The Debutante Divorcee (8 page)

E
veryone working at A La Vieille Russie, the discreet jeweler on the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, looks like they just died. Inside, the place feels more like a mausoleum than a jewelry boutique, with dusty, meringue-thick moldings and lights trained on glass cases housing “important” Russian gems. Lauren adores the place. She thinks it’s the finest jeweler in New York because it’s so old-fashioned and un-starry. It was to be her first stop in her search for the Fabergé cuff links, and a few days later, she persuaded me to accompany her there.

“I’m wearing this new perfume called Park Avenue,” she said on the way uptown in the car. “I’m trying to seem uptight, to go in there. That’s their thing.” Having said that, Lauren didn’t look uptight: she was wearing a vintage, cerise Giorgio di Sant’Angelo dress that plunged almost to her waist. She was dressed for Studio 54, not Fifty-ninth Street.

After the divorce shower, Sanford had given Lauren
specific details about the cuff links he wanted. He said they were “the mother of all Fabergé cuff links,” given to Tsar Nicholas by his mother, the empress dowager, on Easter 1907. They were egg-shaped, yellow enamel, with the imperial crown worked in the center in gold filigree. The genuine pair had an inventory number scratched on the back with a diamond, which was only visible with a loupe. Sanford had lost them to an unknown telephone bidder, but Lauren suspected that the staff at ALVR could find the buyer or may, possibly, have bought the cuff links anonymously on behalf of one of their clients.

Sanford had always wanted, being Russian, to own a piece of Russian history. He’d also heard Tom Ford collected Fabergé cuff links, which made him feel very much OK about spending over $100,000 on two pieces of yellow enamel that each measured less than half a square inch.

“Ah, yes, I do know of the Easter cuff links,” whispered Robert, the corpse-slash-salesperson in the store that morning. He spoke quietly, as though he was afraid of waking the dead.

“Yeeaay,” said Lauren, as quietly as she could. “I knew you guys would find them for me.”

“Miss Blount, we have no idea where the cuff links are now,” said Robert. He started tidying a few things on his desk, as though that was the end of the conversation.

“Who bought them?” I asked.

“We can’t talk about our clients, miss,” said Robert with a disapproving glare.

“Robbie, stop it!” said Lauren. “Come on, please, I have a very important client who will pay anything for them. He lost them at auction and he’s devastated. I could cut you in on the deal.”

“Miss Blount, the answer’s no. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“—can I try this?” interrupted Lauren.

She was leaning over a glass case, pointing at an antique turquoise and diamond bracelet that was shaped like a serpent. Robert sighed.

“Certainly, Miss Blount,” he replied, unlocking the case and delicately lifting out the object.

Lauren put it on and slid it up her arm as far as it would go, Egyptian-style.

“Oooh,” she breathed. “Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”

“It’s awesome,” I said.

“It’s twenty-two awesome big ones as well,” she said, looking at the price tag dangling under her arm. “I’m not sure, Robbie—”

“—No doubt we could work something out for you, Miss Blount. You are a regular client,” said Robert, watching Lauren like a hawk.

“Could that something include the mysterious Mr. Fabergé cuff links?” Lauren was deadpan, suddenly all business.

Robert huffed. He tipped his head to one side. He glowered slightly at Lauren.

Then he beckoned us to follow him into a back office. It was cramped, with a huge leather desk piled with books, jewel cases, and sketches of gems. Robert somehow squeezed himself behind the desk and tapped at an ancient-looking PC. A photograph of the cuff links appeared on the screen. They were beautiful and delicate, and the yellow enamel was so intense it seemed to glow. Underneath, a few particulars were listed:

“G. Monterey,” I asked. “Who is he?”

“We never met him. Someone called on his behalf, the money was wired, and the cuff links were taken to the Park Hyatt in Moscow. They were very secretive,” explained Robbie. “Wouldn’t give us contact numbers. That’s normal with many of our clients based in Russia. It’s so dangerous, no one wants you to know anything about them. Now, Miss Blount, how would you like to pay for the bracelet?”

“I can’t believe you had to buy that bracelet,” I said to Lauren when we were in a taxi heading back downtown.

