The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Right next to me a very exotic-looking girl was propped up on a bar stool, frantically kissing a dark-skinned man. She was edging him farther and farther back against the bar. It looked incredibly uncomfortable for him. As he was pressed backward, a skullcap suddenly fell off the back of his head and plopped onto the bar. He didn’t notice, and Lauren and I tried hard to stifle our giggles.

  “That’s Salome Al-Firaih. She’s known,” whispered Lauren archly, “as the Middle East Peace Plan Divorcée. She’s never not kissing someone of the opposite religion. She’s unbearably cool. I’m modeling myself on her.”

  With that, Lauren stepped over to Salome and tapped her on the shoulder, saying,

  “Salome. You should be careful. This isn’t Geneva. This is the Hotel Rivington.”

  “Lauren! I’m busy,” hissed Salome, barely unlocking her lips.

  Salome resembled a Middle Eastern Sophia Loren. Her skin was the color of an overpriced Fauchon praline, and her shoulder-length black tresses glistened like an oil slick. Bambi-length eyelashes framed her jade irises, and her décolletage was corseted into a very revealing frock. She had the classy Arabian bombshell look down.

  “Salome, you’ve got to be discreet,” said Lauren to Salome’s hair. She sounded slightly bossy.

  Salome glanced up momentarily and winked naughtily at Lauren.

  “Darling, happy divorce!” she said. “Why be discreet when everyone knows everything anyway?”

  The “everything” that “everyone” knows is that Salome, a twenty-eight-year-old Saudi princess, had married Harvard-educated Faisal Al-Firaih, a nephew of the king, when she was twenty-one, in an arranged marriage. A few years after they wed, he brought her to New York, where he was taking care of family business. About a year ago he’d had to go back to the Middle East for three months, which was when Salome discovered Bungalow 8, the after-2 A.M. private club favored by downtown royalty. Meanwhile, Manhattan disovered Salome, and Salome discovered she loved being photographed. Although she looked as sophisticated as a panther, Bungalow 8 was only the second nightclub Salome had ever been to. She went man-crazy and vodkatini-mad, and hoarded Bungalow 8 slippers as though they were art. One night she was spotted making out with Shai Fledman, an American–Israeli property guy. Unhappily, Faisal read about his wife the next morning in Page Six Online under the extended headline “The Saudi-Princess-Israeli-Hunk Diaries.” He called Salome from Riyadh, said, “I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you,” and that was it. Under Sharia law they were instantly divorced. Now Salome’s dating the Jewish guy. Her parents won’t speak to him. His parents won’t speak to her. Salome’s parents won’t speak to her either, which is why Salome calls herself the One Woman Road Map.

  I couldn’t stop staring at Salome, partly because of her show-stopping performance in the kissing department, but also because she seemed to glow from within. Thackeray, I thought, would love to dress her if Alixe Carter didn’t work out, which was looking less and less likely. Salome was far more intriguing than a movie star or TV celebrity.

  “She’d be great for Thackeray,” whispered Lauren.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” I said under my voice.

  Lauren literally dragged Salome off Shai, amid much giggling and hysterics. She gestured toward me.

  “I want you to meet my friend Sylvie,” said Lauren.

  “Hi,” said Salome. “I love your dress.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I would call Salome next week and get her into the studio. I had to be smarter about this one than I had been about Alixe. A waiter glided by with a tray of champagne.

  “Want some?” I asked Salome.

  “Nope. Champagne doesn’t do anything. I only drink spirits. Vodka shot, please,” she said to the waiter.

  “Coming up,” he replied, and headed back toward his station.

  Just then, a very in-proportion pregnant person—as far as I can gather, the only kind of pregnant people allowed out at night in Manhattan—appeared. She had a glossy ponytail and was wearing skinny jeans and a ruched peasant top. Her belly was as neat as a cantaloupe underneath it.

  “Lauren! My eligible man’s already with someone else!” she said excitedly.

  “Phoebe Calder. God, I so appreciate you being here. Midnight’s really late for a pregnant lady. You look really thin,” lied Lauren.

  “I feel like a sideways camel,” lied Phoebe.

