by Plum Sykes
I laughed. Then she said, “So, I’m hooking up with Charlie this afternoon. He’s so adorable!”
“What?” I said, incredulous.
“He’s in town, we spoke earlier.”
“But Julie, I thought you and Charlie had broken up.”
“What?” she gasped. Now it was her turn to look incredulous.
“He told me he broke up with you in Paris.”
“I don’t believe it!” she said. “When did you speak to him?”
Without thinking, I said, “Last night.”
Julie turned scarlet.
“It was you on his phone, wasn’t it? You were with him this morning. I don’t believe it!”
“What?” I said. There was a silence.
“You didn’t,” she said slowly.
“No!” I said, blushing furiously.
“You did. I can tell,” said Julie. “You look exhausted and you’ve got The Glow.”
Was it that obvious I’d had a 450-second kiss with someone of the opposite sex that morning? Julie is the queen of intuition. I would be too if I spent that much money on psychics. It’s impossible to hide anything from her, particularly affairs of the heart.
“Did what?” asked Amanda politely.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Slept with my boyfriend!” shrieked Julie.
Sally and Kimberly’s forks, poised to plop a delicate slice of lobster into their mouths, jolted to a dramatic halt just in front of their lips. Their mouths were paralyzed wide open like two immaculate little black holes.
“Julie—” I said.
“How could you?” said Julie, furious. “I am never, ever speaking to you again. Or lending you any of my diamonds.”
She stood up, slapped her napkin loudly on the table, and dramatically drew in a long breath. Then she announced, “Sally, Amanda, Lala, Kimberley. I’m leaving.”
As Julie marched toward the exit all four girls rose and abandoned the table. The chatter in the room hushed. All eyes were fixed on Julie. As she reached the door, she turned and looked right at me, saying, “And by the way, you owe me my Versace pantsuit back.”
This was weird, because it was actually my Versace pantsuit all along, it was just Julie really liked it and borrowed it all the time. I’d only just got it back from her. How could Charlie have been so dishonorable? How could I have been such a fool? Mind you, with my recent history with boyfriends I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised.
“I’m just going…to the restroom,” I said to no one in particular as I left the table.
The minute I was outside in the corridor I heard a crescendo of female babble explode. Julie was right. Now that someone had started a fight, the party was much more interesting.
I called Charlie at the Mercer the minute I was out of the building.
“Charlie!” I said when he picked up. “Why did you lie to me? Why did you say you’d broken up with Julie when you haven’t? How could you!” I cried.
“Hey, calm down. I have broken up with Julie,” he laughed.
Why did he find everything so funny all the time? It was sick.
“What are you talking about? Julie says you haven’t broken up,” I cried. I was furious with Charlie and even more furious with moi.
“You wanna know exactly what happened?” said Charlie.
“Yes, I do.”
“In Paris, I told Julie that I didn’t think we were very well suited, that Todd was more her thing, and we should just continue as friends. So she said no, she couldn’t accept that. I think she said she wasn’t allowing me to call it off, or something crazy like that. So I guess I said fine, but I am still calling it off and she said she wasn’t. I didn’t think she was serious; that’s nutty behavior.”
Admittedly that scenario sounded highly likely. The only person who does any breaking up around Julie is Julie. I don’t recall anyone ever following through on an attempt to leave her. It’s not worth the aggravation. Julie can be très Fatal Attraction when she puts her mind to it. Even if Charlie had broken up with her, Julie would never admit it to herself or anyone else. In Julie’s mind Charlie was still her boyfriend, regardless of the fact that he didn’t think she was his girlfriend any longer. That’s what happens when you always get your own way like Julie: when you don’t, you just pretend you have anyway, and it becomes reality. Although I felt Charlie’s version of events was probably the real one, it was almost irrelevant whether the two of them were officially broken up or not: by Julie’s reckoning, I had broken Commandment #2, which was unforgivable.
“She says she’s never going to speak to me again,” I said.
“She’ll get over it. I can’t understand why you told her anyway. She called me earlier and I didn’t say a thing,” said Charlie.
