The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund

by Jill Kargman

  Going to the same place for the holidays is a touchstone you measure your year by—a yardstick of where you’ve been in the last twelve months. How different my life had become since my last opening of presents under Sherry Von’s majestic fifteen-foot tree, which was decorated not by herself and her family by a roaring fire, but by her staff, guided by Hubert and the floral artisans of The Aspen Branch. The house was bedecked with flowers, wreaths, and garlands, all adorned with hand-blown or silver ornaments from Cartier, Baccarat, and Tiffany. Hubert teetered annually on a vertiginous ladder to hand place each trinket with love all the way up to the ceiling. Our smaller spruce was always covered in popcorn I’d threaded together and Miles’s papier-mâché and cut-out ornaments from nursery school like my mom did with mine. She’d literally saved my lovingly patched-up three-year-old creations for decades; those crayoned lines and googley eyes were what made our tree soulful and unique. Anyone with an AmEx Black could swipe their way into crystal globes and sterling snowflakes but ours had a colorful innocent twinkle way more magical. As always, Kiki stood by helping; she was thrilled to be part of a tree-trimming experience.

  “Oh my God, this is so American, I love it!” she squealed, the first Christmas after she and Hal were married. She cut a star out of the snowflake-embossed foil I’d bought at Kate’s Paperie. “Okay, here it is! Should I put it on top?”

  I smiled as she proudly held her six-pointed Star of David. Miles and I still put it on our treetop to this day. I asked Miles if he was excited for the various parties in Aspen.

  “The Mitchells’ snowman contest is the best! I’m gonna win this year!”

  Rob and Sugar Mitchell (he of Parallelogram Capital) were insane billionaires who were based in London but flew all over the planet, James Bond-style. Their son, August, was Miles’s age and had a twin sister, Hazel. Last year their contest featured assistants to help the kids (defeating the creative purpose, in my opinion), with props to fashion snowman facial features: Chanel buttons that had fallen off Sugar’s various coats for eyes, Hermès scarves for their snow necks, and Cohiba cigars for noses. I was mildly horrified by the excess of in-home cinemas and staffs of twelve, Dom Perignon at brunch, and hundreds of jets all lined up in a row at the airport. I wouldn’t miss it, though I would miss my son so terribly, my entire body ached. Especially because I was sending him, via jet no less, to Sherry Von’s nest of over-the-top spending and opaque values.

  The next morning, we packed up his suitcase with snow-suits, hats, Turtle Fur gators, and mittens, and zipped it up to go downstairs. With a heavy heart, I sat beside him in the lobby until Hubert pulled up the car as Tim hopped out.

  “I love you, honey,” I stammered, trying to force back tears.

  “I love you, Mom. Merry Christmas.” He kissed me on the cheek. And then a cry of “DADDY!” and he ran into Tim’s arms. Over Miles’s shoulder, Tim looked at me and smiled.

  “Merry Christmas, Holly.”

  “You, too.”

  So there I was: solo. I caught up on my TNT movies and even walked around the city by myself doing hokey stuff like scoping Christmas windows and visiting the Rockefeller Center tree along with all of Kansas.

  The next night my dad came in to see me and we sat for a lovely dinner at La Goulue, which normally was buzzing with the beautiful ladies who lunch but this time had a warm, cozy aura since most regulars were off under a palm tree. In fact, with the mahogany walls, drinking red wine and going for the cheese platter, I felt so happy to see my dad.

  “Hanging in there?” he asked me after we toasted his visit. “It’s a tough time. Mom always made the house so beautiful. That’s why I always travel this time of year with the guys. It’s too hard to be home and know there would have been stockings and lights and her food.”

  “I know. I always try to make our apartment like she did. Whenever I’m sad I always go back to missing her. Missing my whole young life.”

  “I know what you mean, kiddo. I can’t even believe I’m going to be seventy. It’s surreal. I bumped into an old friend the other day—a guy I hadn’t seen in fifty years. Half a century!”

  “Well, I’m a girl half your age who has been put out to pasture!”

  “Nonsense. You’re young, you’re bright, you’ll find someone, Holland. I know it.”

  I sat silently and smiled a sly smile.

  “You met someone nice?” he probed.

  “Maybe. I hope.”

  He reached over and squeezed my hand. “He’d be a lucky guy, sweetheart.”

  I came home and checked my machine. Nada. I wondered when I’d hear from Elliot. Was I supposed to call him? The man should really call. Not to be some anti-feminist type, but given my emotional vulnerability I didn’t feel like I could boldly dial the digits, even though we were only friends. But I knew he was always busy at work . . . I should try him. There would be no games this time: a) we were just pals, and b) I’m not the kind of girl who sits by the phone.

  A day of frequently checking voice mail later, I dialed his number.

  “Holly Talbott, I was just going to call you!”

  “Really?”

  “Really. On the off chance you’re free tonight . . .”

  “Yes. Whatever it is, yes.”

  “Terrific. So what have you been up to?”

  “It’s been hard, you know, my first holidays without my son, so it’s been . . . a bit lonely. But I’ve been doing all the tacky New York tourist stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve been to two Broadway shows, all the holiday windows, eating like a pig, the tree, museums.”

