by Plum Sykes
“Do I look happy? Does my smile look, like, real?” asked Julie as I walked in.
Davide said her smile was as real as her Cartier loot, which I thought was a very appropriate metaphor.
“It’s totally fake. Isn’t it beyond?” said Julie.
“Ohmygoditsbey-ooond!” said Davide.
“I went to my dermatologist this afternoon, and you know those little muscles around your mouth, the platysma? You probably don’t because most people don’t think about them. Well, after like twenty-three, they start drooping, but there’s this genius way of fixing them and giving you back your smile. Your derm injects a tiny bit of Botox to paralyze them, and the corners of your mouth turn instantly upward. Once you’ve got the Botox Smile, you can be smiling all night without actually smiling, which makes the smiling much less tiring,” said Julie, as if she were making total sense.
The dress code for Muffy’s party was black tie. As soon as Julie’s hair and makeup were done she threw on a thigh-skimming, black silk minidress. (Chanel. Couture. FedExed from Paris.) While she disappeared into her dressing room to examine herself I sat down and took advantage of Davide and Raquel. There are certain parties in New York where you literally can’t walk in the door without hair and makeup. Muffy’s was one of them. The hair-makeup thing takes you up a notch. After a while you become convinced that you couldn’t cope if you just swiped Maybelline mascara on yourself, which would probably clog. Manhattan makeup artists actually comb your eyelashes after they’ve applied eye makeup. Mascara clots are a federal crime here.
Just as Davide was patting gloss on my lips a loud cry came from the direction of Julie’s bedroom. A fashion tantrum was brewing. I wasn’t surprised. New York girls have one every time someone mentions clothes. I wandered into the bedroom and looked over Julie’s shoulder at her in the mirror.
“It’s totally and utterly wrong. I look…conservative!” she wailed dramatically, pulling at the hem of the little dress. “Look at me! I look like someone from that Broadway show with fat people. Hairspray. My future Prospective Husband is going to think I am a troll!”
The dress was gorgeous, 100 percent killer chic.
“Julie you look incredible. That dress is so short it’s almost invisible. It’s the inverse of conservative,” I said, trying to reassure her.
“I’m freakin’ out and you’re saying things like inverse to me. Can everyone just go away,” she cried, miserable.
Julie locked herself in the dressing room. She changed and changed and changed. She said through the door that she didn’t want to go the party now because it would just be too much sartorial, intellectual, and sexual strain. Although I honestly didn’t mind whether or not I went to some fabulous ball at Muffy’s marble mansion, I had a gorgeous white chiffon dress on that I’d borrowed from the fashion closet at the office—a dress I am fully intending to return one day soon—and it would have been a terrible waste for it not to see the world.
“Julie, I don’t care in the slightest whether we go,” I said. I mean, I could wear the dress another time. “But it’s going to be such a fun party.”
“Parties in New York aren’t fun. They’re war,” said Julie, unlocking the door and appearing in the killer Chanel again. “Davide, give me a Xanax. I always take a tranquilizer on a first date.”
Davide dashed over to his makeup bag, which is filled with a variety of prescription drugs for just such occasions, and fished out a little package. Julie tore it open and popped this really cute baby blue pill in her mouth, which I thought was a very modern way to handle a war, and called her driver to take us to Muffy’s.
I can safely say that I am almost definitely completely sure that I have no idea at all how I ended up with a Prospective Husband and Julie didn’t. I mean, to be more precise, at the end of the night, the PH ended up with his head not at all close to the Brazilian region of Julie but in severely close proximity to that geographical zone on myself.
You see, this champagne bubble had sipped a few champagne bubbles herself, which makes it quite hard to remember exactly how things happened that night. But in the interest of correcting some rather nasty vicious Park Avenue Princess—type gossip, which is that I stole the PH from directly beneath my best friend’s beautiful nose—which of course Julie doesn’t believe, on principle—I feel bound to recount the events of the evening as far as I can almost definitely remember them.