  “I wouldn’t even know you’re pregnant,” lied Salome.

  Just then the waiter appeared with an entire tray of vodka shots. He put them down on the little table beside us. Everyone except Phoebe took one. Shai, miserable now he was no longer glued to Salome, took two.

  “Phoebe, have you met Sylvie?” said Lauren.

  Phoebe smiled warmly at me. I hadn’t met her before, but her name sounded familiar. She blinked a little shyly, and then said, “I’ve known Hunter since I was a debutante. I heard you did the secret wedding thing. Congratulations on nailing him. He’s devastatingly handsome. What a player he was. Ooooh, he was wonderful.”

  “Yes, he’s pretty wonderful,” I agreed, ignoring Phoebe’s other observations.

  Salome, who, I decided, was a more sensitive soul than her appearance would suggest, rapidly changed the subject. “When are you due?” she said, between vodka shots.

  “A month or so. We just came back from our last trip to Europe. Dr. Sassoon would have had me arrested if he’d known I was still flying. Sylvie, we spotted Hunter in London. Two weekends ago. He’s still madly attractive, madly.”

  “Paris,” I corrected her. “He’s in Paris.”

  “Well, we saw him in London. Ooops.”

  What was Phoebe talking about? Hunter was in London? Two weekends ago? But…my mind whirred back. Was that…was that the weekend I hadn’t been able to get hold of Hunter? My breath caught in my throat. I tried to scramble through my mental calendar, piecing together dates…it was almost exactly two weeks ago, wasn’t it, that I had been unable to track down Hunter…although, who knew what two—or was it three by now—vodka shots had done to my diary skills? This was ludicrous. Phoebe was talking nonsense.

  “He was in his hotel in Paris all weekend,” I said firmly. “Business meetings.”

  “Absent husbands! Ha ha ha!” laughed Phoebe. “I never see mine either. It’s wonderful.”

  Sensing an awkward atmosphere, Lauren asked, “How’s your baby line going, Phoebe?”

  “Eeeuuch! It’s such hard work. My samples are in Shanghai. They should be back next week.”

  “Excuse me, I’m going to the restroom,” I said, and exited quickly.

  When I got there I locked myself into a stall. Had Hunter been in London? Why would Phoebe say that? More importantly, if he had been there, why hadn’t he told me? Suddenly I heard the door to the ladies’ room bang open. Someone knocked on the door of the stall, and I came out to find Salome and Lauren peering at me with concern in their eyes.

  “There you are,” said Lauren. “Don’t worry about Phoebe; her brain’s totally mushed when she’s pregnant. There’s no way she saw Hunter in London. She just loves to stir things up.”

  “Really?” I said. I hoped Lauren was right.

  “Yes,” said Salome. “The only thing Phoebe ever says is, ‘My samples are in Shanghai!’ It’s her mantra. They’ve been there two years.”

  This wasn’t quite true. Phoebe was an extremely successful, if notoriously ambitious, baby-wear creatrice. But it was sweet of Salome to pretend she was a total loser.

  “Come on back out. I want you to meet someone,” said Lauren, tugging me by the hand.

  The “someone” was Sanford Berman. (His second name had been shortened from Bermothovoski when his family moved from Russia to America in 1939). He was sitting awkwardly on one of the fur poufs in his suit and tie, sipping Perrier. Despite being the ancient, Jello-bodied mogul type, he oozed powerful-man charisma. He seemed to know everyone, and every
one wanted to know him. Phoebe was circling his pouf like a famished lioness when Lauren and I walked over, but as soon as Sanford saw Lauren, his focus shifted. It was as though he’d trained a searchlight on her. He couldn’t see anyone else.

  “Ah,” he said, holding his hands out to Lauren, who took them in hers. Sanford remained pouf-bound, and Lauren sat down next to him. Everyone else stood around, looking down at both of them. “The most beautiful girl in New York.” Sanford raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it.

  Sanford was completely and utterly, madly, whatever you want to call it, in love with Lauren.

  “Sanford, I want you to meet Sylvie,” said Lauren, gesturing toward me.

