by Plum Sykes
Henry rubbed his forehead anxiously. There was a bleak silence.
“Henry, why don’t you read a section of the book aloud? That might focus the discussion,” said Julie.
“Excellent idea,” said Henry. “If we could all turn to page 165.”
He began to read:
When the ship’s carpenter died in the third week, one of the crew suggested that they use their shipmate’s body for food—
“Shrimp puff, Henry?” said Jolene proffering a tray of delicate eats.
“No, no. Thank you. Shall I go on?”
“Oh, do,” whispered Jolene. “Sorry. Sorry. Fascinating.”
Henry continued:
Captain Dean initially found the proposal to be “most grievous and shocking.” Then, as they stood over the carpenter’s dead body, a discussion ensued. “After abundance of mature thought and consultation about the lawfulness or sinfulness on the one hand, and the absolute necessity on the other,” Dean wrote, “judgment, conscience, etc. were obliged to submit to the more prevailing arguments of our craving appetites—”
“Would you like to join my table at the American Ballet Theatre gala next week, Henry?” said Gwendolyn.
“I’m sorry, Henry’s already taken,” said Cynthia. “He’s at my table. Top table.”
“May we continue?” said Henry. He read on:
Dean, like most sailors forced to resort to cannibalism, began by removing the most obvious signs of the corpse’s humanity—the head, hands, feet, and skin—
There was a loud thud from the other side of the table. Shelley had fainted, which wasn’t much of a shock because she is always thinking of ingenious ways to attract attention.
“Oh my god!” shrieked Lara. “Quick! Someone call 911!”
Henry rushed over to the victim. He gently patted her face and she started to revive.
“I feel nauseous,” said Gwendolyn, frantically fanning herself. “Can we get some air in here?”
“Shall we all go to the hospital?” said Jazz. “I’ve heard there are some really cute doctors in there.”
Suddenly there wasn’t a girl in the room who wasn’t having some kind of anxiety attack or stomach disorder. Julie’s book club had descended into chaos. It got so nuts in there I barely noticed my cell phone ringing. I grabbed it.
“Hello?” I said.
“This is Miriam Covington, I’m Gretchen Sallop-Saxton’s personal assistant. I have Mrs. Saxton on the line. Putting you through.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply before Mrs. Saxton came on the line. She sounded clipped and stern.
“Hi. This is Gretchen Sallop-Saxton. You’ve been seeing my husband,” she said.
“Nothing happened—” I said.
“Really. I can imagine. I hear Patrick’s quite taken with you—this week. Just so you know, he dates a different actress or socialite or model every night. It’s all completely meaningless to him. I hear you’re husband-hunting. I want to make it completely clear: Patrick will never be anyone’s husband but mine. At the end of the day, he’s married to me.”
There was a pause, as though Mrs. Saxton were reloading her gun with more ammunition. She continued, “Your boss is an extremely close personal friend of mine. She comes up to the house in Millbrook all the time. We often discuss staff changes. Jobs like yours are extremely precarious, aren’t they?”
This was a clever move on Mrs. Saxton’s part: my editor is allergic to New York girls who knowingly date married men. She won’t have those sorts of girls in the office. You could say Mrs. Saxton had planted a land mine.
“Mrs. Saxton, I’m very sorry about the confusion,” I said. “Patrick is just an acquaintance, that’s all there is to it. Honestly. Please don’t say anything to my boss.”
“Stay away from him,” she said coldly and hung up.
Mrs. Saxton had completely freaked me out. It definitely wasn’t worth jeopardizing my job over Patrick Saxton. I had to get out of Julie’s apartment and call him in private. This was serious. I didn’t want anything more to do with him. I walked over to Julie, who was leaning over Shelley à la Florence Nightingale. Henry was looking on, concerned and rather impressed by Julie’s nursing skills.
“Julie, I’ve got to go,” I said.
“What’s happened? You look terrible,” she said.
“It’s Mrs. Saxton. She’s gone totally psycho on me. I’ve got to get hold of Patrick.”