“I’ll bill it to ‘the client’,” said Lauren cheekily. “Sanford wants those cuff links so bad, he doesn’t care what it costs him. And I suspect,” she said, with a raised eyebrow, “my research is going to be quite costly.”

I laughed. Lauren didn’t get away with murder, she got away with homicide.

“Sanford is actually an angel, you know,” she said. “If he wasn’t married—twice—with two small daughters, and God knows how many other stepkids, I might, you know…”

“Really?” I said.

“—actually, I just don’t know if I could imagine—” Lauren paused. She looked over to the driver to make sure he wasn’t listening and then whispered “—it would be like making love to a waterbed.”

“Oh, God, Stop,” I begged her. “You’re totally out of control.”

“My sex life is. What I would give for a young, unmarried, weight-loss Sanford. If only he had a son.”

As the cab jerked us down Fifth Avenue, I rifled in my bag and pulled out my BlackBerry.

“OK, now I am going to find the mysterious G. Monterey,” I said.

Despite the lurches of the cab I managed to type
GOOGLE
into my BlackBerry, and then the name G. Monterey.

“Why don’t we go to Moscow to find him the first weekend of November? It’s the ice polo. It’ll be fun,” said Lauren.

I was tempted. I’d heard Moscow was crazily fun, and that everyone in fashion was doing amazing business there. Maybe I could score some commissions for Thackeray.

“It could be great, but can I let you know? I might go to Paris with Hunter then.”

“So everything’s good with him?”

“He’s been adorable since he’s been back,” I said.

“So sad you won’t be joining our ranks,” said Lauren. “Just kidding.”

Suddenly a message popped up onto the BlackBerry’s screen. It read,
Your search—G. Monterey—did not match any documents. No pages were found containing “G. Monterey.”

“That’s annoying,” I said.

Lauren looked over my shoulder at the message and frowned. She took the BlackBerry from me and tapped at the little machine a few times, trying several different versions of the name. Nothing came up.

“The UnGoogle-able man. God, how attractive,” she said finally. “I must hunt him down in Moscow.”

“What’s happened to the Make Out plan?” I asked.

“Maybe Monterey can be Number Two,” said Lauren.

“What if he’s seventy-nine years old?” I asked.

“Of course he’s not,” declared Lauren. “I can feel the vibe. I’m
madly
in love with him already.”

G
orgeous West Village Wives, as an indigenous tribe, are pretty much at the top of the New York food chain right now. Their natural habitat—specifically, the terrace at Pastis, the doorway of the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street, and the stone steps outside their own West Ninth Street town-house—seems like a little Manhattan paradise all its own. No wonder it’s jammed with tourists all weekend now. The out-of-towners just stand there, open-mouthed, gazing at the G.W.V.W.’s blinding white teeth and wonderful hair, which is always shiny and swinging back and forth with the regularity of a metronome.

Liv Tyler, Olatz Schnabel, SJP—you can barely get a lunchtime table anymore at Saint Ambroeus on Perry Street for all the glamorous mommies and their buggies. These girls have fantasy careers (movie star being a fav), wear vintage Spanish ponchos to get coffee at Jack’s on West Tenth Street in the mornings, and
never seem to leave the house without their epidermis glowing in the manner of a girl who has just had spectacular sex. They ooze happiness and contentment even while pushing a Bugaboo Frog on six-inch Roger Vivier heels.

I can honestly say there is nothing quite as demoralizing for a newlywed than bumping into one of these extraordinary creatures at seven o’clock on a cold night on your way home from work. It hurts, it really does.

A few days after Hunter had gotten back, I’d decided to cook dinner at home. We were both exhausted from work and needed a cozy night in. Thack and I had been working long hours finalizing our spring order book, and Hunter had been locked in script meetings till late at night. I popped into Citarella on the corner of Ninth Street and Sixth Avenue to pick up some delicious Italian food for the evening. Just as I left the meat counter, I remembered that we had run out of Drano, so headed toward the back of the store to get some. As I was scanning the shelves, I started adding some more household items to my cart—Soft Scrub, toothpaste—all the domestic products that seem to be required in ever-increasing quantities once you are married. It was depressing actually, I thought, as I piled detergents and dishwasher powder into the cart.

