The Debutante Divorcee (4 page)

“Sophie, do you know Sylvie?” said Marci, turning toward me.

“I don’t think I do. Hi. I’m Sophi-
a
D’Arlan,” she said, extending her hand. She spoke with a trace of a rather exotic French accent. “Marci, quit calling me ‘Sophie.’”

“Sylvie’s
married
to Hunter,” added Marci, exaggerating the word married in an unnecessary way, I thought.

At this news, Sophia seemed to visibly pale, despite her powder-white face. She put her hand out toward the piano, as though to steady herself.

“You got…married? Hunter?” said Sophia, looking at him accusingly.

“They’re wearing matching wedding rings, Sophie,” said Marci pointedly. “But I guess it’s too dark for you to notice, Sophie.”

“It’s Sophi-
a
,” she said. Then, with a loud sigh of disappointment, she added, “Anyway, congratulations, Sylvie. I’ve known your
gorgeous
new husband, God…forever, since high school. We were like
that
,” she said, crossing her index and forefinger together. Then, glancing at Hunter, she added, “Hunter…I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were taking yourself off the market. Who knew?! Married.”

She seemed to stare at Hunter for a little too long, eventually turning to me and saying, “Hunter is being so nice. He’s helping me with something I’m working on. So sweet.”

“He is sweet, isn’t he?” I said, smiling at Hunter. I felt him loop his arm around my waist and squeeze me affectionately.

“Yes, he’s a very
attentive husband
,” said Marci, quite obviously directing this at Sophia.

“Hey, girls, enough of that,” said Hunter, looking embarrassed.

“Would you be sweet, Sylvie, and just let me steal
Hunter for another five minutes, to discuss my project?” said Sophia.

Without waiting for an answer, she steered Hunter off toward the fireplace. Marci looked after them, her expression sulky.

“I’m probably being paranoid,” she huffed.

“Talking of husbands, Marci, where’s yours?” I said in an effort to change the subject.

“I don’t know,” said Marci. She didn’t appear to be at all disturbed by this revelation.

“Marci, what do you mean you don’t know?” I laughed.

“I forget.”

“Marci!” I protested.

“Oh, who knows…Christopher’s probably off somewhere ghastly like Cleveland selling something. I can’t possibly remember. What does it matter anyway?”

Just then Lauren reappeared, skating expertly across the marble with a small silver tray balanced on the palm of her left hand.

“Tequila shot, anyone?” she asked, setting the tray down on a little side table. Marci took one and downed it in a single gulp.

“Where’s Hunter?” said Lauren, looking around. “I want to get to know him better.”

“Over there with Sophia D’Arlan,” I said, gesturing toward the fireplace, where Sophia was still talking
with Hunter, with a serious look on her face. “Apparently they’re old friends.”

Lauren pirouetted expertly on her roller skates and then bent double and touched her toes. From this position she said, “Sophia says that about everyone’s husband.”

“Hunter’s helping her with some project she’s working on,” I said.

“Believe me, Sophia D’Arlan doesn’t need anyone’s help. She’s better connected than Verizon. Her mom’s a de Rothschild or something, and her dad won the Nobel Peace Prize for some deathly boring French play he wrote.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, Hunter’s just nice like that. He’s good to everyone.”

Lauren stood up and surveyed the crowd.

“Even if my husband were a saint I wouldn’t let Sophia near him. What did I tell you about those Husband Huntresses?” said Lauren, eyebrows raised. “Oh, God. Here we go.”

Before Lauren could tell me anything else, the DJ struck up
“Good Times”
and everyone was dancing. I barely noticed, but I must have been dancing for almost an hour when out of the corner of my eye I saw Sophia kissing Hunter on both cheeks, French style, I guess. Then she threw both her arms around his neck and hugged him, before making her way off. Hunter immediately headed over to us, weaving his way past a glamorous couple dressed as Liz Taylor
and Richard Burton who were dancing with two girls dressed in white Carolina Herrera wedding gowns. They were both blonde, barefoot, and holding bouquets of white roses.

“Here comes Hunter. Mind the Renée Zellwegers!” cried Lauren as he approached. When he reached us, she continued dancing and said, “You’ve been missing all the fun. How was it over there?”

Hunter wrapped one arm around me and let the other fall over Lauren’s bobbing shoulders.

