The Debutante Divorcee (18 page)

L
ater on that afternoon—it must have been four o’clock—Hunter finally got me on the phone. I hadn’t meant to pick up my cell, and when I heard Hunter’s voice, I became so jittery I felt a chill come over my body.

“Darling, where on earth are you? I’ve been out of my mind,” said Hunter.

I couldn’t believe Hunter had finally gotten ahold of me. My friends had been sworn to secrecy about my whereabouts, and I’d barely turned on my cell phone for the last few days. But there was a little part of me that was secretly relieved that my husband had sought me out.

“Away from you!” I cried.

“What on earth is the matter, Sylvie?”

“You know exactly what the matter is!” I said. “Sophia—”

“What are you talking about?” said Hunter.

I paused before I spoke. How was I going to put
this? Finally, I took a long breath and said angrily, “Marci told me that it’s an open secret that you and Sophia are having an affair.”

There was a shocked silence.

“What?”

“The fact is, you
were
with Sophia in London that weekend. You took her to that jewelry store. She told Marci—and half of New York apparently. And then I saw her in Megève wearing my necklace. I can’t believe you!”

“I never gave Sophia that necklace. I can explain—”

“She’s still wearing it.” My voice rose as my angst level increased. “No more ‘explanations.’ I know what you’re up to. You’ve been lying to me for months—”

“Darling, it’s not what you think—”

“Just leave me alone, Hunter. I don’t want this.” I could hear my words coming faster and faster, as though I may not have time to get it all out. “I’ve never been so unhappy. I want a divorce. I’d rather be the leaver than the leavee,” I said, echoing Lauren’s words.

“The what?”

“Leav-
er
!” I yelled at him, and hung up in a fury of misery and melancholy.

I stared at the cell phone in my hand. Now I was full of doubt. Hunter sounded genuinely shocked. Not at all guilty. But no doubt guilty men cultivate non-guilty tones of voice, I told myself. And then, Lauren had said something terrifying about men being more
affectionate toward their wives when they are being ultra-devious elsewhere. I had to see for myself.

You can imagine my state when I arrived at
MOMA
at ten before six and saw a line that snaked all the way along Fifty-third Street as far back as Sixth Avenue. Hundreds of eager art-lovers were patiently—no,
happily
—standing in line to see inside the great glass box. Just then, a bus spewed out a full load of French tourists. I looked at my watch: 5:55
P.M.

“How long does the line take?” I asked a guard hopefully.

“Forty-five minutes,” he replied, automaton-like.

“But—”
I’ve got to catch my husband cheating on me in five minutes
, I wanted to say. God, it was depressing.

“Can I buy a ticket somewhere else?” I asked.

It was deathly cold out here. My hands were slowly turning a ghastly shade of lilac. Devoid of Christmas lights, chilling its inhabitants to the bone, and drowning in slush—nothing is crueler than New York in January. Especially when your husband’s on the loose with a crazy Husband Huntress.

“Yeah. Internet,” replied the guard.

What a lot of help that was. I looked at the guard helplessly.

“Or Ticketmaster. 212-555-6000.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully.

Thank God. I could call Ticketmaster and book for 6
P.M.
—two minutes hence. I dialed the number on my cell phone. Naturally, my call was answered by a computer. Ugh.

“Welcome to Ticketmaster. Please. Listen. Carefully. The Menu. Has. Changed—”

So slow! Impatient, I pushed zero. Maybe that would get me to an operator.

“—sorry. I. Did. Not. Understand. Welcome to Ticketmaster…”

This time, I listened, and pushed 5 for ticket sales.

“Hello. What show?” said a voice. Hurrah! A person.

“
MOMA
,” I gabbled.

“Is that a Broadway production?”

Jesus Christ.

“Museum of Modern Art,” I said, trying not to get hysterical. I mean, it wasn’t the minimum-wage person on the other end of the phone’s fault that I was late for a spying session on my husband’s mistress.

“Please call the dedicated reservations for
MOMA
at 212-555-7800.”

I looked at my watch. It was already after six. This was hopeless. Still, dejectedly, I started to dial the new number. As I did so, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whipped around: it was Marci.

“I can’t get in,” I wailed.

Marci, her face unusually grim, flashed a card reading
MEMBER: MOMA
in front of me. She took my hand and led me straight into the museum.

“I thought you might need moral support,” she said.

MOMA
always reminds me of a giant glass candy jar buzzing with flies. The works of art look like giant bonbons invisibly suspended in the air, and the visitors are reduced to tiny black dots swarming
en masse
from de Kooning to Warhol to LeWitt. Where, oh, where was the peaceful, zen-like space I had read about in all those
New York Times
stories? This place was more like Times Square.