“You can’t leave me here with these…crazy girls,” whispered Julie, glancing around the room at her chaotic guests. “You need support. I’m coming with you. Why don’t we go get a sneaky Bellini at Chip’s first? That’ll make you feel better.”
“Julie, I can deal with this by myself,” I said. “Look after your guests. Let’s speak tomorrow.”
I left the party and went straight home. There are some things in life that even a Bellini at Cipriani can’t fix.
10
It’s fair to say that Manhattan society girls are generally 100 percent allergic to the word career. It brings them out in a deep mauve rash, like anthrax or something. However, there is one career here to which they are positively addicted—if you could call it a career, that is—because it’s the kind of career that doesn’t involve much actual working, or ordering staples, or being handcuffed to a PC all day, or anything grim like that. The most coveted job here is to work as a “muse” to a fashion designer. The “chores” consist mainly of sitting home all day waiting for clothes to arrive by messenger and being photographed at glittering parties every night. This is what society girls do anyway, of course, but this way they can say, “It’s really hard work” and no one can argue. Most muses favor party conversations that consist exclusively of the word “Great!” because you can smile prettily through one-syllable words which is key if you want to look your best in magazine pictures. The most professional muses stop talking completely to relax their face muscles when there’s a photographer in the vicinity. Occasionally they get kidnapped and have to go live in Paris, like one poor American girl did recently for Mr. Ungaro. But it was worth it in the end because she got to be the official inspiration for Karl Lagerfeld, who, it is rumored, has a muse in every capital from Moscow to Madrid.
When Jazz Conassey called me a few days later to say she’d been asked to be a muse for Valentino, I wasn’t surprised. I mean he hires a new one every five minutes. Still, I was thrilled for Jazz. She worships Valentino dresses more than life itself. Now she wouldn’t have to pay retail for them. (Jazz’s new career was secure, despite her entanglement with Patrick. Gretchen Sallop-Saxton would never harass the Conassey lumber heiress, which made me slightly envious—she’d certainly succeeded in rattling me. Anyway, Jazz was in such small need of work that she’d probably find Saxton-style threats little more than an amusing diversion from the daily grind as the Valentino girl.)
“I’ll be at the bar at Plaza Athénée at ten o’clock tonight. Come and celebrate with me? Jolene and Lara are coming,” said Jazz, who knew them from childhood vacations in Palm Beach. “I asked Julie but she can’t make it. She’s staying over in Connecticut and driving into town tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know,” I said listlessly.
The last few days didn’t exactly make me feel like celebrating. Mrs. Sallop-Saxton had followed up her call with an attempt to destabilize my social life by trying to get me blacklisted from the Whitney after-party benefit committee, and spreading suggestive rumors about my trip to Cannes with Patrick. When I’d finally got hold of him after Julie’s book group, he’d just laughed at his wife’s behavior. He said she always made a fuss about his “friends,” and that it meant nothing. He wanted us to meet again. Of course, I refused. It was very apparent to me that Patrick’s “friends” were simply pawns in the power game being fought between him and his wife.
“Please don’t call me again, Patrick,” I said. “You’re very nice but this is all way too complicated for me.”
“Why don’t you come to the Venice
film festival with me this fall?” he said flirtatiously.
“Patrick! Jazz is going with you.”
“I can chuck Jazz—she’d understand.”
“Patrick! I’m not going anywhere with you. I can’t.”
“What about dinner tonight, at the Carlyle?”
“You have to leave me alone, okay?”
“Colorado for Christmas?”
“Patrick, I’ve gotta go,” I said, hanging up.
I felt as though my protestations were falling on deaf ears, which worried me. Over the next few days I’d wondered what Gretchen Sallop-Saxton would do next, and how much Patrick was winding her up about me. I felt edgy and nervous, and slightly depressed. I just wanted the whole Patrick-Gretchen-moi thing to disappear.
“Pleeease come out tonight,” persuaded Jazz. “It’ll cheer you up. I told you, Patrick’s just awful, but you can’t take it too seriously. You’ve got to move on.”
