by Plum Sykes
Lara and Jolene were there in matching pink and blue Bill Blass dresses. They’d recently started shopping in duplicate in case they wanted to dress the same. Neither of them had seen Jazz. In fact, no one had seen Jazz at the party. I was getting stressed out. Was I ever going to get another story done? I took my seat and tried not to worry.
Julie, Lara, and Jolene were all at my table. They were overexcited because they’d been given the task of judging the best-dressed girl at the party.
“I nominate you,” said Lara to Jolene.
“No,” said Lara, “you’re the prettiest.”
“No way. You’re the prettiest,” said Jolene.
“You are!” said Lara.
“Okay, girls. Let’s just be honest,” interrupted Julie. “I’m the prettiest, but we can’t award the Dolce & Gabbana gift certificate to ourselves, so let’s get on and choose the winner.”
I couldn’t see the fun in the best-dressed competition. All I could think about was how I was ever going to write my story if my subject was constantly unavailable. This career thing can really upset your social life if you aren’t careful.
I chatted a little with the man to my left, a Wall Street hedge-fund guy. I didn’t even notice the seat to my right was empty until I heard a voice saying, “I’m sorry I’m late. So rude of me.”
“No problem,” I said, looking around. I found myself face-to-face with a man wearing an immaculate tuxedo with a freshly laundered handkerchief in the front pocket. His fair hair was combed back and he was smiling. This person was 100 percent charm school.
“I’ve been chatting with our sponsors and we got very involved. But the main thing is to raise as much as we can for this charity.”
I hadn’t caught the guy’s name. As he went to sit down, I sneaked a peak at his place card. It read PATRICK SAXTON.
Sometimes I could literally murder Muffy. Even if Patrick was some kind of total saint who gave all his money and time to Venice, that didn’t mean I’d changed my mind about not being interested in an almost-divorced movie mogul who probably had future-ex-wife issues I couldn’t even imagine. Across the table the negotiations for the best-dressed guest were getting more intense than the nominations for the Pulitzer Prize.
“Louise O’Hare deserves to win. Who else actually personally commissioned Olivier Theyskens to design a Venetian dress?” said Jolene.
“No way,” said Lara. “Kelly Welch got Lars Nilson over from Paris to make her frock, which counts as more effort.”
“Apparently Louise has a backup dress from Un-garo,” said Jolene.
“It’s Ooon-garo. Not Un-garo,” said Lara. “And anyway, having a backup dress is a sign of terrible insecurity. We need to consider the girls’ personalities, too.”
Julie butted in. “Hey, this isn’t a Miss Universe competition! My god! I think someone else should decide. You two are too obsessed to pick a fair winner. Why doesn’t he choose?” said Julie, looking at Patrick.
“Absolutely not,” he smiled, raising his palms. “I’m not qualified.”
“Dude, you don’t need qualifications to say who’s the cutest,” said Julie. “Just decide who deserves to win.”
Patrick gazed around him, wide-eyed. It was like he’d never seen a pretty girl before. For a movie tycoon he seemed kind of cute, personality-wise, which is very rare, actually. He quickly pointed at a girl sitting alone in a corner.
“I think she took the most trouble,” said Patrick.
Jolene and Lara gasped. “Madeleine Kroft!” they said in unison.
Lara and Jolene were alarmed. Madeleine Kroft was exactly who they wouldn’t have chosen. She was a sweet, preppy, twenty-three-year-old who hadn’t lost her puppy fat. She was dressed like she had hired her outfit from a Halloween store on Bleecker Street. She was painfully shy, and rarely spoke without turning a violent shade of tomato.
“No way!” hissed Jolene. She cleared her throat. Collected herself. “That is so nice. I never would have thought of giving the prize to her.”
“Oh my god,” echoed Lara. “This is like the nicest thing that’s ever happened to Madeleine Kroft. I feel so bad for not suggesting her. She’s like the nicest girl ever.”
