The Debutante Divorcee (2 page)

Lauren clicked open her little silver cell and called Tinsley, who said she’d be over in ten minutes. The bikini-clad figure waved from her terrace and disappeared from view.

“They always take that place over Labor Day. You’ll like her,” said Lauren. “What are you doing here in Careyes anyway?”

“I’m on…honeymoon,” I said unsurely.

“
Real
honeymoon?” asked Lauren.

“Yes,” I answered reluctantly.

“Alone?”

“Sort of,” I mumbled, lowering my eyes. (The floor is an excellent place to look, I always find, when admitting one has lost one’s husband about three seconds after the wedding.)

“Sounds a lot like my divorce honeymoon. It’s really immaterial whether you have a husband with you or not.”

Lauren giggled and caught my eye. When she saw my face she abruptly stopped. “Oh! I’m sorry! You look so upset.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, I wiped a stray tear from my nose with the back of my hand.

“What happened?” said Lauren sympathetically.

“Well…huh,” I sighed.

Maybe I should tell Lauren the whole hideous story. She was almost a complete stranger, but then lots of people pay a fortune to tell a stranger their most intimate thoughts in therapy every week.

I was beyond embarrassed, I realized, as I told Lauren my sorry tale. The fact was, my “honeymoon” felt about as romantic as solitary confinement right now. My new husband, Hunter, had been forced to leave on the second day of our vacation to close a business deal. Now, I have never been one of those girls who dreamed about her wedding day all her life, but I
had
dreamed
about my honeymoon: it was meant to be the most delicious, sexy two weeks of your life, the vacation version of heaven. When Hunter had explained that he had to leave, in a terrible rush, I behaved in a very grown-up way, I thought, and told him I understood. But inside I was desolate. Hunter promised to deliver another honeymoon, but a subsitute vacation held no appeal. How do you get that blissed-out, just-married feeling six months after the wedding? By definition, you can only feel just-married for about a minute. Honeymoons have a small window of opportunity, bliss being as transient as it is.

Hunter had been gone three days now, and having felt stoic for about three hours, I had quickly evolved to feeling utterly tragic. The trouble with being alone on your honeymoon is that there is oodles of time to wallow. Reading trashy magazines full of celebrity breakups doesn’t help.

My self-pity was only exacerbated by the maid at our beach house bringing romantic breakfast trays for two each morning, covered in flowers and Mexican hearts wishing us good luck. I couldn’t face telling her that Hunter had left and might not get back. I was so ashamed about the whole thing, I hadn’t even called a friend to commiserate. What would people think? Hunter and I had known each other only six months and had gotten married on the spur of the moment, in Hawaii. I could imagine the gossip already:
she didn’t have a clue what she was getting into; she hardly knew him;
apparently he left some other girlfriend on vacation…
My mind was bedeviled by hideous thoughts—and disappointment. Ah! Disappointment! It’s the worst affliction. It’s so dreary, and you can’t do anything to improve it; it just has to fade away…over years, I told Lauren gloomily, maybe decades…

“Stop overreacting. It’s not that bad,” interjected Lauren. “At least you’ve got a husband. This is an exercise in ego-loss for you and you’re indulging yourself.”

Ego-loss? What about husband-loss?

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” I admitted as tears suddenly flooded my eyes. “It’s such a ghastly start to a marriage. I’m bloody furious, and so angry with Hunter. I know he has to make money, and work, but…oh, God.”

“Here,” said Lauren, rummaging in her tote. She handed me a lace-trimmed, white silk handkerchief with her initials embroidered on it.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. It was criminal to wipe one’s nose on such an exquisite item, but I went ahead. “This is so pretty.”

“You get them at Leron. Special order. They fly to Chicago to see my mother. It’s all by appointment only. You should see the linens. Blissful. Why don’t I order some for you next time? Would that cheer you up?”

“I guess,” I said. That was sweet of Lauren, I thought. If I was destined to spend my marriage in tears, I supposed white lace would be much more pleasant to weep into than Charmin toilet paper.

“Look at it this way: most marriages start with an incredible honeymoon and go downhill from there. At least this way the only place you can go is up. I mean, it can’t get any worse, right?”

I dabbed at my eyes with Lauren’s handkerchief. Through my tears, I somehow managed a laugh.

