The Debutante Divorcee (9 page)

I
can’t say I was really in the mood for Phoebe’s Baby Buggy luncheon the next day: all I could think about was that London hotel bill, and what on earth I was going to say to Hunter. But when I told Thack I was too busy at the office to slip out to Phoebe’s lunch, hoping he’d agree, he did quite the opposite and pressured me to go. Alixe Carter was a patron of the Baby Buggy charity, and he wanted me to try and nail her down for another fitting—she had never bothered to call us after not showing for that first fitting, even after I’d met her at the Divorce Shower.

Phoebe Bébé, situated on the corner of Washington and Horatio Streets, right next to the Christian Louboutin boutique, exactly matches the store’s shopping bags. All the walls are painted pale yellow, and the trims are dove gray. When I arrived at the shop, it was already crammed with glossy-haired, baby-buggy-mad moms shopping for $750 cashmere bootie and cap sets aimed at the six-week-old demographic.
Meanwhile, Phoebe was in the middle of the store with three publicists, who were orchestrating photographs of her and her friends in front of mounds of yellow, logo’d baby product.

“Have you met Armenia?” she hollered at me as I walked up to her.

Phoebe was dressed in a long, gold vintage Halston dress with just enough give for her bulging belly. She had a tiny satin purse in one hand, and in the other was clutched a sixteen-month-old child. Somehow, she was simultaneously sipping a glass of water.

“Ooooh! She’s going to be a supermodel,” shrieked one of the publicists at the child. “Quick. Photo. Photo? OK. Lemme take that drink from you.”

While Casey Silbert, the aforementioned publicist, snatched her glass, Phoebe professionally contorted her face into a maternal but youthful smile for five photographers who appeared, snap-snap-snapped her, and vanished, like human shooting stars.

“Good girl,” said Phoebe, jiggling the child on her waif-like hip. “We call her Meni for short.”

“What a sweet name,” I said.

“Isn’t she
amazing
—”

That second there was an explosion of flashes from the back of the store. Phoebe’s head swiveled, mid-sentence, in the direction of the glittering light.

“Look! There’s Valerie with Baba. I think it’s short for Balthazar,” said Phoebe, rushing off in the direction of another glamorous girl whose baby was squished
photogenically into a fur-lined Baby Björn on her front.

The fact was, the only people anyone was taking any real notice of were the cherubic babies in the crowd, of which more kept arriving. This is, though, the era of Socialite Baby. Rarely older than eighteen months, Socialite Baby attends only the grooviest events—art galas, exclusive movie preview dinners, fashion shows (front row only. What’s the point of bringing your baby if you’re in the second row and no one can see it?). Before it is barely three weeks old, Socialite Baby has ninety-six Google entries, knows its way around the dressing rooms at Yoya Mart better than its own cot, and has met Kate Winslet’s kids at least three times at baby music class at Soho House. The identifying marks of a bona fide Socialite Baby include bluish-black craters beneath the eyes and an exhausted green tinge to the infantile skin. If you don’t recognize one at a party, no matter—Socialite Baby is so heavily photographed you can always identify one a few days later by flicking through the pages of
Gotham
or
New York
magazine, in which there are usually at least three Socialite Babies showcased on the party pages.

Hmm, I thought, scanning the room. There was no sign of Alixe Carter. Maybe Phoebe would know where she had gotten to. I headed through the throng of girls toward her, feeling less and less glossy the deeper into the party I got. Judging from the spectacular array of outfits here, I was the only girl who’d
come from an office. I had thrown a beautiful embroidered coat of Thack’s over my jeans when I’d left work, but I couldn’t compete with girls who’d been at Blow all morning getting hair and makeup done.

“Seen Alixe Carter?” I mouthed at Phoebe across the mass of women crowding around her.

“She just went to the restroom. Spenderella’s had to take a break!” Phoebe yelled back. “She hasn’t even got kids, and she’s bought three gold satin diaper bags. She just can’t stop herself.”

“Thanks,” I said, and headed toward the “Powder Room” sign at the back of the store.

Phoebe’s powder room looked like a charming guest bedroom. A small sofa upholstered in white cotton printed with yellow roses sat invitingly at one end of the room. A heavy, gilt-framed, antique mirror hung above the basin, and a huge vase of yellow roses stood in front of it. Piles of yellow sugared almonds were heaped into little silver dishes. Small bottles of water had labels printed with the words
EAU BÉBÉ
in silver lettering. It was all soft pseudo-French perfection, even though Phoebe wasn’t the slightest bit French. She was (secretly) from Miami.