Patrick got up and went over to Madeleine. We all watched as she started jumping up and down with excitement. Julie snuck around and sat in his empty seat. Then she whispered to me, “He’s cute. He’s rich. He’s the nicest person we’ve ever met in New York. You should date him.”
“Even if he were available, which he isn’t, I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in me, which is lucky because I wouldn’t be interested in him,” I said.
He returned with Madeleine to the table. “Oh my god!” she gasped to Lara and Jolene. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life. You two girls are the best. You’re both really special people. Thank you so much for choosing me. You can come down to the compound on Hobe Sound whenever you want.”
Jolene handed her the Dolce & Gabbana shopping certificate. Madeleine looked at it and suddenly seemed sad.
“What is it?” said Jolene.
“I can’t fit into any of the clothes at that store,” wailed Madeleine desperately. “Why do you think I have to dress like this?”
“Well there’re tons of accessories there you can buy instead,” said Jolene.
“That’s even worse. I hate it here. I feel like a meringue in a room full of chives.”
“You’re a very beautiful girl, Madeleine. Don’t be upset, this is a good thing!” said Patrick.
“Really?” she said.
“I promise. You’re a lot prettier than all those chives,” said Patrick.
Madeleine beamed at him and took off into the crowd. The whole way through dinner, Julie, Lara, and Jolene gazed at Patrick like he was Mother Teresa or something. After coffee was served he turned to me and said, “Can I offer you a ride home?”
“Yes!!!” shrieked Julie excitedly. “She’d love a ride.”
We took a cab. Patrick said he never used drivers for parties because he hated the thought of them waiting outside all night for him. Maybe Patrick really was as down to earth as he seemed. I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone in New York who can have a driver but doesn’t.
“Listen, I leave for Cannes tomorrow night for a couple of days for the film festival. Would you like to be my guest? I’ll be doing a lot of business, but it could be fun,” he said.
I would love to be your guest, I thought. But you are married and I have my career to think of. And I don’t want to give the impression that you have any chance of any extramarital predivorce Brazilian activity with me tonight, which I would if I said yes.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, smiling sweetly.
Do you know what a huge self-esteem boost it is to turn down a trip to Cannes? I highly recommend it when you are feeling a little low about yourself; it’s as effective as an Alpha-Beta peel. The cab came to a halt outside my apartment.
“Sure?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, thinking, Am I? “Good night,” I added, getting out of the cab.
As I walked into my apartment my cell rang. It was Jazz. I’d totally forgotten about her no-show.
“Hey! It’s me,” she said. “I got so, like, totally beyond delayed tonight and then it seemed so rude to show up three hours late to the party so I just stayed here at the 60 Thompson. We can do the interview now.”
“Jazz, it’s one AM,” I said.
“So?”
“Why don’t we do it tomorrow?”
“Because I’m leaving for Cannes in, like, six and a half hours.”
Of course she was. Duh. FRGs are always leaving for somewhere fabulous imminently. I had no choice but to pull on a pair of jeans and hop into a cab.
Jazz never explained why she had taken a suite at 60 Thompson that night, but from the state of it she had been having a party that was way more fun than Save Venice. She plopped herself into bed, like a beautiful, tan rag doll while a maid cleaned up around h
er.
“Thank you so much,” she said to the maid. “You’re so nice here, I love you! You’re the best. Can you bring me a tea?”
“Of course, miss,” said the maid adoringly. “What about some cookies, too?”
“Oooh, I love you!” said Jazz.