Maybe Jazz was right—a night with my friends might help. I didn’t much want to go out that Sunday night, but I didn’t want to stay home alone even more. Determined to cheer myself up, I told Jazz I would see her later. I threw on a black chiffon ruffled Zac Posen dress, pulled a lace shawl around my shoulders, and headed out.
With those heavenly leather chaises, old gilt mirrors, and yellow lamplight, the bar at the Plaza Athénée feels like a 1930s boudoir. Whenever I’m there I half expect to see Jean Harlow appear from behind a pillar smoking a bright purple Sobranie cigarette. Jolene, Lara, and Jazz—all in their “Vals” as they call their Valentino frocks—were sitting at a corner table like the chicest trio you can imagine when I arrived. Jazz looked spectacularly high-end in a simple black lace shift. It had a satin bow under the bust and splits at each side. Lara’s and Jolene’s dresses were pretty as well, but not a patch on Jazz’s. It’s protocol that the muse gets the best outfit and their friends have to look slightly less gorgeous, like ladies-in-waiting. They were all picking at the specialty of the house—miniature scoops of homemade ice cream. (Six weeks ago all New York girls thought ice cream would kill them. Now that everyone’s into the Shore Club diet, it’s suddenly slimming food.)
“Hey! Champagne cocktail? You look a-maaa-zing! How much do you adore my new bracelets?” said Jazz, jangling the gold bangles on her wrist. “Cartier. Next season. Aren’t you loving them?”
“Loving,” I said, sitting down next to her. “I’d adore some champagne right away.”
That’s the thing about reality. You can always block it out with a champagne cocktail and a detailed discussion about a Cartier bracelet if you really want to. You could say Gretchen Sallop-Saxton and the imminent end of my career and social life disappeared from my mind within minutes.
“Did Valentino send you a ton of free stuff?” asked Jolene.
“Well, publicly,” replied Jazz, “I’m saying no, because I don’t want people to think I just took this job for the free clothes. But between us, I did get a few sneaky things. I’m loving the job, but it’s really hard work. It makes me feel bad for all those girls on the Upper East Side who’ve got nothing to do but shop and go on vacation to St. Barths. It breaks my heart actually, because I used to be like that and I know how lonely it can be. I just want to help Mr. Valentino out. He’s so cute, have you seen his hair?”
There is something surprisingly tiring about listening to a girl of leisure like Jazz examine the American work ethic. By midnight I decided to leave the three of them to it, and took a taxi home. They were going out dancing, but I felt too exhausted and fraught to join them. I really die over his frocks and everything, but I never wanted to hear the word Valentino again.
It was a relief to get back to my building. I couldn’t wait to get inside, throw on my sweatpants, and curl up in bed. When I reached the door to my apartment I fumbled in my purse for my key. As I went to put it in the lock I noticed something strange. The door handle had come loose. It was barely hanging from its socket. Spooked, I looked closer. In the halflight, I could see that the lock had been pried away from the door. It was badly scratched and had a couple of small dents on the face. Someone had broken in.
Nervously, I peaked my head around the door. The whole place had been turned upside down. I quickly withdrew into the passage. Maybe someone was still inside, hiding. I couldn’t risk going into the apartment. I pulled the door closed. Heading quickly back down the stairs, I fished in my little silver vintage purse for my cell—I had to call the police. Then, if I could reach Jazz and Co., I could sleep at one of their places. Damn, my cell wasn’t in there! I must have left it at the bar. I rushed out into the street, anxiously looking behind me. I ran over to the phone booth on my corner and picked up the receiver. No dial tone. For a few seconds I stood there on the dark street wondering what I was going to do. I was panicked, desperate to be somewhere safe. New York can feel very threatening when no one’s home and you’ve got nowhere to spend the night. A taxi turned into the street with its light on. I flagged it down. When I got in, I asked the driver to take me to the Mercer Hotel on the corner of Prince and Mercer Street. The police could wait until tomorrow. I was freaked out and tired, and all I wanted was to get to bed.
