The Debutante Divorcee (10 page)

This wasn’t the moment to collapse in a state of distress about my husband’s globe-trotting activities. Still, I felt my eyes starting to well. Pulling myself together, I looked at my watch. It was already 2:30. I decided to walk back through the party once more, and see if I could find Alixe. If not, I would go straight back to the office. The main thing was not to dwell on any of this stuff. Plus, Lauren had a point: I couldn’t do anything if I wasn’t sure.

“OK, I’m heading out,” I said, getting up.

“I’ll call you later about everything,” said Lauren knowingly. “But don’t go saying anything to Hunter about it.”

“Good advice. Thanks,” I said.

As I walked back through the store, the crowd was thinning out. Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder.

“Sylvie? Sylvie?”

I turned around. Alixe was standing beside me, a worried look on her face.

“Sylvie, what happened about my fitting?”

How blissful to have a memory so lousy that you can actually forget that you’ve forgotten stuff. Deciding it was better not to mention that Alixe had missed the fitting, I said, “You can come any time.”

“I am
so desperate
for a gown. I was worried Thack had…gone and forgotten about me—oh, look!” she said, grabbing a tiny yellow raincoat off a rack. “I’ve got to have this. It’s amazing. Pheobe is amazing.”

“I’ll call you later, Alixe, and set up a time,” I said.

“Lovely. Can’t wait.”

While I was standing at the door waiting to retrieve my coat, there was suddenly a flurry of activity. While Phoebe and Valerie were kissing everyone good-bye, Marci suddenly arrived, and kissed absolutely everyone hello, as if it were the beginning of the party rather than the end. She was fully made up, with Schiaparelli-pink lips. She was dressed in skinny, black satin pants, high peep-toe shoes revealing red toenails, and a floppy, black silk blouse with a huge bow at the neck. It was exactly like Olivia Newton-John’s metamorphosis moment in
Grease
, only for real.

“Marci,” I said, “are you OK?”

“I feel
amazing,
” she replied. “The scoliosis has completely gone. I’m a size zero.”

She was always a size zero, and she never had scoliosis, so no change there.

“Oooh, Valerie, hi—” said Marci swooping on the glamorous mother and child. “Aaah, Baba? Baba—”

There was no response from the exhausted child, so Marci poked her face nearer to it. She pushed her lips into a boiling pink pout, about to kiss Baba.

“Waaahhhhhh!”
yelled Baba.

“Baba, it’s only Marci—”

Baba started squawking like a chicken and thrashing around. Suddenly he turned toward Marci, at which point she leaned in closer to him. He immediately vomited. The puke globbed lumpily down Marci’s silk blouse.

“Eee-uych!” yelped Marci, recoiling. “What is wrong with that child?”

“Your lipstick,” said Valerie, turning away from Marci abruptly. “Babies hate…makeup. It negatively impacts their brain development. I have to get him away from here.”

With that, Valerie exited, and Marci flushed a luminous, embarrassed red. She looked at me, worried. Then she asked, “Did that baby just snub me?”

“S
cram! Screaming Sixteen-Month-Old Snubs Scorned Socialite!”
declared Gawker Stalker the next morning. Socialite Baby can wreak havoc with a grown woman’s self-esteem as no adult can. Marci went into hiding. Literally. No one could reach her, and the only person who could have coaxed her out—Lauren—also seemed to have disappeared. There were rumors that Lauren had been spotted the morning after Phoebe’s luncheon at 6
A.M.
in the lobby of the Mark Hotel wearing workout gear and huge sunglasses, and getting into an elevator. Apparently she pressed P.H. when she got in. The rumor was spreading fast, mainly because it was also rumored that Sanford Berman kept a permanent penthouse suite there. No one had seen her since.

