by Plum Sykes
What on earth was I going to say to Hunter, I wondered frantically, as the cab swerved down past the corner of Fifth and Twenty-third Street. I couldn’t believe that three hours ago I had been demanding a divorce, and now there was nothing I wanted less. I had been wrong about everything, but, however wrong one is, it’s hideous having to admit it. “I’m sorry” was a feeble antidote from a wife who had accused her husband of the ultimate marital crime. I felt terrible, completely ashamed of myself. Panicked and anxious, I could feel my lungs puffing faster and faster: I felt as though I was going to suffocate with shame and embarrassment.
When I finally reached One Fifth I paid the driver and ran toward my building. By now icy rain was coming down in flat, cold sheets, and by the time I got inside I was half-soaked and hyperventilating.
“Is Mr. Mortimer home?” I asked the doorman, Luccio, as I flew past him.
“He left for the airport an hour ago,” said Luccio. “Where’s he going?”
I stopped, dead still, in the middle of the lobby. Hunter had gone? Had I driven him away with my accusations? If so, I could hardly blame him.
“You all right?” asked Luccio.
“Yes…no…I just…”
I scrabbled in my bag for my phone. When I finally found it, I called Hunter’s cell. It went straight to voicemail. I left a frantic message telling him how much I loved him and begging him to call me. Next I called his office. Hopefully someone would still be there. After a few rings, one of the interns, Danny, picked up.
“Where’s Hunter?” I asked. “It’s his wife.”
“Oh, he went off to…” Danny trailed off. “Hang on. Let me ask someone.”
I heard voices in the background, and then he came back on the line.
“We’re not sure where he is now. He left a couple of hours ago. He said he was going to Zurich…or was it Geneva? Er…”
“When’s he due back?” I asked, desperate.
“He’s taken his diary from his desk…We don’t really know how long this trip is going to be.”
I hung up. Where was Hunter? How was I going to find him? Was I going to be the leavee after all? Maybe, maybe…
I ran out into the street. It was still pouring. Maybe I’d go over to Lauren’s. She’d know what to do. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I started walking up Fifth Avenue in search of a cab. Suddenly I heard a familiar voice from behind me.
“Sylvie! Sylvie!”
I turned to see Milton standing behind me. He was tan and dressed in an Afghan hat and a yak-hair cape. He must have just gotten back from his Silk Road.
“Hi,” I said falteringly.
“What’s happened? Sylvie, are you crying?”
“It’s Hunter. He’s gone,” I replied, my shoulders juddering.
“OK, let’s get you home,” said Milton, putting a comforting arm across my shoulder.
Half an hour later, Milton and I were installed in the apartment eating Belgian truffles ordered in from the Chocolate Bar. Without drawing breath, I told him the whole story, and I cried my whole guts out, or so it felt. As I talked, it occurred to me that whatever I had seen earlier, with Christopher and Sophia, it still didn’t explain the two identical necklaces. Why had my husband given Sophia and me the same jewelry? It was so strange, especially if Sophia was cheating with Christopher. I felt so sorry for Marci! I hoped that Salome was cheering her up.
“Sophia D’Arlan is unbelievable. If I’d been here I could have told you exactly what was going on,” said Milton, who was languishing on the drawing room sofa in the red silk shalwar kameez that was revealed when he slipped off his cloak.
“What do you mean?” I said, dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to dry myself out in front of the fire.
“Sylvie, Hunter bought that necklace for you. You only.”
“How do you know?”
“Because, darling, I was there. We were all in London that weekend, staying at Blakes—”
“But, Milton!” I interrupted angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me? I remember asking you specifically if you had seen Hunter that weekend when I couldn’t get hold of him, and you said you hadn’t.”
Milton roused himself from the sofa with a swish of his crimson robes. He sat up and leaned toward me conspiratorially. Then he said in the hushed tones he reserved for spreading the most valuable gossip, “I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but we were all sworn to secrecy. It was so romantic.”
“What was so romantic? Why has Sophia got the same necklace as me?”
“Well…mmm…the pendant was Sophia’s idea.”
“No! What do you mean?” I jumped up and started pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.
