The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes

  “Because last night there were precisely five condoms in the packet. And this morning there were precisely none, and I came every time,” declared Lauren, matter of factly. There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment about her.

  “Who is Five Orgasms? Does he have a name?” I inquired.

  “Yes, but I can’t remember it. Two down on the Make Out Marathon! I’ve ordered a new, white Kelly Mu with rose gold hardware to celebrate Number Two. God, he was unbelievable! That was more orgasms in one night than I had in my entire marriage,” squealed Lauren, opening her makeup purse and rummaging around in it.

  “I thought it was a…Make Out Challenge,” I teased her. “Kissing only?”

  “I’m not in high school any more,” said Lauren. “Divorcées like…”

  “Fucking,” said Tinsley absentmindedly. “Lauren, have you got that sticky lip gloss I like in your purse? Chanel Sirop? Nicky adores it. It glues me to his face. We’ve got a daytime rendezvous in half an hour. There’s going to be a lot of f—”

  “—enough,” interrupted Lauren. “Sylvie is a respectable married girl. She’ll die if she hears you talk about that one more time. Here.” She handed Tinsley a pink stick of lip gloss.

  The truth is that in New York wives make love, girlfriends have sex, and divorcées fuck. The opportunities in the city for such activity are endless. After all, there’s a luxury hotel every inch of every block, usually with excellent fucking facilities included in the tariff. The Playground, the most expensive suite at Soho House, has a bed the size of France, a bath bigger than the Pacific, plus a shower that is as whooshy as Niagara Falls and shoots water at you from every conceivable angle. It’s booked up every Saturday night between now and 2007 by divorcées. Lauren’s Make Out Challenge seemed to have evolved in the last twenty-four hours into a lip-gloss and condom-dependent, sex-without-commitment competition with Tinsley.

  “It’s my fault. I’m a terrible influence,” said Tinsley. She was swishing the lip-gloss wand back and forth, back and forth, over her lips. They seemed to visibly swell and pinken every time. When she was done they looked like two plump little cocktail sausages. “This stuff is genius. Doormen, beware! God, am I so tacky or what?”

  Tinsley had gone boy-mad, boy being the operative word. She was currently very much “enjoying herself,” as she liked to put it, with her eighteen-year-old doorman, the aforementioned Nicky, as well as with her twenty-one-year-old FreshDirect delivery guy, who was generally given access to her building by the aforementioned youthful doorman. Tinsley was thrilled with her Mrs. Robinson–style Love Triangle and relished the logistical complications.

  “What about Moscow Make Out?” I asked Lauren, thinking of the UnGoogle-able man. “Does he still count as Make Out potential?”

  “I’m obviously still completely madly in love with him,” Lauren smiled. “I think I’m on to him. His first name is ‘Giles.’ Isn’t that a hot name? He’s going to be at the ice polo next month, I’m sure of it—”

  “—who’s ‘Moscow’?” interrupted Tinsley, suddenly alert.

  “No one,” said Lauren, starting to open her compact and mouthing “Don’t say anything” at me.

  “So, listen, I have some very unfortunate news about Marci,” declared Tinsley.

  “I know it already,” said Lauren.

  “What?” I asked.

  “She found Christopher in bed with her ex-college roommate. At least that’s the rumor being spread out there by the Baby Buggy chair, Valerie Gervalt,” said Tinsley.

  “No,” I said, shocked.

  “All the signs were there. He was really vague about all those business trips, and Marci didn’t think anything of it—fool. And she found a locked drawer in his desk—always a major indicator of infidelity. Then, he didn’t notice her new Rochas gown. Six thousand dollars on his credit card and he didn’t notice!”

  “Is she OK?” I asked. “Maybe I could go visit her. Poor Marci.”

  “She hasn’t eaten in four days. She looks like a prisoner of war. She’s thrilled. She hasn’t lost that much weight since her bout with anorexia in 1987,” said Tinsley.

  “Stop being so cruel, T.,” said Lauren. “Marci’s in terrible shape. She really needs her friends right now. I’m going over there tomorrow. She’s well rid of that cheating creep. She’ll have more fun as a divorcée anyway.”

  “Do you think we should go back out there?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be looking for Alixe Carter.”

