Bergdorf Blondes

by Plum Sykes

  I leaned down to clean up. The front of my dress pulled and I heard a loud rip: one of those stupid ruffles had gotten caught on the corner of the tray. The front of the dress was torn and the poor ruffle was dangling by a thread from its seam. (Those are chiffon frocks for you—invariably they’re wrecked on the first wearing, which is why most New York girls don’t count on them for the long term.) I unhooked myself and noticed that a damp patch of tea was spreading across my waist. Droplets of milk were trickling down my right thigh.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” I yelled, stamping my foot and kicking the lousy tray. I never swear, but when I do I really mean it.

  Ooh, that felt really good. I kicked the tray again and collapsed on the floor in a horrible moody huff in the manner of Courtney Love. A tear rolled down my cheek and hit my lip. I hate tantrums, I really do. They’re great fun at the beginning but they invariably end badly.

  Can I admit something, very much on the d-l? I used to think that being somewhere chic with lots of room service and Christian Liaigre furniture makes you happy. It doesn’t. Honestly, if you’re miserable, you’re miserable, four-hundred-thread-count sheets or not. That’s why you see all those paparazzi pics of celebrities hanging out on the backs of yachts, or leaving the lobbies of gorgeous apartment blocks looking like they’re off to commit suicide or something. The fact is that when you’re down, it doesn’t matter how many Bellinis and ball gowns you have, it doesn’t make a jot of difference. Chloé jeans and Alpha-Beta peels don’t make the nasty things go away. You have to live with the nasty things forever, like Liza Minnelli does. To make matters worse, I was about to spend the night in the sexiest suite in the Mercer Hotel on my own. God, maybe life is more like Fargo than High Society, I thought. (I hope not though. I mean, I couldn’t cope with all that snow and those bad clothes 24–7.)

  I guess I was a few minutes into my major crying session when I heard a click from the next room. I stared with horror as the door of 606 inched open. No! It was two in the morning or something, I had probably disturbed someone’s wedding night, or sexy affair, and I would never be allowed back. The door stopped moving when it was just ajar. There was no light on and I couldn’t see inside. A sleepy voice emerged from behind the door, whispering, “Could you be quiet out there? I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “There’s been a minor accident and I’m totally evacuating the area.”

  Then something odd happened. A chuckle came from inside the room.

  “Hold on, I’m coming out,” said the voice.

  A nasty, niggling fear was creeping up on me: that voice sounded familiar. It sounded awfully like Charlie Dunlain. But it couldn’t be. No. I heard some rustling, then a light came on and a head popped around the door. Eew. Just as I suspected, it was him. This was so not happening to me.

  “Do I detect tears?” he asked.

  His hair was disheveled from sleep and he blinked at the light. He seemed dozy but amused, and was dressed in a white terry robe and fuzzy hotel slippers. Actually, he looked adorable, but then everyone does in a hotel robe. Even if I was a little embarrassed that he’d shown up like a white knight in a white terry robe, I was sort of relieved it was Charlie and not some random rap star. I mean, he had a room, and no doubt he’d figure out how to get me into mine.

  “No!” I hiccuped, hurriedly drying my eyes and wiping my nose.

  “What’s going on?” said Charlie.

  “I’m waiting for security to let me into my room,” I said.

  “Why? Why aren’t you home?”

  “Why aren’t you at home?” I retorted.

  “I’m working here for a few days,” he said. “But you live here. What are you staying in a hotel for?”

  “Someone broke into the apartment. I was too scared to spend the night there and now I can’t get into this damn room.”

  “You wanna come inside?” said Charlie, gazing down at me.

  Unless I am very much mistaken, I could have sworn Charlie had that look in his eye.

