Bergdorf Blondes

by Plum Sykes

  Charlie obviously had no clue about the women’s movement. Didn’t he know that since the 1970s it was illegal to go around randomly saving women?

  “I don’t want to be saved. I want to die.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I do. I hate you!” I croaked. “How dare you go around saving me like that! It’s unforgivable.”

  “How dare I? How dare you.” He was cross now. I was a little bit terrified of him suddenly. “The only thing that is unforgivable is what you’ve done,” said Charlie.

  It was très unkind of him to be so cross after all I’d been through. I mean, hello, what about some major sympathy?

  “What’s the point in saving someone if you’re not going to be nice to them afterward?” I wailed.

  “Stop being so darn spoiled and grow up,” said Charlie. He really had no idea how to be nice.

  I looked around me. The Ritz robe lay next to me on the bed. A gray coat covered me. It didn’t belong to me. An icky realization crept up on me: it must be Charlie’s. This was deeply embarrassing.

  “Charlie, was I, you know, like, nude when you found me?”

  “No,” he said.

  I was beyond relieved. Then he said, “You were wearing shoes.”

  That’s it, I thought. I am never, ever not killing myself again. The whole thing was beyond humiliating. Now I was going to be the girl who couldn’t get married and couldn’t kill herself. Forget Da Silvano, I wouldn’t even be admitted to John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street now. I suddenly remembered the e-mail. I could stop it: I had thirty minutes before it went out.

  “Charlie, pass me the computer, fast,” I said.

  The icon in the PENDING box was flashing. I opened it and clicked on DON’T SEND, relieved. I noticed the in-box was flickering: I had mail. Out of curiosity I quickly checked it. There was a note from my mother:

  I do hope you haven’t done anything silly, darling. I presume the e-mail was a joke. I do not admire New York style highlights, or shopping with discount cards. But if you’re giving things away I’ve always rather admired your John Galliano knitted mink sweater. Just a thought. Love, Mummy.

  Somehow the will had been sent, alas. I had never been very brilliant with the extra features on my Mac. There were several more e-mails in the in-box, but I decided to read them later—I couldn’t take the humiliation right now.

  “Oh, Charlie, this is a disaster. Could you order me a Bellini?” I said.

  “No.”

  I blinked as if to say, Why not?

  “The last thing you need is alcohol. That would make you feel worse.”

  “No one could feel worse than me right now, not even me. What did you think of the note?” I asked.

  “What did I think of the note? Who do you think you are, Sylvia Plath?”

  Charlie totally understood me at that moment. At least if I’d died everyone would have realized I’d read lots of important literature, like Mrs. Dalloway and Valley of the Dolls.

  “Well, it’s funny you should say that because I was totally going for the whole Virginia Woolf thing actually,” I replied.

  He grabbed me hard by my shoulders and shook me. I was shocked. “You’ve got to grow up and stop being so incredibly childish. This could have been serious,” he said.

  “Stop it!” I whimpered. “Stop being so nasty to me about it all! I’m just not feeling too good about things now. Life is terrible.”

  He let me go.

  “Things might be terrible. But what about all the people who love you? Your parents, Julie, all your friends? Did you ever stop to think how terrible it might be for them if you killed yourself?”

  “Of course,” I said, which wasn’t exactly totally true. I hadn’t thought about anyone except moi since my disengagement. “They’d be better off without me like this though, I’m just a burden now.”

  “You’ve got to pull yourself together. Stop being so self-indulgent.”

  “I can’t ‘pull myself together,’ I’m too unhappy,” I said.

  “We’re meant to be unhappy sometimes. That’s life. Hearts get broken. Bad things happen. You get through them, you don’t go off doing selfish things like OD’ing. If you were happy all the time, you’d be some talk show host. Like Katie Couric.”

  I started to cry. Why do people have to be so mean about Katie? She can’t help it if she’s being paid like $60 million to smile until 2010.

  “Stop being so harsh,” I wailed. “I need some kindness.”

  “Kindness? Put this on and get some sleep.” Charlie handed me the Ritz robe.