“She guessed. She said I looked exhausted.”
“Do you fancy dinner?” asked Charlie. “It might be nice to get to know each other a little better. I only ever see you in, well, sort of extreme situations.”
I knew what he meant. The idea was appealing. It felt safe and sexy at the same time, which was rather novel.
“I can’t,” I said immediately.
If you are going to turn down dinner with someone as adorable as Charlie, you have to do it right away, before you lose your nerve. And anyway, didn’t Charlie understand that it’s procedure that when a one-night stand is done, both parties are supposed to carry on as though nothing ever happened, regardless of any feelings? Dinner the following evening was not part of the arrangement—sadly.
“Well, I hope you change your mind. I’ll be at the hotel all evening working. I’ll be waiting for you.”
I called Julie’s apartment early that evening from home. I’d had a miserable afternoon, and I wanted my best friend back. I had to apologize. The housekeeper picked up the phone.
“Can I speak to Julie, please?” I asked.
“No, miss.”
“It’s really urgent. Is she there?”
“Yes, miss, but she told me that if you called, I had to tell you to return her suede Hogan bag.”
“Oh, I see,” I said sadly. I mean, I’d gotten really attached to that bag after all this time. “Could you tell her I called anyway?”
I collapsed on my bed, bleak. I’d been such an idiot and now I was paying for it. I was desperate for someone to talk to, but I couldn’t face calling Lara or Jolene. They probably wouldn’t speak to me anyway. No one was ever going to speak to me again when they found out what I’d done. Everyone probably knew already anyway. A Sotheby’s lunch is a more effective way of spreading gossip on the Upper East Side than a mass e-mail. I felt like I had nothing to look forward to, except possibly being friends with Madeleine Kroft, if she’d have me. I’m not a self-destructive person, but I was starting to feel like that demented Elizabeth Wurtzel from Prozac Nation.
The thing is, as I lay there on my bed, I started to wonder if one night of regret were to become two nights of regret, would it really be that much more regrettable than one night? Listen, I’d already broken the Second Commandment and there was no going back. It wasn’t like I had any more best friends to lose, or could shock the Sotheby’s crowd more than I already had at lunch. Things couldn’t get worse, whatever I did. But I guess if I had to admit the real, truthful, serious reason I decided to surprise Charlie at the Mercer tonight, it was because last night had been the best sex of my life. I know Dr. Fensler had said that was a terrible omen and everything, but it’s very, very hard to turn down dinner with the best sex of your life. In fact, the more dangerous it is, the less likely you are to reject it. And anyway, I was never, ever going to do it again, with him, after tonight, I swear it. I just really needed to cheer myself up.
I looked at my watch: 8 PM. I got up from the bed and browsed my closet. I selected the perfect Regrettable Night #2 Look—a red sundress by Cynthia Rowley. It’s très appropriate for dinner with the best sex of your life because it comes off in less than three seconds, honestly. I slipped my f
eet into little white flip-flops, threw my hair in a ponytail, brushed my teeth, and left the apartment.
“Could you tell Charlie Dunlain that I’m here?” I said to the concierge when I arrived at the Mercer a little later. “He’s in room 606.”
“606?” said the concierge, tapping at his computer. “Ah…Mr. Dunlain. He’s checked out.”
Checked out? How could he do this to me? Didn’t Charlie know that when a girl says no to dinner she means maybe, which means yes? Then I thought, Caroline. The girl who’d called earlier. My stomach felt like it had fallen thirty-six floors down an elevator shaft. I couldn’t take another rejection now.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “He’s meant to be working in his room. He asked me to meet him here.”
“I checked him out myself. He left for Europe this afternoon.”
“Is there a note?”
“I’m afraid not.”
11
I knew I hadn’t imagined my Mercer Hotel epiphany when I suddenly found myself turning down a ride on a PJ for absolutely no good reason. A few days later, just before I was due to fly to London for my dad’s birthday, Patrick Saxton called. I had barely said hello before he was trying his G-V trick on me again.