I didn’t believe it. The fact was, Lauren never got up before 11
A.M..
Plus, she’d told me categorically that she couldn’t have sex with a waterbed. Anyway, aside from all the silly gossip, I desperately needed to speak to her: she was the only person I had mentioned the strange
hotel bill to, and for the past few days it had been nagging at me, almost oppressively. Still, the last thing Lauren had said to me was, don’t mention it to Hunter. Crazy as she was, I also thought that Lauren had an instinctual wisdom when it came to relationships. I decided not to say anything for now, but it couldn’t last: Hunter soon sensed that I was not myself.

One night when we were lying in bed, Hunter said, “Beautiful sheets…perfect for…” He leaned over and kissed me.

“They’re Olatz,” I said, turning away from him. “Your cousin sent them as a wedding gift.”

It’s amazing what a $600, Portuguese linen, lace-trimmed, hand-sewn pillowcase
can’t
do to cheer you up sometimes. I felt far too anxious for any sort of romance that night, Olatz sheets or not.

“Darling, what’s the matter?” said Hunter sweetly.

“I’m fine,” I said, eyes clamped shut. “Tired.”

“You seem sad,” said Hunter, stroking my back.

“Mmmm…not sad,” I mumbled. Actually, I was furious. But I didn’t know what to do about it.

“I wanted to ask you if you could come to Paris for a week with me, on my next trip. I’m planning to go the first week in November. Would that cheer you up?”

That was a lovely offer. But, the fact was, I was in a state about Hunter. I couldn’t let him off that easily.

“I don’t need cheering up,” I said sulkily, turning on the light and glaring at my husband.

“Why are you frowning in that adorable, grumpy
way, then?” said Hunter, looking faintly amused. “What is it?”

Hunter was so cute it made maintaining a fury with him at the level required virtually impossible. And look at him, he looked so delicious, all sleepy and snuggly lying next to me. I kissed him. Maybe I could drop all charges of misconduct, effective immediately? Maybe these overpriced linens were
quite
romantic…

“Come on, darling, you’ve been moody for days,” insisted Hunter.

Maybe I
should
say something. Get it over with. Maybe there would be a simple explanation, and I could go to Paris in November with Hunter and have a lovely time. The fact was, I couldn’t keep it in any longer, whatever Lauren had advised.

“Well…there is…something,” I said finally. “The other day, when Jim brought back your suits, he gave me a bunch of receipts.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hunter quizzically.

I leaned over the edge of the bed and opened the drawer on the side table. There was the Ziploc bag. I took it out, opened it, and fished out the Blakes Hotel bill.

“Please explain,” I said, holding out the bill toward him.

Hunter examined the receipt.

“It’s a hotel bill,” he said. “I should have given it to the accountant weeks ago.” He put it on his side table, as if there were nothing odd about it at all. “Now, how
about my wife and I make full use of my cousin’s over-the-top gift…?”

Hunter started nuzzling my shoulder. It was amazing. He was acting like nothing was wrong. I drew away from him, upset.

“Hunter, I am trying to have a horrible fight with you!” I burst out, shoving him off me.

“What could a newly married couple as happy as we are possibly have to fight about?” he said jokily. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all.

“Why did you lie to me about being in London?” I asked. There. I’d said it. Maybe that was the end of our one-minute marriage. I sat bolt upright and glared at him. Why did he look so…sexy…even when I was so angry with him. It was annoying.

“What?” said Hunter, looking confused. He sat up in bed and rubbed his hand through his hair in a slightly agitated fashion. “I never lie to you. What are you talking about?”

“When Phoebe said she saw you in London, you said her brain was mush and that she’d seen you in Paris,” I retorted.

“Er…did I?” Hunter hesitated. He seemed to ponder a while, then said, “Hmmm…”

Was he trying to get his story straight? Invent an alibi? Or was I being crazily suspicious for no reason? After what seemed an interminable silent interlude, Hunter finally said, “I thought Phoebe said she saw me in…London.”

“She did!” I said sharply. “But
you
said you had never been in London.”

Now I was getting confused. Maybe my brain was the mushy one.