  My blood sugar dropped a mile, literally, just like it had when I’d seen Charlie at Nice airport. And then, the really weird thing was, I think, but I can’t really remember exactly how or why, which is what happens to me on occasions like this, but I think I had that look in my eye too! And I think he saw! And then out of nowhere I got that feeling, by which I mean the do-you-have-condoms-because-I-want-to-go-to-Brazil-with-you-right-now kind of feeling. (And I will even if you don’t have condoms because I’m terrible like that. Don’t tell a soul I said that or they’ll all start harassing me about STDs.) Almost immediately I’d had the condom feeling I was hit by the but-my-god-I-shouldn’t-be-thinking-this-be’s-my-b.f.’s-boyfriend-but-that-makes-it-all-themore-insanely-tempting feeling. If you’ve never had either feeling, I highly recommend them. The fact is, every girl should have one night they know they’re really going to regret. It’s always delicious, until the regret bit starts.

  “Are you coming in?” he said again.

  “Yes,” I answered, melting quicker than a box of chocolates.

  “I’ll call down to reception and sort everything out,” said Charlie, putting an arm around my shoulders.

  If it’s possible for a box of chocolates to melt twice in the space of ten minutes, then this one did.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  Once inside Charlie called reception. They told him security should be up “soon.” Charlie’s suite was super-cool. An airy bedroom opened onto a cavernous sitting room with huge arched windows that looked right onto Prince Street.

  “Can I wash my face?” I said to Charlie.

  “Sure,” he replied.

  I wandered into the bathroom. Lit by a single candle, it was spacious, with a square tub so large it was clear it had been specifically designed with regretful behavior in mind. I mean, why else make it the size of a small swimming pool? What was I thinking, I thought suddenly. I needed to pull myself together. Tonight must not be a night of regret, or Julie would strangle me with the chain of her Chanel purse, and then I’d regret a lot more than tonight. I flicked the light on. On the edge of the sink was a small white box with the words OVERNIGHT KIT written on it. I opened it. Inside was a packet of breath fresheners and a box of LifeStyle Ultra Sensitive condoms. I snapped it shut. God, no wonder everyone here has that look in their eye.

  I found some soap and washed my face with cold water. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t look as bad as I’d thought. In fact, I mused, there’s something semi-glamorous about a ripped Zac Posen party dress. As I patted my face dry, I decided I would handle the situation in a very adult way. Charlie was like a fierce older brother who criticized everything I did. He was dating my best friend. Some things just aren’t worth the regret.

  I walked back into the room. Charlie was lying in bed watching TV. He looked outrageously cute. It wasn’t safe to go near him. I went and sat on the sofa.

  “Come over here. You look worn out. Let’s watch a DVD until they sort out next door. I’ve got Moulin Rouge,” he said.

  I was safe. Charlie was gay. No straight man I know will watch Moulin Rouge, which, by the way, is one of my favorite movies of all time. Thank goodness there was no danger of any regret after all, even if I had been up for some.

  “Okay,” I said, curling up on the bed. “I love that film.”

  “I can’t really handle it,” said Charlie. “But I thought you’d like it.”

  Maybe I wasn’t safe after all. He pressed PLAY on the remote.

  “Hey, come here,” said Charlie. “You need a snuggle.”

  I turned to face him. He put his arms around me. I don’t think we watched any of Moulin Rouge.

  It’s super-considerate of the Mercer Hotel to so thoughtfully provide guests with that gorgeous little Overnight Kit. The only trouble is, it inevitably precipitates that sort of night. (I blame hotel security—they never showed up.) I awoke early on the Monday to the lilac light of a Mercer morning. It was th
e beginning of a major Shame Attack. Last night I had knowingly broken the Two Commandments, the guiding principles by which all girls govern their love life:

  #1. Thou shalt not sleep with someone on the first night (Having sex too early ruins a relationship.)

  #2. Thou shalt not do #1 with thy best friend’s boyfriend (Ruins three relationships.)

  This was too icky for words. There I was, wildly underdressed, in bed with someone I shouldn’t be. I must depart immediately, in the manner of Ingrid Bergman in the last scene of Casablanca. But, ooh! he looked so adorable asleep. Charlie has the longest eyelashes, yards of them. And his hair looks super-cute when he’s slept on it. It actually looks better like that. I must remind him not to change it when he’s awake. His eyes cracked half-open.

  “Hi,” he smiled at me.