  “Nice to see you,” I said, shaking Sanford’s hand. It felt like a cold pack.

  “If you’re Lauren’s friend, you’re my friend,” said Sanford amiably.

  Phoebe peered at Sanford expectantly, but he didn’t say anything to her. Sanford turned back to Lauren, and said, “My dear, I have a business proposition for you.”

  “Finally. You want me to find something for your lovely wife?” asked Lauren.

  “No, it’s for me.”

  “I hope you’re gonna spoil yourself.”

  “Remember those Fabergé cuff links I lost at auction—”

  “—wait!!!” interrupted Phoebe. “The same thing happened to me. When I lost a Lalique gorgon pendant at the Phillips auction, I was physically sick. I went to the doctor and said, I’m going to die. And the doctor said, if you want to live you must buy the gorgon. So I bought it from Fred Leighton after the auction for double the price, and here I am. Alive.”

  Everyone looked at Phoebe. She suddenly blushed and said, “I’m really focusing on my business. My samples are in Shanghai, you know.”

  “We know,” said Salome. “Let’s go get dessert.”

  Salome and Phoebe disappeared and Lauren and I were left with Sanford. He turned and fixed her with a commanding look.

  “I’m serious, Lauren. I want to own the Nicholas II Fabergé cuff links. I haven’t a clue who’s got ’em now.”

  Sanford, I learned, had surprisingly exquisite taste. Owners of Fabergé cuff links can barely hold on to them right now, they are so desired, even with price tags of $80,000 and up. If they’d looked Tsar Nicholas, or possibly Rasputin, in the face, they were even more sought after. For Lauren, the more difficult the commission, the more crazed she was about pulling it off. She once told me she usually spends more money on private planes in pursuit of the jewels than she ever makes in profit, but, as she says, what else is she going to do between lunch and dinner?

  “I can find them for you,” she said, “but, Sanford, there’s no knowing if the owner will sell.”

  “You could persuade a man to give you his entire portfolio just by blinking at him,” said Sanford flirtatiously.

  Lauren laughed.

  “I’ll try my best,” she said.

  “Thank you, my darling,” said Sanford. He kissed her on the cheek and wobbled shakily off the pouf to leave. “I have to go, but keep me posted, OK?”

  Lauren nodded, and looked after him as he left the room. She seemed a little wistful.

  “He’s cute,” she said.

  “He’s completely in love with you,” I told her.

  “Pshhht,” she said, laughing. “He’s such an awesome friend. This is a brilliant project. Those cuff links are so rare. For once I feel really excited about something. Other than my sex life.”

  “Darling, it’s Sylvie,” I said.

  “Honey, you’re up so late. What time is it there?” said Hunter.

  It was 3 A.M. in New York, 9 A.M. in Paris. I was standing in the kitchen, wide awake, phone clenched in my hand. There was no way I could sleep when I got home after Lauren’s shower. I was too freaked out about what Phoebe had said, though I couldn’t admit it to myself earlier.

  “I just got in from Lauren’s divorce shower. It didn’t even start till midnight.”

  “Go to sleep and let’s speak when you wake up,” said Hunter.

  “Hunter, I’m missing you masses,” I said.

  Since that difficult conversation a couple of weeks ago, when Hunter had gone AWOL from his hotel, everything had returned to normal. I had almost forgotten about the whole episode, and Hunter had been sweeter than ever, despite his absence, calling to chat whenever he could. I half didn’t even want to mention what Phoebe had said tonight. But I had to.

  “I met an old friend of yours tonight. Phoebe?” I said.

  “I haven’t seen her in years. How was she?” asked Hunter.

  Years? What about a couple of weeks ago, I thought. Internally steeling myself, I replied, “Very pregnant. She said she saw you two weekends ago, Hunter.” I paused, then added, “On your secret trip to London.”

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone. I angrily opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of champagne from an open bottle. I took a sip. Nothing happened. I didn’t feel delightfully dizzy. Maybe Salome was right about champagne: it didn’t work.

  Suddenly Hunter said, “Phoebe! She never talks any sense. Her hormones are probably all over the place. I did see her, at Chez Georges in Paris, with Peter, her husband. She’s huge.”