She patted the duvet and beckoned me over. “I’m gonna tell you everything about us, the Front Row Girls,” she began. “The thing is, I just adore being a Front Row Girl. It’s so nice to always be in the front row…”
There is nothing like an Alexander McQueen bag arriving unannounced by messenger to distract you from all your good intentions regarding your career. The next morning one arrived containing an exquisite party dress and a handwritten note, which stated,
Sure? You could wear this for the amfAR benefit in Cannes. Depart 6 PM tonight, Teterboro. Yours, Patrick
Teterboro! All New York girls know that that ugly word means something very pretty. Teterboro means “I have a plane.” Teterboro is a delightful airport that deals only in noncommercial flights. If you’re ever out in New Jersey on a Friday night and you’re wondering why the highway is gridlocked with chauffeur-driven sedans, it’s all the moguls running to catch their G-Vs down to Palm Beach. I consider it beyond unfair of Patrick to let it slip that he had a jet at his disposal at this juncture. It made it much harder to turn down his offer. Most New York girls have a thing about private jets that is so overwhelmingly powerful that they literally cannot say no to a trip. I would occasionally include myself in that particular group. However, today my inner child just wouldn’t stop reminding me that Patrick was still married, whatever Muffy said. I would forfeit the trip, even if it was a sin to turn down such a gorgeous dress.
I put the bag in the hallway to be returned. I tried to block the whole idea of a fabulous trip to Cannes from my mind. I sent Patrick a text telling him I couldn’t come.
The instant I’d sent the message, of course, I regretted it. How miserable it suddenly seemed not to be going to the Côte d’Azur after all. Maybe reading about some glam party would cheer me up. I flipped to the Suzy column in the latest W magazine. It fell open on a page of photographs. There, staring at me from the biggest picture on the page was Zach, with Adriana on his arm. Adriana A! The Luca Luca mannequin! How could he? He’d always said she was a nightmare. And look, Adriana was wearing the absolute latest Lanvin swingy dress, one that I coveted. Much as I didn’t want to look any closer, I felt compelled to examine the frock: as I did so, I noticed the caption beneath the photograph. It read, “Photographer Zach Nicholson with his fiancée, model Adriana A.” Zach was engaged again, already, to Adriana A? I couldn’t believe it. It was too dreadful to contemplate. I snapped the magazine shut.
How was I going to write the FRG story now? Paralyzed by a combination of sadness and jealousy, I couldn’t focus at all. Maybe that trip to Cannes was a good idea after all. It would certainly take my mind off how hip Adriana looked in that dress. If I stayed here I would start obsessing about Zach again, and Adriana A. or not, he wasn’t worth it. Maybe being in Cannes would improve my concentration. In fact, I told myself, there is nowhere better for attending to important work than on a PJ. I texted Patrick again:
Ignore previous message. Love to come.
A few minutes later I got one back:
Ignored. Pick you up at 5 PM, Patrick
I would write the FRG story on the plane and e-mail it back the next morning. No one had to know I was away. It was the only option for my very unstable career at that point. It’s such a comfort to be able to make a sensible decision in an emergency.
Patrick buzzed my door on the dot of five. I grabbed my little suitcase and flew down the stairs. A dark Mercedes was waiting on the street, its engine purring. I hopped in the back seat.
“Sure?” said Patrick.
“Sure,” I said.
We sped off. The interior was ice cool and very soft. For a man who never hired drivers this was not exactly in keeping with Patrick’s personality. Still, I say, complain not when you are in the back seat of a Mercedes on the way to a very glamorous trip to the Riviera.
The Hotel du Cap in Antibes should be renamed the Hotel du Deals. Everyone who’s anyone in movies stays there during the festival even though it’s a thirty-minute drive from the Croisette, where all the movies are, and it’s ninety minutes if the traffic’s murder, and the traffic is homicidal during the festival. Geography-wise, it’s a lot like choosing to stay at the Mark if all you want to do is shop in Mulberry Street.
The whole du Cap thing is like a bizarre cult or something. I mean, if I were Cameron Diaz and I was blonde and rich enough to stay anywhere I wanted, I’m not sure I’d choose a hotel that requires you to pay your bill in advance, in cash, has nothing on room service but club sandwiches and shamefully tiny scoops of sorbet, and where the TVs in the rooms are so old they should be on the History Channel.
That’s what I thought when we arrived in the pitch black at 6 AM this morning. It was something like 12 AM New York time—G-Vs get to Europe quicker than regular planes, which I guess is one of the advantages of a plane you can only just stand up in. We couldn’t get a morsel to eat or a bed until Patrick had handed over a wedge of cash the size of a shoe. Honestly, they should call it Motel du Cap.