“Not very thrilling without you two,” said Hunter. “Shall we get a drink? I’m parched.”

A few minutes later as we sipped at our Saccotinis by the bar Hunter said, “Now, I had a great idea. How about I set Lauren up with my best friend? He’s my oldest college buddy.”

“Who?” I said.

“You haven’t met him yet, darling. He’s out of town on business a lot. He’d be perfect for Lauren. He’s incredibly smart, and definitely glamorous enough for you—”

“That’s really dolly of you, Hunter,” interrupted Lauren. “But I don’t do blind dates. I think they’re tacky.”

“We could all have dinner next time he’s here,” insisted Hunter.

“Don’t do setups either. I only do anonymous hot sex,” she replied, deadpan. “But thanks. You’re very sweet, as your wife says.”

“I may have to take matters into my own hands,” sighed Hunter, with a knowing smile. “You two would be a great match.”

“You sound like that guy on
The Bachelorette
,” wailed Lauren. “Gross!”

“I can’t interest you in a glittering marriage, then?” said Hunter, refusing to let his enthusiasm be dampened.

“Now you sound like my grandmother. I can’t think of anything worse than being glitteringly married.” Lauren suddenly looked embarrassed. “I mean, unless I was you two. Sorry.”

Suddenly Marci appeared, looking irritated.

“Where have you been all night—” she started.

At that moment Lauren’s cell rang. She glanced at the screen, smiled, then set the phone on the marble slab and left it ringing.

“That’s probably, like, Jay-Z or someone calling to ask if they can come to the party,” said Marci, whose gaze seemed glued to the phone. “Why don’t you answer?”

At this, Lauren just shrugged and skated off. A little later, when the party was thinning out and we were all pretty relaxed, I was lounging on a sofa with Hunter when Marci came and plopped down next to us. In a slightly rambling, drunken manner she informed us that one of the main reasons she and just about everyone else in New York is obsessed with Lauren is because she never answers her cell. She only
returns calls, never takes them. Apparently no one has ever seen Lauren so much as dial a number. So you can only speak to her if she returns your message. It’s rumored that she’s never given her landline number to anyone except her maid. She doesn’t care if a man calls her back—which means they always do—and then she doesn’t call them back for three weeks. Some girls in New York—the ones who are jealous of her—dismiss Lauren as rude. But Marci says she’s “scared, like Greta Garbo,” and that’s why she doesn’t return calls.

“I’ve heard people say really cruel things, like that Lauren gets home after all the parties and stares at the fireplace and cuddles her dog all night in bed because she’s so lonely. But that’s just mean. She’s so sweet and no one really knows how ghastly it was with her sister being killed like that so young. She smiles through everything, even with family tragedy. Lauren’s got a heart of gold, even if she is frivolous. Anyway, most people here are just too available,” continued Marci. “Too available for dinners, or for magazine shoots, or for TV appearances, or for sex. Lauren’s never available for anything.”

The fact is, Lauren can be counted on to cancel an eight o’clock dinner that other girls would die to be at, at precisely eight o’clock, and get away with it. New York hostesses take the long view: the philosophy has to be that if she didn’t show this time, maybe she will the next, but not if you get angry with her. Then, she’s always canceling for such exotic reasons—
I gotta go see
Dad’s soccer team in L.A. / I’m stuck at the airport in Aspen / BooBoo ( a Hungarian Vizsla) has got allergies
—that it’s impossible to be angry. If you complain, it might look like you are jealous of her dad / place in Aspen / dog. Lauren is so unavailable that even when you visit her, the door is always answered by someone else. Often it’s her maid, Agata, who is Polish and wears all white—white shoes, white pants, white shirt—and tells you, “Miss Lauren will be down shortly. Who can I say is calling?” as though no one was expected at this unforeseen moment. While you’re waiting, Agata offers you fresh sage tea. There’s always a pot of it warming on the kitchen stove in case Lauren feels like some at 3
A.M.
Agata worships Lauren because she lets her wear her jewelry around the house when she’s cleaning.

“Maybe we should go and see if there’s some down there now,” added Marci. “A shot of sage tea might help my impending hangover.”

Just then Lauren roller-skated back over to us. She perched on the arm of the sofa.

“Someone talking about Agata’s sage tea?” she said. “It’s on its way up.”

