by Plum Sykes
“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 buyers 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!”
Milton, of course, was completely right. I walked across the room and unlocked the French windows, which open onto three delightful little ornamental balconies. From there all you see is the breezy, sun-blanched treetops of Washington Square Park and, above that, endless blue sky. Still, this had gone too far, I thought. I did not want a decorator, I reminded myself.
“Milton,” I said, “I don’t think I can afford you.” Surely that would put him off.
No answer. I turned to find that Milton had left the room. A few moments later I found him wafting like an orange cloud around the master bedroom.
“I think that look—done but not done—undone done—is what you want. Unstudied. Like you did it yourself. But you did it yourself with utter perfection. You need an antique headboard in here, hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, and Jan Sen side tables—”
“—Milton, I can’t possibly hire a decorator,” I said. “I love your ideas, but I’m just not that kind of girl.”
“Well, I’m a gift from Lauren, so you have no choice about it anyway,” he replied, heading toward the kitchen.
“What?” I said, following him in an alarmed fashion.
“I’m decorating your apartment. Lauren knew you’d never hire me yourself, so she’s hired me for you. Isn’t that adorable of her? Not to boast, but I’m brilliant at it, so it works for all of us. Glass of champagne?” he said, opening the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Without waiting for an answer he popped the cork on a bottle. He poured two drinks. We clinked glasses.
I took a sip, resigned: the Milton Effect was operating at a high level. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how little it takes to be persuaded that something you have long opposed is actually the best idea ever. Milton had me seduced within minutes, mainly by convincing me how lovely it would be for Hunter if he came back from Paris to at least three properly finished rooms—the kitchen, master bedroom, and the drawing room—and pointing out that I couldn’t possibly achieve that myself in under a month. He was right. Milton, I knew, was manipulating that part of me that wanted to surprise Hunter with some old-fashioned, non-career-girl, newlywed-style homemaking. I knew a comfortable home would make Hunter happy, particularly if he wasn’t expecting it, but I also knew that I didn’t have the time to pull it off. I had to admit to myself that the Chinese wallpaper did sound divine, and Milton told me he had the most amazing secret sources for wonderful furniture. In my head I was already planning a surprise birthday party here for Hunter—it would be a great entertaini
ng space when it was finished.
“Well,” said Milton, draining his glass, “this is going to be a breeze. It’s really just a cosmetic job. I think we can complete the main rooms by the time your husband gets back. Where is Hunter, anyway?”
“He’s in Paris. He’s working on locations for this new show,” I replied.
“How marvelous,” said Milton. “I must hook up with him when I’m over there next week. I’m going on a buying trip and then to visit Sophia. She has the most fabulous family place on the Ile St. Louis.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“She’s going to show me the Bourbon Palace in the countryside. No one’s been in it for forty years, but she is secretly a Bourbon, so she’s arranged it. You know she’d be queen of France if it wasn’t for all that ghastly business in 1789.”
“Milton, are you seeing Lauren at all?” I asked, changing the subject. The mention of Sophia was an unwelcome one, and I had other things on my mind.
“I’m going over there tonight before I leave for Paris.”
“Can you get her to call me?” I said. “I really need her help with something for work, but I can never get hold of her.”
“I’ll tell her to call the second I see her,” said Milton. “She’s probably sitting in her house at this very moment all lonely, not returning calls.”
5
Friends You Can’t Count On
That night my cell phone started ringing at something like half past God knows what time. Maybe it was 3 A.M., I don’t know. I dozily picked it up, hoping it was Hunter calling from Paris.
It was Lauren. She sounded wired.
“God, he’s just left,” she gasped. She was wide awake.
“Who?” I asked sleepily.
“Sanford, of course.”
“No!”
“I know. It’s way too late for a married man to be at a divorced girl’s house. Especially a cute divorced girl. I had to virtually call his own security to get rid of him. Do you like that new gardenia oil everyone’s suddenly wearing? It makes you smell like Hawaii.”
“What?” I said.
“Do you notice how I constantly A.D.D. from one subject to the next?”
“What did Sanford want?” I switched on the light and sat up a little in bed.
“Oh, you know, that…Of course, I didn’t do a thing, which made him crazy. I don’t do married men, I think it’s un-chic. God, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call you back. It’s totally my fault. I’ve been really sick actually, couldn’t do a thing. Anyway, what do you think of this whole gardenia oil thing?”
“I love it, but I don’t know where you get it,” I said.
“Bond No. 9. You can have mine. I really can’t stand that everyone’s gone all gardenia crazy downtown. Milton says I have to wear a gardenia in my hair the next time I throw one of my dinners, and that I should go barefoot. You should come to the next one.”
“I’d love to—”
“—sorry,” she interrupted. “Can you hold on a second?”
Lauren broke off. In the background I could hear another phone ringing. Lauren picked it up.
“Yes, darling…I miss you too,” I could hear her saying. “Oh, Noopy-Noo, no…can I call you back? What time is it there?…OK? Later.”
She came back to the telephone.
“Oh! Drama-erama.” She sighed.
“Who was that?”
“Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow?” said Lauren, ignoring my question.
“Sure,” I said. I could ask her about Alixe Carter then. “Where?”
“Let’s decide in the morning. Can I call you at eleven?”
Lauren called me absolutely on the dot of eleven the next morning at the studio. Frankly, I found her punctuality surprising and somewhat encouraging. Maybe Lauren wasn’t as terrible as she claimed, after all.
