The Debutante Divorcee (7 page)

“I can find them for you,” she said, “but, Sanford, there’s no knowing if the owner will sell.”

“You could persuade a man to give you his entire portfolio just by blinking at him,” said Sanford flirtatiously.

Lauren laughed.

“I’ll try my best,” she said.

“Thank you, my darling,” said Sanford. He kissed her on the cheek and wobbled shakily off the pouf to leave. “I have to go, but keep me posted, OK?”

Lauren nodded, and looked after him as he left the room. She seemed a little wistful.

“He’s cute,” she said.

“He’s
completely
in love with you,” I told her.

“Pshhht,” she said, laughing. “He’s such an awesome friend. This is a brilliant project. Those cuff links are so rare. For once I feel really excited about something. Other than my sex life.”

“Darling, it’s Sylvie,” I said.

“Honey, you’re up so late. What time is it there?” said Hunter.

It was 3
A.M.
in New York, 9
A.M.
in Paris. I was standing in the kitchen, wide awake, phone clenched in my hand. There was no way I could sleep when I got home after Lauren’s shower. I was too freaked out about what Phoebe had said, though I couldn’t admit it to myself earlier.

“I just got in from Lauren’s divorce shower. It didn’t even start till midnight.”

“Go to sleep and let’s speak when you wake up,” said Hunter.

“Hunter, I’m missing you masses,” I said.

Since that difficult conversation a couple of weeks ago, when Hunter had gone
AWOL
from his hotel, everything had returned to normal. I had almost forgotten about the whole episode, and Hunter had been sweeter than ever, despite his absence, calling to chat whenever he could. I half didn’t even want to mention what Phoebe had said tonight. But I had to.

“I met an old friend of yours tonight. Phoebe?” I said.

“I haven’t seen her in years. How was she?” asked Hunter.

Years? What about a couple of weeks ago, I thought. Internally steeling myself, I replied, “Very
pregnant. She said she saw you two weekends ago, Hunter.” I paused, then added, “On your secret trip to London.”

There was a silence at the other end of the phone. I angrily opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of champagne from an open bottle. I took a sip. Nothing happened. I didn’t feel delightfully dizzy. Maybe Salome was right about champagne: it didn’t work.

Suddenly Hunter said, “Phoebe! She never talks any sense. Her hormones are probably all over the place. I
did
see her, at Chez Georges in Paris, with Peter, her husband. She’s huge.”

“Why did you say you hadn’t seen her for years?” I demanded.

“Sylvie, darling. I love you very much. You have
nothing
to worry about.”

Had I mentioned being worried? Why did he suddenly think I was worried? Did that mean I really
did
have something to worry about?

“I’m not worried,” I lied.

“Good. So stop worrying and go to bed. Forget about Phoebe. She’s just a pregnant flake. Would you mind going out to dinner with her and her husband when I’m back?”

Is it possible, I wondered as I lay in bed that night, for a marriage to be briefer than Liz Taylor and Nicky
Hilton’s? Six weeks in, and I was already worrying about what my new husband was up to while he was away on business. But you go to a divorce shower, and suddenly the world is full of wicked husbands and boyfriends, and then you wake up (late) the next morning and your husband’s a saint. What had I been thinking last night? I was not the next Liz Taylor, and Hunter had not been lying to me. He had made it very clear that he had seen Phoebe, but in Paris. Phoebe had simply made a mistake, due to her pregnancy. Maybe being around all those divorcées had made
my
brain mushy.

Over the next few days I busied myself with work and the finishing touches on the apartment. Milton’s team had worked miracles, and we suddenly had a stunningly beautiful apartment. Hunter was due back in a few days’ time, and I was dying to see him. He was going to love the apartment, I was sure of it. I could barely think of anything else. Work was a good distraction. I managed to get hold of Salome, who was sweet and gracious when I spoke to her and said she would love to wear Thackeray to Alixe Carter’s ball. We arranged an appointment for a week away. Thackeray loved the sound of her, saying, “I’ve gone beyond Alixe Carter anyway. A Saudi princess is so much more
now
.”

A few days later, Milton arrived at the apartment staggering under the weight of two chandeliers he’d brought back from Paris. I helped him set them down in the hallway, and then we did a “walk-thru” of the
apartment, as Milton called it. It looked gorgeous, and we ended our tour in my favorite spot, the kitchen. It now had pretty cream cabinets, mirrored back splashes, and a bright red silk blind at the window with a chocolate brown grosgrain trim. There was an old oak farm table in the middle of the room, with vintage bamboo chairs scattered around it. Milton had insisted on little red silk wall lamps instead of those recessed spotlights everyone has.

“You need an Aga in here. The new white one,” said Milton. “Then it’ll be really cozy.” He looked at his watch, seeming rushed. “I can’t stay long. I’m leaving for Uzbekistan in the morning. Following in the footsteps of Diane von Furstenberg and Christian Louboutin. Three months on the Nouveau Silk Road. To work on my Target furniture line. I won’t be back till January. How do you like the apartment?”

“I love it. I can’t wait for Hunter to see it,” I said happily.

