The Debutante Divorcee (6 page)

W
as there something slightly dangerous, I asked myself later that Friday night, when I’d got home after my impromptu lunch with Lauren, about a new wife like me organizing a husband-free party that was celebrating a divorce? Something was bothering me. It wasn’t that I felt guilty exactly, but I did have some sense that it wasn’t quite appropriate for a newlywed to be involved—or to be quite so thrilled with her role. The truth was, I secretly found other newlyweds insufferable. The divorce shower, I thought, would be a marvelous antidote to the bourgeois fixations of newly married couples, who seem unable to discuss anything other than the Waterworks tiling in their new kitchens or their attempts to “try” for a baby. Episiotomies and ovulation cycles should be banned as conversation topics after 7
P.M.
in mixed company. It makes everyone feel queasy.

Early that evening I called Hunter—it must have been eleven o’clock his time—to tell him about the divorce shower. As long as my husband knew what I was up to, I was doing nothing wrong. And if he said he didn’t want me involved, I’d quit as maid of honor.

“Darling, can I call you back later? I’m still at dinner,” he said when I got through on his cell.

I could hear lots of jollity in the background, and several American and British accents. It sounded as though Hunter was having fun.

“Yes, of course. Miss you, honey,” I said, putting down the phone.

I wasn’t going out that night, so I decided to eat dinner in bed, watch an episode of
Entourage
I’d missed, and wait for Hunter to call back. This felt deliciously decadent. Hunter absolutely forbids eating in bed—he thinks it’s indecent or something—but I think it’s unbelievably civilized. It felt amazing to be bed-bound, eating Chinese food in a vintage silk nightdress, with no one to worry about. Before Hunter could call back, I had fallen asleep. He must have known not to disturb me, because when I woke up that Saturday morning, he still hadn’t called.

As soon as I had roused myself I called Hunter at his hotel. He was living—in some style, I imagined—at
the Hotel Bristol when he was in Paris. It’s one of the nicer old hotels there.

“Monsieur Mortimer is not ‘ere,” said a rather curt Frenchman at the other end of the line. “’E not ’ere all day.”

I wondered what he had been doing. Wistfully strolling the streets of Paris thinking of me, I hoped. Maybe he was buying me unbelievable handmade lace camisoles at Sabbia Rosa. Except I hadn’t told him about Sabbia Rosa, and we all know that husbands have to be told exactly what to surprise their wives with. I made a note to myself to mention it, extremely casually, the next time I spoke to him.

“Can you give Monsieur Mortimer a message when he gets back?” I said.

The reception desk put me through to a voicemail, where I left an overly long, lovey-dovey, missing-you type message involving sending many smooches over the line to Hunter.

“Kiss-kiss-kiss darling.”

Next I called Hunter on his cell. It rang a few times, and then there were three beeps and a voice said, “Please. Try. Later.” I called back a few times, but the phone obviously wasn’t working. Maybe the French made it impossible for U.S. cell phones to function there, just like they did everything else American. Oh well, I’ll email him, I thought. I sat in my dressing gown at the desk Milton had provided for Hunter in the library and typed the following:

Having come clean about the divorce shower, I went to bed dreaming of Sabbia Rosa satin. On Sunday morning, Hunter still hadn’t called, so I rang the Bristol again. The hotel operator took a little while trying to find Hunter’s room, and then announced, “There is no Monsieur Mortimer staying here. He must have checked out.”

“No, he’s definitely there,” I insisted. Where else would he be?

“I check again…” there was a pause and I could hear the operator tapping at computer keys. “No. It says here he checked out on Friday. 2
P.M.
Au revoir
.”

The line went dead. I slowly hung up. My stomach suddenly felt like a cement mixer. Hunter had checked out? Where was he? That Sunday, for the first time in my brief marriage, I started to seriously wonder about Hunter. I adored him, but did I really know him after six months? Hunter had only been gone a week or so,
but could I trust him? I felt myself sinking into a ghastly Sunday-ish depression as the day went on. Even a chirpy call from Milton saying he’d found the most beautiful antique chandelier at Les Puces didn’t cheer me up. Who cared about lighting your house with Venetian crystal when there was no husband to be lit by it?

“Have you seen Hunter?” I asked.

“Er…” Milton stuttered.

“What? What is it?”

