The Debutante Divorcee (19 page)

“G
lamela” Grigione (real name:—Pamela) is the epitome of the raven-haired Italian
contessa
set living in New York. She earned her moniker by literally dripping herself in glamour over the years, and particularly by being a constant guest as a teenager on
Stealth,
which was Gianni Agnelli’s favorite boat. Glamela is one of the most offbeat women in New York. If you call and ask her “How are you?” she gives one of only two replies: either “I’m divine” or “I’m a little insane.” At cocktail parties, arriving in a dazzling outfit of vintage Missoni or Pucci, she always declares, “I’m ugly; take me home,” immediately endearing herself to the entire crowd, despite her envy-inducing, Monica Bellucci–style beauty and bust.

She was a clever choice for the hostess of Salome’s Revenge—as Salome code-named the cocktail party at which she was planning to avenge Sophia on Marci’s behalf. In the twenty-four hours since the Sophia–Christopher scandal had broken, Salome had
pulled together an event at Glamela’s loft on Grand Street. The place was so famous for its contemporary art that no one could refuse the invitation, even Sophia. The pretext was a cocktail for Prince Angus, as he was known, an avant-garde installation artist from Glasgow. His show was opening the next night at Gagosian. No one knew Prince Angus’s real name, but in New York no one cares what British people are really called.

“What an amazing space!” I gushed, when Glamela opened the door to me that night. I was being overly enthusiastic in an effort to hide my desperate mood: it had been twenty-four hours since Hunter had disappeared, and I hadn’t heard a word from him. When I’d called his office again this morning, Danny had told me that Hunter had not checked in to the hotel in Zurich where he was supposed to be staying. No one knew where he’d gone.

“Isn’t it hilarious?” agreed Glamela, as she led me through the loft. She was wearing a paisley chiffon gown that floated behind her as she walked, barefoot, through the vast space. Her only jewelry was an emerald-and-gold bracelet that she wore on her left ankle, like an Indian princess. “Can you believe it was once Manhattan Mini Storage?”

Of course the loft had been Manhattan Mini Storage: it was big enough to store the entire eastern seaboard in here. The drawing room alone must have been fifty feet long, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking
across the pretty rooftops of SoHo. Everywhere you looked there was art: a giant Jeff Koons poodle here, a Cecily Brown oil there, a Tracey Emin rug on the floor. With its dark floors and white lacquered walls, the room was the perfect backdrop for the work. The only furnishings in the room were two white leather stools and a white baby grand piano.

“Everyone’s in the library,” said Glamela, chiffon swooshing quickly ahead of me.

The “library” was much cozier than the rest of the apartment, but still ultra-modern. All the “books,” wrapped immaculately in brown paper, were, on close examination, revealed to be old-school videotapes. The room was crowded with art types.

“Over here!” said Tinsley.

She was lounging on a huge sofa draped in a goatskin rug, dressed in a red velvet puff-sleeved frock that looked like it was intended for a four-year-old. She was chatting with Prince Angus. Dressed in slashed tartan drainpipes with safety pins holding them together, and with a long fringe of bleach-blonde hair, he looked like a cross between Sid Vicious and David Hockney. He was strangely sexy, in that way that creative types just are, even though they are totally weird-looking. I went over and joined them, grabbing a glass of champagne on the way.

“’Ello!” said Prince Angus, when I sat down by Tinsley. He spoke exactly like one of the Beatles.

“Isn’t he
divine?”
said Tinsley, looping a long arm around Prince Angus’s neck. “Salome’s got the most savage crush on him already.”

“She’s tasty!” said Prince Angus.

“Isn’t she?” I agreed. “What’s your show about?”

“I shipped a Tudor hovel from Penrith to New York, and I’ve painted the outside to look like a cartoon of a Mock Tudor mansion in Beverly Hills. The show’s called
Mock Mock Tudor
. Haaahhhhaaa!” he chuckled. “Is the lovely Salome single?”

“She could be, for the right…Muslim,” said Tinsley, looking at Prince Angus a little dubiously. “She’d decided to date within her religion now. Too much angst with her parents otherwise.”

“Oh,” said Prince Angus, a little wistfully.

Just then I saw Sophia from the corner of my eye. Ugh! I loathed the sight of her. However, for the sake of Salome’s plan, which I assumed was devilishly clever, I attempted to appear calm. Sophia was standing by the fireplace at the other end of the room, with one arm resting on the mantelpiece. She was dressed head to toe in white cashmere and a cream fur gilet. She seemed to be laughing hysterically with…Salome. What
was
Salome up to? A little way off, Valerie and Alixe were standing together chatting. What
was
going on? And where was Lauren? Wasn’t she supposed to be here?

I headed over toward Alixe and whispered, “What is Salome up to?”

“I
love
your necklace, Alixe,” interrupted Valerie, before she could answer.