“Don’t obsess about this, or you’ll really ruin things. Honeymoons are seriously overrated. They’re just so pressured, like birthdays. You’re supposed to wake up excited every morning, and feel crazy in love and all floaty every minute of it, and guess what? You’ve got menstrual cramps that day, or you’ve been eaten alive by mosquitoes, and the
last
thing you feel like is fucking each other like mad, like you’re supposed to want to.”

“Hey, Lauren,” came a girlish voice from behind us.

Tinsley Bellangere, ex-wife of the mislaid Jamie, appeared at the archway to the sunken drawing room. She was outrageously pretty, like a milk-fed farm girl with class. She was twenty-eight years old, had flat blonde hair to her elbow, a few perfectly located post-laser freckles, and sky-blue eyes. Her skin was evenly tanned, and she was wearing a fitted yellow satin cocktail dress with a slashed skirt that streamed beautifully about her legs in the breeze. She wasn’t dressed for the beach; she was dressed for a benefit.

Lauren made the introductions and then said,
“Sylvie just got married.” She patted the seat beside her. “You always look so pretty, Tinsley.”

“You look better,” said Tinsley as she flopped down, all legs and satin and hair. Then she looked at me and said, “You want to hear my secret of a happy marriage? Agree with your husband on everything. Then do whatever you like. It worked really well for Jamie and me. We separated
very
amicably.”

With that Tinsley stood up and made her way over to the drinks tray in the corner. “I’ll be having a neat tequila. Anyone else?”

“Love one,” I said. Maybe being drunk in the afternoon would improve my non-honeymoon.

“Everyone thinks I’m crazy when I drink these in the tea area at The Carlyle at noon,” said Tinsley, handing one each to Lauren and me. Then she tossed her blonde mane back and downed her shot in one.

“Let’s go for a swim,” said Lauren. “I’m baking.”

“I can’t. I’m too tired,” said Tinsley with a wink. She stretched out on a huge white mattress piled with giant cushions on the floor. “I’m going to lie here and watch you exhaust yourselves while I eat cactus ice cream or something.”

“I’ll come,” I said, following Lauren into the water.

Maybe a swim would help dissipate my grim disappointment, I thought, as I splashed into the pool. The water was blood-heat hot, the kind of hotel-pool temperature that girls love and men abhor.

“Twenty loops round the house!” commanded Lauren, splashing off.

“Twenty?” I shouted after her, surprised.

“Absolutely. You’ve
got
to have goals in life. Personally I am a very goal-oriented person,” said Lauren, between strokes.

I caught up with her, and we swam leisurely side by side. Lauren barely drew breath as she paddled and continued chatting.

“I mean even after my divorce and everything, which, by the way, is freely available for the entire world to read in great detail on Google, I said, me being me and goals being goals, I’ve got to set myself a post-divorce goal. You know, a serious purpose in life. Something to aim for.”

As we swam around the moat, I peeked into the guest rooms that opened out onto it. They were whitewashed, and mosquito nets were draped over immaculately made-up beds. Some of the rooms had bright yellow flowers climbing around the windows, or antique Mexican icons on the walls. I started to feel a little cheerier—who wouldn’t?

“So, Lauren,” I said, perking up, “what is your goal?”

“To date like I’m in college again. No relationships, no falling in love. I just want to have fun, and not think beyond that.”

Her reply had an unwavering certainty about it.
Lauren stopped paddling and turned around to face me. Standing in the aqua water, she looked both amused and determined, as she said, “So, my
specific
goal, and I am very clear about this, because it’s insanely straightforward, is that I must make out with five men between Labor Day and Memorial Day. Five ultra-diverse, top-quality, commitment-free make outs. And I shall celebrate each one in an appropriate manner. With a jewel. Or a piece of art, or a fur coat. I’ve already put this heavenly Revillon sable on hold in Paris, as a matter of fact. One kiss and it’s mine.”

With that Lauren dived under the water. When she resurfaced, the drops on her face twinkling in the sun, I asked, “God, do you think you can find
five
make outs?”

