Bergdorf Blondes

by Plum Sykes

  “Well, I mean, hmmm. When we had it, it was…the best,” I said, embarrassed.

  “Uh-oh! Beware!!!” said Fensler. “Never, ever marry the best sex of your life. It only happens with someone who is very dangerous for you. It’s passionate, exciting, but it generally indicates that you are pushing each other’s dysfunctional buttons. Be very wary of men you are crazily sexually attracted to—they’re the dangerous ones for you. That’s what all analysis says in one form or another.”

  I didn’t choose that particular moment to admit that sex with Eduardo was a million times better than sex with Zach. What was I supposed to do? End it with him precisely because I was so attracted to him? Date someone I found repulsive? This was where the whole therapy thing cancelled itself out. You couldn’t actually do anything about the things you were supposed to do things about. Dr. Fensler held a mirror up to my face.

  “Now, take a look at yourself. Phenomenal.”

  Dr. F. had done something amazing. My skin was glowing. I looked more like someone who’d just come back from a month in the islands than a girl recovering from a French suicide attempt. I suddenly felt overflowing with self-esteem. The feeling was on a par with how good I felt the first time I bought a silk Pucci headscarf and actually wore it on a yacht in the manner of Christina Onassis.

  “I feel wonderful, thank you so much,” I said as I got up to leave.

  “Keep that feeling. The second you don’t have it, come straight back here for some more wonderful, got it?”

  The thing about going to the dermatologist, unlike seeing a therapist, is that it makes you feel really happy about yourself right away. As I passed through the waiting room, I promise you I literally waved at all those gorgeous girls in there. Eduardo adored me, Zach was all in the past, and I looked like a million bucks.

  Honestly, if I’d known about Alpha-Beta peels before, I’d never have ended up with someone lousy like Zach in the first place.

  It was auspicious that Dr. F. had plumped my epidermis, because Eduardo was due back in town that night, and I was anticipating some more best-Proust-of-my-life with him, regardless of the doctor’s advice. Aerin van Orenburg—the young reclusive daughter of Gustav van O., who always says he has more art than the Gettys—had decided to come out of her seclusion and throw a wild costume party. The rumor was that since college all Aerin had done was stay home and knit gold lurex shoe bags for her massive collection of Christian Louboutins. Everyone wanted to go to Aerin’s party. But Aerin, being the contrary kind of girl she is, had invited only half of everyone who wanted to be there.

  Aerin loved her own contrariness. Her theme was super-obscure and confusing for everyone: it was “Robert and Ali.”

  The idea was that the boys should dress as the 1970s movie mogul Robert Evans and the girls as his one-time wife Ali MacGraw. The thing about throwing a costume party in New York is that if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to be super original about it. I’ve heard that some really cruel NY girls actually burn costume party invites if they feel the theme is “tired.” Apparently you cannot throw a party with any of the following themes ever again here: Mick and Bianca; Boogie Nights; Bill and Monica. Also leather ‘n’ leopard is off-limits because everyone just cheats and zips straight into Roberto Cavalli.

  Lara, Jolene, and Julie loathed the theme. Unless they wore wigs they couldn’t imitate Ali’s hair.

  “So wear a wig,” I told Julie, who had called for a costume summit.

  “There is no way I am putting icky brown hair over this gorgeous blonde. Ariette would die. How can Aerin do this to me after I totally looked after her at Spence?”

  It’s rare that a brunette like me has a social advantage over a New York blonde. But for once I did. I could hardly wait for the party tonight.

  “Why don’t you get Ariette to do a nonpermanent brunette for the night?” I asked Julie.

  “Eew! No! I mean, my god, my hair might start growing brown if I did that,” replied Julie. The fact is that Julie’s hair does grow slightly brown, but I made an executive decision not to remind her. “I’m going as the blonde Ali MacGraw. She would have looked much cuter like that. Why does Aerin have to be such a pain? She’s just trying to upset everyone and get written up as the most original Park Avenue Princess in the Suzy column.”

  “You don’t have to go,” I said.