  “You ate a tree and a museum?”

  “Ha-ha. Almost,” I said, smiling at his weirdness. “Seriously, though, I’ve done more visitor stuff than regular New Yorker stuff. Everything but a horse and carriage and the Empire State Building.”

  “So when can I come pick you up for tonight?”

  We agreed he’d come by at 8:00, leaving me just enough time to take a bubble bath and get ready without being rushed. Something about hearing his voice put me totally at ease and I felt a little less alone in the wake of Miles’s and Kiki’s simultaneous departures.

  When the doorman buzzed, I wondered if I should invite Elliot up, but my apartment still felt like a family apartment. I even still had a wedding photo up, and snapshots of family vacations I didn’t have the heart to suddenly replace with Mommy & Me versions post divorce. So I opted to just go downstairs. Which ended up being a good call, because Elliot would have had to pay waiting time to . . . the horse and carriage that were sitting there when I arrived.

  “What is this?” I asked, beaming and in shock.

  “Your chariot,” Elliot said, climbing out to walk to me. “I know you had a theme going with the tourist stuff.”

  “Oh, my gosh. I haven’t done this since I visited with my parents as a kid!” I wasn’t sure if I should hug him or play it cool. Luckily I didn’t have to decide. He hugged me immediately and almost picked me up.

  “Sheesh, don’t lift me, I’ll give you a herniated disk.”

  “You are just right. Guys don’t dig toothpicks.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why do all guys drool over models all the time? Your friend Lyle included, I might add,” I teased with a wink. “I’ve seen him with many a cover girl in the press over the years.”

  “Yeah, and he wasn’t into them. He’s more attached to Kiki than I’ve ever seen him with one of those girls.”

  We climbed into the carriage and Elliot put a blanket over our laps to shield us from the frigid but delicious air. We rode down Fifth Avenue along the park, then by the Plaza and then past all the twinkling lights of the boutiques, gussied up for the holidays. It was heaven. Every time I had to trek through midtown it felt like such a crush of bodies and I always had somewhere to go, rushing off this way or that, attempting to do errands against the force of thousands of people. When you’re hurrying somewhere you can never pause to drink in the moment, but that carr
iage ride gave me the chance to savor all the sights and also to let me know that Elliot, through his bold and romantic gesture, definitely could be more than a friend. The suspicion was confirmed when we pulled up to the NBC building and climbed out.

  “The Empire State Building doesn’t serve dinner,” he said. “But the best view of it is right up here at the Rainbow Room.”

  I was euphoric. “I haven’t been here in ages!” I exclaimed as he led me through the doors to the grand lobby of 30 Rock. When we walked in, two guys were carrying a full-length mirror—presumably for one of the many sets in the NBC studios. Elliot stopped walking and put me in front of the mirror, standing behind me and putting his hands on my shoulders.

  “See? Look at yourself. You look like you just swallowed a vat of radium and you’re glowing from within.”

  I caught myself blushing in the mirror and looked down bashfully. I had that excited sense that we were on the same plane in terms of our connection and I couldn’t have been more relaxed and at ease about it. The bellinis upstairs were delicious and the view from our window table beyond intoxicating, and I kept thinking that because he made me feel beautiful, confident, and generally happy, I was suddenly smitten, and this time, felt that I could finally picture myself sleeping with him. I wasn’t frigid! I wasn’t scared or nervous or shaky. I was calm and whole. I felt known and understood and it was so new a sensation that I almost felt reborn.

  Weirdly, the more he said, the more I felt like Elliot was more similar to me than any guy I’d ever met. For one, it was as if his taste buds were grafted onto my own. Same tastes, same dislikes. He loved mushrooms, hated fennel, and was a coffee addict. We ate a delicious dinner of grilled artichokes with lemon, light fluffy gnocchi with vodka sauce, and coffee gelato. After he paid the check, Elliot asked the maître d’ if the private party room was available for a sneak peek. He let us in to the grand room, dark and majestic. The massive Empire State Building looming in the giant floor-to-ceiling windows, and the whole city was before us, an ocean of glitter.

  “This is the most gorgeous thing ever,” I said, absolutely mesmerized.

  “No,” Elliot replied, taking my hand and kissing it. “Second most.”

  With that, I was, as they say, a goner.

  Elliot moved the hair out my face, then caressed my neck down to my shoulder. He leaned in and kissed me so passionately, I felt as electrified as the countless skyscrapers that peppered our majestic view.

  We grasped each other as he kissed my neck and ear, jolting shivers down my back as our fingers interlaced, our breathing growing heavier.

  Suddenly a dude burst in and switched on the lights—the definition of buzz kill. We looked like busted teens in the basement rec room, all guiltily disheveled and rosy. Elliot took my hand. “Let’s go.”