“Marci, it’s six ten.” I said anxiously looking around.

We were standing in the vast white atrium that stretches from Fifty-third Street all the way across the block to Fifty-fourth. Straight ahead was a huge staircase leading up to the mezzanine, which now, controversially, according to those who worry about art controversy, houses Monet’s
Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond
. A huge glass balcony allows those below to gaze up to the crowds above, and to the giant green plastic helicopter that hangs above the staircase.

“Sophia’s never on time. It’s part of her man-killing allure.”

With that, Marci slipped into the throng surging toward the giant staircase leading up to the mezzanine. I followed her in a state of numb expectation: all that lay ahead was hideous dreadfulness. For once, I was re
lieved to be invisible, cloaked in the swell of tour groups and school parties: I didn’t want anyone to notice me ever again. What could be more embarrassing than a cheating husband? From this moment forward, I thought, I would hide: I would live on the sidelines of life, like the tourists and the out-of-town visitors around me. No doubt I would be in a very bad temper for the rest of my life.

I followed Marci up to the mezzanine, where we were confronted by a giant, steel pin in the center of the room. Like two schoolgirls on the run, we concealed ourselves behind it. From there we could view the Monet and the austere black-leather viewing benches positioned in front of it.

“There she is,” whispered Marci. “Alone. Weird.”

Sophia was sitting with her back to us, but it was unmistakably her. Who else would be wearing a gold sequin jacket at six o’clock in the evening in a public art gallery?

“This is so odd,” said Marci. “It’s a quarter after six. No! Wait! She’s answering her cell…”

Indeed Sophia was now talking into her cell phone. She stood up and started walking right toward the steel pin. Oh, God. She stopped just the other side of the artwork. We could make out little bits of her conversation.

“Yes, darling…I saw her at the funeral, poor thing…yes, three minutes…in the sculpture garden? It’s freezing out there. You know I can’t bear those giant
blue triangles…I’d much rather meet you by the Matthew Barney…”

With that, she snapped her phone shut, turned on her heel, and headed away from us toward the contemporary galleries.

“I don’t know if I can go on,” I said to Marci. Hearing Sophia refer to me as a “poor thing” made me so mad, I just wanted to leave. I knew as much as I needed to know already, didn’t I? Did I really have to put myself through more agony?

“Sylvie, you have to go through with it. Come on, we’ll watch from behind the Dan Flavin. Let’s go,” she said, following Sophia discreetly.

Sophia had chosen the most popular gallery in the museum for her secret assignation. The room was so crowded, we could barely see her. Hidden from view behind the giant multi-colored Dan Flavin wall, there was no chance of Sophia noticing us. Once we were safely installed, we peeked out from the left side. Sophia was standing peering at Matthew Barney’s weird installation,
The Cabinet of Baby Fay La Foe 2000
, a plexi-glass coffin containing a top hat and an operating table. What a macabre spot for a romantic tryst.

“Where is he?” whispered Marci.

“Maybe…maybe he’s not coming,” I said hopefully.

Suddenly Sophia waved across the room. As she
did so her gold bangles jangled sexily—and my nerves jangled painfully. I could hardly bear to look. But I did. I barely breathed, I was so anxious. After a few seconds, a red-headed, rather short, slightly balding man made his way toward Sophia. Marci took a sharp breath.

“Oh, my good Lord!” she cried, as Sophia and the red-headed man hugged and then kissed in a way that you don’t usually see in art galleries, to say the least.

A smile slapped itself across my face: it felt like it would last forever. It felt big enough to wrap around the globe.

“I’m so happy!” I breathed. “That
definitely
isn’t my husband. I’ve made the
best
mistake.”

I turned to Marci. She was sheet white.

“What?” I asked her, suddenly sober. “Do you know who that guy is?”

“It’s…” Marci couldn’t speak. Her chirpy voice was reduced to a breathless whisper. “It’s
my
husband.”

“That’s
Christopher
?” I asked.

“I’ve made the most ghastly mistake,” wailed Marci.

“So have I,” I mumbled. What a mess.

With that, Marci rushed out into the mezzanine and headed toward the staircase. I chased after her. When she got to the top of the staircase, she stopped under the giant helicopter. She looked up above her, and then crossed herself twice over.

“Dear God, when I go home and shoot myself tonight,” she prayed, “please,
don’t
resurrect me.”

“Marci, calm down, don’t do anything silly,” I said grabbing her arm.

“I’m going to kill him. Who was Ivana’s lawyer again?”