  “Are you kidding me? No one’s been invited. I have to go. It’s the highlight of my week. Even though it’s only Monday, so my week hasn’t really started yet.”

  Julie hung up. She called back a few seconds later to say, “Sweetie, don’t tell Aerin I said that thing about her thing being the highlight of my week because I would hate for her to know her party was the highlight of my week.”

  Eduardo had arranged to meet me at the party, which I freely admit was the highlight of my week. Julie decided to bring Todd as her date: he was obviously back on her extensive boyfriend-of-the-minute list, and Charlie was back in LA. (Thank god. The idea of him frowning at me across a crowded room full of Robert and Ali lookalikes was not appealing.) Aerin has an allergy to sparing any expense. She’d transformed her entire place into a replica of Robert Evans’s famous house in Beverly Hills. Love Story was playing on a giant screen in the library. Matsuhisa had been flown in from LA to do the food. Apparently the real Robert and Ali were there because Ali was Aerin’s godmother or something. Thing was, it was impossible to spot them among all the other Roberts and Alis.

  Something strange happened in the middle of the party. I was lounging by myself on a velvet sofa when Todd sat down beside me. He was barely recognizable in his Robert Evans velvet flares and huge tortoiseshell sunglasses. He seemed agitated. Suddenly he looked at me very intensely and said, “I must have your number.”

  Creepola, I thought to myself. Todd was Julie’s. I was off-limits.

  “Why?” I said.

  “I need to call you. I want to…There’s something I need to say to you, “ he said.

  Todd was really grossing me out. He was looking at me with stealthy eyes.

  “Todd, I don’t want you calling me, okay?”

  He walked off. He looked embarrassed.

  The party was so fabulous that it seemed like I’d been there for only five minutes and suddenly it was 1 AM. Time is so insidious at the best parties. At the worst parties it isn’t, which is so annoying. Julie left with Todd. I went outside and hailed a cab.

  Inside the taxi another insidious feeling crept up on me. Where was Eduardo? He never showed up. I checked my cell. No messages. I called my home voice mail. He hadn’t called there either. I called his cell and there was no answer. I called his apartment. Nothing.

  I was not desperate, really. It was just this was not how I wanted to be treated. He’d stood me up and left me to be harassed by Todd. Thank god for Dr. Fensler. I was so overflowing with brand-new self-esteem that night that I decided I would tell Eduardo it was all over in order to show him that I was a certain kind of girl with a certain kind of high self-esteem who must be treated like the best emerald in one of his great-grandmother’s tiaras. After he had begged me to take him back I would reluctantly agree if he promised to modify his behavior. After all, this was Eduardo’s first misdemeanor and wasn’t it legal procedure to let criminals off for a first offense?

  By the time I got home my self-esteem was still almost intact, which I thought was an excellent result considering the beating it had taken tonight. I headed straight for the phone and saw the MESSAGES button flashing. I dialed voice mail. Eduardo better have a great excuse. But it wasn’t him. There were three messages from Todd (how did he get my number?) asking me to call him back. This was sick, I mean, it’s a form of incest to go after your girlfriend’s best friend. And Todd knew I was dating Eduardo. They’d been at school together and were old acquaintances.

  I was woken at 6:30 AM the next morning by the phone ringing. I picked it up even though I consider it unethical to make contact with the outside world before 10:30 in the
morning.

  “Its Todd—”

  “Todd, it’s so early!”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  I was loving this whole positive s-e thing Dr. F. had given me but did I really want Todd being attracted to me?

  “Todd. You are cute. You are Julie’s. I’m not seeing you. You’re crazy,” I said.

  “But—”

  “I’m going back to sleep.”

  I hung up.

  It was obviously the era of insanely early morning calls because about ten minutes after that the phone rang again. Oh, eew, I thought, I cannot deal with this Todd drama any longer.

  “Yes?” I said sternly.

  “Is that you, my carina honey petal?”