  “I wanna see some of those cutie mommies and babies. Lauren, you are trash,” laughed Tinsley, stubbing out her cigarette. She twirled out the door.

  I didn’t make any effort to get up; nor did Lauren. I popped an almond in my mouth and crunched it noisily.

  “What’s wrong?’

  “Nothing,” I lied. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to tell Lauren about the hotel bill.

  “You look depressed. Was it our conversation? Did it totally disgust you? You look really depressed.”

  Was it that obvious?

  “It’s Hunter’s…dry cleaning,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” said Lauren.

  I sighed, and then told Lauren the truth.

  “I found this…hotel bill in his dry cleaning. It was from somewhere he said he hadn’t been. I think he’s been lying to me.”

  “Oh, God,” said Lauren slowly.

  “What shall I do?”

  “You should come to Moscow with me for the ice polo, and forget all about it. November 6th. Put it in your diary.”

  “I’m very tempted. But, seriously, what am I going to do?” I continued.

  “Maybe its not what it seems—” began Lauren. “It’s very un-cool to make a fuss until you’re absolutely sure. Oh dear, you look a little tearful.”

  “I feel pretty dreadful,” I said, trying not to weep.

  This wasn’t the moment to collapse in a state of distress about my husband’s globe-trotting activities. Still, I felt my eyes starting to well. Pulling myself together, I looked at my watch. It was already 2:30. I decided to walk back through the party once more, and see if I could find Alixe. If not, I would go straight back to the office. The main thing was not to dwell on any of this stuff. Plus, Lauren had a point: I couldn’t do anything if I wasn’t sure.

  “OK, I’m heading out,” I said, getting up.

  “I’ll call you later about everything,” said Lauren knowingly. “But don’t go saying anything to Hunter about it.”

  “Good advice. Thanks,” I said.

  As I walked back through the store, the crowd was thinning out. Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder.

  “Sylvie? Sylvie?”

  I turned around. Alixe was standing beside me, a worried look on her face.

  “Sylvie, what happened about my fitting?”

  How blissful to have a memory so lousy that you can actually forget that you’ve forgotten stuff. Deciding it was better not to mention that Alixe had missed the fitting, I said, “You can come any time.”

  “I am so desperate for a gown. I was worried Thack had…gone and forgotten about me—oh, look!” she said, grabbing a tiny yellow raincoat off a rack. “I’ve got to have this. It’s amazing. Pheobe is amazing.”

  “I’ll call you later, Alixe, and set up a time,” I said.

  “Lovely. Can’t wait.”

  While I was standing at the door waiting to retrieve my coat, there was suddenly a flurry of activity. While Phoebe and Valerie were kissing everyone good-bye, Marci suddenly arrived, and kissed absolutely everyone hello, as if it were the beginning of the party rather than the end. She was fully made up, with Schiaparelli-pink lips. She was dressed in skinny, black satin pants, high peep-toe shoes revealing red toenails, and a floppy, black silk blouse with a huge bow at the neck. It was exactly like Olivia Newton-John’s metamorphosis moment in Grease, only for real.

  “Marci,” I said, “are you OK?”

  “I feel amazing,” she replied. “The scoliosis has comple
tely gone. I’m a size zero.”

  She was always a size zero, and she never had scoliosis, so no change there.

  “Oooh, Valerie, hi—” said Marci swooping on the glamorous mother and child. “Aaah, Baba? Baba—”

  There was no response from the exhausted child, so Marci poked her face nearer to it. She pushed her lips into a boiling pink pout, about to kiss Baba.

  “Waaahhhhhh!” yelled Baba.

  “Baba, it’s only Marci—”

  Baba started squawking like a chicken and thrashing around. Suddenly he turned toward Marci, at which point she leaned in closer to him. He immediately vomited. The puke globbed lumpily down Marci’s silk blouse.

  “Eee-uych!” yelped Marci, recoiling. “What is wrong with that child?”

  “Your lipstick,” said Valerie, turning away from Marci abruptly. “Babies hate…makeup. It negatively impacts their brain development. I have to get him away from here.”

  With that, Valerie exited, and Marci flushed a luminous, embarrassed red. She looked at me, worried. Then she asked, “Did that baby just snub me?”