Patrick is beyond gentlemanly. I had warned him in no uncertain terms on the way over that I was not available to him for trips to Brazil, in view of his marital status. Without actually saying it, I think I managed to communicate my real message: were he ever to be a lot closer to a real divorce, I may be convinced to travel to South America with him. The great benefit of an ultra-chaste attitude is that your host is forced to book you into your own suite. Totally on the d-l, because I would hate Patrick to find out I said this, your own suite is a lot more relaxing than sharing with a man you hardly know who is trying to talk his way into your own personal Ipanema Beach all night long.
I woke at 11 AM feeling jet-lagged beyond belief. I dizzily threw open the shutters. Oh! I gasped. That’s why everyone’s here, I thought. Miles of impeccable green lawn stretched down to the Mediterranean, which sparkled like one of those antique cushion-cut blue diamonds they sell at Fred Leighton on Madison. Who cared if there was no food here! You could fill up on view. The ex-fiancé getting a new fiancée suddenly didn’t seem to matter quite so much anymore.
There was a knock at my door and a busboy entered. He was carrying a silver tray loaded up with baguette and orange pressé. A notecard was perched on top:
Meetings all day. Have fun at the pool. I will pick you up at 7 PM for the amfAR party. So glad you are here, Patrick.
Remember that Eres bikini I was obsessing over for the thwarted cruise on the King of Spain’s boat? Well, I wasn’t at all hysterical anymore about not getting to wear it there when it was even more perfect for here. The du Cap (everyone just says “the du Cap” here) is one giant fashion opportunity. It was the ideal place for a white two-piece with silver buckles at the hips.
I strolled through the bar and out to the pool which is on a cliff edge overlooking the ocean. I was just pulling up a chair when a voice yelled, “Hey, over here!”
It was Jazz Conassey. Of course it was. I walked over to where she was sprawled like a tanned pretzel on a white mat.
“Hi,” I said.
“Dev-a-station factor!” she said, staring at my bikini.
“What?” I said.
“I’m devastated,” said Jazzy.
“Why?”
“Your bikini.”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“No! Noooo! I’m devastated in a good way, it’s a hot bikini. I’m paying you a compliment.”
“Well, thank you so much, Jazz. I’m devastated by your outfit, too,” I said.
She was in a batik-print swimsuit and had more diamonds wrapped around her neck than an entire red carpet of Hollywood starlets. I think she was acting out the FRG version of hippy chic.
“Jean-Jacques!” call
ed Jazz to the poolman. “Bring my friend a mat?” Jazz turned to me and added, “You really don’t want to be in a chair at this particular pool. It’s all about the white mats here.”
“I was thinking of getting a cabana,” I said.
“Don’t,” replied Jazz. “Those cabanas are so, like, secluded. You can’t be seen there. You want to be seen.”
I followed Jazz’s order and lay down beside her on a white mat. The etiquette at the du Cap could inspire a whole new volume from Emily Post.
“I’m starving,” I said. “I’m going to order a club sandwich. Do you want anything?
“No, I’m on the du Cap diet,” replied Jazz.
The du Cap diet, it turns out, consists of peach Bellinis, peanuts, and Ritz cookies. As Jazz rightly said, the peanuts were way more delicious than the club sandwiches, which, frankly, are better at a Holiday Inn.
“So, have you written the story about me yet?” said Jazz.
“Yes,” I lied. The magazine wanted it right away. But I couldn’t bear the idea of going indoors and working when there was some world-class tanning to be done out here. “What are you doing here?” I asked Jazz.
“Doing? I’m not doing anything. I’m just hanging with this friend who’s got, like, six movies out.”
“Seen anything great?”
“Not yet, but there’s a screening this afternoon of this really hot little indie movie out of LA that everyone’s talking about. I heard the director’s totally hot. You want to come with me?”
“Sure,” I said. “What’s it called?”
“The Diary. Everyone’s saying it’s as funny as Woody Allen was when he was still funny.”
