by Jill Kargman
20
“I’m a big opponent of divorce. Why leave the nut you know for one you don’t?”
—Loretta Lynn
The trip was just what the doctor ordered, spiritual Prozac. Even though I was back in the saddle at home, doing volunteer work for Miles’s school, I felt like I’d turned a corner. I was happily leading new prospective parents through tours of the hundred-fifty-year-old institution, which was not unlike Hogwarts, but sans capes and wands. It was a highly traditional, extremely rigorous course of study, complete with long white beards, plays by Ionesco, an organic chef in the dining room, and tweed aplenty. The school received a thousand applications for sixty spots. Two days a week I led wide-eyed couples through the mahogany-paneled halls, gesturing Vanna White style at the plaques that bore the names of two U.S. presidents, several accomplished writers, doctors, and an Academy Award winner. The couples all strolled hand in hand, probably thinking how lucky I was to be already “in,” when in fact these women would die if they knew how thoroughly un-perfect my life was.
I loved peering into Miles’s classrooms throughout the day, like a Where’s Waldo-style treasure hunt, from the science lab (in his white coat and safety glasses) to the gym, to social studies, where they were studying South America. After school we walked to the park for his soccer, and as I stood chilly on the sidelines, I got a call from Tim’s friend, Lars Hartstreich, from EdgeCreek Capital.
“Holly, I’m so sorry about the news of you and Tim—” He sounded sincerely upset.
“Yeah, well . . . yeah. What’re you gonna do? I never thought this would be me, but hey, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, right?”
“Well, Emma and I are thinking of you, and if there’s anything we can do, please let us know.”
“Thanks. . . .” I paused, signaling that it was okay to cut to the chase; he was clearly calling for something. Lars was a great guy whom I had always liked. But my defenses were still up from the breakup and I still felt antisocial vis-à-vis the hedge fund world, which was weirdly small.
“So I’m calling because I know you said you’d be willing to be a vice chair for the Bankers for Babies gala, and I wanted to confirm you’re still on board—”
I drew breath to respond with a lame wriggling out of my commitment, but before I could speak, he continued.
“Holly, I know you’ve been through a lot, but you always bring so much to these events and we really hope we can count on you. We sent out the invitations a few weeks ago and didn’t hear from you, but Emma and I would love to have you as our guest. Please join us. . . .”
“Um, okay,” I mustered, before I could think clearly. Shoot, what did I go and say yes for? I didn’t want to go! It was all hedgie bores and their quasi-lobotomized wives. I had endured it every year, even serving on the gala committee for the last three, and wanted to shut the gilded door on that whole world. But they had been my friends for years, and I guess it was a knee-jerk reaction to still being included when I had been feeling so out to sea socially.
“Terrific. We’ll send the car for you next Thursday evening, then.”
“Okay, thanks, Lars. Bye—”
Though I was dreading the evening, I was touched that Lars and Emma would still want me on board despite the fact that I was the jilted ex. I wasn’t just a “plus one” arm-candy addition to Tim.
That night Miles and I worked on his diorama of all the planets in the galaxy. As the supposedly nontoxic model paints stank up our den, Miles broke my heart wide open. Talk about the Big Bang.
“Mommy, I know you and Daddy say you will not get back together. But are we still a family? Even with two houses?”
Spear through aorta.
I blinked back tears as the lump in my throat grew into invisible hands that strangled me, rendering me unable to breathe. I gathered myself enough to slowly answer.
“Sweetness, your daddy and I still love you as much as we ever have, and just because you see us separately doesn’t mean you don’t have a family that loves you. More than anything. You are my whole world. My galaxy . . .” I kissed his forehead and hugged him before he could see my eyes watering.
21
“It’s not who you know that’s important. It’s how your wife found out.”
—Joey Adams
It was in a coffee bar, of all places, that I was first picked up. I was ordering a half pound of espresso malted milk balls when I heard a voice behind me.
“Those are dangerous little spheres, those things—”
I turned to see an older man, head full of gray hair, in a loden jacket, wearing small gold glasses.
“Oh, yeah, tell that to my thighs,” I joked, exhausted after a sleepless night and sprint to Miles’s school for an early-morning mothers’ breakfast, where once again I was floating alone as gaggles of preened yummy mummies discussed Thanksgiving plans and the price of the Printery at Oyster Bay versus Mrs. John L. Strong for engraving their holiday cards (I laughed remembering how, the year before, Mary sent her Christmas wishes engraved with a heart above the word “LOVE,” and above the word “PEACE” was a Mercedes symbol instead of a peace sign—classic). I had zero appetite, so I simply ate some pieces of fruit as I waited for my cue to leave and then sprinted to Oren’s Daily Roast on Lex to have my daily candy fix and scratch that chocolate itch.
“You don’t look like you have any problems,” he said, still making eye contact. “I, on the other hand, am older than you, and those are deathly,” he said with a wink.
After I paid and was headed for the door, he was a few steps ahead and held it for me. I thanked him and then found we were walking side by side, so we kept small talking: about the beautiful crisp fall day, the Christmas decorations that were going up earlier and earlier, and the crowd of people breakfasting at a nearby café.