  He looked really, really amused, as usual. How men can be so lighthearted when they are conducting a highly illegal affair amazes me. Charlie obviously had some issues to deal with.

  “Charlie—”

  I was cut short by a very long kiss. The thing about kissing Charlie is that I completely forget whatever I am doing when the kissing starts because I get a fever of over 104 degrees. He’s that good. The first time I kissed him last night (which was actually right during the credits for Moulin Rouge if I’m being totally honest), it felt like my body temperature would never get back down to 98.6. The thing about Charlie’s particular way of kissing, if you want to get into the real detail, the fine print of it, which most of the girls I know generally do, is that each kiss lasts at least 125 seconds. You can imagine how exhausted I was the next morning. And that was just the kissing. The really regrettable stuff was a whole other story.

  After about 450 seconds—that was a little too long, if I’m honest, I mean we all need oxygen—Charlie finally let me go. He lay back on the pillows.

  “What were you saying?” he asked.

  “I was saying…”

  What do you say when you discover your best friend’s boyfriend is cheating on her? With you.

  “Charlie! You’re Julie’s boyfriend!” I yelled, jumping out of bed. “You’re sleeping with someone else. I’m going to have to tell her. This is the worst!”

  “What?” said Charlie, looking confused.

  “You’re cheating on her, you’re an absolute hideous cheat. If Julie or I ever suspect our boyfriends are seeing someone else we tell each other. It’s a pact.”

  Like United Nations resolutions, best-friend treaties rarely allow for every eventuality. We hadn’t decided what to do if the “someone else” was one of us. Even Kofi Annan couldn’t have mediated this one.

  “Julie and I broke up in Paris. You knew that. Come on,” said Charlie. He seemed slightly annoyed.

  “You broke up there? She e-mailed me from Paris saying, I think it was something like, how brilliantly it was all going with you. And then when I saw you at Nice airport you said you were with her.”

  “If I recall,” said Charlie, “I think I said we figured it out. I assumed you knew we hadn’t been seeing each other since Paris.”

  I was silent. What was I going to do? Even if Charlie wasn’t officially dating Julie anymore this was still icky beyond belief. Clause (i) of the Second Commandment states that thou shalt not touch former boyfriends unless official permission has been granted.

  “What am I going to say to Julie?” I cried.

  “Nothing,” said Charlie.

  That’s the wonderful thing about nights of regret. You both regret them so much no one else ever gets to know about them.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Now, get back in bed and let’s order breakfast.”

  Two croissants, two café lattes, two hundred kisses, and an absolute minimum of two very regrettable orgasms later, we were well entrenched into the bed in 606. I felt giddy with happiness. An orgasm really is the answer to almost every problem in life. I honestly believe that if everyone was having orgasms regularly, there wouldn’t be a Palestinian conflict. Seriously, no one would ever get out of bed in time for it.

  By ten o’clock I was starting to worry that if I didn’t get up soon, a night of regret, which was turning into a morning of regret, might turn into a day of regret, and then I’d really regret it. I had a lot to organize that morning—I had to contact the police about the break-in, clear up the mess, get the locks changed, and ages ago I’d promised Julie I’d go to a lunch with her. On top of that, Dad’s birthday party was only a few days away and I had to prepare to go away the following Friday night.

  As I was getting dressed—which took forever because I kept being interrupted by those 450-second kisses I told you about—Charlie’s cell phone rang. He had just gone into the bathroom to shave.

  “Shall I get that for you?” I called out.

  “Please,” he replied.

  I picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hey, that’s weird. Is that you? It was Julie.

  I froze. Why was Julie calling Charlie if they’d broken up?

  “Julie?” I said.

  “Yeah. What are you doing answering Charlie’s phone?”

  “Mmm…this isn’t Charlie’s phone. You called my phone by mistake.”

  “Oh, okay. See you at Sotheby’s later?”

  “Totally,” I said, snapping the phone shut.

  Almost immediately the phone rang again. An international number flashed up on caller ID: I didn’t recognize it. I answered the call.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Who’s this?” said a low, husky female voice.