“Delish!” exclaimed Marci, her eyes glowing with excitement. She obviously worshiped Lauren even more than Agata did.

“So, Hunter, Sylvie was saying you’re leaving for Paris this week,” said Lauren.

“Yup, I’m off for a few weeks, actually,” said Hunter. “Can you look after my darling wife—”

“—did I hear someone saying they’re going to be in Paris?”

It was Sophia. She was suddenly standing there, looking straight at Hunter. “I’m going to be there too. Maybe we can meet for a
verveine
? At the Costes? I get so lonely over there…. Anyway, I just came over to say good-bye to both of you. You make the most gorgeous couple. Of course, I’m
devastated
for me.”

“Why are you leaving now?” asked Marci. “There’s still a lot of party left here, you know.”

“I have a
very
busy night ahead,” said Sophia, with a wink. She turned to go and then paused, looking back over her shoulder, saying “Hunter, I’ll call you in Paris.”

Lauren shot me a quick warning look. I looked at Hunter, but he seemed unconcerned. Sophia appeared to be living up to her reputation, but my darling husband seemed to be completely incorruptible. Tabloid couple we were not.

A
ccording to absolutely everyone who is an authority on such matters, the invitation of invitations that fall in New York was from Alixe Carter. It arrived at terribly short notice, a few days after Lauren’s birthday, and was hand-delivered. No one mails anything anymore in New York. A mailed invitation is a sign that the hostess is ambivalent about your presence at her event; if she wanted to be sure of your getting the invitation, and a prompt response, she would have messengered it.

The paper of the envelope was the same pale gray as the Dior salon is, and the script on the card was letter-pressed in old-fashioned white type. Though it looks plain, this is the most popular style of invitation going in New York City, even though, or perhaps because, white script is double the price of the pastel pink ink at Smythsons, which is double the price of the “standard” colors.

I read the card.

That was very Lauren, I thought. To have a “shower” thrown for her just at the moment when every thirty-two-year-old girl in New York had sworn off wedding and baby showers, due to an allergy to the phrase “dilated ten centimeters.” “Dilated” is a horrific word. They should change it. I noticed there was something else in the envelope: another engraved card, this one with gray type on a white card. It read:

As usual, no one had heard a word from Lauren in days. I’d tried to call her a couple of times to thank her for her birthday party, and had always been greeted by the words ‘This. Voicemail Box. Is. Full.” You couldn’t even leave a message. And then out of the blue she’d come up with this divorce shower thing that everyone thought was hysterical.

Although no one was quite sure exactly what it meant, that didn’t really matter. After all, no one’s quite sure about Lauren Blount’s anything. The only thing, in fact, that anyone is certain about is that Lauren’s life is beautifully arranged: she’s very rich, very young, very thin, very pretty—and very, very divorced.

Professional Friends are the newest kind of acquaintance to have in New York—subconsciously, that is. In that, if you have one you are 100 percent unaware of it, it being the nature of Professional Friends to act as genuinely warm and smoochy as Real Friends. Interior designers, art consultants, financial advisers, gyrotonics masters, or party decorators, Professional Friends lurk invisibly on the payroll of the Manhattan heiress, spending her money, skimming off their 15 percent commission, and being the ultimate best buddy. Who else understands “how stressful everything is” and will understand it at half past five in the morning,
the hour at which New York princesses generally start to freak out about “how stressful everything is”?

Feared by their married counterparts, unable to trust straight men, frequently in need of a walker, the Debutante Divorcée is easy prey. Charming Milton, I soon realized, is the most professional of the Professional Friends. You’d never have a clue that he’s not a real friend. Fairly often he messengers little baskets of vitamins to all his girlfriends with a note saying he’s “worried” about them. Milton even telephones Lauren, and his other benefactresses, if it’s chillier than usual and warns them, “Don’t go out. It’s cold.” Naturally, they feel like they’d die of frostbite, or rickets, without him.

It was no coincidence that the day after Hunter left for his long trip to Paris, a spectacularly elegant parcel arrived at our apartment early in the morning. It was wrapped in glossy black paper and had a white grosgrain bow tied around it with geometrical precision. I tore the envelope on the top open. Inside was a thick white card with gold edging and the name Milton Holmes engraved in orange across the top. Written in beautiful sepia ink were the words,

Over at six? How did Milton know where I lived? Maybe Lauren had told him. But what did he want?