“Haven’t even caught a glimpse of him. The chandelier is wonderful—”

“—if you see him can you, maybe, the thing is…”

Completely unexpectedly, I burst into tears.

“Sylvie, what is it?” said Milton, concerned.

“I just need to speak to him. I can’t find him, and it’s all suddenly really stressful, this whole…being married thing.”

“Well, I know we’re seeing him tomorrow.”

“We?”

“Sophia’s arranged it.”

Sophia. The Harajuku-slash-almost-queen-of-France girl, with legs.

“Why has Sophia ‘arranged it’?” I asked, slightly peeved.

“We’re all going to some restaurant in the rue Oberkampf. I think she got the table.”

Monday was not a good day. Hunter still didn’t call, I couldn’t track him down, and on top of that Alixe Carter never showed up for her fitting. I was sure I’d heard Lauren confirm the date and time—2
P.M.,
Monday September 20th. But Alixe didn’t telephone, she didn’t email, and her cell went straight to voicemail. Annoyed, Thackeray spent the entire day angrily sketching gloomy Oscar gowns that, hopefully, no actress would be doomed to wear. I, on the other hand, buried my head in the accounts in a poor attempt to distract myself from my own anxiety.

By the time I finally heard from Hunter that evening I was into the emotional false-positive stage of the whole not-hearing-from-your-husband drama, where you have cried and fretted and finally emerged relentlessly cheerful. I’d even told myself a million times, to the point where I almost believed it,
I don’t need a husband anyway
. It was almost seven in the evening when he called.

“Hello, darling,” I said cautiously when I heard his voice. My heart was beating a million miles a minute.

“I’ve been missing you like mad. Where were you all weekend?” he said.

“Where was
I
? I was wondering where you were. I called you, like, fifteen times. Where did you get to?” I said irritably. I felt a little annoyed suddenly.

“Here,” said Hunter. “Where else would I be?”

What? This was bizarre.

“The hotel said you checked out,” I replied.

“That’s odd. I was here all weekend. I couldn’t call when I wanted to because…I had endless business…meetings and then with the time difference…”

“I wonder why they said you weren’t there,” I said, trying not to sound accusatory.

“The hotel must have made a mistake,” said Hunter. “Now, about that divorce shower of Lauren’s…I think you should definitely be the maid of honor. And I want a full report of all the evil goings-on that night.”

“Oh, absolutely.” I laughed. Maybe everything was all right.

“And about that other item…Sabbia Rosa…nice store—”

“—did you get me something?” I asked excitedly.

“I couldn’t possibly divulge, darling…”

“Darling, I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

How could I have not trusted Hunter? Going to Sabbia Rosa like that after only one tiny email hint was admirable husband behavior. The mixup this weekend was obviously the hotel’s fault. Still…it was
odd,
the whole thing. But…well…what did it matter? I was probably just being overly paranoid with Hunter away for such a long time and everything.

“For missing you so much,” I lied.

“I think about you all the time. I keep thinking Paris isn’t really Paris without my beautiful wife beside me.”

“You’re my favorite,” I said. He was. Period.

“So, listen, I found the most amazing location last
week for the country house scene. It’s this fantastic old chateau, about two hours north of Paris.”

“How did you find it?”

“Milton. He called out of the blue last week, and we had breakfast at Café Flore. We got chatting about interiors. He mentioned that Sophia had shown him this incredible space, so I took a look. The whole team’s up there now working on it.”

“How nice of Sophia,” I responded—very generously, I thought.

Then something struck me. Hadn’t Milton just told me yesterday that he hadn’t seen Hunter yet? Maybe I’d misheard him. Still, I felt a little peculiar suddenly.

“Yeah. She’s a useful contact here. Look, I must run to dinner, we’re all meeting up. I’ll say hi from you.”

“Lovely,” I said and hung up.

Why was everyone, including The Woman Who Only Dates Husbands, having dinner in Paris with my husband when I was in New York? This was all wrong. I must plan a weekend in Paris, soon.

A
lixe Carter’s parties always live up to her nickname: Spenderella. Spenderella is the only girl in New York under thirty-five who can honestly say that she has a ballroom, which is the location for her annual New Year’s ball. She says, and honestly believes, that she paid for her palace on Charles Street with royalties from her Arancia di Firenze soap line. Even though everyone knows that Alixe’s husband, Steve, actually pays for everything with revenues from his chain of casinos, this is never mentioned by writers from women’s magazines or Alixe’s coterie of slavishly devoted girlfriends, a.k.a. the ladies in waiting.

