The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund (17 page)

“Sure ...”

“Great, I have a new show at Lyle Spence Gallery in Chelsea. My name's John Taplett, by the way.”

“Holly Talbott.”

Even I knew that gargantuan gleaming space. That gallery was famous and the guy Lyle Spence had a recent spread in the art issue of
Vanity Fair
as one of the three top megagallerists in the game. He was always dating model-actress types and often got more press than the artists he repped. But the name John Taplett somehow rang a bell.

“Wow, that's major. . . . I've been there, to a Michael Bevilacqua show a few years ago.”

“The opening is in two weeks, November twenty-third, from six to eight. You should come. I'll look for you.”

“Okay. I'll be there.”

He smiled, looked at me with a cool glimmer in his eye, and took my hand in his. “See you then, Holly Talbott.” With that, he walked off toward the bare trees of Central Park.

 

 

 

I
t was in front of Google, which found 12,342 hits with his name, that my jaw started to hit the floor. He'd had solo shows all over the world; I had met a quasi celeb! He was sexy, an artist (hot), and older, which would really freak Tim out. I could still be the younger cute minx and not the hag I had felt like in the last half year.

I started to get obsessed. Holly Talbott Taplett sounds ridiculous, yes, but he could be it, my next chapter. I called Kiki.

“Go, girl, that is GREAT! Snaggin' guys at the fucking coffee bar, what a buzz!”

“Come on, you make me sound like a trollop,” I joked. “So, Kiki, promise me you'll come with me?”

“Ugh . . . you know I hate that pretentious contemporary art scene. I screwed an auctioneer at Sotheby's for a year and he talked about exceeded estimates in the sack; what a turnoff. The guy got boners for paintings with dead butterfly corpses glued on them.”

“Pleeeease? Come on, Kiki, no one builds me up like you do.

And he's gonna be the center of the action, so it's not like he can really hang out with me! I need a cohort. Pretty please?”

“Okay. I must really love you if I'm going to hang out in one of those Sprockets-fests with a sea of black turtlenecks and white walls.”

“Thank you! Thank you! I owe you one.”

“You bet your ass you do.”

 

 

 

A week later, Tim's assistant called to say that he would be returning from London and wanted to see Miles. Coincidentally, it was the night of the benefit I would be attending with Lars and Emma, so I didn't have to get a sitter. Even though I ended up semidreading the evening, it was kind of nice to get dolled up in black tie. When Miles came in as I was spraying my finishing spritz of perfume, the buzzer rang and my ex was on his way up.

“Wow, Holly? You look . . . great,” Tim commented when I opened the door. Ha. Eat your heart out. Still, even on my best night I couldn't look twenty-frigging-five like Avery.

“Thanks. So you'll take him to school tomorrow?”

“Sure, will do.”

“Okay, great, thanks! Bye—”

I leaned down to kiss Miles good-bye and could sense Tim looking me over. I knew he was wondering where I was going, but I didn't mention a thing, as if I always pranced around in tight gowns and spike heels, not schleppy bathrobes and spinster slippers. Little did he know the evening ahead of me would probably be a huge nightmarish bore and the event I was truly intrigued by was a week away at the Lyle Spence Gallery. But what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. It was my turn to get out in the world, and I didn't owe him a thing.

 

 

 

L
ars and Emma's chauffeur-driven Cadillac Escalade was outside waiting for me, and though I was basically in an armored urban tank, I felt vulnerable. Not since I went stag with all my girlfriends to my junior prom was I so gussied up without a hand to hold. When we got to Cipriani on Forty-second Street, my heart started to pound as I entered the grand ballroom—a former bank with such exquisitely ornate architecture, it was truly a landmark treasure. Flashbulbs flew as many high-profile trustees of the charity—from Harvey Weinstein to the CEO of General Electric to the heads of every major investment bank and the hedge fund elite—swarmed in, seeking their calligraphied cards of table assignments.

I milled around the cocktail hour a bit awkwardly by my lonesome, but a delicious bellini took the edge off, as did some caviar (Kiki always called us “the Roe Hos”). As I happily sipped my peach-infused champagne, I noticed a pair of green eyes trained on me. They belonged to a familiar-looking guy, though I had no idea who he was. He was extremely attractive—but not in that pretty-boy, too-angular way where they're so hot that everyone notices; he had that special kind of gleam that made him appealing in a warm, cuddly way. A total grade-A nugget.

“Hi,” I said, in sixth-grade mode.

“Hi there, Holland, right? I'm Elliot—”

“Yes, hi, how are you?” We shook hands. I knew we'd met, but I couldn't place him. His green eyes were so amazing, they looked quasi contacty, which would be scary were his smile not so nice.

“I met you very briefly. In the park, with your son?” he responded. “And your friend, Kiki?”

“Oh, yes—” I vaguely recalled Kiki trying to strike up conversation with him. He was very cute. But another 10021 guy? No way. Plus, if he was there, he was obviously in the banking world, which was too close for comfort. No matter what.

It was among my top three bullet points. If I actually went online to do a profile or something, my request for a non-banker would be as much in lights as one for a non-smoker.

“Holly!” I heard behind me. Emma. In full Oscar de la Renta beaded gown to the floor, as if it were the Oscars. But I guess for her it was, since she and her husband were the honorary chairs of the evening and Bill Cunningham from the
Times
was snapping away for Sunday's paper.

“Emma, Lars, hi! Thank you so much for having me—this is spectacular!”

