The Debutante Divorcee (11 page)

“I did something terrible today. I tied all Christopher’s Anderson and Sheppard handmade suits to a brick and threw them into the East River,” said Marci.

I had to laugh. That really was terrible. But maybe Christopher deserved it.

“Did you ever suspect Christopher?” I said.

“Of course not. He never came out with me, but I believed him when he said he couldn’t socialize that much because of work.”

It was true. Marci was never with her husband when she was out. I’d never even met him. All I’d heard about Christopher was that he had bright red hair. Apart from that, he was a blank.

“Never trust a man who’s always on a business trip. Men do not work that hard,” declared Marci. “I bet Hunter isn’t always on a business trip. On the weekends and every night.”

“No,” I replied, with a sympathetic shudder. “But listen, Marci, you’re still married to him, and whatever’s been going on, you’ve got to consider patching it up. That’s the whole point of being married. For better or for worse and everything.”

“I took the ‘for worse’ bit out of our vows. Christopher never even noticed.” Marci paused and then, brightening up a little, she said, “It’s so much fun, Salome wants me to spend all next summer with her in East Hampton. She says her place is like a disco palace all season with…uuggghh-ggh-ggh-uuuggh…” Marci was suddenly hiccoughing tears, barely able to breathe.

“How about if I order in something for us to eat?” I said. “We can just chat tonight.”

“OK, OK…yes. No! Why don’t we go to Bungalow 8?”

“Marci, it’s seven in the evening. Bungalow 8 doesn’t even get going till 2
A.M.
You’re in no state to be going down there tonight. You should take some time to reflect.”

“I
hate
Bungalow 8 anyway. I couldn’t get in with Christopher. He was too overweight,” said Marci, wiping her tears with her lace cuffs. Then, looking at me desperately, she asked, “How long does it take to have reflection, exactly? Three weeks? Could I be done reflecting by Thanksgiving?”

Lauren’s email, which arrived just as I was leaving for Paris, would prove to be a stark contrast to the week I faced ahead. There is nothing—I swear, nothing—as delicious as being just-married and in Paris. Between appointments showing Thackeray’s collection to the stores and Hunter’s endless meetings, Hunter and I snuck off for romantic little lunches in the Marais or met for dinner at cozy Left Bank brasseries, like D’chez eux on the avenue de Lowendal, where we fed each other spoonfuls of cassoulet,
and held hands all the way through dinner, the way crazy-in-love people do.

That week everything went right. Two stores—Maria Luisa and Galeries Lafayette—bought Thack’s collection, even though the weak dollar meant the prices were pretty astronomical. In the couple of weeks before I’d left New York, we’d also had some good luck: Alixe Carter had finally showed up for a fitting and ordered herself an entire couture wardrobe. She seemed to be spreading the word about Thack’s clothes, and we had more and more glamorous women calling asking to be dressed for various events—there was even a hot young actress, Nina Chlore, whose publicist had called saying she wanted to wear Thack to the premiere of her new movie,
The Fatal Blonde,
in early January. Nina’s performance had Hollywood suddenly in awe of this twenty-three-year-old, and her classy, youthful style had the fashion press in a feverish state. They stalked her as though she were a rare breed of leopard. Thack was desperate to dress her, but she still hadn’t actually committed to a fitting. We had to hope and pray that the clothes would eventually lure her into the studio—though there was no saying when this might happen.

There is no spot more happy-making for tea in Paris than Ladurée. Right on the corner of the rue Jacob
and the rue Bonaparte, the velvet-lined, gilt-trimmed patisserie is the most romantic cake boutique in the world. Everyone should go there once with a brand-new husband. With the waiters in white jackets serving verveine tea in silver pots and fluffy
framboise
macaroons on pastel pink china, the whole thing makes you feel like you’re Coco Chanel.

Hunter and I had spent most of the afternoon wandering around the antique shops on the Left Bank. Our favorite shop was Comoglio, an exquisite decorating store selling unaffordable French fabric, including pistacchio silk velvet at y300 a yard. (Only in France, kids, only in France.) By four o’clock we were exhausted, and relieved when we finally found ourselves sitting in two navy damask armchairs at Ladurée.

“I can’t believe we’ve only got one more day, darling!” I said, once we had ordered.

I didn’t want to leave Paris at all. We’d had such a lovely time. The argument about the Blakes Hotel bill had faded into a blurred memory. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so wound up about it and that I’d even considered canceling the Paris trip.

“Darling, we’re going to be here a lot,” said Hunter. “Maybe we’ll have to get a place here, I have to be over so much.”

“That would be amazing!” I cried, excited.

Just then a waiter appeared with a silver tray loaded with tea and delectable pastries. He set it out on the table and disappeared.

“Darling, have a bite of mine,” I said, offering Hunter a piece of my raspberry macaroon.

“Mmm,” said Hunter, biting it right off my finger, “I think on our next trip, we should go to the opera. Or maybe the circus. You know the circus here is amazing…maybe we
should
get an apartment, on the Quai Voltaire—”

“—With views over the Seine.”

“Imagine all the walks around the art galleries we can do. And all those
café crèmes
we’ll drink…”

“Oh, for a fantasy life in Paris!” I sighed happily.

We carried on like this for some time, in a continuous repetitive cycle that we found terribly romantic but that would have driven an onlooker crazy. It’s always the way with being in love. When you’re in it, it’s beyond thrilling, but when you’re sitting next to it in a restaurant it’s odious. Luckily the exchange rates are so bad there aren’t many Americans in Paris at the moment, so there were no unfortunate English speakers who were forced to suffer our nonsense. This made us very relaxed, and we started doing the kinds of things that you would never dream of doing in your own country, like French kissing across the table, teen-style. The last thing we expected was—

“I hate to interrupt such a cute scene.”