  We hailed a cab and this time I felt perfectly fine having him come to my place, and we kissed excitedly the entire ride home. When we pulled up to my awning the driver had to turn around and announce that we had arrived. I didn’t make eye contact with our doorman, who I was certain would report the sighting to the whole staff. Inside the apartment, we jumped on the bed and as we kissed I realized I was turned on by Elliot the person, not just the newness of him. It felt safe being in his arms, not loaded with shades of the past or elevated on a pedestal, just real and comfortable. And just when I thought I couldn’t like him any more, he awed me with each passing moment, a cute smile here or a dopey gesture there. In our blissful downy vacuum he was more forceful than I first realized; he pulled me to him with such confidence, like a man who goes after what he wants. I felt oddly protected by his strength despite his thin frame. He pulled me down to him and we kissed for what seemed like hours. But whereas John had gone immediately for my bra, Elliot just had his hands in my hair and down my back, under my sweater. Was he not turned on by me? Why no going for the gold? The make out continued and I started to really want him. I put my hands under his shirt to feel the skin underneath. His stomach and torso felt like perfection and I moved my hands up his chest as I climbed on top of him, pants on. We kept kissing but I sensed him tense up a little bit.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing at all. I just . . .” He put his hands on my waist and rubbed my sides. “I thought we maybe should take it slow, you know.”

  Oh.

  “Oh . . . okay,” I said.

  “Trust me, I want to sleep with you. I really want to, I just thought—”

  “Cool, sure, fine, whatever.”

  This whole not-wanting-to-rip-my-clothes-off-and-nail-me thing begged the question: What the fuck? I thought all men were little horndogs. I wanted to be begged for it! I didn’t want to feel like some dirty ho who’s craving it from him. Am I some estrogen-dripping predator? Should I be playing it more coy? Oh, my God, it suddenly dawned on me: Men are the new women.

  Lost in my thought about changing sexual tides and the androgynizing of the world, Elliot pulled me back to him and kissed me.

  “Sweetie, I see the wheels turning.”

  “No, I just, I don’t know.” He did call me sweetie. But why no pouncing, lion-style? Eff it, why not be frank? “I just have never had a guy stop me, that’s all. I usually am the one to put on the brakes. But I guess you want to take it slow, so . . .”

  “I just wanted to let it happen and not speed it up for you.”

  “What do you mean for me? Can’t you see I’m pawing you?” I was semi-embarrassed by my odd situation.

  “Listen, Holly,” he said, putting his arms around me. “All I want to do right now is sleep with you, trust me.”

  Okay . . . “So . . . why? . . .”

  He put his hand on my face. “I just wanted you to know that it’s not like that with you. From the day I first saw you, I was smitten. Then after we met again, I really liked you.”

  All right, how could I not be into that response? “I hear you, I guess. Me, too.”

  “Come here—” He grabbed me and we kissed even more intensely. I felt so open and able to talk with him, which enhanced my yearning. I didn’t want any barriers between us, because the more I knew him, the more I liked him. Boldly, I pulled my sweater over my head. He kissed my neck and chest and I could tell he was changing his mind. Panting like teens, we rolled over the comforter, melding into each other until he really was trying to undress me and reached for my skirt. This time, I stopped him.

  “No, you’re right, let’s just wait . . . ,” I said flirtily.

  “Now you want to wait?” He smiled.

  “Maybe you were on to something. Plus we’ve already talked so much about it, it’s awky now.”

  “Awky? I’m not awky, are you awky?”

  “No, not really.”

  “So?”

  “I just think you were maybe right. Let’s wait. Until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow night, eh?”

  “Yeah, I promise. Sex date. I haven’t done that since I lost my virginity.”

  “Me neither.” He smiled.

  “Really? How did you lose it?” I asked. Maybe I was plunging too fast into his young romantic life. “Is that too personal?”

  “There’s nothing too personal for me. No skeletons.”

  “Okay, I just wasn’t sure if I could quote unquote ‘go there’ yet.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me. “Sweetie, you can go anywhere with me.” I loved how he called me sweetie. I felt like the happiest, most comfortable me there ever was. “It was my high school girlfriend. She insisted we play ‘In Your Eyes’ by Peter Gabriel, and there weren’t remote controls back then, you know, so I had to get up and walk across the room to press play on the stereo since she wanted to lose it to that song.”

  “I lost mine with the Rolling Stones playing.”

  “Hmm. That gives new meaning to “Start Me Up.”

  “Yeah, more like “Let It Bleed.”

  “Nice!”

  “See, Elliot, I must be comfortable with yo
u if I’m telling you about First Time gore. Hope it’s not an overshare.”

  He kissed my forehead, putting his hand on my shoulder and running it down my arm. “No such thing.”

  I smiled and kissed him.

  “Listen, though . . . ,” he started, his forehead crinkling with seriousness. “There’s something I wanted to—”

  The phone rang. I gave him a look to say hold that thought as I reached for the phone, perplexed about who would be calling at midnight. Miles.

  “Hi, Mommy, it’s me.”

  “Hi, lovie! I’m so happy to hear your voice!”

  “I know, I missed you, too . . .”

  “But Milesie, it’s so late, even with the time change, how come you’re up?”

  “I’m supposed to be in bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to say hi. Dad and Avery went out, so I’m just here with Grandma. She’s in her room watching Nick at Nite. I went in, but she said I had to get back in bed, so I wanted to call you.”