“God, I’m not late, am I?” she said when I picked up. “No. It’s literally one minute before eleven,” I answered.
“You’re going to think I’m absolutely the flakiest girl ever, but I have to cancel our lunch. I’m so gutted.”
So was I. What was I going to do about Thackeray’s dress project?
“Is everything OK?” I asked.
“Oh, God, it’s totally fine, but, well, it’s complicated. Lunch just isn’t even vaguely possible.”
“I was wondering if you could help me with a work thing? Do you want to go for tea instead?” I suggested hopefully.
“Oh, that would be so nice. But I can’t. I’m stuck in Spain.”
Lauren was in Madrid. Of course she was. Lauren, I soon came to realize, found staying in any one place longer than a heartbeat physically and emotionally impossible. Still, it was certainly ingenious to be in New York in the middle of the night and in Madrid the next morning. How had she gotten there?
“Privé,” she said in a low voice. “It wasn’t Sanford’s plane or anything. It’s this friend of mine. He booked a plane to go to Madrid last night and kept bugging me to go, and I guess at like 3 A.M. I thought it might be nice to spend the weekend in the mountains here. They’ve got the most fabulous horses, and I was desperate to ride, but now I’m here I wish I was having lunch with you. I’m sorry. Do you hate me?”
“No, don’t be crazy. What are you doing there?”
“Put it this way. Phase one of the Make Out Challenge is accomplished. One down! I had a Make Out with a Matador. I’m totally over him already.”
Lauren was as giddy as a schoolgirl. This was certainly rapid progress. Then she sighed and said, “The thing is, Mr. Madrid, who really is a part-time bull-fighter, looked divine over the kedgeree on the plane last night, but now I’m in his weird house in the hills with him, and the plants are giving me total claustrophobia. There’re so many palm trees in the courtyard it’s like The Day of the Triffids. But in the pursuit of my goal I must suffer it.” Lauren now sounded as solemn as a nun who has just taken a vow of celibacy. “He’s the first Make Out of my plan.”
“What was he like?” I asked her.
“Put it this way. Matador Make Out really took it out of me. Kissing a Spaniard is icky. They literally suck your tongue, like they want to swallow it. Ugh! I’d have an American who did that arrested. Needless to say, the shaved sable from Revillon, you know, the little pea coat with the antique buttons, is en route from Paris. I’m hoping it’ll be back in New York before me. I must mark each Make Out with a huge surprise for myself, n’est ce pas? After all, kissing a strange man is agony. The foreign saliva and everything…it’s like lukewarm oatmeal.”
“Ugh!” I laughed. “You definitely deserve a major fur.”
“God, I have to get out of here,” declared Lauren, “I’ll call you the second I’m back in town. Sending you a big kiss.”
I don’t usually mind about a girl being flaky, or canceling lunch, but Lauren took the Flaky New York Girl thing to the edge of acceptability. Let me explain. A certain amount of flakiness, last-minute canceling, letting-down, and general uselessness in the friendship department is the norm in New York among a certain set. The fact is that very pretty, well-to-do girls are allowed to let everyone else down more than their less attractive, less liquid counterparts. Lauren had taken the art of flakiness to another level. She constantly let people down, but with such charm that her flakiness was not only widely accepted but considered rather alluring. Still, what wasn’t at all charming were the next two days I spent at the studio, with Thackeray constantly asking if I had gotten hold of Alixe Carter yet.
The next thing I heard from Lauren, a few days after Milton had come over, was via messenger. That Thursday I was working from home and keeping an eye on Milton’s army of workers (who, I must say, had done wonders in only a few days) when a package arrived with a lilliputian envelope on top. It was of the palest pink, and inside was a matching postage-stamp-size note on which was written, in hot pink ink,
Sorry! Lunch 1 pm Blue Ribbon? xxxx L
There is nothing like composing an apol
ogy to leave a New York girl feeling slightly unhinged. This surely explains the current vogue for monogrammed note cards of dimensions so diminutive (2” by 3” is the smallest currently available) that they are barely able to contain more than four words. Divine dinner darling! Cecile x is about the most you can get on a card, and that’s if you use both sides. Some unkind people have started to say that Manhattan girls favor minuscule writing cards with no room to say anything because they have nothing to say.
The thing about Lauren’s flakiness is that it’s all-encompassing. It’s not just about canceling. It also includes making brand-new arrangements that are as last-minute as last-minute cancellations. When a flake springs “plans” there is no recourse, because they are probably plans you are extremely interested in having.
For a moment, while reading Lauren’s chic little card, I felt like telling Lauren that I already had plans. Meanwhile, I grumpily unwrapped the little package. Inside was a heavy glass bottle of the Bond No. 9 gardenia oil perfume—named, incidentally, New York Fling. There was also an old-fashioned atomizer, very chic, covered in orange calfskin with a bright green squirter on top. I couldn’t help being thrilled by such a decadent item. I decanted the perfume into the atomizer and sprayed a little on my wrist. It smelled delicious. Maybe I didn’t have plans after all.
I called Thackeray and warned him that I might be gone the whole afternoon. He thought it was worth it if we could get Alixe into a fitting in the studio. God, I thought, as I dressed for lunch later that morning, I hardly knew Lauren, and now I was going to have to ask her to help me out of an embarrassing situation involving her very close friend. I threw on a new pair of chocolate brown velvet Hudson jeans and a white cashmere car coat. If my emotional state was anxious, I hoped my outfit disguised it.