We were an hour late for the party by the time we finally arrived at Muffy’s. It was almost impossible to find our table because Muffy had bunches of white lilies and candles so densely packed in the room you could barely see a yard in front of you. (Flower-wise, the Lily Jungle is absolutely it right now in Manhattan despite the inherent navigational difficulties.)
There must have been 250 guests, with as many waiters, who were uniformed in white tuxes and gloves. The crowd was dazzling: Muffy always attracts the cream of Manhattan society to her soirees. Dress-wise, there was a major floral theme going on, which always happens at benefits for gardens. A lot of the girls were in Emanuel Ungaro because he does the best flowery dresses in the world, no argument. Jewel-wise, the younger girls had brought out their Asprey diamond daisies and the older women were weighed down with estate gems from the safe. Everyone was kissing everyone else hello and saying how thrilled they were to see one another, even if they weren’t.
We were seated just as the starter of chilled mint soup was being served. Our table was right at the center of the room. Everyone else had already sat down. The four PHs Muffy had selected for Julie were très ethnically diverse. Julie barely had a moment to take a spoonful of soup before the Italian princeling, who was on her left, declared, “You more beautiful than Empire State Building!”
“You are charming,” said Julie. Her smile was so dazzling that I think the Italian was encouraged and continued, “Non-non-non! You prettier than Rock-a Fell-a Cent-a.”
The WASPy, blond-haired real estate heir on Julie’s right interrupted to say, “Maurizio, forgive me, but I disagree. This woman is more beautiful than the Pentagon.”
I’ve never heard a man compare a girl to a government building before. Julie must have been flattered because next she asked her key question.
“Do you believe in drivers?” she said, smiling beautifully at him.
It turned out everyone believed in drivers like they’re a religion, including the record producer opposite, who was originally Polish, and the Thirteenth Man, who was an actor from LA by way of Minnesota. (I guess Muffy had relented and let one in after all.) It also seemed that everyone had pilots as well as drivers, because they all had private planes, except for the actor who “borrowed” the Warner Brothers jet “like totally like all the time. And you can totally like smoke Marlboro Reds on it, which is, like, genius.”
The men started discussing altitudes and instruments and cigars and the Nasdaq, which must be much more fascinating subjects than they seem to an ignoramus like moi because men in New York seem to discuss almost nothing else. No one was talking to Julie, or yours truly, or any of the other girls at the table. Julie opened her gold clutch bag, pulled out a lip wand, and started glossing her mouth, a habit she always falls back on when she’s extraordinarily bored, and said, “Why can’t you guys be a bit more real?”
I thought this was a peculiar thing for Julie to say since she often says the only real thing she understands is a diamond. The record producer patted her on the hand, and said, “You don’t get rich that way, babe.”
“You’re so interesting,” said Julie sarcastically, but he didn’t notice because he was back discussing cigars with the real estate guy.
Then the men carried on ignoring everyone but themselves and their jets and so Julie, who is very talented in the redirecting attention to herself department said, “I’ve got a hundred million dollars.” The PHs went quiet. So Julie added, “All to myself,” and suddenly they all started acting very interested in Julie’s mind, whereupon she sweetly announced, “Excuse me. I have
to go kill myself in the ladies’ room.”
While she was away, I explained that this is completely normal, it’s just what Julie always does when she’s really bored by the company and thinks people are interested in her only for her fortune and not for her sparkling personality. All the boys looked shamefully guilty so I said, “Don’t feel bad! Everyone except me likes Julie for her money, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. She’s completely used to it, I mean, even her friends in nursery school only played with her because their parents told them she was rich.”
I think I managed to diffuse an abundantly awkward atmosphere because everyone looked very relieved and started asking me where Julie’s wealth came from. Sometimes I feel pretty sorry for the Park Avenue Princesses: they only have to turn their backs for two seconds, and suddenly everyone’s asking how much they’re worth, or are going to be worth, as though they were a biotech stock or something. Naturally I said that I couldn’t divulge anything as private as the source of the Bergdorf family fortune.