The fact is, Lauren is beautiful and sexy but she was thirty-one years old—antique by New York standards. After the age of thirty-three or thirty-four, the Manhattan male abandons his peers altogether, seeking out girls in their early to mid-twenties at the absolutely most ancient. The really sad ones give up on the New York girl altogether and exclusively date nineteen-year-old models from South Beach. Anyway, my point is that literally no one I knew over the age of thirty was getting to make out with one man over the space of six months, let alone five.

“I’m setting myself a realistic target. But I have heard,” replied Lauren, gliding her fingers rather aim
lessly in a circle in the water, “from other divorcées, some of whom are my friends, that it may not be overly optimistic to expect
in excess
of five. Oh! Wait! My other big ambition is to connect my own surround sound. Louis used to do all of that. I’m absolutely convinced I can do it on my own, however long it takes. Now, what’s your goal?”

That was one thing I was very clear about.

“I want to be like the Eternity couple,” I laughed.

Secretly, I’d always hoped that matrimony would be like the Eternity ad: a very gorgeous you, a hot him, and oodles of vanilla-colored cashmere sweaters. If possible my whole marriage would take place on a beach in East Hampton, preferably in a flattering black-and-white palette.

“If only I had had such
noble
aims, maybe my marriage would have lasted,” shrieked Lauren. She hooted with laughter. “I gave up the Eternity dream at age eight. You are so cute. But I’ve got a tip for you.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your goal should be keeping your husband away from the Husband Huntresses.”

I frowned at her, confused.

“You know,” explained Lauren. “Those wicked girls who
only
pursue husbands. You only become aware of them once you’re married.”

“Stop it.” I giggled.

“Be warned.”

Our swim had now come full circle, and we were
back in front of the sunken drawing room. Tinsley beckoned to us to come in.

“Mojitos await,” she yelled.

“Well, that was only one lap, but let’s go hang with her or she’ll start hyperventilating,” said Lauren, climbing the shallow steps up to the drawing room. She grabbed a towel from a neat pile on a wicker table and handed one to me.

“God, that swim was lovely,” I said, drying myself off. I took one of the mojitos and sipped it. It was so refreshing.

“Isn’t the pool genius?” said Lauren.

She curled up in her towel onto the couch opposite Tinsley, and I sat in a rocking chair painted a hot Latin blue. I noticed that the back of the chair was inlaid with exquisite mother-of-pearl.

“What do you do, Tinsley?” I asked. Tinsley seemed like such a character, I wanted to get to know her.

“Nothing,” she said brightly.

“Don’t you want a job?” I asked.

At this Tinsley shook with laughter. Then she said, dead serious, “I can’t work, because I can’t dress for day. I can only dress for evening. So obviously office life doesn’t work for me. I can only dress either for the gym or for a party.”

She stood up and twirled around in her cocktail frock.

“I mean, look at me. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and this is the most low-key I can go. The only career
I could do is be an anchor on MTV, but I don’t really aspire to that. It’s so
old.
I mean, whereforart Serena Altschul now? The other thing that’s really in the way of my career is my mom. I have to be available for two-hour conversations every day to discuss family problems, then I have to be available to go to Palm Beach at a moment’s notice. I tried to have a job once working for Charlie Rose, but I was hardly ever there, and on the few unfortunate occasions that I was, I was making personal calls the
whole time.
”

I laughed, and as I did, a pang of guilt hit me. Here I was, 100 percent amused on my non-honeymoon. Gosh, I thought as I sipped my mojito, shouldn’t I be feeling more wistful right now?

“It’s
terrible
for her, isn’t it, Tinsley darling?” joked Lauren. Then she turned to me and said, “So. When do we get to meet Hunter? Is he ever coming back? Or is it reckless abandonment, honeymoon-style?”

“You’ll meet him in New York. But he’s going to be traveling a lot to Paris for the TV show he just did this deal for,” I said. With a hint of humor I even managed to add, “the deal he wrecked our honeymoon over.”

“We can keep each other company while Hunter’s gone. Whatever anyone thinks, I get lonesome sometimes,” said Lauren, looking suddenly vulnerable.

Later on, when the sun had started to set, and, I must admit, we were all slightly tipsy from the cocktails and heat, the conversation got more intense.

“Do you ever think about getting married again?”
I asked Lauren. She was lazing in a hammock, being rocked gently by the wind.

“Yes. I think I won’t,” said Lauren.