  12

  Marci’s Meltdown

  “Scram! Screaming Sixteen-Month-Old Snubs Scorned Socialite!” declared Gawker Stalker the next morning. Socialite Baby can wreak havoc with a grown woman’s self-esteem as no adult can. Marci went into hiding. Literally. No one could reach her, and the only person who could have coaxed her out—Lauren—also seemed to have disappeared. There were rumors that Lauren had been spotted the morning after Phoebe’s luncheon at 6 A.M. in the lobby of the Mark Hotel wearing workout gear and huge sunglasses, and getting into an elevator. Apparently she pressed P.H. when she got in. The rumor was spreading fast, mainly because it was also rumored that Sanford Berman kept a permanent penthouse suite there. No one had seen her since.

  I didn’t believe it. The fact was, Lauren never got up before 11 A.M.. Plus, she’d told me categorically that she couldn’t have sex with a waterbed. Anyway, aside from all the silly gossip, I desperately needed to speak to her: she was the only person I had mentioned the strange hotel bill to, and for the past few days it had been nagging at me, almost oppressively. Still, the last thing Lauren had said to me was, don’t mention it to Hunter. Crazy as she was, I also thought that Lauren had an instinctual wisdom when it came to relationships. I decided not to say anything for now, but it couldn’t last: Hunter soon sensed that I was not myself.

  One night when we were lying in bed, Hunter said, “Beautiful sheets…perfect for…” He leaned over and kissed me.

  “They’re Olatz,” I said, turning away from him. “Your cousin sent them as a wedding gift.”

  It’s amazing what a $600, Portuguese linen, lace-trimmed, hand-sewn pillowcase can’t do to cheer you up sometimes. I felt far too anxious for any sort of romance that night, Olatz sheets or not.

  “Darling, what’s the matter?” said Hunter sweetly.

  “I’m fine,” I said, eyes clamped shut. “Tired.”

  “You seem sad,” said Hunter, stroking my back.

  “Mmmm…not sad,” I mumbled. Actually, I was furious. But I didn’t know what to do about it.

  “I wanted to ask you if you could come to Paris for a week with me, on my next trip. I’m planning to go the first week in November. Would that cheer you up?”

  That was a lovely offer. But, the fact was, I was in a state about Hunter. I couldn’t let him off that easily.

  “I don’t need cheering up,” I said sulkily, turning on the light and glaring at my husband.

  “Why are you frowning in that adorable, grumpy way, then?” said Hunter, looking faintly amused. “What is it?”

  Hunter was so cute it made maintaining a fury with him at the level required virtually impossible. And look at him, he looked so delicious, all sleepy and snuggly lying next to me. I kissed him. Maybe I could drop all charges of misconduct, effective immediately? Maybe these overpriced linens were quite romantic…

  “Come on, darling, you’ve been moody for days,” insisted Hunter.

  Maybe I should say something. Get it over with. Maybe there would be a simple explanation, and I could go to Paris in November with Hunter and have a lovely time. The fact was, I couldn’t keep it in any longer, whatever Lauren had advised.

  “Well…there is…something,” I said finally. “The other day, when Jim brought back your suits, he gave me a bunch of receipts.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Hunter quizzically.

  I leaned over the edge of the bed and opened the drawer on the side table. There was the Ziploc bag. I took it out, opened it, and fished out the Blakes Hotel bill.

  “Please explain,” I said, holding out the bill toward him.

  Hunter examined the receipt.

  “It’s a hotel bill,” he said. “I should have given it to the accountant weeks ago.” He put it on his side table, as if there were nothing odd about it at all. “Now, how about my wife and I make full use of my cousin’s over-the-top gift…?”

  Hunter started nuzzling my shoulder. It was amazing. He was acting like nothing was wrong. I drew away from him, upset.

  “Hunter, I am trying to have a horrible fight with you!” I burst out, shoving him off me.

  “What could a newly married couple as happy as we are possibly have to fight about?” he said jokily. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all.

  “Why did you lie to me about being in London?” I asked. There. I’d said it. Maybe that was the end of our one-minute marriage. I sat bolt upright and glared at him. Why did he look so…sexy…even when I was so angry with him. It was annoying.

