forever. It felt big enough to wrap around the globe.

  “I’m so happy!” I breathed. “That definitely isn’t my husband. I’ve made the best mistake.”

  I turned to Marci. She was sheet white.

  “What?” I asked her, suddenly sober. “Do you know who that guy is?”

  “It’s…” Marci couldn’t speak. Her chirpy voice was reduced to a breathless whisper. “It’s my husband.”

  “That’s Christopher?” I asked.

  “I’ve made the most ghastly mistake,” wailed Marci.

  “So have I,” I mumbled. What a mess.

  With that, Marci rushed out into the mezzanine and headed toward the staircase. I chased after her. When she got to the top of the staircase, she stopped under the giant helicopter. She looked up above her, and then crossed herself twice over.

  “Dear God, when I go home and shoot myself tonight,” she prayed, “please, don’t resurrect me.”

  “Marci, calm down, don’t do anything silly,” I said grabbing her arm.

  “I’m going to kill him. Who was Ivana’s lawyer again?”

  21

  The Disappearing Husband

  While Marci was being resurrected against her will by Salome, who had come, saint-like, and picked her up at MOMA, I flew down Fifth Avenue by cab. I couldn’t get to the apartment quickly enough: I was desperate to see Hunter and make amends. Why had I been so vile to him earlier? Why hadn’t I let him explain his side of the story? How could I have not trusted him! What a fool I’d been, I chastised myself. Why had I ever thought things were as obvious as they seemed: Sophia was far too clever to have been doing what she seemed to be doing. She had tormented me with her flirting with Hunter while distracting Marci and me from her real mission—nailing Christopher. Maybe I had been hanging out with the debutante divorcées far too much and they’d influenced me for the worse. They were paranoid about men, unsurprisingly, and it had made me paranoid too. Certainly, I had not been imagining Sophia’s behavior—she had been making a play for my husband, whatever her other motives were—but no less than she was after every innocent husband in New York. Poor Marci. What a wicked game Sophia had played.