The fact is, marriage comes with an awful lot of non-sexy, non-romantic projects. Like Drano shopping. However cute my new husband was, he went through
way more toilet paper than I did. For every six-pack of Charmin I lugged home, I felt a kilo of energy, that, pre-marriage, would have been allocated to love or sex, dissipate into the void of the supermarket checkout. New wives are never allowed to admit it, but being wed is, sometimes, a grind. Even a few weeks after your wedding. Sorry, but it’s the truth.

Last night, for example, I had found myself, against my own free will and better judgment, discussing how to deal with Hunter’s laundry over dinner with him. Prior to marriage, the only reason to discuss the washer-dryer over dinner was if you were intending to have sex on it. Then, later on, just as we were falling asleep in bed, Hunter had said to me, “Darling, I love you very much. Where are those hiking socks I got in Telluride?”

Is this really the sort of thing that married couples discuss in bed, I’d thought, miserably. Shouldn’t we have been making love? Hmm, I’d thought to myself as I drifted off that night, this wasn’t at all like an Eternity ad: the truth is, domestically speaking, being married is more like being in one of those suburban sitcoms like
Everybody Loves Raymond
. No matter how Eternity-ish a husband looks, they all have one or two horrific habits. Hunter’s was leaving shaved bristles caked onto the sink. Even more horrific, someone (you) has to point it out and request their removal. No one ever explains that in marriage there is no getting away from chores—even if you are lucky enough to
have a housekeeper—and that chores do not put you in the mood for sex.

Sex
, I thought wistfully, as I dragged a box of trash bags off the top shelf,
sex
and…dry cleaning. I glanced at my watch: 7:30
P.M.
I needed to finish up here and get home. There was a whole bunch of Hunter’s cleaning being delivered at 8:00 that I needed to pay for.

I schlepped everything to the cash register. I hate to admit it, but my heart sank when I realized I was on line behind Phoebe Calder. The epitome of the G.W.V.W., she looked glowing. She was carrying a chic-looking parcel of French cheese in one hand and one of her own pale yellow
PHOEBE BÉBÉ
bags in the other. Her bump was hidden by a short tweed cape, and she had impossibly skinny Kate Moss–style jeans on underneath. Her brown hair looked so polished I could virtually see my reflection in it. I had to say hello to her, I thought, slightly gloomily. It would be rude not to. I tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hi, Phoebe,” I said.

Pheobe turned and looked at me. She peered at my overflowing cart. There wasn’t even a blink of recognition in her eyes. Suddenly she gasped, “Sylvie! Is that you? I didn’t recognize you for a minute there. With all that cleaning stuff.”

No wonder I was unrecognizable. I wasn’t having nearly as much sex as before. Hunter and I used to make love every day when we were dating, I was sure
of it. Now, by my estimation, it was every three nights. Was that bad? Excellent? Average? Was that how often the Eternity couple did it?

“How’s married life, Sylvie?” said Phoebe, as we waited on line.

Why is this the only question anyone ever asks you once you are married? What are you supposed to say? Maybe I had post-marital depression, I thought to myself grumpily. Surely if you could get post-natal depression, you could get the married version.

“Wonderful
,” I replied, because that is what you are supposed to say.

Do you have sex with your husband between eating glamorous French cheese and making unaffordable baby wear? I wanted to ask.

“Does Hunter travel as much as he used to for work?” she asked, as the line snaked forward.

“Barely at all,” I lied, thinking how little I’d actually seen of my husband since we got married. I didn’t want to open up the conversation and have Phoebe regale me with more Hunter-on-the-loose stories.

“I do hope I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Phoebe, putting her cheese on the counter. The clerk swiped it through.

I looked at her, confused.

“At my new store. The Baby Buggy luncheon? Everyone’s coming. Lauren, Marci. Spenderella. It’ll be
so much fun
,” said Phoebe in a voice that implied every
one
must
have fun, or there would be severe consequences. “Didn’t you get the invitation?”