  “Why did you say you hadn’t seen her for years?” I demanded.

  “Sylvie, darling. I love you very much. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Had I mentioned being worried? Why did he suddenly think I was worried? Did that mean I really did have something to worry about?

  “I’m not worried,” I lied.

  “Good. So stop worrying and go to bed. Forget about Phoebe. She’s just a pregnant flake. Would you mind going out to dinner with her and her husband when I’m back?”

  Is it possible, I wondered as I lay in bed that night, for a marriage to be briefer than Liz Taylor and Nicky Hilton’s? Six weeks in, and I was already worrying about what my new husband was up to while he was away on business. But you go to a divorce shower, and suddenly the world is full of wicked husbands and boyfriends, and then you wake up (late) the next morning and your husband’s a saint. What had I been thinking last night? I was not the next Liz Taylor, and Hunter had not been lying to me. He had made it very clear that he had seen Phoebe, but in Paris. Phoebe had simply made a mistake, due to her pregnancy. Maybe being around all those divorcées had made my brain mushy.

  Over the next few days I busied myself with work and the finishing touches on the apartment. Milton’s team had worked miracles, and we suddenly had a stunningly beautiful apartment. Hunter was due back in a few days’ time, and I was dying to see him. He was going to love the apartment, I was sure of it. I could barely think of anything else. Work was a good distraction. I managed to get hold of Salome, who was sweet and gracious when I spoke to her and said she would love to wear Thackeray to Alixe Carter’s ball. We arranged an appointment for a week away. Thackeray loved the sound of her, saying, “I’ve gone beyond Alixe Carter anyway. A Saudi princess is so much more now.”

  A few days later, Milton arrived at the apartment staggering under the weight of two chandeliers he’d brought back from Paris. I helped him set them down in the hallway, and then we did a “walk-thru” of the apartment, as Milton called it. It looked gorgeous, and we ended our tour in my favorite spot, the kitchen. It now had pretty cream cabinets, mirrored back splashes, and a bright red silk blind at the window with a chocolate brown grosgrain trim. There was an old oak farm table in the middle of the room, with vintage bamboo chairs scattered around it. Milton had insisted on little red silk wall lamps instead of those recessed spotlights everyone has.

  “You need an Aga in here. The new white one,” said Milton. “Then it’ll be really cozy.” He looked at his watch, seeming rushed. “I can’t stay long. I’m leaving for Uzbekistan in the morning. Following in the footsteps of Diane von Furstenberg and Christian Louboutin. Three months on the Nouveau Silk Road. To work on my Target furniture line. I won’t be back till January.
How do you like the apartment?”

  “I love it. I can’t wait for Hunter to see it,” I said happily.

  “Look at you, you’re so cute,” said Milton. “You’re so in love with him, aren’t you?”

  I blushed a little and nodded.

  “No one I know is in love with their actual husband anymore,” said Milton. “Even the gay guys.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “Iced tea?”

  I poured two drinks and emptied a bag of chocolate chip cookies onto a plate. Milton grabbed one and perched on one of the chairs.

  “Mmmm,” grinned Milton.

  “Did you have fun in Paris?” I asked, leaning against the countertop.

  “Oh, yes. The Sophia family château was a-mazing.”

  “Hunter’s using it for some scene, right?”

  “Yup. He was very smart to hire her.”

  “He hired Sophia?” I asked, astonished.

  The notorious Husband Huntress was working for the husband? Surely Milton’s brain had gone very mushy. There is no way Hunter would have hired Sophia, particularly without mentioning it to me. We always discussed everything going on in his company.

  “Are you sure?” I gasped.

  “Don’t look so worried,” said Milton.

  “I’m not worried,” I said, almost choking on my cookie. Sometimes I think marriage should come with an FDA warning.

  “Sylvie, Sophia is dating Pierre Lombarden, you know, that guy who’s always in Paris Match. He’s best friends with the Monacos. I think he’s got connections in government. She’s not after Hunter. She gets bad press because of her a-mazing legs. Everyone’s so jealous of her. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I felt reassured. Milton was right. Amazing legs are nothing to worry about.