  “I can’t wear that,” I said. “It’s part of my suicide outfit. I know, why don’t you take me to Café Flore for breakfast? I love St. Germain. That would cheer me up.”

  “You’re going nowhere. You’re going to stay here and sleep it off.”

  “Well, maybe later you could take me for a really glamorous dinner at Lapérouse. I mean, they do this flambé tarte tatin there that is beyond.”

  “I don’t care,” replied Charlie, “if the fucking Eiffel Tower is being fucking flambéed, you aren’t moving.”

  For someone who was supposed to be a good friend, Charlie was being very hostile. Hadn’t anyone told him you don’t swear at suicide victims?

  “You’re sick and you need rest. You’re staying right here all day and all night. You’ll drink hot milk and eat rice and that is that,” he said.

  Rice? He hated me, he really did. Just then there was a knock at the door. It was Julie, with Todd in tow.

  “Hey boo!” she squealed, hugging Charlie. “You’re here! This is Todd-ee. We are gonna have so much fun.” She didn’t seem fazed by introducing her boyfriends to each other, but her face fell when she saw me. “My god, sweetie, what happened, why are you dressed like a street person?”

  “Can we go next door?” said Charlie. “And maybe ‘Todd-ee’ could come back later. I need to talk to you, Julie.”

  Todd sloped off looking embarrassed, and Charlie led Julie into the other room. He closed the door. Typical. Just when I was about to get some much-needed compassion from Julie, Charlie whisked her away. God, he was so interfering! I couldn’t wait for him to go back to LA, where he belonged, along with all those other impossibly controlling, anal-retentive movie directors. Suddenly, I felt like I was going to vomit. I staggered into the bathroom. I’ll spare you the details.

  Things didn’t improve all day. Julie loved all the things I’d left her in my will and asked if she could have the Ambien tablets even though I wasn’t dead. Once Mom realized that I’d managed not to kill myself, she said she was not at all happy that I was so honest in my will about her limited talent for fashion. The only person who was thrilled with his bequest was Dad.

  The next night while Julie was down in the spa getting a blow-out, Charlie asked me to meet him in the bar. At last he had realized that a postsuicidal girl didn’t need lectures, she needed champagne. I’d felt pretty dreadful yesterday—sick and weak and sad—but now I felt a little better. I was desperate for anything to distract me from thinking about what I’d done. I mean, I was embarrassed beyond belief, you can imagine. But when I got down to the bar Charlie didn’t even notice my new Chloé outfit that Julie had bought me to try and convince me not to attempt to kill myself again. He was frowning and serious.

  “Better?” he said.

  “Totally desperately lonely and brokenhearted actually,” I said. “Could you get me a champagne cocktail?”

  Charlie called over the waiter. “A vodka for me and a Perrier for mademoiselle, please.”

  God, men are just as selfish as girls always say. Then he said, “You need a clear head if you’re going to sort out your life.”

  “A clear head is not going to get me another fiancé,” I said.

  “You don’t need a fiancé.”

  Charlie didn’t understand that my life in New York would be ruined unless I found another fiancé. All anyone cared about in New York was who was married to whom, or was
going to be. Didn’t he know it was like the nineteenth century there? Didn’t he know what had happened to poor Lily Bart?

  Charlie continued, “You need to sort yourself out before you fall in love with someone else.”

  “I’ll never fall in love again,” I sulked.

  “Don’t be so cynical. Of course you will.”

  Then out of the blue, Charlie said, “Is Julie seeing someone else, here in Paris?”

  Yes, and you met him, I thought. I didn’t like to lie to Charlie, but when one is in a situation where one’s loyalty is divided, I always say, lie anyway. I smiled reassuringly, and said, “No.”

  “Be honest,” he said.

  Can I be super-duper honest and admit something très terrible? I wasn’t paying that much attention to this very tense conversation anymore because something happened while I was talking to Charlie that I never expected: I fell in love.

  The entire time I was talking to Charlie a very handsome boy was making what I can only describe as very Brazilian eye contact from right behind Charlie’s left ear.

  “She’s nuts about you. She never stops talking about you,” I said ultratruthfully.