“She’s a Bergdorf? No wonder her hair’s the perfect blonde,” said a dark-haired girl sitting opposite. “Do you think she’d get me in with Ariette?”
New York girls are always asking favors from complete strangers. They take the thing about the land of opportunity completely literally.
Anyway, while Julie was not really killing herself in the restroom, something amazing happened. I had a PH sighting. At a table in the far corner I glimpsed a potentially perfect man: tallish, leanish, with dark hair, and even darker eyes, he was wearing a suit but no black tie. (I worship a man who throws caution to the wind like that and doesn’t wear a tie when he should.) But no, seriously, he was handsome beyond belief, I mean, he was totally giving Jude Law. I completely lost my appetite on the spot, exactly like I do when I hear Tchaikovsky’s pas de deux from Swan Lake. Some things are just so romantic they make you feel like you’ll never eat again. Humphrey Bogart only has to blink at Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca and I’m literally in danger of starvation unless I’m not careful.
Julie returned to the table and I pointed out the gorgeous PH to her, very discreetly, of course.
“Hmmm. He looks cute-ish, I guess,” she said unenthusiastically. “But, you know, he looks a little, well, cool. You know what I mean, like maybe too cool to be engaged to me or anything trad like that.”
“But maybe…I mean, you never know, he…he could be dying to be someone’s fiancé, just to…” I trailed off, mesmerized. “I mean, all fiancés are single until they’re fiancés, right?”
Everyone at the table was staring at me like I was totally dumb. I wasn’t making any sense. I remember getting very confused about what I was saying, which is the effect all Jude Law types have on me. You should have seen me after The Talented Mr. Ripley; I couldn’t read or write for a week.
“You looking for ’usband?” said the Italian to Julie. “Surely this is not romantic, to be so, ’ow do you say eet?…sistematico.”
“Maurizio, what’s unromantic is all those girls who are looking for a husband but pretending they’re not because they think it’s politically correct. There’s nothing more romantic than a girl who likes to be in love and is open about it,” replied Julie. She paused and gazed at him flirtatiously. “Fiancés are beyond glamorous in this town. I think one would look really cute on my arm, don’t you?”
Maurizio swallowed.
“’Ow can you treat a man like a fashion accessory?” he said.
“I’m an expert,” sighed Julie. “I learned it from my boyfriends.”
Completely on Julie’s behalf I took it upon myself to perform a reconnaissance trip to the other side of the party. The closer I got, the more handsome Jude Law became, if that’s possible. God, what am I supposed to say? I thought anxiously as I approached. I mean, I don’t usually just go up to total strangers and start talking to them at parties.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said shyly when I reached his table. “But my friend over there has a question for you. Um, she wants to know if…well…if, you know…you believe in…drivers?”
Jude Law laughed, as though I had told the funniest joke in the world. This is always nice, even if secretly you have no idea you are making a joke.
“I take the subway actually,” he answered.
God, how cute, I thought. I would have thought it was cute if he said he traveled by hedgehog, though. Everything’s cute when you’re as cute as he is.
“You’re so original!!!” yelled a stunning brunette sitting opposite, too loudly. “Hi. I’m Adriana A? The model? I’m in the new Luca Luca ads? I don’t think anyone introduced us yet. Hi! You’re Zach Nicholson, the photographer, right?”
He nodded. Adriana was exotically beautiful, with bones like a Siamese cat’s. She had on those professional smoky eyes models all wear for shoots. I made a note to myself to copy the eye makeup but not the personality.
“I mean, what’s it like down there in those subways?” continued Adriana. She was so flirtatious I swear I could virtually see her eyelashes curling while she was talking. “I bet it’s amazing. I bet you get so much inspiration for your work down there. You’re a brilliant photographer!”
God, Muffy is such a liar sometimes. This man was 100 percent creative. Julie would be totally against the idea of a photographer as a fiancé.