“Darling, I’m sorry. I’m traveling so much right now even
I
don’t know where I am half the time. All those European cities merge into one. I don’t mean to worry you, sweetheart,” said Hunter, taking my hand and kissing it.

How London can merge into Paris I know not.

“What were you doing in London anyway, on a weekend?” I asked crossly.

“I think it was…”

Hunter trailed off, as though he was slightly confused. Eventually he said, “…that was it. Some last-minute business meeting with the UK distributors. Sorry, I must have forgotten to tell you about it. I was in London for twenty-four hours and then went straight back to Paris.”

What was it Tinsley had said, about Marci’s husband being “vague” about business meetings? Was this “vague” in the way Tinsley defined “vague”?

“Blakes Hotel isn’t a business-meeting kind of hotel,” I declared sternly.

“I know, darling. I want to take you there. It’s very romantic,” said Hunter.

“Please,” I said frustrated.

I couldn’t believe we were having the row we were
having. Surely Christy Turlington never had arguments with that gorgeous guy in the Eternity ad.

“What do you mean?” said Hunter.

“I mean, I’m not a total fool.”

“Oh, Sylvie, come on. You know I’m in different hotels all the time. Stop being absurd and let’s go to sleep.” He was getting annoyed now.

“I am not being absurd! I am justifiably wondering what my husband was doing on a weekend in the sexiest hotel in London—”

“—Sylvie. Stop. I am not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

“But—”

“Shush. Now you just want to argue for no reason. I’ve explained. That’s it. OK?”

I always knew Hunter was a man of few words, but now I found it aggravating. I thought it was completely unfair that he now seemed to be furious with me. I tried again.

“B—”

“Darling, enough,” said Hunter grimly. “Either you believe me or you don’t. I am telling the truth.”

Maybe I had been overreacting, I thought, annoyed with myself. I was tired and stressed out from work right now, which occasionally turned me into a little powder keg. And when I really thought about it, Hunter’s explanation was completely justifiable: he did travel like crazy right now, and what was one hotel
versus another? It was probably all the same to him. Hunter was right, I would just have to trust him. Maybe I should take my husband up on what was a very nice offer, and not obsess so much about the little things. Paris was lovely in the winter without the tourists.

“Darling, I’d love to go to Paris,” I said finally. I could definitely do some work while I was over there. We needed some stores in Europe. “I’m sorry I got so cross with you.”

“We’ll have a lovely time,” said Hunter kindly. He never held anything against me; that was one of his finest qualities. “You come for a week, then I have to go to Frankfurt for ten days, then we’ll be back in New York together.”

I kissed Hunter and burrowed under the comforter to get closer to him. Suddenly I had an idea.

“You know what, I think that’s right before the weekend Lauren’s going to Moscow. She keeps bugging me to go with her. Maybe I’ll meet her there, when you go to Frankfurt,” I said. “I could do a little business for Thack, and there’s some ice polo match Lauren wants to go to.”

“What on earth does Lauren want in Moscow?” asked Hunter, intrigued.

“She calls it a business-pleasure trip. She’s trying to acquire this crazy pair of Fabergé cuff links for Sanford, and they happen to be owned by this guy she’s decided she’s
madly
in love with. The one she’s never met. He’s
called Giles…what was his last name? Giles Monterey, that’s it. She calls him the UnGoogle-able Man.”

Hunter looked at me for a second, with disbelief in his eyes. It was peculiar. Then he laughed, “The debutante divorcée and the UnGoogle-able man! It sounds like the perfect match. I predict a dazzling romance, marriage, and several children, to play with ours. Ha ha ha!”

“Lauren will never marry again,” I protested. “She’s having way too much fun.”

“Being married is
more
fun, my sweet. We must encourage her to marry this poor soul.”

“She just wants a hot date,” I said. Hunter had no idea.

“Surely everyone would rather be married than divorced,” he replied.

“You are the most perfect husband,” I said. He was genuinely trying to be sweet.

“No, I’m not. You’re the perfect wife.”

Maybe we
were
the Eternity couple after all.