  “I’m a friend of Charlie’s.”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “Can I tell him who’s calling?” I asked.

  “It’s Caroline,” she said.

  “Let me go find him.”

  I went into the bathroom. Charlie had shaving foam all over his face. I put my hand over the phone and whispered to him, “It’s a woman called Caroline wanting you.”

  “Oh…can you take a message?” he mumbled.

  “Can I take a message,” I said, “and he’ll call you back.”

  I hung up. I know it was none of my business, but who on earth was Caroline? That’s the trouble with having croissants in bed with someone fabulous: if another female’s existence is even mentioned, you want to die on the spot.

  Weeks ago Julie had press-ganged me into accepting an invitation to a “luncheon” at Sotheby’s that day. It was being held to celebrate an upcoming auction of the Duchess of Windsor’s jewelry collection. Sotheby’s manages to find something, anything, once belonging to the Duchess to auction off every three months or so—furs, furniture, watercolors, hairpins, even her monogrammed Egyptian cotton handkerchiefs have made a sale. The auction house entices New York’s wealthiest young girls to bid by inviting them to an exclusive private viewing over a lobster lunch. Someone in the Private Clients Department had brainwashed Julie into believing that not owning a piece of the Duchess’s Cartier would be a regrettable tragedy from which she might never recover.

  It was after midmorning by the time I’d gotten home from the Mercer, located my lost cell phone, spoken to the police, and sorted out the mess in the apartment. As far as I could tell, only one thing had been taken from the apartment—the chinchilla coat. It was disastrous—it wasn’t even mine. Valentino would never lend me anything again after this. I’d read about couture burglaries in New York magazine, where thieves steal to order. Apparently it had happened to Diane Sawyer, who’s famously chic, and now everyone on the Best Dressed List was terrified that their closets were going to be targeted too. I only had a few minutes to change for the lunch. I threw on a nipped-in linen jacket and a vintage lace skirt and by 12:45 I was in a taxi whizzing up to Sotheby’s on York Avenue.

  Just as I’d suspected, anxiety hit me hard as we swerved round the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Oh, the guilt after a night of regret! It’s almost unbearable. Julie could never, ever find out
about my one-night stand with Charlie. She was highly possessive about ex-boyfriends. I suspected Julie’s revenge could be worse than Gretchen Sallop-Saxton’s. When K. K. Adams ended up marrying a guy Julie dated for three days in eighth grade, Julie banned her from the salon at Bergdorf’s for life. It was like the spa version of death row. Her hair never looked good after that, which was a terrible shame for K. K. If Julie ever found out about me and Charlie, she’d never speak to me again and I wouldn’t get any of my clothes back I’d lent her. The only thing I could console myself with was the knowledge that last night would never ever be repeated. That’s the good thing about one-night stands: by definition they’re over immediately. Eventually, it’s like it never happened at all. Strictly entre nous, I’ve had a few and I can’t recall a thing about any of them.

  The Chanel pastel mafia were out in force at the lunch. There must have been twenty-five girls in the dining room seated at large round tables, which were groaning with floral center pieces decorated with pink diamonds, black pearls, and dark rubies. It is the custom at such lunches to drape the room in jewels, in the manner of Elizabeth Taylor’s bedroom. I slipped into my seat next to Julie. She was wearing flip-flops, bright red Juicy sweat pants, and a pink Taavo T-shirt that read I AM NEW YORK in red glittery letters.

  “This is so dull,” she mouthed at me.

  Our table wasn’t exactly party central. The other four girls—Kimberley Guest, Amanda Fairchild, Sally Wentworth, and Lala Lucasini (I think she’s a P.A.P. by way of Spain) were intently discussing the “torture” of getting out to Southampton on the L.I.E. with the summer traffic. Sometimes I feel really sorry for those girls; I mean, they’re very sweet and all, but a lot of the time it’s like they’ve forgotten they’re not their mothers.

  Julie turned to me and drew her finger across her throat. She doesn’t understand why everyone freaks out about the Long Island Expressway when they could just take a helicopter like she does. She whispered, “I wish someone would do something crazy, like start a fight.”