  “What?” said Hunter, looking confused. He sat up in bed and rubbed his hand through his hair in a slightly agitated fashion. “I never lie to you. What are you talking about?”

  “When Phoebe said she saw you in London, you said her brain was mush and that she’d seen you in Paris,” I retorted.

  “Er…did I?” Hunter hesitated. He seemed to ponder a while, then said, “Hmmm…”

  Was he trying to get his story straight? Invent an alibi? Or was I being crazily suspicious for no reason? After what seemed an interminable silent interlude, Hunter finally said, “I thought Phoebe said she saw me in…London.”

  “She did!” I said sharply. “But you said you had never been in London.”

  Now I was getting confused. Maybe my brain was the mushy one.

  “Darling, I’m sorry. I’m traveling so much right now even I don’t know where I am half the time. All those European cities merge into one. I don’t mean to worry you, sweetheart,” said Hunter, taking my hand and kissing it.

  How London can merge into Paris I know not.

  “What were you doing in London anyway, on a weekend?” I asked crossly.

  “I think it was…”

  Hunter trailed off, as though he was slightly confused. Eventually he said, “…that was it. Some last-minute business meeting with the UK distributors. Sorry, I must have forgotten to tell you about it. I was in London for twenty-four hours and then went straight back to Paris.”

  What was it Tinsley had said, about Marci’s husband being “vague” about business meetings? Was this “vague” in the way Tinsley defined “vague”?

  “Blakes Hotel isn’t a business-meeting kind of hotel,” I declared sternly.

  “I know, darling. I want to take you there. It’s very romantic,” said Hunter.

  “Please,” I said frustrated.

  I couldn’t believe we were having the row we were having. Surely Christy Turlington never had arguments with that gorgeous guy in the Eternity ad.

  “What do you mean?” said Hunter.

  “I mean, I’m not a total fool.”

  “Oh, Sylvie, come on. You know I’m in different hotels all the time. Stop being absurd and let’s go to sleep.” He was getting annoyed now.

  “I am not being absurd! I am justifiably wondering what my husband was doing on a weekend in the sexiest hotel in London—”

  “—Sylvi
e. Stop. I am not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

  “But—”

  “Shush. Now you just want to argue for no reason. I’ve explained. That’s it. OK?”

  I always knew Hunter was a man of few words, but now I found it aggravating. I thought it was completely unfair that he now seemed to be furious with me. I tried again.

  “B—”

  “Darling, enough,” said Hunter grimly. “Either you believe me or you don’t. I am telling the truth.”

  Maybe I had been overreacting, I thought, annoyed with myself. I was tired and stressed out from work right now, which occasionally turned me into a little powder keg. And when I really thought about it, Hunter’s explanation was completely justifiable: he did travel like crazy right now, and what was one hotel versus another? It was probably all the same to him. Hunter was right, I would just have to trust him. Maybe I should take my husband up on what was a very nice offer, and not obsess so much about the little things. Paris was lovely in the winter without the tourists.

  “Darling, I’d love to go to Paris,” I said finally. I could definitely do some work while I was over there. We needed some stores in Europe. “I’m sorry I got so cross with you.”

  “We’ll have a lovely time,” said Hunter kindly. He never held anything against me; that was one of his finest qualities. “You come for a week, then I have to go to Frankfurt for ten days, then we’ll be back in New York together.”

  I kissed Hunter and burrowed under the comforter to get closer to him. Suddenly I had an idea.

  “You know what, I think that’s right before the weekend Lauren’s going to Moscow. She keeps bugging me to go with her. Maybe I’ll meet her there, when you go to Frankfurt,” I said. “I could do a little business for Thack, and there’s some ice polo match Lauren wants to go to.”

  “What on earth does Lauren want in Moscow?” asked Hunter, intrigued.

  “She calls it a business-pleasure trip. She’s trying to acquire this crazy pair of Fabergé cuff links for Sanford, and they happen to be owned by this guy she’s decided she’s madly in love with. The one she’s never met. He’s called Giles…what was his last name? Giles Monterey, that’s it. She calls him the UnGoogle-able Man.”