I unwrapped the package between sips of espresso. Inside was an Assouline book entitled
Paris Living Rooms
. Several pages were marked with powder blue Post-it notes. I opened the book to one of them. The page showed a huge, white paneled drawing room filled with antique white chairs, tables, Deco glass lamps, and vases filled with lilacs. Underneath the photograph the text read, “Ines de la Fressange, fashion designer, Elysée district.” On the Post-it, Milton had scribbled, “I like the wide herringbone flooring.”

I was fully aware that I was being professionally stalked for an interior decorating job. Before we had moved to New York, we had found this charming, fairly large, and very old-fashioned apartment on the fifth floor at One Fifth Avenue, a 1920s building. Our apartment looked over Washington Square Park, and even though it was still only half-decorated, I loved it. Milton would be expecting me to be vulnerable to his charms now that Hunter was out of town. But, I reminded myself, I wasn’t the kind of girl who went out and hired a decorator. I’d never had that kind of money in the past, and even if we did now, that didn’t change things as far as I was concerned. I did things myself. I often think that girls in New York generally don’t do enough things for themselves, and I wasn’t interested in that kind of life. This is twenty-first-century New York, not eighteenth-century Florence, though many
women here seem blissfully unaware of that fact. Apparently there are still girls on the Upper East Side who don’t even brush their own hair.

I had no idea when I’d have time to finish doing up our place, but I’d figure something out. I had weekends, and now that Hunter was away, I definitely had fewer distractions. Still, I realized as I walked from the hall out into the drawing room, we had a lot of space to make beautiful. I had to admit to myself that it was intimidating.

Just then the phone rang. It was Milton.

“Are you obsessed with the book?” he said perkily.

“Milton, I loved it—”

“—could you just move the chaise, maybe…six and a
half
inches to the right? No, a little more, yes, a
smidgeola
toward the terrace…that’s it. Stop! Sto-o-op!!!” he howled. “Sorry, I’m on site.”

“Shall I call you back?” I asked.

“I’m always on site. Anyway,” Milton asked, “do I get the job?”

“I’m sure you don’t have time,” I said, trying to put him off politely.

“How are you ever going to do that place alone?” said Milton. “It’s huge, and you won’t be able to get a yard of decent fabric unless I take you to the D&D building. Are you awfully lonely without Hunter—”

“He calls all the time,” I said.

He did. Hunter had only been gone twenty-four hours, but he’d called from JFK and from Charles de
Gaulle, and he even left a sweet love-you-miss-you message in the early hours this morning on my cell. I couldn’t have wished for a more attentive husband.

“Anyway, I’m coming for coffee later. There’s nothing you can do. See you at six.”

With that, he put the phone down. What was I doing at six o’clock tonight? I quickly flicked through my diary: I had a meeting with Thack and the senior buyer from Neiman Marcus this afternoon. It would be heavy going—I was sure Neimans would barely order a thing from the new collection. Maybe it was a good thing Milton was coming over later, I thought. He would definitely cheer me up after that meeting. It didn’t mean I had to hire him.

“We love the gowns,” said Bob Bulton, the Neiman Marcus buyer, wrapping up his order and flicking the elastic around his folder.

Bob Bulton was one of the most influential fashion buyers at Neiman Marcus, though his appearance would not necessarily have led one to that conclusion. He was extremely large, nearing retirement, and clad in a bespoke Thom Browne suit, the most noticeable feature of which was the way the cuff of the pants stopped far enough above the ankle to reveal his lilac cashmere socks. Despite the fact that Thack’s Chrystie Street studio was crammed with stock, sewing machines, F.I.T.
interns, and Chinese seamstresses, Bob hadn’t seemed to mind the chaos at all. He delicately eased his squishy behind off the dainty antique chair he had been sitting on.

“But we can’t commit to more than fifteen looks until we start to see some press,” he added. Then he looked Thackeray in the eye and said, “You gotta get press.”

“Absolutely not an issue,” said Thackeray coolly.

Thack was smiling in an easy way, perched on the edge of the old French sofa at one end of the studio. He looked completely relaxed, dressed in a 1960s Saville Row suit and a sharp, white, handmade shirt. A diamond and pearl rose brooch, which had once belonged to his mother, was pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Suddenly he looked at me, saying, “Sylvie here is very connected in New York. She’s already got at least three really beautiful young girls who have signed on to wear gowns at…Alixe Carter’s New Year’s ball.”