As Elliot wandered away, I got caught up in introductions to their friends who would also be at our table, including a widower who was much older. Not my type, as I don't date dwarves. The poor guy didn't clear my boobs, so there was no way I'd Katie Holmes over him no matter what elevator shoes he procured from John Lobb. Great, I knew there was some ulterior motive to my being invited. Oh, well. We chatted through the appetizer and I could tell he was a kind man, but clearly we were ill suited. And that would probably be how it was from now on: Match Holly with anyone who can walk. She's single now, she has a kid, and she'd be lucky to get anyone in this ballroom! Nice.

The evening droned on and there were many speeches about all the good the money was doing, and at one point as I scanned the grand room, zombie-like, I saw a beautiful blonde shamelessly flirting with Elliot. Just as I was about to casually nudge Emma to ask who he was, the spotlight fell upon our table and she and Lars rose to go to the podium to accept a trophy for their generous philanthropic efforts around the city.
Le tout
Wall Street clapped in their honor and I looked around, noticing the same crew of bedecked wives. Emilia d'Angelo and Mary Grassweather, with glistening wrists covered in diamonds; Posey Smith, who was in Oscar, gave me a wave across the dance floor. I felt a bit of a sting that she had never followed up with me about that glass of wine—we used to spend time alone together as friends, but now I could see she'd moved on. It's funny, I knew that if I were to go home with and date and marry the geezer next to me, like that other divorcée at our school, I would instantly regain my social standing. My new armor of another wealthy (albeit older) husband would reinstate me as a worthy friend, committee chairperson, trustee of the school or museum or hospital. My haute couture and glittering jewels would be a wearable E-ZPass back into society. But lately, when I saw a huge diamond necklace from Fred Leighton, I wondered: Was it a Forgive Me present? My eyes settled on another neck, covered with canary yellow diamonds from Graff. Was that a Please Take Me Back gift? Was each woman committing to stay for these precious gems, tacitly agreeing to look the other way while their husbands had their cakes and fucked them, too? My mind was reeling when my cell phone beeped with a text message from Kiki, interrupting these musings.

“Does your robot party suck? Meet me at Marion's on the Bowery.”

Since dessert was being served and I saw a few old fogies and young parents starting to thank their various hosts and bid adieu to their tables, I bolted.

 

 

 

The vibe couldn't have been more different at the downtown bar, with kitsch galore dangling from the ceiling, loud music, and strong gem-hued cocktails that rivaled those bellinis.

“Holleeeeeee!” Kiki yelled when I walked in, making me feel very much like I had entered Cheers. She had a table in the back with some of her girlfriends whom I'd met before, all very hip and wild, without edit buttons, à la Kiki.

“Holly! Girl, you look fierce!” Eliza, who worked for Vera Wang, so kindly said. “You look much younger, too!”

“Really?”

“That's 'cause I gave her a total makeover and we got rid of half her stuffy-ass closet,” bragged Kiki, winking at me. “We filled her disgusting Vera Bradley tote with all her preppy crap and torched it. She's a fox now, right?”

“Total minx,” replied Carrie. “And speak of the devil!” Out walked a nice-looking but younger, like, much younger, guy from the bathroom. “Nick! This is Holly, Kiki's BFF!” said Eliza.

“Hi, I'm Nick.” He was adorable, but
hello
? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?

Okay, so I soon discovered he was twenty-eight. But at thirty-four, that felt like waaay too tender an age for me.

“Holly, what can I get you?” he asked. He whipped his sweatshirt off, revealing a white T-shirt and his forearms, which were sleeved in tattoos.

“Um, I'm, uh, not much of a drinker.”

“Come on, don't make me drink alone—I'm gonna surprise you, how 'bout that?”

“Uh . . .” I looked at Kiki, whose eyes were widened as if to say,
Don't be an idiot, get a drink!
So I agreed, though I had to be up bright and early to give tours the next day at Miles's school.

The next thing I knew I was clinking glasses with Nick and his roommates, all three chefs at various restaurants I had never heard of. And I loved that.

As my eye fell on his tats, he clearly saw me register that they were . . . well . . . in your face. But somehow weirdly appealing.

“This one's great, isn't it? My friend Scott Campbell in Williamsburg did it. He's a fucking artist, man.”

I asked about his cooking, thinking how nice it would be to sit in his kitchen and have him whip up something delicious and have
Like Water for Chocolate
sex-through-food, minus the whole dying-in-a-fire thing.

I felt myself getting drunk. As in, hammered, old-school-style. I don't think I ever once lost control in my ten years with Tim—okay, maybe once in a blue moon a little too much champagne at a wedding, but not like this, in black tie, laughing with people in their twenties who didn't have children. But it felt refreshing. Freeing. I had turned back the clock. At least until my morning hangover, which felt light-years away in the current haze of neon, clinking glasses, and vintage Blondie.

 

 

 

A
s I lay, head throbbing, trying to get out of bed and don a pantsuit fit for touring prospective parents, I tried to piece together the prior evening, since I truly didn't remember getting home. Thank God I'd had a relatively quick divorce settlement or Sherry Von would have had PIs trailing me to see if I was some lush and unfit mom, not that I ever would have pounded like that were Miles not with Tim. Thirty-four is too old to be on the hooch like that, I thought, even if for one night in eons.

Then I remembered all of us stumbling outside onto the Bowery, Kiki kissing some chef boy, and Nick putting his arm around me. His motorcycle jacket felt tight around my shoulder and I felt protected. I remembered my speech wasn't that clear as I uttered something about there being no cabs and he said, “I have a ride.” In Tim's world, that meant a chauffeur-driven car waiting outside. I said, “Great,” and was then led by Nick through the cold air to a motorcycle in front of the old CBGBs. It was starting to come back to me: My mom would have spazzed. I stuttered something about this maybe not being such a good idea, picturing myself in a full-body cast peeing through a hole cut out of the plaster into a bedpan.