“Who are these people who eat these long, leisurely lunches on a weekday?” he asked. “Don’t you sometimes wish everyone had subtitles with what they do?”
“There are many people here who don’t have to work, I suppose,” I offered.
We both scanned the mostly Eurotrashy crowd covered in fashion logos, Bluetooth earpieces, and leather. “But I wouldn’t want to be them,” he said. “I need my work, you know?”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an artist. I paint.”
“Oh, cool,” I responded lamely. “I thought all the artists were downtown these days. Or in Brooklyn.”
“Yes, well, I lived in SoHo forever, but now I like it up here. Quieter. I’m an old man now,” he said, brown eyes gleaming. His light gray hair looked striking next to his dark Hershey’s Kiss eyes, and as he sipped his coffee, looking at me, I suddenly realized there was a miniflirtation going on.
“No, you’re not old . . . ,” I said, scanning him, realizing he was prematurely gray, as his face was handsome and young. Ish. Maybe he was mid-forties? Okay, late. “So what do you paint?”
I asked. “Landscapes? Cut-up faces, Picasso style? Or ‘abstract art’?” I added with finger quotes. Maybe it was Jackson Pollock- style splatters. Or Twombly-esque chalkboard art. I wondered what an almost-preppy-looking middle-age guy would paint. Turns out, I would soon find out.
“Why don’t you come see? Any interest?” he said with a sip of his coffee.
“Sure ...”
“Great, I have a new show at Lyle Spence Gallery in Chelsea. My name’s John Taplett, by the way.”
“Holly Talbott.”
Even I knew that gargantuan gleaming space. That gallery was famous and the guy Lyle Spence had a recent spread in the art issue of Vanity Fair as one of the three top megagallerists in the game. He was always dating model-actress types and often got more press than the artists he repped. But the name John Taplett somehow rang a bell.
“Wow, that’s major. . . . I’ve been there, to a Michael Bevilacqua show a few years ago.”
“The opening is in two weeks, November twenty-third, from six to eight. You should come. I’ll
look for you.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
He smiled, looked at me with a cool glimmer in his eye, and took my hand in his. “See you then, Holly Talbott.” With that, he walked off toward the bare trees of Central Park.
22
“When I married Mr. Right, I didn’t realize his first name was ALWAYS.”
It was in front of Google, which found 12,342 hits with his name, that my jaw started to hit the floor. He’d had solo shows all over the world; I had met a quasi celeb! He was sexy, an artist (hot), and older, which would really freak Tim out. I could still be the younger cute minx and not the hag I had felt like in the last half year.
I started to get obsessed. Holly Talbott Taplett sounds ridiculous, yes, but he could be it, my next chapter. I called Kiki.
“Go, girl, that is GREAT! Snaggin’ guys at the fucking coffee bar, what a buzz!”
“Come on, you make me sound like a trollop,” I joked. “So, Kiki, promise me you’ll come with me?”
“Ugh . . . you know I hate that pretentious contemporary art scene. I screwed an auctioneer at Sotheby’s for a year and he talked about exceeded estimates in the sack; what a turnoff. The guy got boners for paintings with dead butterfly corpses glued on them.”
“Pleeeease? Come on, Kiki, no one builds me up like you do.
And he’s gonna be the center of the action, so it’s not like he can really hang out with me! I need a cohort. Pretty please?”
“Okay. I must really love you if I’m going to hang out in one of those Sprockets-fests with a sea of black turtlenecks and white walls.”
“Thank you! Thank you! I owe you one.”
“You bet your ass you do.”
A week later, Tim’s assistant called to say that he would be returning from London and wanted to see Miles. Coincidentally, it was the night of the benefit I would be attending with Lars and Emma, so I didn’t have to get a sitter. Even though I ended up semidreading the evening, it was kind of nice to get dolled up in black tie. When Miles came in as I was spraying my finishing spritz of perfume, the buzzer rang and my ex was on his way up.
“Wow, Holly? You look . . . great,” Tim commented when I opened the door. Ha. Eat your heart out. Still, even on my best night I couldn’t look twenty-frigging-five like Avery.
“Thanks. So you’ll take him to school tomorrow?”
“Sure, will do.”
“Okay, great, thanks! Bye—”
I leaned down to kiss Miles good-bye and could sense Tim looking me over. I knew he was wondering where I was going, but I didn’t mention a thing, as if I always pranced around in tight gowns and spike heels, not schleppy bathrobes and spinster slippers. Little did he know the evening ahead of me would probably be a huge nightmarish bore and the event I was truly intrigued by was a week away at the Lyle Spence Gallery. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It was my turn to get out in the world, and I didn’t owe him a thing.
23
“Love is a fire. But whether it’s going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell.”
—Joan Crawford
Lars and Emma’s chauffeur-driven Cadillac Escalade was outside waiting for me, and though I was basically in an armored urban tank, I felt vulnerable. Not since I went stag with all my girlfriends to my junior prom was I so gussied up without a hand to hold. When we got to Cipriani on Forty-second Street, my heart started to pound as I entered the grand ballroom—a former bank with such exquisitely ornate architecture, it was truly a landmark treasure. Flashbulbs flew as many high-profile trustees of the charity—from Harvey Weinstein to the CEO of General Electric to the heads of every major investment bank and the hedge fund elite—swarmed in, seeking their calligraphied cards of table assignments.