W
hile Marci
was
being resurrected against her will by Salome, who had come, saint-like, and picked her up at
MOMA
, I flew down Fifth Avenue by cab. I couldn’t get to the apartment quickly enough: I was desperate to see Hunter and make amends. Why had I been so vile to him earlier? Why hadn’t I let him explain his side of the story? How could I have not trusted him! What a fool I’d been, I chastised myself. Why had I ever thought things were as obvious as they seemed: Sophia was far too clever to have been doing what she
seemed
to be doing. She had tormented me with her flirting with Hunter while distracting Marci and me from her real mission—nailing Christopher. Maybe I had been hanging out with the debutante divorcées far too much and they’d influenced me for the worse. They were paranoid about men, unsurprisingly, and it had made me paranoid too. Certainly, I had not been imagining Sophia’s behavior—she
had
been making a play for my husband, whatever her
other motives were—but no less than she was after every innocent husband in New York. Poor Marci. What a wicked game Sophia had played.

What on earth was I going to say to Hunter, I wondered frantically, as the cab swerved down past the corner of Fifth and Twenty-third Street. I couldn’t believe that three hours ago I had been demanding a divorce, and now there was nothing I wanted less. I had been wrong about everything, but, however wrong one is, it’s hideous having to admit it. “I’m sorry” was a feeble antidote from a wife who had accused her husband of the ultimate marital crime. I felt terrible, completely ashamed of myself. Panicked and anxious, I could feel my lungs puffing faster and faster: I felt as though I was going to suffocate with shame and embarrassment.

When I finally reached One Fifth I paid the driver and ran toward my building. By now icy rain was coming down in flat, cold sheets, and by the time I got inside I was half-soaked and hyperventilating.

“Is Mr. Mortimer home?” I asked the doorman, Luccio, as I flew past him.

“He left for the airport an hour ago,” said Luccio. “Where’s he going?”

I stopped, dead still, in the middle of the lobby. Hunter had gone? Had I driven him away with my accusations? If so, I could hardly blame him.

“You all right?” asked Luccio.

“Yes…no…I just…”

I scrabbled in my bag for my phone. When I finally found it, I called Hunter’s cell. It went straight to voicemail. I left a frantic message telling him how much I loved him and begging him to call me. Next I called his office. Hopefully someone would still be there. After a few rings, one of the interns, Danny, picked up.

“Where’s Hunter?” I asked. “It’s his wife.”

“Oh, he went off to…” Danny trailed off. “Hang on. Let me ask someone.”

I heard voices in the background, and then he came back on the line.

“We’re not sure where he is now. He left a couple of hours ago. He said he was going to Zurich…or was it Geneva? Er…”

“When’s he due back?” I asked, desperate.

“He’s taken his diary from his desk…We don’t really know how long this trip is going to be.”

I hung up. Where was Hunter? How was I going to find him? Was I going to be the leavee after all? Maybe, maybe…

I ran out into the street. It was still pouring. Maybe I’d go over to Lauren’s. She’d know what to do. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I started walking up Fifth Avenue in search of a cab. Suddenly I heard a familiar voice from behind me.

“Sylvie! Sylvie!”

I turned to see Milton standing behind me. He was tan and dressed in an Afghan hat and a yak-hair cape. He must have just gotten back from his Silk Road.

“Hi,” I said falteringly.

“What’s happened? Sylvie, are you crying?”

“It’s Hunter. He’s gone,” I replied, my shoulders juddering.

“OK, let’s get you home,” said Milton, putting a comforting arm across my shoulder.

Half an hour later, Milton and I were installed in the apartment eating Belgian truffles ordered in from the Chocolate Bar. Without drawing breath, I told him the whole story, and I cried my whole guts out, or so it felt. As I talked, it occurred to me that whatever I had seen earlier, with Christopher and Sophia, it still didn’t explain the two identical necklaces. Why had my husband given Sophia and me the same jewelry? It was so strange, especially if Sophia was cheating with Christopher. I felt so sorry for Marci! I hoped that Salome was cheering her up.

“Sophia D’Arlan is
unbelievable
. If I’d been here I could have told you exactly what was going on,” said Milton, who was languishing on the drawing room sofa in the red silk shalwar kameez that was revealed when he slipped off his cloak.

“What do you mean?” I said, dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to dry myself out in front of the fire.

“Sylvie, Hunter bought that necklace for
you
. You only.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, darling, I was there. We were all in London that weekend, staying at Blakes—”

“But, Milton!” I interrupted angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me? I remember asking you specifically if you had seen Hunter that weekend when I couldn’t get hold of him, and you said you hadn’t.”