“Did I overdo the pear blossom? Or underdo?” she asked with a worried expression as Lauren and I arrived, just after midnight, at the penthouse suite of the Hotel Rivington, the location for the Divorce Shower. She was wearing a white Ungaro gown, printed with crimson poppies. It perfectly suited her floral theme.
“If anything’s wrong, I
completely
blame Anthony Todd, whom I
adore
. He did the flowers, you know.”

Anthony Todd, had, as usual, wildly overcompensated on the $60-a-stem pear blossom front. The absurd price was justified by the fact that pear blossom is completely out of season on October 2nd, which was, of course, the main reason Alixe wanted it. (Now that status handbags were gauche accoutrements, status blooms filled that gap in her life.) The rumor was that she’d done more damage to New Zealand’s pear orchards to create her spring garden than McDonald’s ever did to the rain forests. “Rebirth!” declared Alixe, explaining the reason for creating a spring blossom orchard in the fall, although everyone knew the only criterion Alixe ever used for deciding floral themes was that the latest one should be more glaringly costly than the last.

“It looks amazing, Alixe,” I said, reassuring her.

“Sylvie Mortimer? So thrilled to finally meet you. Bon divorce, girls,” she squealed, turning to greet another guest.

Alixe didn’t mention the missed dress appointment. Nor did I.

“Right, let’s get alcohol fast,” said Lauren, leading the way to the bar. “Two champagne on the rocks, in tumblers,” she said when we arrived. “I read somewhere that Fred Chandon used to drink it like this. Isn’t that glam?”

The barman poured our drinks, and Lauren handed me one.

“Can you see anyone cute here?” she asked as her eyes scanned the room. “Do I look tacky?”

Lauren’s flawless outfit conformed to the unspoken dress code of the Hotel Rivington—unreconstructed black tie. She was wearing a cloud-gray, floor-length, ruched Tuleh dress, with tiny white polka dots. A jacketini—a small, barely shoulder-length garment made of approximately half an inch of illegal monkey fur—covered her shoulders. Her eyes were framed by false eyelashes and lashings of kohl, and her hair was falling in unbrushed waves around her shoulders. I, on the other hand, was dressed in one of Thack’s most demure white lace dresses. I wanted to make it quite plain that I was not on the prowl for cute guys.

“You look really great,” I told her.

“I feel weird,” she said, her eyes darting around the mass of guests. “It’s all way too cool in here for me.”

The party wasn’t exactly your typical girly shower (thank God). The wraparound glass windows of the penthouse, through which you could see the street-lights shimmering red and orange below, were a glittering backdrop for the party scene. Here and there I could make out silhouettes of men with their arms wrapped around girls’ waists, little groups perching on tiny sofas that had been brought in for the night, and intimate twosomes lounging on giant fur poufs that
were scattered about the party. There was even already some kissing going on beneath the pear blossom, whose blooms were so lusciously puffy they looked fluffier than whipped cream.

“Who’s
that
?” I asked.

Right next to me a very exotic-looking girl was propped up on a bar stool, frantically kissing a dark-skinned man. She was edging him farther and farther back against the bar. It looked incredibly uncomfortable for him. As he was pressed backward, a skullcap suddenly fell off the back of his head and plopped onto the bar. He didn’t notice, and Lauren and I tried hard to stifle our giggles.

“That’s Salome Al-Firaih. She’s known,” whispered Lauren archly, “as the Middle East Peace Plan Divorcée. She’s never not kissing someone of the opposite religion. She’s unbearably cool. I’m modeling myself on her.”

With that, Lauren stepped over to Salome and tapped her on the shoulder, saying,

“Salome. You should be careful. This isn’t Geneva. This is the Hotel Rivington.”

“Lauren! I’m
busy
,” hissed Salome, barely unlocking her lips.

Salome resembled a Middle Eastern Sophia Loren. Her skin was the color of an overpriced Fauchon praline, and her shoulder-length black tresses glistened like an oil slick. Bambi-length eyelashes framed her
jade irises, and her décolletage was corseted into a very revealing frock. She had the classy Arabian bombshell look down.

“Salome, you’ve got to be discreet,” said Lauren to Salome’s hair. She sounded slightly bossy.