“Look at you, you’re so cute,” said Milton. “You’re so in love with him, aren’t you?”

I blushed a little and nodded.

“No one I know is in love with their actual husband anymore,” said Milton. “Even the gay guys.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “Iced tea?”

I poured two drinks and emptied a bag of chocolate chip cookies onto a plate. Milton grabbed one and perched on one of the chairs.

“Mmmm,” grinned Milton.

“Did you have fun in Paris?” I asked, leaning against the countertop.

“Oh, yes. The Sophia family
château
was
a
-mazing.”

“Hunter’s using it for some scene, right?”

“Yup. He was
very
smart to hire her.”

“He
hired
Sophia?” I asked, astonished.

The notorious Husband Huntress was working for the husband? Surely Milton’s brain had gone
very
mushy. There is no way Hunter would have hired Sophia, particularly without mentioning it to me. We always discussed everything going on in his company.

“Are you sure?” I gasped.

“Don’t look so worried,” said Milton.

“I’m not worried,” I said, almost choking on my cookie. Sometimes I think marriage should come with an FDA warning.

“Sylvie, Sophia is dating Pierre Lombarden, you know, that guy who’s always in
Paris Match
. He’s best friends with the Monacos. I think he’s got connections in government. She’s not after Hunter. She gets bad press because of her
a
-mazing legs. Everyone’s
so
jealous of her. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

I felt reassured. Milton was right. Amazing legs are nothing to worry about.

“Y
ou’ve got
everything
to worry about,” shrieked Tinsley. “I’m more afraid of Sophia than I am of Saudi Arabia withholding oil, I swear.”

I’d just told her the news about Hunter hiring Sophia.

“Hush! Tinsley!” chided Lauren. “The main thing, Sylvie, is, worry, but don’t let your husband
know
that you’re worried. Just freak out silently inside. Don’t spiral into total paranoid fear, even if it means talking to yourself and telling yourself everything’s OK when it isn’t. That’s what I did when my marriage was falling apart.”

“But my marriage isn’t falling apart,” I insisted, wondering,
Is it?

I was sitting with Lauren and Tinsley in the oval-shaped gallery at the Carlyle Hotel the night before Hunter was due home. This is where Tinsley likes to come for a “paranoia party,” as she calls it. She thinks
the place is soothing. Indeed, there is nothing as calming as relaxing deep into one of the Carlyle’s red velvet armchairs, nor is there a sight more reassuring than that of a white-jacketed octogenarian waiter with a linen napkin thrown at precisely ninety degrees over his left arm. But that night I felt like nothing could calm my sense of mounting anxiety. The only things that vaguely cheered me up that evening were Lauren and Tinsley’s outfits. They’d gone nuts at Chanel earlier that day. Tinsley had come away with plus fours and a tweed jacket, and Lauren was wearing a severe black coat fastened tightly at the neck with a huge ruby brooch by James de Givenchy. “I’m channeling Nan Kempner,” she said, “and Tinsley’s the gamekeeper.”

A waitress approached our table. She had an incredible red bouffant hairdo and was wearing a little black dress and high, black patent heels. She walked with a pronounced bounce, as though she were in a Broadway dance troupe.

“What can I get you ladies?” she said.

“Mini-hamburgers,” cried Lauren and Tinsley simultaneously.

“I’ll have a green salad,” I said. I really wasn’t hungry. “Shall we get some champagne?”

“Coming up,” said the waitress, turning sharply on her heel.

“I don’t know if I can
not
say anything to Hunter about Sophia, I mean—” I started.

“—never mention it. He’ll think you’re being paranoid,” said Tinsley. She was fidgeting like mad. “God, tweed is so scratchy. Can you die of itching?”

“
Am
I just being paranoid?” I said.

If I was just being paranoid, that was a good thing. That meant, by definition, that there was actually nothing untoward going on.

“Not necessarily. I remember calling Louis thinking he was in New York, and there he was, in Rio with this fifteen-year-old model!” said Lauren. “If only I had been
properly
paranoid, I might have figured things out sooner.”

This was awful. Why had I even told Tinsley and Lauren about Sophia? They were only making things worse.

“I say call in the lawyers now,” giggled Lauren. “It’s so much easier being divorced.”

“Agreed,” hooted Tinsley. “By the way, I’ve made a resolution. I’ll take a billionaire or a busboy, but they’ve got to be under twenty-five. I’ve got to be trashier now that I’m single. I’ve been too proper for too long. This outfit is a segue; don’t ask me how, but I know it is.”

I didn’t join in. All this joking around only made me feel doubly depressed. I didn’t find Lauren and Tinsley’s squealing and laughing at all appropriate under the circumstances. Tinsley prodded me, but when she saw my gloomy expression, she looked mortified.

“God, sorry. We’re being terrible,” she said, shame-faced.

Just then the waitress appeared with three glasses of champagne, the salad, and the miniature hamburgers. Lauren and Tinsley diligently removed the bun and the mini fries from their plates until they were left with two quarter-size burgers each. It was less food than you’d give a Smurf.