  It was Eduardo. He was whispering. No man had ever called me his carina honey petal before, but I was not swayed from my course: even though I would eventually be lenient, I must show no clemency now. In my most high-self-esteem voice I said, “Eduardo. I’m disappointed. You let me down last night.”

  I really was. I mean I’d made a huge effort to look like Ali MacGraw at the peak of her stardom and he’d totally missed my fashion moment.

  “I don’t think we should see each other again,” I said.

  “Non! My darling, I am stranded at the airport in Florida. You know that hurricane that hit the coast down here? The airport’s right in the middle of it. They wouldn’t let my pilot take off. I had to stay in a ghastly Sheraton hotel. I’m exhausted and all the phone lines were down until now. I am so sorry I couldn’t reach you last night because you know, je t’adore.”

  I was hit by a mega-guilt attack. To think I’d been so untrusting when Eduardo was sleeping under some horrible synthetic hotel sheet. Still, I didn’t say a thing.

  “Let me take you to dinner tonight. To Serafina. Best pasta in New York. How can you say no?”

  I couldn’t. If you’d ever eaten the champagne and clam pasta at Serafina your self-esteem would have collapsed immediately, too.

  A convenient stone’s throw from Barneys, Serafina on East Sixty-first Street is New York’s H.Q. for H.R.H.s. Apparently Albert of Monaco goes straight there from his plane just for the pizza porcini, and the “of Greeces” and “of Belgiums” rarely eat anywhere else. There are ofs everywhere you look in that place. They’re very civil to one another but Eduardo says the Greeces are violently jealous of the Belgiums because the Belgiums still have a country, even if no one would ever dream of going there if it were the last place on earth. It makes no sense to me. I mean, I’d rather have no country at all and live somewhere exciting like Manhattan than have one like Belgium and actually have to be in it when it has nothing but beer to drink and no chance of an Alpha-Beta peel.

  I decided on that gorgeous pastel peppermint satin number by Louis Vuitton for dinner. Looking back on it, I guess I must have been subliminally trying to communicate to Eduardo that I was the perfect candidate for Princess of Savoy. That dress was exactly the kind of thing Grace Kelly would have worn if she’d been a brunette. It was an excellent outfit for being cross with Eduardo in, because he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything I was saying and would hopefully agree to all my terms immediately, which constituted the following:

  Improve record on absenteeism. Work travel acceptable Monday through Friday only.

  Replace hopeless Motorola cell phone with digital cell that works everywhere, even on father’s Learjet.

  Another visit to the palazzo très soon.

  The second I walked into the restaurant I saw Eduardo at the entrance looking all tanned with his hair slicked back. He said, “My carina, you are bellis-sima tonight.” All my terms slid from my mind and right out the door of the restaurant. I couldn’t remember a single thing I was annoyed about anymore. (Luckily I had written down my terms on the inside of my hand: I had warned myself that forgetfulness might descend when I glimpsed Eduardo again.)

  We had a great table with a view of the whole place. That night was gorgeous Swedish Princesses night: there was a table full of them in the center of the restaurant. No one could take their eyes off them. I think this was because they were natural blondes and no one could believe their hair was real. Then there were “of Greeces” everywhere you looked with their pretty blonde American wives, and I could see Julie in a far corner with Todd—eew!—and a whole table of “of Austrias.” There was an East Village–type kid in one corner dressed in all that Gothic stuff you get on East Ninth Street. He seemed out of place until he came over and greeted Eduardo, who introduced him as Iago of Denmark. Hamlet, I thought, how cute.

  Iago joined us for dinner. (This was not exactly on my list of terms but I had omitted to add a clause stating “no romantic dinners à trois with obscure Danish Princes.”) They mainly talked about the issues that concern minor European royals such as—

  When are they going to get their countries back?

  Who crashed the most cars while at Rosey?

  Is the south of France going to be completely overrun by Russians?

  How are they going to get invited on the King of Spain’s yacht again this summer?

  Is Nikki Beach in Saint Tropez still chic? Or is it more glamorous to show off your tan/girl/self at La Voile Rouge?