Salome glanced up momentarily and winked naughtily at Lauren.

“Darling, happy divorce!” she said. “Why be discreet when everyone knows everything anyway?”

The “everything” that “everyone” knows is that Salome, a twenty-eight-year-old Saudi princess, had married Harvard-educated Faisal Al-Firaih, a nephew of the king, when she was twenty-one, in an arranged marriage. A few years after they wed, he brought her to New York, where he was taking care of family business. About a year ago he’d had to go back to the Middle East for three months, which was when Salome discovered Bungalow 8, the after-2
A.M.
private club favored by downtown royalty. Meanwhile, Manhattan disovered Salome, and Salome discovered she loved being photographed. Although she looked as sophisticated as a panther, Bungalow 8 was only the second nightclub Salome had ever been to. She went man-crazy and vodkatini-mad, and hoarded Bungalow 8 slippers as though they were art. One night she was spotted making out with Shai Fledman, an American–Israeli property guy. Unhappily, Faisal read about his wife the next morning in Page Six Online under
the extended headline “The Saudi-Princess-Israeli-Hunk Diaries.” He called Salome from Riyadh, said, “I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you,” and that was it. Under Sharia law they were instantly divorced. Now Salome’s dating the Jewish guy. Her parents won’t speak to him. His parents won’t speak to her. Salome’s parents won’t speak to her either, which is why Salome calls herself the One Woman Road Map.

I couldn’t stop staring at Salome, partly because of her show-stopping performance in the kissing department, but also because she seemed to glow from within. Thackeray, I thought, would love to dress her if Alixe Carter didn’t work out, which was looking less and less likely. Salome was far more intriguing than a movie star or TV celebrity.

“She’d be great for Thackeray,” whispered Lauren.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said under my voice.

Lauren literally dragged Salome off Shai, amid much giggling and hysterics. She gestured toward me.

“I want you to meet my friend Sylvie,” said Lauren.

“Hi,” said Salome. “I love your dress.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I would call Salome next week and get her into the studio. I had to be smarter about this one than I had been about Alixe. A waiter glided by with a tray of champagne.

“Want some?” I asked Salome.

“Nope. Champagne doesn’t do
anything.
I only drink spirits. Vodka shot, please,” she said to the waiter.

“Coming up,” he replied, and headed back toward his station.

Just then, a very in-proportion pregnant person—as far as I can gather, the only kind of pregnant people allowed out at night in Manhattan—appeared. She had a glossy ponytail and was wearing skinny jeans and a ruched peasant top. Her belly was as neat as a cantaloupe underneath it.

“Lauren! My eligible man’s already with someone else!” she said excitedly.

“Phoebe Calder. God, I so appreciate you being here. Midnight’s really late for a pregnant lady. You look really thin,” lied Lauren.

“I feel like a sideways camel,” lied Phoebe.

“I wouldn’t even know you’re pregnant,” lied Salome.

Just then the waiter appeared with an entire tray of vodka shots. He put them down on the little table beside us. Everyone except Phoebe took one. Shai, miserable now he was no longer glued to Salome, took two.

“Phoebe, have you met Sylvie?” said Lauren.

Phoebe smiled warmly at me. I hadn’t met her before, but her name sounded familiar. She blinked a little shyly, and then said, “I’ve known Hunter since I
was a debutante. I heard you did the secret wedding thing. Congratulations on nailing him. He’s devastatingly handsome. What a player he was. Ooooh, he was wonderful.”

“Yes, he’s pretty wonderful,” I agreed, ignoring Phoebe’s other observations.

Salome, who, I decided, was a more sensitive soul than her appearance would suggest, rapidly changed the subject. “When are you due?” she said, between vodka shots.

“A month or so. We just came back from our last trip to Europe. Dr. Sassoon would have had me arrested if he’d known I was still flying. Sylvie, we spotted Hunter in London. Two weekends ago. He’s still madly attractive, madly.”

“Paris,” I corrected her. “He’s in Paris.”

“Well, we saw him in London. Ooops.”

What was Phoebe talking about? Hunter was in London? Two weekends ago? But…my mind whirred back. Was that…was that the weekend I hadn’t been able to get hold of Hunter? My breath caught in my throat. I tried to scramble through my mental calendar, piecing together dates…it was almost exactly two weeks ago, wasn’t it, that I had been unable to track down Hunter…although, who knew what two—or was it three by now—vodka shots had done to my diary skills? This was ludicrous. Phoebe was talking nonsense.