I milled around the cocktail hour a bit awkwardly by my lonesome, but a delicious bellini took the edge off, as did some caviar (Kiki always called us “the Roe Hos”). As I happily sipped my peach-infused champagne, I noticed a pair of green eyes trained on me. They belonged to a familiar-looking guy, though I had no idea who he was. He was extremely attractive—but not in that pretty-boy, too-angular way where they’re so hot that everyone notices; he had that special kind of gleam that made him appealing in a warm, cuddly way. A total grade-A nugget.
“Hi,” I said, in sixth-grade mode.
“Hi there, Holland, right? I’m Elliot—”
“Yes, hi, how are you?” We shook hands. I knew we’d met, but I couldn’t place him. His green eyes were so amazing, they looked quasi contacty, which would be scary were his smile not so nice.
“I met you very briefly. In the park, with your son?” he responded. “And your friend, Kiki?”
“Oh, yes—” I vaguely recalled Kiki trying to strike up conversation with him. He was very cute. But another 10021 guy? No way. Plus, if he was there, he was obviously in the banking world, which was too close for comfort. No matter what.
It was among my top three bullet points. If I actually went online to do a profile or something, my request for a non-banker would be as much in lights as one for a non-smoker.
“Holly!” I heard behind me. Emma. In full Oscar de la Renta beaded gown to the floor, as if it were the Oscars. But I guess for her it was, since she and her husband were the honorary chairs of the evening and Bill Cunningham from the Times was snapping away for Sunday’s paper.
“Emma, Lars, hi! Thank you so much for having me—this is spectacular!”
As Elliot wandered away, I got caught up in introductions to their friends who would also be at our table, including a widower who was much older. Not my type, as I don’t date dwarves. The poor guy didn’t clear my boobs, so there was no way I’d Katie Holmes over him no matter what elevator shoes he procured from John Lobb. Great, I knew there was some ulterior motive to my being invited. Oh, well. We chatted through the appetizer and I could tell he was a kind man, but clearly we were ill suited. And that would probably be how it was from now on: Match Holly with anyone who can walk. She’s single now, she has a kid, and she’d be lucky to get anyone in this ballroom! Nice.
The evening droned on and there were many speeches about all the good the money was doing, and at one point as I scanned the grand room, zombie-like, I saw a beautiful blonde shamelessly flirting with Elliot. Just as I was about to casually nudge Emma to ask who he was, the spotlight fell upon our table and she and Lars rose to go to the podium to accept a trophy for their generous philanthropic efforts around the city. Le tout Wall Street clapped in their honor and I looked around, noticing the same crew of bedecked wives. Emilia d’Angelo and Mary Grassweather, with glistening wrists covered in diamonds; Posey Smith, who was in Oscar, gave me a wave across the dance floor. I felt a bit of a sting that she had never followed up with me about that glass of wine—we used to spend time alone together as friends, but now I could see she’d moved on. It’s funny, I knew that if I were to go home with and date and marry the geezer next to me, like that other divorcée at our school, I would instantly regain my social standing. My new armor of another wealthy (albeit older) husband would reinstate me as a worthy friend, committee chairperson, trustee of the school or museum or hospital. My haute couture and glittering jewels would be a wearable E-ZPass back into society. But lately, when I saw a huge diamond necklace from Fred Leighton, I wondered: Was it a Forgive Me present? My eyes settled on another neck, covered with canary yellow diamonds from Graff. Was that a Please Take Me Back gift? Was each woman committing to stay for these precious gems, tacitly agreeing to look the other way while their husbands had their cakes and fucked them, too? My mind was reeling when my cell phone beeped with a text message from Kiki, interrupting these musings.
“Does your robot party suck? Meet me at Marion’s on the Bowery.”
Since dessert was being served and I saw a few old fogies and young parents starting to thank their various hosts and bid adieu to their tables, I bolted.
The vibe couldn’t have been more different at the downtown bar, with k
itsch galore dangling from the ceiling, loud music, and strong gem-hued cocktails that rivaled those bellinis.
“Holleeeeeee!” Kiki yelled when I walked in, making me feel very much like I had entered Cheers. She had a table in the back with some of her girlfriends whom I’d met before, all very hip and wild, without edit buttons, à la Kiki.
“Holly! Girl, you look fierce!” Eliza, who worked for Vera Wang, so kindly said. “You look much younger, too!”
“Really?”
“That’s ’cause I gave her a total makeover and we got rid of half her stuffy-ass closet,” bragged Kiki, winking at me. “We filled her disgusting Vera Bradley tote with all her preppy crap and torched it. She’s a fox now, right?”
“Total minx,” replied Carrie. “And speak of the devil!” Out walked a nice-looking but younger, like, much younger, guy from the bathroom. “Nick! This is Holly, Kiki’s BFF!” said Eliza.
