The Debutante Divorcee (5 page)

Milton, of course, was completely right. I walked across the room and unlocked the French windows, which open onto three delightful little ornamental balconies. From there all you see is the breezy, sun-blanched treetops of Washington Square Park and, above that, endless blue sky. Still, this had gone too far, I thought. I did not want a decorator, I reminded myself.

“Milton,” I said, “I don’t think I can afford you.” Surely that would put him off.

No answer. I turned to find that Milton had left the room. A few moments later I found him wafting like an orange cloud around the master bedroom.

“I think that look—done but not
done—
undone done—is what you want. Unstudied. Like you did it yourself. But you did it yourself with utter perfection. You need an antique headboard in here, hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, and Jan Sen side tables—”

“—Milton, I can’t possibly hire a decorator,” I
said. “I love your ideas, but I’m just not that kind of girl.”

“Well, I’m a gift from Lauren, so you have no choice about it anyway,” he replied, heading toward the kitchen.

“What?” I said, following him in an alarmed fashion.

“I’m decorating your apartment. Lauren knew you’d never hire me yourself, so she’s hired me for you. Isn’t that adorable of her? Not to boast, but I’m brilliant at it, so it works for all of us. Glass of champagne?” he said, opening the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Without waiting for an answer he popped the cork on a bottle. He poured two drinks. We clinked glasses.

I took a sip, resigned: the Milton Effect was operating at a high level. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how little it takes to be persuaded that something you have long opposed is actually the best idea ever. Milton had me seduced within minutes, mainly by convincing me how lovely it would be for Hunter if he came back from Paris to at least three properly finished rooms—the kitchen, master bedroom, and the drawing room—and pointing out that I couldn’t possibly achieve that myself in under a month. He was right. Milton, I knew, was manipulating that part of me that wanted to surprise Hunter with some old-fashioned, non-career-girl, newlywed-style homemaking. I knew a comfortable home would make Hunter happy, particularly if he wasn’t expecting it, but I also knew that I didn’t
have the time to pull it off. I had to admit to myself that the Chinese wallpaper did sound divine, and Milton told me he had the most amazing secret sources for wonderful furniture. In my head I was already planning a surprise birthday party here for Hunter—it would be a great entertaining space when it was finished.

“Well,” said Milton, draining his glass, “this is going to be a breeze. It’s really just a cosmetic job. I think we can complete the main rooms by the time your husband gets back. Where is Hunter, anyway?”

“He’s in Paris. He’s working on locations for this new show,” I replied.

“How marvelous,” said Milton. “I must hook up with him when I’m over there next week. I’m going on a buying trip and then to visit Sophia. She has the most
fabulous
family place on the Ile St. Louis.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

“She’s going to show me the Bourbon Palace in the countryside. No one’s been in it for forty years, but she
is
secretly a Bourbon, so she’s arranged it. You know she’d be queen of France if it wasn’t for all that ghastly business in 1789.”

“Milton, are you seeing Lauren at all?” I asked, changing the subject. The mention of Sophia was an unwelcome one, and I had other things on my mind.

“I’m going over there tonight before I leave for Paris.”

“Can you get her to call me?” I said. “I really need her help with something for work, but I can never get hold of her.”

“I’ll tell her to call the second I see her,” said Milton. “She’s probably sitting in her house at this very moment all lonely, not returning calls.”

T
hat night my cell phone started ringing at something like half past God knows what time. Maybe it was 3
A.M.,
I don’t know. I dozily picked it up, hoping it was Hunter calling from Paris.

It was Lauren. She sounded wired.

“God, he’s just left,” she gasped. She was wide awake.

“Who?” I asked sleepily.

“Sanford, of course.”

“No!”

“I know. It’s way too late for a married man to be at a divorced girl’s house. Especially a cute divorced girl. I had to virtually call his own security to get rid of him. Do you like that new gardenia oil everyone’s suddenly wearing? It makes you smell like Hawaii.”

“What?” I said.

“Do you notice how I constantly A.D.D. from one subject to the next?”

“What did Sanford want?” I switched on the light and sat up a little in bed.

“Oh, you know,
that
…
Of course
, I didn’t do a thing, which made him crazy. I don’t do married men, I think it’s un-chic. God, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call you back. It’s totally my fault. I’ve been really sick actually, couldn’t do a thing. Anyway, what do you think of this whole gardenia oil thing?”

“I love it, but I don’t know where you get it,” I said.

“Bond No. 9. You can have mine. I really can’t stand that everyone’s gone all gardenia crazy downtown. Milton says I have to wear a gardenia in my hair the next time I throw one of my dinners, and that I should go barefoot. You should come to the next one.”

“I’d love to—”

“—sorry,” she interrupted. “Can you hold on a second?”

Lauren broke off. In the background I could hear another phone ringing. Lauren picked it up.

“Yes, darling…I miss you too,” I could hear her saying. “Oh, Noopy-Noo, no…can I call you back? What time is it there?…OK? Later.”

She came back to the telephone.

“Oh! Drama-erama.” She sighed.