  “Of” conversations are actually super-dull, but if you want to be a Princess you have to act like they’re the most fascinating thing in the world. You also have to pretend you think it would be awesome if the royals got their countries back, even if you are a very democratic girl like me who thinks monarchies are way out of date. I secretly believe most of these young Princes couldn’t rule their own apartment buildings, let alone a nation. (This excludes Prince William, who is so hot he can rule the universe if he wants.)

  After Iago left, Eduardo looked me in the eyes and said very romantically, “Tiramisu?”

  “Eduardo, I am very upset. I am not dating you anymore and I am certainly not going to bed with you,” I replied.

  I didn’t want Eduardo thinking he could have me back that night, even though I would definitely let him have me back that night. It was actually very hard to focus because that damn Todd kept making peculiar faces at me from the other side of the restaurant and motioning toward the bathroom. Men in New York are totally sick sometimes. I tried to ignore him.

  “Actually,” said Eduardo, “I meant, would you like to eat some dessert?” How embarrassing! “I know you’re upset and I’m not expecting anything from you. You have every right to be angry with me,” he went on.

  This was sweet but I was disappointed. I’d been counting on some very stimulating Proust tonight—after much coaxing from Eduardo, of course. I said I’d eat the dessert: since it was the only tiramisu on offer, I might as well have some. After that the nicest thing happened. The waiter brought the tiramisu and it was in the shape of a heart.

  “Forgive me?” said Eduardo.

  “No,” I said, meaning yes.

  “Come to Sardinia on Spain’s boat with me in two weeks?”

  “No,” I said, meaning, Shall I run to Eres on Madison right now and get that new white bikini that’s in the ad?

  Anyway, when I got to the bottom of the tiramisu—which was beyond delicious—there was a pink crystal heart just sitting there waiting for me. Eduardo could disappear on work trips and never call me all the time if he wanted.

  “Forgive me, Principessa?” he said.

  “Forgiven,” I said. I love a happy ending that involves a gift.

  “Let’s go,” said Eduardo.

  “Okay, just let me run to the restroom,” I replied.

  I wanted to gloss my lips and blush my cheeks before we got home. You could say I was beyond overwhelmed. Eduardo was perfect. He’d apologized gracefully and admitted he was wrong and I was right about everything without my even having to state my terms. I couldn’t even imagine why I’d been with someone like Zach when there were Eduardos out there to be had. I slipped into one of the stalls. The door to the restroom opened and someone rushed in, breathlessly. I’d hea
rd those Swedish girls were always doing cocaine back here. I sat stock still.

  “Hey,” said a voice. “You gotta hear me out.” It was Todd.

  “Todd, leave me alone, I’m not interested,” I said.

  “Julie sent me. She’s insisting I tell you the truth.”

  That was weird.

  “What?” I said.

  “You gotta stop seeing him,” he replied.

  “No way, Eduardo’s adorable. We’re going for the weekend on the King of Spain’s yacht.”

  “Break it off, I’m telling you. You’re gonna get hurt.”

  I came out to the washing area and opened my makeup bag. I have to admit it was kind of great having two men fighting over me but I acted like it was horrible.

  “Todd, I know you like me but I’m with Eduardo and you’re dating my best friend,” I said.

  “I don’t wanna date you,” said Todd.

  What? How depressing. He just wanted to sleep with me. That was almost worse.

  “I just want you to be happy, that’s all. I know Eduardo really well from school and stuff and he won’t make you happy. I told Julie tonight and she told me to corner you and not let you leave the ladies’ till you knew.”

  “Todd, stop trying to ruin everything! He’s waiting outside for me, I’ve got to run,” I said pulling open the door.

  Todd slammed it shut. He stood across it.

  “Let me out,” I said.

  “He’s married and living in Connecticut with three kids under five.”

  “Don’t be silly. That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Haven’t you wondered why he’s away ‘on business’ every weekend?” said Todd.

  “It’s work,” I said firmly.

  “Italians do not work on the weekend!”

  “Eduardo does,” I replied.

  “And does his phone never work at ‘work’?”