Listen, I didn’t decide to check into the Mercer Hotel that night because of the four-hundred-thread-count pistachio-colored sheets, or because of the darling miniature margherita pizzas they do on room service, or because the busboys there are so hot it’s beyond belief, or because everyone in the hotel has that look in their eye. None of that mattered: the issue was not luxury, it was security. I couldn’t go to Julie’s since she was outside the city, and the truth is there is nowhere more secure in downtown New York than the Mercer Hotel. I know that for a fact, because a lot of rap stars with major personal security issues, like Puff Daddy and Jay-Z, are always staying there and they feel très safe in that lobby.
It must have been after 1 AM by the time I reached the hotel. I love that the lobby’s decorated like a huge, chic loft with whitewashed walls and all those Christian Liaigre sofas. You always see girls like Sofia Coppola or Chloë Sevigny just hanging there, as though it’s their living room or something. Tonight the lobby was unusually quiet. The only people in there were a gamine young waitress—who will probably be a movie star one day—puffing up the cushions on the sofas and the concierge behind the reception desk.
“Good evening, miss. Can I help you?” said the concierge, who looked like he should be in a Tommy Hilfiger ad. He was so friendly I felt better already.
“I’d like a really quiet room, please,” I said. “I need to get some sleep.”
“Sure. How many nights will you be staying with us?”
“Just tonight.” I sighed.
This had to be a one-night-only kind of thing. Twenty-four hours at the Mercer Hotel is a very expensive way to calm yourself down. The concierge tapped at his computer.
“You’ve got 607. You know, 606 and 607 are the sexiest suites in the hotel. You can have it at the regular double rate because it’s so late. Calvin Klein lived up there for two years. It’s the quietest room we have,” he said. “Is this a fantastic night for you or what?!”
“Not really!” I said. “Can someone bring me up a cup of tea?”
“Room service is twenty-four hours. Any bags, miss?” asked the concierge.
“Just hand luggage,” I said holding up my tiny silver vintage purse. “I travel light.”
“Okay, here’s your key.” He handed me one of those high-tech plastic keys that look like a credit card. Then he said, “Why don’t I order the tea for you now?”
“That would be so nice,” I said.
I examined my face in the mirror as I was transported to the sixth floor in the elevator. God, I needed an Alpha-Beta peel, I thought. Even with the low lighting in there, there were those traces of exhaustion around my eyes that you can’t so much see as sense. I looked like I was over thirty-eight years old. My hair was limp. I pulled it back into a ponytail and regarded myself again. Frankly, there
was zero improvement. God, I looked worse than Melanie Griffith does when she’s caught without her makeup on.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out into that particular hush you only get in hotel corridors. There wasn’t a sound, just the smooth quiet of sleep. The long corridor was lit by a soporific orange glow. I tiptoed right to the end, past room 606. Room 607 was the last door along. Bliss! Sleep was imminent. A minibar was also imminent, and those always make me feel better.
I pushed my plastic key into the slot under the handle on the door of room 607 and turned the handle. The door wouldn’t open. I tried again. The door was defiantly rigid. God, maybe the hotel had made a mistake and Calvin Klein had never left or something. I’d have to go back down to the lobby. I turned and saw someone approaching. As he came closer, I could see it was a busboy with a silver tray. My tea! Heaven!
“Room 607?” said the busboy when he arrived.
“Yeah. I can’t get in though. Can you unlock it for me?” I asked.
“Sure.”
He pulled out his card and fed it into the slot and pushed on the handle. It didn’t move. He frowned, sighing, “Sorry. I can’t get in. I’ll have to go get hotel security. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
He left the tray on the little side table outside the door and disappeared down the corridor. I looked at my watch: 2 AM. Tired and weak, I sank to the floor. I poured myself a cup of tea to kill the time. I took a sip. Ugh! It was tepid. There’s something indescribably dismal about being all alone with a cup of cold tea in a deathly quiet hotel corridor. Where were those security guys? I would have to go back downstairs and track them down myself.
I placed my cup back on the tray and hauled myself off the floor. Crash! There was an almighty clatter of china as the tray and its contents hurtled to the floor. I heard a muffled noise from behind the door of 606. God, I thought, I hope I haven’t disturbed whoever’s having a very sexy time in that very sexy room.