“I’m going over to London tomorrow for the weekend,” he said. “Why don’t you come? No strings attached.”
My general rule is that when you hear “no strings attached” it means ropes will be. Even though, as you know, turning down a ride on a PJ has historically been impossible for me, I went right ahead and did it. A ride on a private plane was not going to console me after the last few days.
“You know I can’t, but thanks for the invitation,” I said breezily. The night at the Mercer had changed everything.
“Don’t you want to go to London? It’s great over there,” said Patrick.
“I’m already going to London tomorrow night, for my father’s fiftieth.”
“So, you go to the party, then you hang in my suite at Claridges. Then I’m popping down to Saint Tropez to check out a boat. I’m thinking of buying a Magnum 50. Apparently you can get ten supermodels and their legs in the back. Don’t you fancy a spin along the Côte d’Azur? Then maybe we’ll pop down to the Scalinatella, in Capri. It’s my favorite hotel. Let me take you.”
“I can’t, I’m flying with someone else.”
“Who?” said Patrick.
“American Airlines,” I said proudly.
Even I was shocked by how easy it was to refuse Patrick’s offer. I mean, I seemed to be a thoroughly reformed character already.
“You’d rather fly commercial than go with me?” said Patrick, alarmed.
“It’s just it’s better if I make my own way,” I replied. I’m an independent girl, I thought—I don’t need anything from a playboy like Patrick Saxton. “Hey, flying coach to London isn’t the end of the world,” I added.
Inside, the past few days had made me feel end of the world-ish, if you want to know the truth. The trouble with nights of regret is that the aftermath invariably consists of many days of regret, only minus the fun bits, like the best Brazil of your life and so on. What was strange was that I felt let down in a way I never did with other cute guys. It was like I’d found someone who I had the greatest Brazil with but who felt as cozy as my oldest friend. I didn’t hear a peep from Charlie, which was slightly mortifying. I’d always thought Charlie had good manners. Still, if he didn’t care to call me, I decided, then I didn’t care to call him.
Meanwhile, Julie didn’t return my messages. Jolene said I shouldn’t take it personally. She reported that Julie had disappeared off on a romantic trip, was madly in love, and wasn’t telling anyone who he was. She wasn’t returning anyone’s calls, even her dermatologist’s, which was a first for Julie. I didn’t believe Jolene. The fact was, I had been a lousy friend to Julie and deserved every bit of punishment I got.
Mom called later that night after I’d spoken to Patrick. It was late and I was tired. It must have been three in the morning in England but Mom sounded wide awake. Even though I was looking forward to the visit, the call set me on edge.
“Darling!” she cried excitedly when I picked up. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your father’s birthday. I’ve left Julie Bergdorf three messages inviting her—you know how Daddy adores her—and she still hasn’t called back. Is she coming?”
“I’ve no idea, Mom,” I replied.
“What is the matter with you? How long are you staying?”
“I get in Saturday and I have to leave Monday. I’ve got a story next week.”
“Only three days! If you keep on working like this you are going to turn into Barry Diller! A career isn’t everything, you know. Anyway I have the most marvelous sheets for you in the spare bedroom. Irish linen puts Pratesi to shame. Americans simply do not understand linen like us—”
“Mom, you are an American,” I reminded her.
“I’m an English lady trapped in an American woman’s body, like a transsexual, that’s what my yoga teacher says. Now, I’ve heard the family is back, which is such good timing, isn’t it?”
“What family, Mom?”
“The Swyres, dear. I thought you might want to meet up with Little Earl while you’re over. Everyone says he’s charmant and more handsome than Prince William and Prince Harry put together.”
Sometimes I wonder if I can get a divorce from Mom. I could cite irreconcilable differences over relations with our neighbor. Apparently Drew Barrymore did that and she turned out really well.
“Mom, we’re not exactly b.f.’s with the Swyres, remember?”
“Darling, I do not want you missing your chance with him again.”