“Lanvin. I’m so dull. Everyone’s got these already,” said Alixe, fingering the long skein of black pearls wrapped in delicate net. “The trouble is, if I buy a necklace I have to have the ring
and
the bracelet
and
the earrings. I can never
just
get the necklace. You can’t imagine the trouble I’m in with myself,” she huffed. “
Adore
your dress.”

“I just wanted to stay under the covers tonight, so this is my under-the-duvet dress,” replied Valerie.

This was completely disingenuous on Valerie’s part. She was wearing a searingly tight black cocktail dress with a white ribbon tied in a bow at the waist. She couldn’t have looked less like someone who was in bed.

Suddenly there was yelling and waving from the fireplace.

“Faisal! Darling! Over here!” sang Salome, who was dressed in a chocolate-brown-and-white polka dot cocktail dress.

She was gesturing at someone. Everyone turned to see who it was. An extraordinarily beautiful Persian man, dressed in an immaculate dark suit and a red keffiyeh, was strolling into the library. He looked like a modern Omar Sharif, with eyes like black diamonds. I swear I could hear a collective intake of female breath as he strode across to where Salome was waiting at the fireplace.

“Salome. The Beauty,” declared Faisal as he took Salome’s outstretched hand and kissed it. “And who is this…
flower
?” he asked, turning toward Sophia.

“I’m Sophia D’Arlan,” said Sophia, dredging up her most seductive expression for Faisal.

I couldn’t quite see how all this was going to punish Sophia—it seemed far too pleasant. What was Salome thinking? Was this man Salome’s ex-husband? And where was Lauren? There was still no sign of her. Meanwhile Sophia, in inimitable style, moved in on Faisal like a tiger killing its prey. Twenty minutes later they left the party together, arm in arm, much to the shock of the guests gathered at the party. The only person who didn’t seemed freaked out was Salome, who was happily perched on the sofa, snuggling up to Prince Angus all the while. As the door closed behind Sophia and Faisal, Salome literally fell off the sofa and lay on the floor giggling like an exotic wind-up doll.

“I’m a genius!!!
Haahhheeeehhahhahaha
!” tittered Salome madly.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Wait and—
giggle-giggle-hahaaha
—see! I am
completely
evil.”

Aside from the generally peculiar nature of Salome’s revenge party, there was something else that struck me as
odd that night: Lauren had never shown up. Since she was obviously in on whatever plan Salome was pursuing, it seemed strange—but not overly so. After all, Lauren
always
didn’t show up for things she was supposed to show up at. But when, the next day, I still hadn’t heard from her and she failed to come to Thack’s studio for a fitting she’d scheduled, that really
was
strange. Lauren had been invited to attend the Oscars by one of the Warner kids, and had given Thack a huge check to pay for a dress she wanted made. Even Lauren was impressed by the Oscars: I couldn’t imagine her not being obsessed by her outfit. Aside from all this, I was desperate for someone to talk to about Hunter: it was the last thing I wanted to analyze with Marci or Tinsley. It had been two days, and there was still no word from Hunter. Even his office had started to get concerned. What had happened to him?

That day, when I called Lauren’s cell it was dead. When I called the house, the line went straight to voicemail. What was even odder was Thack’s reaction: for a kid whose business was in deep trouble, who was banking on Lauren being photographed in his gown at the Oscars, he didn’t seem at all panicked, even after the Nina-gate fiasco, as he called it.

“Isn’t the
toile
delicious?” he said, gazing at Lauren’s gown with a dreamy look on his face. “The silhouette is totally John Singer Sargent.”

The
toile
was a desperately romantic shape. Corseted
sharply on the bust, pinching into a tiny waist and floating out into a dreamy skirt, it was a dress far chicer than anything you see at the Oscars now.

“Thack, she’s not here,” I protested in vain.

“Ha!” he giggled cheerfully. “The dress is killer.”

“Thack, the accounts are not even vaguely killer this month,” I pointed out.

“Everything will be fine, Sylvie, stop fretting. Now, who else am I dressing for the Oscars?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him: no one.

“Miss Sylvie! Mii-sss!” wailed Lauren’s maid, Agata, on the phone two days later. Her voice was choked with tears, hysterical. “She’s gone! Gone!”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Agata sounded incredibly upset.

“Lauren came home from Tokyo. Then she said she was going out for five minutes and…and she never came back. Her passport is gone, b-b-but…” she cried, barely intelligible.

“Well, maybe she’s on vacation,” I suggested, trying not to betray my own worry.

“She never goes away without me packing a case for her. Never. She doesn’t even
know
how to pack a case. Uggghhh! I think she’s dead!”

“Agata!” I gasped. That’s not true—”

“But, Miss, she left her jewels,” gulped Agata. “She always takes her jewels on vacation!”