  God, Mr. Brazil over there looked hot when he turned to the right. He had dark blond hair and a sun-kissed forehead. I imagined he’d just come back from a weekend in the south of France or something glamorous like that.

  “She’s seeing Todd, isn’t she?”

  A waiter interrupted us. “Mademoiselle, for you,” he said. He put a glass of champagne in front of me. “From the Prince. Eduardo of Savoy.” The waiter gestured toward Mr. Handsome. I mouthed merci. He nodded back.

  “Todd’s gay,” I said, superconfidently.

  I wondered if the Prince’s parents would mind when he told them he was marrying me.

  “Todd is about as gay as Eminem,” said Charlie. He was silent for a while, looking into his drink. “I think it’s over with Julie.”

  I tried very hard to focus my thoughts on Charlie’s dilemma, but I couldn’t help being distracted when I recalled that this particular H.R.H. had a famously wonderful summer house in Sardinia and estates scattered all over Italy in fact. Total PH material.

  “I’m going back to LA tomorrow night,” said Charlie.

  He looked up at me for reassurance. It was odd, as if the tables had turned and it was Charlie who needed support and advice from me. I gathered my thoughts so I could make a great speech about Julie’s virtues, but then wondered whether these two really were suited. I mean, Charlie was so bossy and Julie was such a delinquent. I made a lame attempt to make my case.

  “But you and Julie are like…totally…great…” I trailed off, because I’d noticed that H.R.H. was reading Proust. How hot of him. No, how smart of him. The waiter approached and gave me a note. It read Dinner, 8:30 PM, VOLTAIRE. Charlie took it straight from me and shot me a furious look. He turned to the waiter who was hovering expectantly.

  “Could you tell the young man that mademoiselle is not well enough to have dinner out tonight?” he said.

  How dare he? Just when I was feeling a little better. He only wanted me to be unhappy because he was unhappy.

  “Monsieur, tell him I’ll meet him there,” I said, gathering up my things.

  Charlie glared at me and said nothing. He really hated me now. I really hated him back, so we were quits.

  7

  It was très lucky that whole little Advil plot of mine didn’t work out. Eduardo quoted Proust throughout dinner. Can you imagine anything more intellectually stimulating than a man whispering, “Il n’y a rien comme le désir pour empêcher les choses qu’on dit d’avoir aucune ressemblance avec ce qu’on a dans la pensée,” to you over a glass of Château Lafite that’s older than you are? Even though my semi-fluent French didn’t exactly stretch to a translation, I knew it would be beyond romantic if I could have understood it.

  “Giuseppe,” said Eduardo to his driver after we’d left the restaurant and were in the car, “please take us home.”

  As I told Julie afterward—because she was super stroppy when she couldn’t find me at the Ritz the next morning—I swear I had zero idea that when Eduardo said “home,” he was referring to the family palazzo on the shores of Lake Como. He kissed me like a demon all the way from Paris to Como, a drive of about 800 kilometers. It should take about eight hours. But when you have a driver like Giuseppe you make it in five hours flat. I secretly hope he never drives me again. No one needs to get anywhere at 185 kilometers per hour.

  I think Eduardo was just about the perfect man. He wore more Malo cashmere than an entire mountain of goats. His mom was an ex-actress from Hollywood and his father would have been the King of Savoy if they still had kings there. Usually the Italian royal family isn’t allowed into Italy, but the government worshiped Eduardo’s mom so much he’d been given special dispensation to go in and out as he pleased. He’d studied French lit at Bennington and lived in New York “working for the family,” whatever that meant. I didn’t inquire, I mean, I’d seen The Godfather and everything and you just don’t ask Italians how they specifically get their money.

  The palazzo was better inside than the Frick. I was living for the four-poster bed I woke up in the next morning. It was draped in Italian lace exactly like the kind Dolce & Gabbana use on their corsets. The shutters were open and I could see the lake and mountains outside, all Technicolor blues. No wonder there are no Italians in the Hamptons.