There was no sign of Alixe Carter. I was rather relieved. I was so wound up about the hotel bill that I really wasn’t in the mood for sweet-talking a woman like her right now. Maybe I could have a break in here from the madness outside, I thought. The bathroom was occupied, so I collapsed into an armchair, in, I suppose,
a sort of personal sulk. What was I going to do? I kept asking myself over and over. There was only one outcome if I confronted Hunter, I thought with dread. But I couldn’t
not
confront him…or could I? Why couldn’t I just gloss over the suspicious hotel bill, forget it? Is that what wives did?

It was in this disconcerted frame of mind that I noticed a giggle-giggle-giggle sound drifting to my ears from behind the bathroom door. Then a husky, cigarette-hewn voice whispered, “I fucked him standing up in the hallway. Adorable Nicky. When I asked him how old he is, he said, ‘I’m
going
to be nineteen.’”

My ears, I’m ashamed to admit, perked up.

“Eew! Where does he live?” said another voice.

“On 117th Street, with his mom and dad.”

“You are trash. Trash.”

“I know. I
love
it.”

I couldn’t figure out who owned the cigarette voice, but it was soon obvious who the other party was: Lauren. Slowly, a silver twist of cigarette smoke crept from under the restroom door.

“Gross!” shrieked the Lauren voice.

The door opened and Lauren tumbled out, followed by a fog of smoke and Tinsley, who, cigarette between her lips, was almost unrecognizable. She was wearing tight black leather trousers and a white blouse, the most noticeable feature of which was the amount of bosom it revealed. She had a diamond-studded Cartier watch on her left wrist and huge pale pink
diamond studs in her ears. It was a bizarre evolution from her gamekeeper incarnation of a few days ago.

“Sylvie, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Lauren when she saw me.

“Look at me.” said Tinsley, without removing her cigarette. “I’ve turned into Kimora Lee Simmons. I’m getting much younger guys with this look.”

“It’s worth it, then,” I replied, amused.

“This powder room is the best spot in the store. Please, can we not go back out there? I’m really enjoying fiddling with my makeup in here,” said Lauren. “I adore Phoebe, but she’s insane. I mean yeah, like, there’s really fifty zillion kids who are dying to get their hands on that $20,000 baby-llama-hair sleeping blanket.”

Lauren and Tinsley each grabbed a bottle of baby water and squished onto the sofa opposite me. Tinsley nonchalantly emptied a dish of the sugared almonds into the trash bin and flicked her cigarette into the pristine silver tray. She clocked me clocking her.

“Phoebe likes me being bad. I’m her only outlet. She’s so…
well-behaved
. I don’t understand her,” she declared, looking confused. Tinsley opened her purse and dug out a mascara wand and a tiny hand mirror. “This looks
très
Kimora if you load it on like cement,” she said, starting to apply the eye makeup.

“You are not going to believe what happened to me last night,” said Lauren, looking at me.

“What?” I asked.

“She had five orgasms,” interrupted Tinsley.

“How can you be
positive
it was five?” I asked.

A girl has to be sure of the exact amount of orgasms she’s potentially missing out on by being married.

“Because last night there were precisely five condoms in the packet. And this morning there were precisely none, and I came every time,” declared Lauren, matter of factly. There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment about her.

“Who is Five Orgasms? Does he have a name?” I inquired.

“Yes, but I can’t remember it. Two down on the Make Out Marathon! I’ve ordered a new, white Kelly Mu with rose gold hardware to celebrate Number Two. God, he was unbelievable! That was more orgasms in one night than I had in my
entire
marriage,” squealed Lauren, opening her makeup purse and rummaging around in it.

“I thought it was a…Make Out Challenge,” I teased her. “Kissing only?”

“I’m not in high school any more,” said Lauren. “Divorcées like…”

“Fucking,” said Tinsley absentmindedly. “Lauren, have you got that sticky lip gloss I like in your purse? Chanel Sirop? Nicky adores it. It glues me to his face. We’ve got a daytime rendezvous in half an hour. There’s going to be a lot of f—”

“—enough,” interrupted Lauren. “Sylvie is a respectable married girl. She’ll die if she hears you talk
about that one more time. Here.” She handed Tinsley a pink stick of lip gloss.