“Who was that?”

“Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow?” said Lauren, ignoring my question.

“Sure,” I said. I could ask her about Alixe Carter then. “Where?”

“Let’s decide in the morning. Can I call you at eleven?”

Lauren called me absolutely on the dot of eleven the next morning at the studio. Frankly, I found her punctuality surprising and somewhat encouraging. Maybe Lauren wasn’t as terrible as she claimed, after all.

“God, I’m not late, am I?” she said when I picked up. “No. It’s literally one minute before eleven,” I answered.

“You’re going to think I’m absolutely the flakiest girl ever, but I have to cancel our lunch. I’m so gutted.”

So was I. What was I going to do about Thackeray’s dress project?

“Is everything OK?” I asked.

“Oh, God, it’s totally fine, but, well, it’s complicated. Lunch just isn’t even vaguely possible.”

“I was wondering if you could help me with a work thing? Do you want to go for tea instead?” I suggested hopefully.

“Oh, that would be so nice. But I can’t. I’m stuck in Spain.”

Lauren was in Madrid. Of course she was. Lauren, I soon came to realize, found staying in any one place longer than a heartbeat physically and emotionally impossible. Still, it was certainly ingenious to be in New
York in the middle of the night and in Madrid the next morning. How had she gotten there?

“Privé,” she said in a low voice. “It wasn’t Sanford’s plane or anything. It’s this friend of mine. He booked a plane to go to Madrid last night and kept bugging me to go, and I guess at like 3
A.M.
I thought it might be nice to spend the weekend in the mountains here. They’ve got the most fabulous horses, and I was desperate to ride, but now I’m here I wish I was having lunch with you. I’m sorry. Do you hate me?”

“No, don’t be crazy. What are you doing there?”

“Put it this way. Phase one of the Make Out Challenge is accomplished. One down! I had a Make Out with a Matador. I’m
totally
over him already.”

Lauren was as giddy as a schoolgirl. This was certainly rapid progress. Then she sighed and said, “The thing is, Mr. Madrid, who really is a part-time bull-fighter, looked divine over the kedgeree on the plane last night, but now I’m in his weird house in the hills with him, and the plants are giving me total claustrophobia. There’re so many palm trees in the courtyard it’s like
The Day of the Triffids
. But in the pursuit of my goal I must suffer it.” Lauren now sounded as solemn as a nun who has just taken a vow of celibacy. “He’s the first Make Out of my plan.”

“What was he like?” I asked her.

“Put it this way. Matador Make Out really took it out of me. Kissing a Spaniard is icky. They literally suck your tongue, like they want to swallow it. Ugh!
I’d have an American who did that arrested. Needless to say, the shaved sable from Revillon, you know, the little pea coat with the antique buttons, is en route from Paris. I’m hoping it’ll be back in New York before me. I must mark each Make Out with a huge surprise for myself,
n’est ce pas
? After all, kissing a strange man is
agony.
The foreign saliva and everything…it’s like lukewarm oatmeal.”

“Ugh!” I laughed. “You definitely deserve a major fur.”

“God, I have to get out of here,” declared Lauren, “I’ll call you the second I’m back in town. Sending you a big kiss.”

I don’t usually mind about a girl being flaky, or canceling lunch, but Lauren took the Flaky New York Girl thing to the edge of acceptability. Let me explain. A certain amount of flakiness, last-minute canceling, letting-down, and general uselessness in the friendship department is the norm in New York among a certain set. The fact is that very pretty, well-to-do girls are allowed to let everyone else down more than their less attractive, less liquid counterparts. Lauren had taken the art of flakiness to another level. She constantly let people down, but with such charm that her flakiness was not only widely accepted but considered rather alluring. Still, what wasn’t at all charm
ing were the next two days I spent at the studio, with Thackeray constantly asking if I had gotten hold of Alixe Carter yet.

The next thing I heard from Lauren, a few days after Milton had come over, was via messenger. That Thursday I was working from home and keeping an eye on Milton’s army of workers (who, I must say, had done wonders in only a few days) when a package arrived with a lilliputian envelope on top. It was of the palest pink, and inside was a matching postage-stamp-size note on which was written, in hot pink ink,

There is nothing like composing an apology to leave a New York girl feeling slightly unhinged. This surely explains the current vogue for monogrammed note cards of dimensions so diminutive (2” by 3” is the smallest currently available) that they are barely able to contain more than four words.
Divine dinner darling! Cecile x
is about the most you can get on a card, and that’s if you use both sides. Some unkind people have started to say that Manhattan girls favor minuscule writing cards with no room to say anything because they have nothing to say.

The thing about Lauren’s flakiness is that it’s all-encompassing. It’s not just about canceling. It also includes making brand-new arrangements that are as last-minute as last-minute cancellations. When a flake
springs “plans” there is no recourse, because they are probably plans you are extremely interested in having.