Baby Buggy luncheons are, among a certain set, the most exclusive charity baby events in town, peopled by billionaire mommies and their disciples. Their messiah is Jessica Seinfeld, Baby Buggy chair, mother of three, wife of Jerry. How does
she
have time to wear a different Narciso Rodriguez dress every time she goes out, throw Baby Buggy luncheons, have sex, and get manicures, I wondered.

“Forty dollars, miss,” said the girl at the cash register.

Phoebe handed her a hundred dollar bill. Then she said merrily, “This cheese is
sixty-four dollars a pound.
This place is daylight robbery, daylight robbery.”

She smiled happily. There is nothing a woman like Phoebe adores more than being daylight robbed in front of a new acquaintance.

“I’ll count you in for tomorrow. One o’clock. All the tickets are gone, but you don’t need one. You’re my guest.”

This wasn’t an invitation. This was an order.

By the time I got home that night, I had decided, rather than be depressed by Phoebe’s glittering wifeliness, to be inspired by it. There was no point, after all, in
making myself miserable wondering where exactly one got chic little tweed capelets, or how on earth eight-months-pregnant people could fit into Kate Moss jeans: it was much better to take a leaf out of Phoebe’s book and make an effort to be glowing for one’s husband rather than gloomy. I would cook Hunter a delicious risotto, and change into a new jersey dress I’d bought a few days ago from Daryl K before he got back. It had a slightly offbeat cut, which made me feel a little avant-garde and sexy. Phoebe was right, I thought to myself, as I slipped the dress on. Being a wife was infinitely more enjoyable in good clothes.

Just as I was starting to chop the onions, the buzzer rang: that must be the dry cleaning. I rifled in my bag for some money and went to open the door. Jim, the Chinese delivery boy from World Class Cleaners on Ninth Street was standing there weighed down with a pile of Hunter’s suits and my evening dresses. I helped him in with them, and he laid the whole lot over a chair in the hall.

“Thanks,” I said. “How much is it?”

“Eighty-five dollar,” replied Jim.

I gave Jim ninety and told him to keep the change.

“Thanks, miss,” he said, tucking it in his belt.

“See you next time,” I said, holding open the door.

Jim was almost out the door, when he turned and said, “This in Mr. Mortimer pocket, miss.”

He shoved something into my hand and disappeared off down the corridor. As I shut the door I
looked at what Jim had given me: it was a small, clear plastic Ziploc bag. It looked like it had a bunch of receipts in it. That was nice of Jim, to rescue Hunter’s bills, I thought. As I went to put the bag on the hall table for Hunter, something caught my eye on the receipt at the top of the stack. Was that…I picked the bag up again and looked closer through the plastic. Was that a £ sign printed on the top receipt?

It couldn’t be, could it? Anxiety enveloping me, I tore open the bag and grabbed the receipt. It read,

Mini bar!
Mini bar?
Hunter had drunk three hundred bucks worth of alcohol! In a hotel room! In one of the sexiest hotels in London! I felt myself panic: I checked the date again, wracking my brain. September 17th. Two weeks before Lauren’s divorce shower. It was That Weekend, I was sure of it, when Hunter had been impossible to get hold of in Paris. Phoebe
had
seen him in London. Hunter had point-blank lied to me and,
worse, blamed an innocent, pregnant woman’s mushy brain.

My hands were trembling. Maybe I was getting MS, I feared, regarding my wavering fingers. Maybe my husband had
caused
me to contract MS by his callous hotel-hopping activities. This was hideous. What was I going to do? Should I call Hunter now and tell him I had found him out? Or was I too emotional? Should I call Lauren and tell her what I’d found? Or would she call in the lawyers then and there? Maybe—

“Hello, darling.”

I jumped. I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed Hunter slip into the apartment. Before I could say anything, he was kissing me hello and stroking my hair, as though he could see I needed to be calmed down.

“Oh, Sylvie, what a great dress this is on you,” said Hunter. Noticing the pile of clothes he added, “Thank you for getting the dry cleaning. You really don’t need to…you’re so busy. I could have picked it up.”

I didn’t say a thing. Anyone ever hear of something called domestic un-bliss?