Marci Klugerson, it transpired the next morning, had not gone missing at all. She had been sleeping all day and watching episodes of
Medium
on TiVo all night. When she called me at the office out of the blue at around midday, she sounded so doped up it was like talking to a drug addict.

“Do you know? Where…Christopher?…is?” mumbled Marci. She sounded like she wasn’t even awake.

“Don’t you?” I asked, shocked.

“No…,” wavered the insufficient voice. “I kicked him out, and he’s gone, totally…gone…away.”

It was pathetic. Marci sounded like someone on a Lifetime made-for-TV movie.

“Marci, is it really true about Chris—”

“—Did Tinsley tell you that? He’s definitely with someone else. He won’t say who. He’s said he’s gonna end it, but I’m in total shock. Please come over. The only thing I’ve eaten for the last three days is Seroquel. It’s for schizophrenia. But I don’t have schizophrenia, I have…”

There was a sudden snuffling and rustling of tissues. Marci was weeping uncontrollably.

“Marci, I have a couple of important appointments this afternoon at work. Can you survive till six? Then I can come over,” I said sympathetically.

“Meeewwww,” whimpered Marci, sounding like an injured kitten. “Lauren said she’s coming in half an hour. She’s been hiding out with some guy. Maybe she’ll stay with me ‘till you get here.”

“OK, good, that’s great. See you later—”

“—Waaiiit! One more thing, Sylvie…” Sniffle-sniffle-sniffle. “Do I get to wear Thack’s clothes now that I’m getting divorced?”

Marci’s drawing room at 975 Park Avenue would be enough to send anyone into a spiral of Seroquel dependency, missing husband or not. She’d had it done up by Jacques Grange when she got married, which is why she was living in an apartment that looked like the inside of Notre-Dame.

When I arrived just after six, I found Marci perched on a stiffly upholstered, dark green felt sofa in her drawing room. Resting on it was a copy of Maureen Dowd’s
Are Men Necessary?
She had a drink in one hand and a remote control in the other. Her eyes were glued to the TV screen. She was maniacally flicking from one channel to the next. She was dressed in an immaculate white Rochas suit with black lace cuffs and a bow at the neck, fishnet stockings, and very high red shoes. Her hair was arranged in blonde curls around her face. The tears from earlier had vanished. Her face was pale, but she looked ghoulishly beautiful, like Nicole Kidman in
The Others
. Her countenance was completely calm. She was quite obviously half out of her mind, because one thing Marci never is when she is all right is calm.

“Sylvie, hi,” she said, without moving her eyes from the screen. “Do you think I can ever go to another party downtown after that kid treated me like that?”

I sat down on the couch next to her and dropped my bag on the floor.

“Marci, I’m really concerned for you. Can I talk to you?” I said gently.

She nodded, mumbling, “Yes.”

“Maybe you should be thinking about how to salvage your marriage,” I told her, “not…party invitations—”

“—parties are important when you’re…” Marci gulped her drink at alarming speed and then uttered dramatically, “Alone. You wanna vodka shot?”

“Where’s Lauren? Shouldn’t she be here?”

“She flaked. She’s got that Five Orgasm guy installed in her place. She’s trying to take her mind off her wedding anniversary, which is today. She’s really depressed too.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Lauren’s status as flakiest girl in New York obviously hadn’t shifted.

“I’m sort of angry with her, but I can never get too angry with her. Lauren was so sweet to me when my mother died. She cleared the whole house out and paid all the movers’ bills because I was broke then. Maybe Five Orgasms is the man of her dreams. She deserves someone great.”

Suddenly Marci got up and walked over to the huge mahogany desk at one end of the room.

“I hate this place. I feel like I live in a Ritz Carlton hotel,” she grumbled. She sat down at the desk and
picked up the telephone. “Why don’t we go down to the knitting café on Bedford Street?”

“Marci, darling, we should stay here,” I said. “It’s really cold out. Why don’t I make us some rose-hip tea?”