For a moment, while reading Lauren’s chic little card, I felt like telling Lauren that I already had plans. Meanwhile, I grumpily unwrapped the little package. Inside was a heavy glass bottle of the Bond No. 9 gardenia oil perfume—named, incidentally, New York Fling. There was also an old-fashioned atomizer, very chic, covered in orange calfskin with a bright green squirter on top. I couldn’t help being thrilled by such a decadent item. I decanted the perfume into the atomizer and sprayed a little on my wrist. It smelled delicious. Maybe I didn’t have plans after all.

I called Thackeray and warned him that I might be gone the whole afternoon. He thought it was worth it if we could get Alixe into a fitting in the studio. God, I thought, as I dressed for lunch later that morning, I hardly knew Lauren, and now I was going to have to ask her to help me out of an embarrassing situation involving her very close friend. I threw on a new pair of chocolate brown velvet Hudson jeans and a white cashmere car coat. If my emotional state was anxious, I hoped my outfit disguised it.

Much to my surprise, Lauren was already at Blue Ribbon, on the corner of Downing and Bedford, when I arrived. She was sitting at a round table by the window of the cute little restaurant. She was draped in a ruffled mocha-colored chiffon dress. Despite the autumnal chill in the air, her legs were bare, and she had
pastel pink Jimmy Choo alligator mules on her feet. A soft green fox fur stole was thrown casually over her seat back. She looked remarkably rested for someone who had flown across the Atlantic twice in as many days. As I walked over to her, I scanned the restaurant. There were at least four girls in white car coats, I noted, disappointed in myself. In New York the fashion cycle is always on fast forward. In any other American city it takes at least a season for something to be “over.” Here, it takes just one lunchtime.

“You look like Jackie O,” said Lauren when I reached her. She got up, hugged me, and kissed me on both cheeks. “I
love
that coat.”

“It’s hideous.
You
look amazing,” I replied, kissing her back.

“Ugh! I look horrible,” said Lauren, pulling at her dress. “I feel like a hog.”

Although both of us looked fine, it is compulsory for lunching girls, wherever they are in America, to swap compliments on the other’s incredible fashion sense. They must then swap remarks of a self-loathing nature about their own style. You learn the script in high school, right after the pledge of allegiance. The main point is never to ad-lib and mistakenly accept a compliment.

When that was out of the way we sighed simultaneously and sat down. A waiter came up and took our order—two Cokes, steak frites, no salad.

“I’m starving.” said Lauren. “Let’s get right down to it. What can I help you with?”

“Well, it’s about your friend, Alixe, the one who invited me to the shower.”

“That’s so weird.
I
was going to ask you something about Alixe,” said Lauren, looking surprised.

“What?” I said, suddenly intrigued.

“No, you ask first,” said Lauren, smiling.

I just came out with it and told Lauren the whole sorry story, from start to finish.

With that, Lauren picked up her cell phone, dialed Alixe Carter, and ordered her to wear Thackeray Johnston to her ball in January. From what I could gather from the conversation, Alixe Carter did whatever Lauren told her.

“Done. Alixe will be at the studio for a fitting this Monday, September 20th, at 2
P.M.
I’ll wear Thack to her ball too if it helps,” she promised, snapping her phone shut. “Oh, God, delicious, thank you,” said Lauren as a waiter appeared with two Cokes. Lauren drained hers in two seconds flat, as though she hadn’t drunk in month. “Isn’t Coke the most delicious thing in the world? I’ve tried giving it up a thousand times, but I absolutely can’t. It’s easier quitting smoking, which I also can’t do.”

A few minutes later, the waiter brought our food and set it on the table. Lauren looked at hers and said, “Can I just get a radish salad?” and handed it straight
back to the waiter. Then she said, “I was going to ask you a huge favor, to help me out with something—”

“Of course,” I said. “You’ve just done me the biggest favor ever.”

“I want you to be my maid of honor,” said Lauren with a sweet smile.

“You’re marrying Matador Make Out?”

“No. For my divorce shower.”

“I’d love to,” I said. It sounded hilarious.

It soon became clear that Lauren’s main directive for the maid of honor was for her to ensure that no husbands were brought to the event. Each guest must bring one eligible man, as specified on the invitation, but a “good one,” as opposed to one of a handful of known walkers who reappeared year after year on the party circuit, mainly because they were unmarriageable. A “good one” was defined as a man in possession of an interesting, high-paying career, although the higher paid the career, the less interesting it needed to be. Computer work was OK, for example, if you were Mr. Skype. Other requirements included a full head of hair, real estate (“No renters,” Lauren decreed), and, if possible, an inheritance.

“Not that I’m looking for a husband,” said Lauren coyly. “I’m only looking for Make Out Number Two. The main point is that the divorce shower is a smoocherama where the divorcée finds herself in a room of married women and single men. Zero competition. Oh, except I might have a select few of the
Debutante Divorcées there…Salome, and Tinsley…they’re
so
fun. God, I hope you don’t mind organizing this at the last minute. I can give you a list of guys. I hope I’m not being too…
flaky
,” she said.

“It’s not flaky
at all
,” I said, thinking,
How could anyone be flakier?