“He was in his hotel in Paris all weekend,” I said firmly. “Business meetings.”

“Absent husbands! Ha ha ha!” laughed Phoebe. “I never see mine either. It’s wonderful.”

Sensing an awkward atmosphere, Lauren asked, “How’s your baby line going, Phoebe?”

“Eeeuuch! It’s
such
hard work. My samples are in Shanghai. They should be back next week.”

“Excuse me, I’m going to the restroom,” I said, and exited quickly.

When I got there I locked myself into a stall.
Had
Hunter been in London? Why would Phoebe say that? More importantly, if he had been there, why hadn’t he told me? Suddenly I heard the door to the ladies’ room bang open. Someone knocked on the door of the stall, and I came out to find Salome and Lauren peering at me with concern in their eyes.

“There you are,” said Lauren. “Don’t worry about Phoebe; her brain’s totally mushed when she’s pregnant. There’s no way she saw Hunter in London. She just loves to stir things up.”

“Really?” I said. I hoped Lauren was right.

“Yes,” said Salome. “The only thing Phoebe ever says is, ‘My samples are in Shanghai!’ It’s her mantra. They’ve been there two years.”

This wasn’t quite true. Phoebe was an extremely successful, if notoriously ambitious, baby-wear
creatrice
. But it was sweet of Salome to pretend she was a total loser.

“Come on back out. I want you to meet someone,” said Lauren, tugging me by the hand.

The “someone” was Sanford Berman. (His second name had been shortened from Bermothovoski when his family moved from Russia to America in 1939). He was sitting awkwardly on one of the fur poufs in his suit and tie, sipping Perrier. Despite being the ancient, Jello-bodied mogul type, he oozed powerful-man charisma. He seemed to know everyone, and everyone wanted to know him. Phoebe was circling his pouf like a famished lioness when Lauren and I walked over, but as soon as Sanford saw Lauren, his focus shifted. It was as though he’d trained a searchlight on her. He couldn’t see anyone else.

“Ah,” he said, holding his hands out to Lauren, who took them in hers. Sanford remained pouf-bound, and Lauren sat down next to him. Everyone else stood around, looking down at both of them. “The most beautiful girl in New York.” Sanford raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it.

Sanford was completely and utterly, madly, whatever you want to call it, in love with Lauren.

“Sanford, I want you to meet Sylvie,” said Lauren, gesturing toward me.

“Nice to see you,” I said, shaking Sanford’s hand. It felt like a cold pack.

“If you’re Lauren’s friend, you’re my friend,” said Sanford amiably.

Phoebe peered at Sanford expectantly, but he didn’t
say anything to her. Sanford turned back to Lauren, and said, “My dear, I have a business proposition for you.”

“Finally. You want me to find something for your lovely wife?” asked Lauren.

“No, it’s for me.”

“I hope you’re gonna spoil yourself.”

“Remember those Fabergé cuff links I lost at auction—”

“—wait!!!” interrupted Phoebe. “The same thing happened to me. When I lost a Lalique gorgon pendant at the Phillips auction, I was physically sick. I went to the doctor and said, I’m going to die. And the doctor said, if you want to live you must buy the gorgon. So I bought it from Fred Leighton after the auction for double the price, and here I am. Alive.”

Everyone looked at Phoebe. She suddenly blushed and said, “I’m really focusing on my business. My samples are in Shanghai, you know.”

“We know,” said Salome. “Let’s go get dessert.”

Salome and Phoebe disappeared and Lauren and I were left with Sanford. He turned and fixed her with a commanding look.

“I’m serious, Lauren. I want to own the Nicholas II Fabergé cuff links. I haven’t a clue who’s got ’em now.”

Sanford, I learned, had surprisingly exquisite taste. Owners of Fabergé cuff links can barely hold
on to them right now, they are so desired, even with price tags of $80,000 and up. If they’d looked Tsar Nicholas, or possibly Rasputin, in the face, they were even more sought after. For Lauren, the more difficult the commission, the more crazed she was about pulling it off. She once told me she usually spends more money on private planes in pursuit of the jewels than she ever makes in profit, but, as she says, what else is she going to do between lunch and dinner?