The truth is that in New York wives make love, girlfriends have sex, and divorcées fuck. The opportunities in the city for such activity are endless. After all, there’s a luxury hotel every inch of every block, usually with excellent fucking facilities included in the tariff. The Playground, the most expensive suite at Soho House, has a bed the size of France, a bath bigger than the Pacific, plus a shower that is as whooshy as Niagara Falls and shoots water at you from every conceivable angle. It’s booked up every Saturday night between now and 2007 by divorcées. Lauren’s Make Out Challenge seemed to have evolved in the last twenty-four hours into a lip-gloss and condom-dependent, sex-without-commitment competition with Tinsley.

“It’s my fault. I’m a terrible influence,” said Tinsley. She was swishing the lip-gloss wand back and forth, back and forth, over her lips. They seemed to visibly swell and pinken every time. When she was done they looked like two plump little cocktail sausages. “This stuff is genius. Doormen, beware! God, am I so tacky or what?”

Tinsley had gone boy-mad, boy being the operative word. She was currently very much “enjoying herself,” as she liked to put it, with her eighteen-year-old door
man, the aforementioned Nicky, as well as with her twenty-one-year-old FreshDirect delivery guy, who was generally given access to her building by the aforementioned youthful doorman. Tinsley was thrilled with her Mrs. Robinson–style Love Triangle and relished the logistical complications.

“What about Moscow Make Out?” I asked Lauren, thinking of the UnGoogle-able man. “Does he still count as Make Out potential?”

“I’m obviously still
completely
madly in love with him,” Lauren smiled. “I think I’m on to him. His first name is ‘Giles.’ Isn’t that a hot name? He’s going to be at the ice polo next month, I’m sure of it—”

“—who’s ‘Moscow’?” interrupted Tinsley, suddenly alert.

“No one,” said Lauren, starting to open her compact and mouthing “Don’t say anything” at me.

“So, listen, I have some very unfortunate news about Marci,” declared Tinsley.

“I know it already,” said Lauren.

“What?” I asked.

“She found Christopher in bed with her
ex-college roommate
. At least that’s the rumor being spread out there by the Baby Buggy chair, Valerie Gervalt,” said Tinsley.

“No,” I said, shocked.

“All the signs were there. He was really vague about all those business trips, and Marci didn’t think anything of it—fool. And she found a locked drawer in
his desk—always a
major
indicator of infidelity. Then, he didn’t notice her new Rochas gown.
Six thousand dollars on his credit card and he didn’t notice!
”

“Is she OK?” I asked. “Maybe I could go visit her. Poor Marci.”

“She hasn’t eaten in four days. She looks like a prisoner of war. She’s thrilled. She hasn’t lost that much weight since her bout with anorexia in 1987,” said Tinsley.

“Stop being so cruel, T.,” said Lauren. “Marci’s in terrible shape. She really needs her friends right now. I’m going over there tomorrow. She’s well rid of that cheating creep. She’ll have more fun as a divorcée anyway.”

“Do you think we should go back out there?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be looking for Alixe Carter.”

“I wanna see some of those cutie mommies and babies. Lauren,
you
are trash,” laughed Tinsley, stubbing out her cigarette. She twirled out the door.

I didn’t make any effort to get up; nor did Lauren. I popped an almond in my mouth and crunched it noisily.

“What’s wrong?’

“Nothing,” I lied. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to tell Lauren about the hotel bill.

“You look depressed. Was it our conversation? Did it totally disgust you? You look
really
depressed.”

Was it that obvious?

“It’s Hunter’s…dry cleaning,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” said Lauren.

I sighed, and then told Lauren the truth.

“I found this…hotel bill in his dry cleaning. It was from somewhere he said he hadn’t been. I think he’s been lying to me.”

“Oh, God,” said Lauren slowly.

“What shall I do?”

“You should come to Moscow with me for the ice polo, and forget all about it. November 6th. Put it in your diary.”

“I’m very tempted. But, seriously, what am I going to do?” I continued.

“Maybe its not what it seems—” began Lauren. “It’s very un-cool to make a fuss until you’re
absolutely
sure. Oh dear, you look a little tearful.”

“I feel pretty dreadful,” I said, trying not to weep.