  I was pretty amazed with the way life was turning out. I mean, I was alive, I’d avoided a potentially disturbing Julie-Charlie breakup scene through no fault of my own, and I was eating breakfast in bed in a place that made the Ritz look like the Marriott Marquis. Everywhere you looked in the palazzo, there was a butler in a black jacket and white gloves bringing you a freshly baked almond cake or something delicious like that. I couldn’t believe how much better I felt already. Who knew you could recover completely from a suicide attempt in thirty-six hours? It was easier than falling off a cliff.

  I must send a postcard to the girls in New York, I thought; I mean, they needed to know about this. We walked down to the local village to buy a few things. As we left the house, two ferociously tanned Italian men appeared. They were dressed identically in navy bomber jackets, dark pants, and sunglasses. They were both wearing ear pieces. They looked so fit I swear they’d spent their whole lives at Crunch gym on East Thirteenth Street. Bodyguards, I thought. How glam to have your own personal protection. Of course, I acted super-duper nonchalant; I mean, I didn’t want Eduardo knowing I was totally freaked out by the security so I just said “Ciao” to both of them as if to say, Everyone I know has armed guards.

  They walked us all the way into the village and back again, whispering into those little ear pieces. We didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger of an assassination attempt or anything like that in the village—the only person we saw was a lone farmer herding a donkey along the main street. But it did occur to me that had someone wanted to identify and kill the Prince it would have been very easy to target him because there was no one else walking around the village that day with two very conspicuous undercover bodyguards trailing after him and a girl wearing heels and a black satin evening dress.

  You know what’s really awesome about being an H.R.H. with more staff than the first lady? You can decide what you want for lunch while you are out walking, call the house where there’s a chef better than Jean-Georges Vongerichten on call 24–7, and have melanzane and panna cotta waiting the minute you get home. You can imagine what I wrote on my postcard:

  Dearest Lara and Jolene,

  Honestly I don’t know why Princesses complain about being Princesses so much. It’s 150% luxury. I advise you both get yourselves an H.R.H. A.S.A.P.

  Love and kisses, Moi

  I know Jolene was scheduled to get married and everything, but she should know what she might be missing out on in advance.

  We were sitting in the drawing room after lunch drinking espresso when one of the
staff rushed in with the telephone and handed it to Eduardo. He said something very fast in Italian and then put the phone down and jumped up. He was on high alert.

  “Okay, we’re leaving!” he said. “We go back to New York tonight.”

  “Why?” I said.

  We were having such a heavenly time. It seemed crazy to go back to New York though it had crossed my mind in the last few days that I really needed to contact the Palm Beach heiress.

  “Carina, I have some…family business to take care of. I’m sorry. But we’ll come back here in the summer, I promise.” I loved that Eduardo called me carina—it means “darling” in Italian.

  He looked depressed.

  “But I’ve left my passport and everything in Paris,” I said.

  “You don’t need a passport with me.”

  God, how glam. Even the president needs a passport.

  There were six e-mails from Julie when I got back to New York very late that night. I dreaded reading them—Julie was never going to forgive me for leaving her alone in Paris, or, rather, alone and rejected by a man in Paris. It would be her turn to have a nervous breakdown now. The first one read,

  Honey,

  Everything going GREAT with Charlie. He adores me. He’s off back to LA for work. I’m staying on in Paris for a few days shopping. So glad you disappeared off with His Royal Whatever. Heard he’s totally hot. Sent Todd back to NYC—I adore him too but he was kind of getting in the way.

  Kisses,

  Julie

  Thank God. Julie still had Charlie. Even though he’d been undeniably vile about the whole Advil incident and I’d made an executive decision never to speak to him again, he made Julie happy. That was all that mattered.

  Julie’s other e-mails listed her various shopping purchases in Dickensian detail. She was mainly scooping up Marc Jacobs outfits at Colette. This seemed sort of weird since she could just buy them for a lot less on Mercer Street back in New York. But as she said, “Look, if you are going to have to wear Marc Jacobs because it’s just too good, at least stand out from the crowd and be able to say you bought it in Paris.” I e-mailed her back and asked her to bring back my passport and clothes. I knew this wouldn’t trouble her at all, because, like all Park Avenue Princesses, Julie always has someone else pack her bags and then ship them because they are always three times as heavy as the baggage allowance.