“There are other things in life apart from finding a man to think about,” I said, exasperated. (Like most other girls in New York, I have to confess on the very, very q-t that it is all we think about 95 percent of the time. We just don’t admit it in public. It’s way more acceptable to say you worry about your career all the time. Although I generally find the more career a girl has, the more man she thinks about.)
“I’m doing a tent in the garden, like Jackie Kennedy used to do on the White House lawn. Lord and Lady Finoulla have accepted, so I’m thrilled to bits. The forecast’s for rain but it’s always wrong.”
Mom is the queen of denial. It’s rained every year for my dad’s birthday. It always pours on everyone’s birthday in England, even the Queen’s.
“Okay, Mom. See you Saturday night. I’m renting a car at Heathrow and I’ll drive straight down. I guess I’ll be with you mid-afternoon.”
“Wonderful. And please do wear makeup for the party—that nice foundation I got you from Lancôme that Isabella Rossellini likes. Dad will be so disappointed otherwise.”
“I’ll try,” I lied. Mom still hasn’t realized that the only person apart from her who still wears foundation in the day is Joan Collins.
The next morning as I packed my bag for England I realized I had to pull myself together. However lousy things seemed, I couldn’t show up at Dad’s party in a depressed sulk. It was too selfish. I mean, that’s the kind of thing Naomi Campbell does but she can get away with it because she’s got a size-2-body. I’d behaved rashly that night in the Mercer, driven by desperation, insecurity, and a total lack of recent orgasms. Now I had to pay for it. I had somehow contrived to date one brute, one congenital liar, and a professional lothario with a Glenn Close wife. Then to top it all off, I’d slept with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend, who had promptly vanished into thin air. I was destined for the solitary life—well, for the next week or so. I tried to be positive. Hopefully, Julie and I would make up soon—she’d want to borrow that Versace pantsuit again one day, I was sure of it. As I rode out to JFK to catch my plane that Friday evening, I resolved to be cheerful about what I had, rather than miserable about what I didn’t. I mean, most girls would die to own as much Marc Jacobs as me.
There is nothing like being stuck in line at security at JFK Airport at ten in the eve
ning behind a man who is inexplicably travelling with four laptop computers—each of which has to be unzipped, placed in a separate plastic tray, scanned, investigated, and then repacked—to really send your spirits plummeting. Moments like this can make a girl wish she hadn’t reformed herself after all. If you are going to reform yourself, be selective: there are some bad habits that, for purely practical reasons, should be hung on to. Turning down rides on private planes is très foolish. Take it from me, one should never do it.
I arrived at Heathrow at 11 AM the next morning. Before I went to the Hertz desk to pick up my rental car, I snuck into the restroom to change. I wasn’t planning on showing up at home looking as rejected as I felt inside. Paying attention to personal grooming while you are recovering from a one-night stand can improve things immensely. I mean, look at Elizabeth Hurley, her eyebrows get more genius with every breakup. She always looks her best when arriving at English countryside locations for pointless high-profile events like polo games or cricket matches starring Hugh Grant. Inspired by her, I locked myself into a stall and changed into a superfine cashmere orange tee (DKNY) and skinny cream pants (Joie). Accessorized with a tan leather belt, plain gold drop earrings, pale turquoise Jimmy Choo sandals with a delicate gold kitten heel, and a squashy canvas zebra stripe shoulder bag, I thought the look exuded casual, Liz-ish glamour. No one would know I’d obsessed about it for three whole days back in New York.
The clothes weren’t exactly 100 percent practical for the English countryside, but then I wasn’t planning on actually setting foot in the English countryside while I was in it. The only danger to my shoes, which was negligible, would be the short walk from my rental car to the house. Mom had Tarmac’d the drive in front of The Old Rectory years ago when she had realized that even if gravel driveways were très English and all that, and considered way classier than Tarmac ones by her peers, they were murder on her favorite tan-and-cream Chanel pumps.
There is nothing in the world—even the infinity pool at the Hotel du Cap—that compares with England on a warm summer’s day. Except perhaps Macaroni Beach in Mustique, but that’s a whole other scenario.