Hunter and I looked up, embarrassed. Sophia D’Arlan was standing in front of us with a dazzling smile on her face. Her mahogany tresses were loose and wavy, and she was dressed very
rive gauche au weekend
in long
navy woollen pants, pointy flats, a leather jacket, and a lean scarf that reached down almost to her knees. She looked like Lou Doillon on her day off.

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist coming to say hi. I’m here with Pierre,” she said, gesturing toward a dark-haired man sitting at a distant table. “Sylvie, I’m
so
glad you’re here. I’ve
so
been meaning to get in touch with you.”

“Really?” I said, surprised.

“Yes. Alixe Carter thinks I should wear Thack to the
Fatal Blonde
premiere. I’m Nina’s date. We were at pre-school together. We’re like sisters.”

“Thackeray would love to dress you. Do call me about it. I’m back in New York the middle of next week,” I said in a business-like tone.

I handed Sophia my card. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if Sophia D’Arlan was seen in Thack: I may not have liked her much, but she was constantly photographed and considered a fashion icon by the glossy magazines.

“Nina’s here for two days,” said Sophia. “Can I give her your number? She said she’s thinking about wearing Thack too.”

That would be amazing. But did that mean I was going to have to befriend Sophia in some way? Although I didn’t exactly have a specific reason not to like Sophia, I just didn’t trust her. But if she was going to encourage Nina Chlore to wear Thack to the premiere, then I needed her. She obviously knew Nina
well. Actresses are so fickle with fashion designers you need as many supporters as possible if you want to get them into your clothes. I would have to put my personal feelings aside—this was just too important to our business. I summoned up what I hoped looked like a genuine smile and said, “Sure.” There was only a slim chance Nina Chlore would call. She was a meteorite, probably being courted by every designer from Dior to Dolce.

“I’ll definitely be in touch. That’s so kind of you, I can’t believe it,” said Sophia.

Sophia pecked Hunter on the cheek. “Bye, darling,” she said in a familiar way. I took a sip of tea and resolved not to mind. Business first.

Later that night, Hunter and I were sipping
chocolats chauds
in the bar at the Bristol when my cell rang. To my surprise, Nina Chlore was on the line, all apologies for calling so late. She said she wanted to wear Thack to her premiere in January, and, even more thrilling, she’d just heard she’d officially been nominated for a Golden Globe. Even though she knew it was vain and superficial and Hollywood-ish, of course all she could think about was The Dress. As Sophia had said, Nina was in Paris and wanted to meet the next morning to discuss gowns. I couldn’t quite believe my ears, and I signaled a thumbs-up to Hunter.

“I could come to your hotel at eleven,” I said, excited.

Though I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting on, I could barely contain myself. Sophia D’Arlan’s influence had probably helped, I thought, slightly annoyed. I suppose I would just have to put up with her for now.

“No, I’ll come to you. I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Nina insisted.

“Well, if you’re sure you can manage.”

“I think I can manage to walk over to you from the Ritz.” joked Nina, and hung up.

If I were a gorgeous, world-famous starlet who didn’t have to leave the Ritz, I wouldn’t. But Nina seemed refreshingly down to earth.

“She seems so nice,” I told Hunter, when I recounted the phone conversation to him. “So gracious and charming. Not like a movie star at all.”

“She’s probably acting,” said Hunter. “Actresses do that all the time.”

“I think she’d look amazing in Thack,” I said.

“Let’s see if she shows up tomorrow first,” said Hunter.

“You’re so cynical.”

“I’m just being realistic,” said Hunter, getting up and taking me by the hand. “Now how about catching a bit of Paris Première before bed?”

The next morning, expecting Nina to be the requisite two hours late, I was passing through the lobby at a quarter to eleven, when I spied her sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. I recognized her from endless paparazzi pictures. She was dressed in a fur jacket with a high collar that hid half her face and a tiny denim miniskirt. Her blonde hair was tumbling around her shoulders, and her legs were lightly tanned and bare, even on this wintry November morning. I think they were even longer than Sophia D’Arlan’s, if that’s possible. They were finished off with a pair of expensive-looking dark green snakeskin pumps. She was reading
Le Monde.
She was early. Nina was the antithesis of the breast-enhanced, latte-hued Los Angeles movie star: she had class. Thack was going to be obsessed when he met her.

“Nina?” I said, walking toward her.

“Sylvie? Hi! God! I’m early. Sorr-eee. I can wait down here if you like,” she explained apologetically.

“Come up to the suite now,” I said.

“Are you sure I’m not inconveniencing you and your husband?” asked Nina, concerned.

“Not even vaguely.”

Hunter was completely and utterly 100 percent wrong about this girl. Nina was
genuinely
genuine, as opposed to fake-genuine. No actress can fake punctuality.

When we got up to the suite I took Nina into the
drawing room and ordered two
cafés crèmes
from room service. Just as we were tucking into a plate of
pains aux chocolats,
Hunter put his head around the door and said hello to Nina before going out.

“What a cutie,” said Nina, as the door closed.

I smiled. “He’s pretty great,” I said.

“And so successful. I keep reading about this show he’s working on. It sounds amazing,” she said.

I spread out one of Thackeray’s look books on the table for Nina to peruse. There were eighteen outfits in the collection, of which six were evening gowns. I hoped there was enough choice. Nina picked up the book and studied the photographs intently, moving them this way and that to get a closer look at the details.

“Wow,” she breathed. “This one is very
Fatal Blonde
, no?”