“Thank you. But my inspiration is all in my mind. I just like to get from A to B the quickest way possible,” replied Zach courteously.
I didn’t think he was into Adriana. She was too much. God, he’s cute, I found myself thinking again. And god, what a crying shame for Julie that Monsieur Cute here takes subways not drivers.
“I love love love the latest series. I went to MoMA to look. It’s, like, genius to be at MoMA at twenty-nine!!!” said Adriana.
It really was bad luck for Julie. I mean, the photographer would have made a great fiancé, what with all that talent and charm. Suddenly he looked at me and whispered, “Save me from the Luca Luca model.” Then he said louder, “Hey! Join us, I haven’t seen you in so long,” and pulled me into his lap. “Why don’t you have some dessert,” he said, offering me a plate piled high with profiteroles.
“I’d love to but I just developed an allergy to them,” I said, pushing the plate away. “You wouldn’t believe what a party like this does to your appetite.”
Zach smiled and looked at me seductively.
“Are you the wittiest girl in New York? Or just the prettiest?” he asked.
“Neither,” I said, blushing. Secretly I was flattered beyond belief.
“I think you might be both,” he said.
I was completely, 150 percent charmed. I happily stayed put on Zach’s knee. If someone needs me I can’t say no. And god it was heaven to save someone this heavenly from a beautiful model. It did suddenly occur to me that it might take me at least another five minutes to disentangle myself from my reconnaissance duty, so I waved at Julie and made a thumbs-down sign, as if to say, what a drag, no PHs with drivers in this area.
At about 1 AM I was still saving Zach from Adriana. And even after she’d gone—not before telling us that we could see her on the billboard above the MTV building in Times Square—I definitely got the impression that Zach still needed saving. And some time after that, somehow (and please don’t ask me how because I am way too virginal to explain) Zach almost definitely ended up with his head pretty close to the aforementioned South American region of myself. And to all those gossips who gossiped that I stole a PH from under Julie’s nose, the truth is Julie didn’t want him anyway.
“Sounds way too creative to me. He’ll never be anyone’s fiancé,” she warned me the next day about Zach.
This was fine. I mean, it was Julie who was looking for a fiancé, not me. I knew Julie was telling the truth when she said she wasn’t upset about the photographer visiting my Latin zones and not hers, because the only remark she made about Muffy’s party was “Well, that was a total waste of Paris couture.”
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4
Something happened to me the night I met Zach. Honestly, I never touched profiteroles again. I just went right off them, which is really saying something because they’re literally my favorite food after the vanilla cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery.
I fell for Zach the minute I laid eyes on him. Something inside me went ping! and there I was, suddenly smack-dab in the middle of my own coup de foudre, just like the brother and sister falling for each other in The Royal Tenenbaums. I’m still not quite sure if it was Zach, or the Jude Law in him, but he was beyond romantic. I mean, get this. After we first met he rang me every day and asked me to have dinner alone with him each night. I said no exactly every other night because when a man looks like Jude Law and can have anyone he wants it’s very important not to be too available. And it’s a huge stress getting ready for dinner with Jude Law so I needed a whole forty-eight hours between each date for my lovelorn nerves—which were in total shreds—to recover.
Then, of course, there were other things about Zach that made me melt, like the fact that going to Brazil with him was better than with any of the other very few men I have gone with. I mean, he could find Rio absolutely every time, whereas most men only get as far as the suburbs before they want to go home. He seemed to adore everything about me, even the bad stuff. Like he thought it was charming when I offered to cook him dinner one night and ended up ordering in (being a New York girl at heart, the only thing I can cook properly is a twice-toasted bagel). He rewarded me by doing insanely romantic things, like one time he sent me a bunch of peonies (my favorite flower) every day for five days in a row with a note attached each time. The first note read “For.” On the second was written “My.” The next was “One.” After that came two more notes, one saying “And,” the other saying “Only.” For My One And Only. It was too cute for words. I didn’t eat a thing the whole week.