“The only weight-loss junk food in town,” said Lauren, nibbling at her beef. “Super-downsize me.”

“Mmm,” said Tinsley, sipping her champagne. “The thing is, I don’t want to confuse you, Sylvie, but you
should
be paranoid. But that doesn’t mean there is actually anything
real
to be paranoid about. The truth is all wives have to be
subconsciously
paranoid, if you like. Girls like Sophia are very cunning, you know,” she continued. “So even if there is nothing going on, one must always be suspicious just in case there is. A bit like with the Saudis and the oil, to get back to where we began.”

“She’s absolutely spot on,” nodded Lauren. “I couldn’t have put it more clearly myself.”

As divorcées, Lauren and Tinsley were bound to be overly suspicious, I told myself as the taxi sped back downtown later that night. Sophia couldn’t possibly be
after Hunter. If she was as smart as everyone said, she wouldn’t be dumb enough to go after him in broad daylight like that, getting a job with him. It was far too obvious.

I let myself into the apartment and went into the drawing room. I lay back on the sofa that Milton had brought over a few days ago. It was lovely, really comfortable, upholstered in faded old Moroccan tapestry. Everything was almost done, and I still had a day until Hunter got back. The only thing missing was a new sink in the bathroom, but that was going to be installed tomorrow. Eventually I got up and headed for the bedroom. I flicked on the light, and suddenly there was Hunter, sitting up in bed, smiling like crazy, and holding a little bunch of white camellias.

“Hello, darling,” he said, very cool.

“Eeek!” I screamed.

I dropped my bag and flew over to him. As you can imagine, I totally melted. We had an indecent amount of very, very indecent sex, followed by at least a month’s worth of smooching. We had a lot of time to make up for. At about 2
A.M.
Hunter got out of bed, opened his bulging suitcase, and took out a stiff white box. When he handed it to me, I saw two delicious words—Sabbia Rosa—printed in black script across the top. Inside was a long nightdress of turquoise silk, trimmed with antique lace. I slipped it on and twirled in front of the mirror. It was very Catherine Deneuve
in
Belle de Jour
. (I say, if you’re going to dress like a hooker, she’s the one to aspire to.)

“Hunter, it’s beautiful,” I said, getting back into bed. “Thank you so much.” I snuggled up to him and shut my eyes, totally content.

“My darling,” said Hunter a few moments later, “where’s the basin from our bathroom?”

“What are you doing home one day early?” I replied dozily. “If you’d waited till tomorrow it would have been here.”

“The apartment looks amazing,” said Hunter. “How did you do it so fast?”

“For the first time in my life, I got a decorator. I’m completely ashamed.” I laughed.

“Well, I think it was a brilliant idea. We’ve got a real home. I love it. And I love you,” he said, curling up around me. “Let’s get some sleep.”

There was absolutely nothing going on. I could tell. Hunter was as cute as ever, and he was very married to me.

“Darling, you don’t have to do this, honestly,” said Hunter the next morning.

“I wanted to,” I said.

I’d brought him breakfast in bed, and we sat together on top of the duvet munching croissants I’d
ordered in from Balthazar bakery. At about a quarter to eight, my cell phone rang. I picked it up.

“Hello, Sylvie. It’s Sophia. How are you?”

“Oh. Hi,” I said, slightly shocked.

“Can I speak to Hunter? It’s really urgent, and his phone must be switched off. I couldn’t get through to him.”

I reluctantly handed Hunter the phone. Suddenly the bubble of well-being vanished and the doubt of the previous night crept back.

“It’s Sophia, for you.”

Hunter took the phone. While he listened to Sophia, he started to frown.

“You think there’s nothing you can do? Oh God…no, actually I don’t fancy coming back to Paris next week. I just got back to New York…Haven’t seen Sylvie for weeks…Can it wait until my next trip?…I see. Yeah. OK. Let me get back to you,” he said, and hung up.

Sophia was trying to get Hunter back to Paris already? I could feel my robe starting to cling to my suddenly clammy skin. Forgetting all Lauren and Tinsley’s advice, I blurted, “Darling, why didn’t you tell me you’d hired Sophia?” I was trying very hard not to sound horribly jealous.

Hunter looked surprised. “I’ve only hired her to help with the permits for filming at the chateau. Her boyfriend, Pierre, is something high up in the Paris
town hall, and she said she’d get him to help out. We were having so many problems. I thought I ought to pay her something. It was inappropriate her doing all that work for free. She’s very connected in Paris, you know.”

“So everyone says,” I responded a little coldly.

“I hope I don’t have to rush back there,” sighed Hunter. “Look, if I do, would it make it up to you if we made a very long weekend out of it?”

“Yes, darling, of course it would,” I said.

It would, I was sure of it. I shrugged off my slight feeling of irritation. I had absolutely nothing to worry about, I told myself. I quelled an urge to check with Lauren and Tinsley as to whether I should be suspicious about the invitation to Paris. Was this a bluff? No, they would only convince me that Hunter and Sophia were going to rendezvous. I had to stop listening to them. After all, I was the happy wife, they were the singletons. Marriage was
infinitely
preferable to divorce.