Like many fashion designers, Thackeray was more deserving of an Oscar than most actors. What an absolute, wretched lie, I thought, nodding and smiling and saying, “Isn’t that great news?”

No doubt I would be punished for perjuring myself later.

“Well, I have to congratulate you,” said Bob, looking impressed. “You’ve nailed those girls down
very early.
We’ll add two of each of the dresses that will be
worn at the party for our pre-spring order.” He seemed to be opening his folder again. “If they’re photographed they’ll fly out of the store. Do you think Alixe herself will wear a dress?”

“Her fitting’s in two weeks,” said Thackeray, in an inspired spurt of fibbing.

“Well,” said Bob, “I will have to congratulate Alixe on her taste. She’s an extremely close friend of my wife’s, you know.”

“How lovely,” I said, feeling slight chest pains. “So will you be at the ball then?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Congratulations, Thackeray,” said Bob warmly.

Alas,
I thought,
alas
.

The minute Bob had gone, I dragged Thackeray into the very humble restroom. It was the only place we could speak in private. It was so grotty we lit it only with candles so clients couldn’t see how utterly hovel-like it was in there.

“My God, Thackeray! What was that?” I blurted in the dark.

“You can get me those girls, can’t you?” he said. “We’ve doubled the order based on those girls wearing my gowns at Alixe Carter’s party—”

“Thackeray. Can I remind you of something?
No one
is wearing your dresses at Alixe’s party. You made that up.”

“Sylvie, this is serious. You can carry it off.”

This was typical Thackeray. He promised his buy
ers the earth and then always somehow persuaded me to deliver it. Much as I didn’t want to spend my time squeezing thin women into sample-size dresses that made even the size zeros feel obese, Thackeray was right about business. He had just sold another six gowns. We had to dress as many girls as possible at Alixe’s fancy New Year’s party. Suddenly I had an inspiration.

“Lauren!” I exclaimed. “Alixe is having this crazy divorce shower thing for her. I just got the invitation. Lauren must be really close with Alixe.”

“Not Lauren Hamill Blount?” said Thackeray. “God, she’s glamorous.”

“Exactly.”

“Lauren’s
so
chic. Could you arrange for me to dress her too?”

“I’ll try,” I sighed.

If I could ever get hold of her, that was.

I’d called Lauren again after getting the divorce shower invitation. Although I’d been able to leave a message this time, she’d never called back. I’d almost given up on her, but with this Thackeray–Alixe business I tried again. I left her another message later on that day but expected to hear nothing, and went home, as I’d predicted, having not heard a peep from her. However, I imagined that Milton, being her “best
friend,” would be able to pin her down. I zipped home from work to find Milton already installed on the one, shameful-looking sofa in my drawing room. He was wearing a heavy orange kaftan thrown over white linen pants, in the manner of a 1970s Palm Beach hostess. When I walked in, he raised his eyebrows pitifully, inclining his head toward the dismal seating arrangement.

“I can’t believe you persuaded the doorman to let you in.” I said when I saw him. I flung my bag on the floor and collapsed next to him.

“I would describe your furniture as exhausted, but this place is…” Milton paused and looked around the airy drawing room, taking in the high ceilings and the original fireplace, “chicenstein. Totally chicenstein.”

The apartment might have been empty, but it was indeed chicenstein, to quote Milton. Aside from the huge drawing room, there were three bedrooms, a maid’s room, several bathrooms, a dining room, a library, and a good-size kitchen.

“What a space.” said Milton, rising and pacing the room. “Three exposures! Good lord. What do you want herringbone floors for when you’ve got original terrazzo down here?”

“I don’t really know where to start in here,” I said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the work ahead.

“This is a beautiful room with great bones. What about eighteenth-century-Italian-inspired pale celadon wallpaper, hand blocked with silver bouquets of roses?”

“That sounds lovely…but maybe a little over the top for us.” I replied, trying to be polite. I felt a little perturbed: hand blocked anything sounded alarmingly pricey. “What else can we do?”

“Sylvie, I have a better idea. Farrow and Ball Pink Ground—I’m obsessed with it. It’s the softest pink paint from England, it would look so…
Chatsworth
in here. We shall not go wallpapering in this room. The view is the décor. Look at it!”