Without a bagful of diamonds a vacation simply wasn’t a vacation if you were Lauren Blount. Agata was right: the jewels said it all. Lauren had officially disappeared.

“I can’t stand it! I married the Husband Huntress off to the only man I know who can be four other women’s husband and hers at the same time.” Salome laughed as she read the story out loud from the “Vows” section of the
New York Times
several days later. “Ranch in Iran? What about a harem in Iran? Ever heard of Sharia law, Sophia?”

Faisal Al-Firaih was Salome’s ex-husband’s uncle (“everyone in the family’s called Faisal, even the daughters,” she explained). He was apparently thrilled with his new Western wife. Salome, meanwhile, was thrilled with herself. She had achieved her goal. Salome was convinced that Sophia was never going to be allowed to set foot in the land of the infidels again. Meanwhile, Marci had hired Ivana’s aforementioned divorce lawyer and was claiming that she was going to go through with a divorce. Her sex life had gone crazy. She was determined to complete a Make Out Challenge more demanding even than Lauren’s.

The news on Lauren wasn’t as hopeful. She had properly vanished. It was reported in the newspapers, and Lauren was newly dubbed the
Disappearing Debutante Divorcée
in the press. She seemed to become as famous as Princess Diana overnight, with the disappearance written up as a desperately glamorous tragedy. Even Dominick Dunne had gone on the trail for his
Vanity Fair
column, to no avail. Some press items suggested she had been spotted boarding a small plane alone at Teterboro a few days ago, others that she had been seen wandering, drunk, around duty-free shops in Geneva airport buying Swiss cuckoo clocks. You can imagine the whispers at dinner parties: “She was dreadfully unhappy” “Too much money” “No, it was the diamonds. Far too many diamonds at a young age brings on early madness” “If she’d stuck to Pilates this would never have happened” “Louis kidnapped
her, and she’s locked in his cabin in Alaska. He couldn’t bear to see her having such a good time” “She wasn’t drinking enough water. If she’d drunk two liters of Evian a day she’d be here now.” My favorite was, “She’s gone into hiding at Brigitte Bardot’s place in France.”

I was very depressed. Lauren might have been spoiled, she might have been the flakiest of all the New York flakes, but she was fun and a great friend, and underneath it all, she had a heart of gold. She really cared about Marci, Salome, and all her girlfriends, and, selfishly, I hated not having her around to care about me. What if something terrible had happened to her? I kept wondering. Lauren’s disappearance only exacerbated my anxiety about Hunter’s absence. Yesterday Hunter’s office had called asking me if I had heard from him. They had found his BlackBerry under a pile of papers on his desk and were very worried. It had been at least five days now, and not a word. Even when Milton tried to reassure me by telling me that it sounded like Hunter had gone into “the straight man’s cave” I didn’t feel any better. I felt very much alone, and even slightly envious of Sophia—at least she knew the whereabouts of her husband.

The following Monday morning I wandered disconsolately into Café Rafaella for breakfast, regretting
that I wasn’t there with Hunter. When the waitress brought two lattes and two croissants, as she usually did for Hunter and me, I felt so dejected I couldn’t even face telling her there was no need for two of everything anymore. As I sipped my coffee and regarded the other cup, I felt like I was breaking bread with a ghost. I dismally picked up a copy of the
New York Post.

I got the shock of my life.

“What?” I blurted to no one in particular.

There, screaming at me in bright red ink from the cover of the paper was the splashy headline:

DEBUTANTE DIVORCÉE’S
SECRET WEDDING!
See Page 3 for Dress, Details and Dish!!!

I turned to page 3. There, radiant, Lauren smiled out from a black-and-white photograph. Snow was swirling around her, and a wedding gown of white organdie was blowing behind her…Was she in…
Russia?
I peered more closely at the photograph. There were little gold turrets in the background…It looked exotic and wintry. The dress was as slim as could be at the bust and then flowed out around her legs and feet, with a huge train…no way! It was Thack’s dress. It looked to die for. Had he known all along? Of course he had! No wonder he was so relaxed that day when she hadn’t shown up at the studio. Next I looked
at Lauren’s face: her eyes were immaculately lined in black eyeliner, slightly sixties-style, and her hair was falling in soft, loose waves around her face. She seemed to be wearing some kind of huge jewel around her neck, although it was hard to see exactly what it was. In one hand she had a bouquet of white camellias, and in the other a cigarette. It was very her, that particular touch. Her eyes were sparkling as though she was bursting with happiness. But where was the groom?

I quickly scanned down to the text on the page. I gasped as I read:

A tear trembled down my nose: everyone was getting married, which only highlighted my lonely plight. I stared down at the newspaper as drop after drop splashed onto it. Just then something white came into view: a handkerchief was being pushed toward me. How embarrassing. I looked up, flushed: there was Hunter.

“I’ve done something terrible,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”