Milton roused himself from the sofa with a swish of his crimson robes. He sat up and leaned toward me conspiratorially. Then he said in the hushed tones he reserved for spreading the most valuable gossip, “I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but we were all sworn to secrecy. It was so romantic.”

“What was so romantic? Why has Sophia got the same necklace as me?”

“Well…mmm…the pendant was Sophia’s idea.”

“No! What do you mean?” I jumped up and started pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

“Well, we were all sitting around at dinner that Friday night in London at Le Caprice—love Le Caprice,
love
—and Hunter—who is so sweet, Sylvie, and loves you so much—asked us how he could make up for the canceled honeymoon. So Sophia screams, “Jewelry!” So Hunter said he wouldn’t know what to get you. Sophia pulls out this great pendant with an
S
on it from under her blouse and tells him to get the same thing made for you.”

“The
same
?” My voice rose at least three octaves.

“That’s what
I
said. But Sophia told Hunter you’d
never know. I think he was so desperate to make up for the honeymoon fiasco that he just plunged in. Sophia even took him to S. J. Phillips herself to commission the piece.”

That explained the photograph in
New York
magazine. But Milton wasn’t finished. He continued, “It was a rather sweet-slash-stupid straight man’s attempt to tell you he was sorry. You know what husbands are like. They never quite know what to buy for their wives. They don’t have a clue about jewelry, which I find rather charming, actually.”

“But then why did Sophia tell Marci that Hunter had given
her
the necklace?” I protested.

“Because, darling, Sophia wanted Hunter for herself,” said Milton. “She wanted you to think that necklace was for her, and by flaunting hers in front of you, she achieved exactly what she wanted—chaos. It doesn’t help that Marci is such a hopeless rumor-monger. Sophia’s been playing her like a piccolo.”

“But what about Christopher?” I asked, confused.

“She obviously went after both husbands and settled for the easiest catch.”

“Stop it!” I managed a laugh. “But, what about that Page Six item?”

“Sophia likes nothing more than planting a story about herself in a gossip column. Listen to me, any rumors that get around about Sophia are created by
her, and her only. She says
everyone’s
in love with her, especially the married guys. I actually heard she was hospitalized for it at one stage. That necklace was
always
for you.”

“Oh, Milton. I’ve wrecked everything,” I said, feeling daunted. “What am I going to do?”

“Why don’t you have another truffle?”

“You won’t believe where I am!”

It was 4
A.M.
the same night. Lauren was wide awake on the other end of the line and, presumably, on the other side of the world.

“Where?” I said sleepily.

“Narita Airport, Tokyo.”

I sat up in bed and switched on a lamp. Maybe Lauren’s adventures would distract me from my own worried state.

“What are you doing in Tokyo, Lauren?” I asked.

“G.M. What can I say? We kissed in the Japan Airlines first-class spa. It’s all very
Lost in Translation
. I think he’s
madly
in love with me, don’t you?”

“Are you in love with him?” I asked.

“God, no! Remember the goal: five Make Outs by Memorial Day, zero commitment,” she giggled. “But…it was the
Make Out
of
Make Outs
, if you know what I’m saying. I mean…compared with all the others,
this was like kissing God, honestly. Giles has the best kissing methods of any man I have ever made out with. It was so delicious I thought I was having a near-death experience. Everything went white, and I think I actually fainted for two seconds. Do you know that feeling?”

“Sort of…” I trailed off. I couldn’t summon up the energy to laugh with Lauren. All I could do was muster up a heavy sigh.

“You sound like hell. What happened?’ said Lauren.

I told her the whole sorry story, about Marci and Sophia, and Christopher and Sophia, and me and Hunter.

“What a mess. Jesus. I’ll be back tomorrow. Giles wants me to stay, but…I don’t want to be disappointed. He has got a fiancée. I have to remember that.”

Lauren’s love bubble had suddenly burst. She sounded deflated.

“I thought you said you didn’t want a relationship.”

“I don’t but…I guess now I’ve completed the Makeout Challenge, I don’t know, I feel a little flat. Where has it gotten me? I’m having a moment of clarity: I mean, I’ve reached my goal, but…I’ve gotten nowhere…nowhere.”

“You’ve had fun,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “You’re not wretched, like me. I don’t even know where Hunter is!”

I felt panicked. What was I going to do?

“We’ll find Hunter. My father can find
anyone,
he’s best friends with everyone at the FBI. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow. Salome says there’s some party she’s working on that we both have to be at. Be there. No excuses.”