“Well, we were all sitting around at dinner that Friday night in London at Le Caprice—love Le Caprice, love—and Hunter—who is so sweet, Sylvie, and loves you so much—asked us how he could make up for the canceled honeymoon. So Sophia screams, “Jewelry!” So Hunter said he wouldn’t know what to get you. Sophia pulls out this great pendant with an S on it from under her blouse and tells him to get the same thing made for you.”
“The same?” My voice rose at least three octaves.
“That’s what I said. But Sophia told Hunter you’d never know. I think he was so desperate to make up for the honeymoon fiasco that he just plunged in. Sophia even took him to S. J. Phillips herself to commission the piece.”
That explained the photograph in New York magazine. But Milton wasn’t finished. He continued, “It was a rather sweet-slash-stupid straight man’s attempt to tell you he was sorry. You know what husbands are like. They never quite know what to buy for their wives. They don’t have a clue about jewelry, which I find rather charming, actually.”
“But then why did Sophia tell Marci that Hunter had given her the necklace?” I protested.
“Because, darling, Sophia wanted Hunter for herself,” said Milton. “She wanted you to think that necklace was for her, and by flaunting hers in front of you, she achieved exactly what she wanted—chaos. It doesn’t help that Marci is such a hopeless rumor-monger. Sophia’s been playing her like a piccolo.”
“But what about Christopher?” I asked, confused.
“She obviously went after both husbands and settled for the easiest catch.”
“Stop it!” I managed a laugh. “But, what about that Page Six item?”
“Sophia likes nothing more than planting a story about herself in a gossip column. Listen to me, any rumors that get around about Sophia are created by her, and her only. She says everyone’s in love with her, especially the married guys. I actually heard she was hospitalized for it at one stage. That necklace was always for you.”
“Oh, Milton. I’ve wrecked everything,” I said, feeling daunted. “What am I going to do?”
“Why don’t you have another truffle?”
“You won’t believe where I am!”
It was 4 A.M. the same night. Lauren was wide awake on the other end of the line and, presumably, on the other side of the world.
“Where?” I said sleepily.
“Narita Airport, Tokyo.”
I sat up in bed and switched on a lamp. Maybe Lauren’s adventures would distract me from my own worried state.
“What are you doing in Tokyo, Lauren?” I asked.
“G.M. What can I say? We kissed in the Japan Airlines first-class spa. It’s all very Lost in Translation. I think he’s madly in love with me, don’t you?”
“Are you in love with him?” I asked.
“God, no! Remember the goal: five Make Outs by Memorial Day, zero commitment,” she giggled. “But…it was the Make Out of Make Outs, if you know what I’m saying. I mean…compared with all the others, this was like kissing God, honestly. Giles has the best kissing methods of any man I have ever made out with. It was so delicious I thought I was having a near-death experience. Everything went white, and I think I actually fainted for two seconds. Do you know that feeling?”
“You sound like hell. What happened?’ said Lauren.
I told her the whole sorry story, about Marci and Sophia, and Christopher and Sophia, and me and Hunter.
“What a mess. Jesus. I’ll be back tomorrow. Giles wants me to stay, but…I don’t want to be disappointed. He has got a fiancée. I have to remember that.”
Lauren’s love bubble had suddenly burst. She sounded deflated.
“I thought you said you didn’t want a relationship.”
“I don’t but…I guess now I’ve completed the Makeout Challenge, I don’t know, I feel a little flat. Where has it gotten me? I’m having a moment of clarity: I mean, I’ve reached my goal, but…I’ve gotten nowhere…nowhere.”
“You’ve had fun,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “You’re not wretched, like me. I don’t even know where Hunter is!”
I felt panicked. What was I going to do?
“We’ll find Hunter. My father can find anyone, he’s best friends with everyone at the FBI. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow. Salome says there’s some party she’s working on that we both have to be at. Be there. No excuses.”
22
Glamela
“Glamela” Grigione (real name:—Pamela) is the epitome of the raven-haired Italian contessa set living in New York. She earned her moniker by literally dripping herself in glamour over the years, and particularly by being a constant guest as a teenager on Stealth, which was Gianni Agnelli’s favorite boat. Glamela is one of the most offbeat women in New York. If you call and ask her “How are you?” she gives one of only two replies: either “I’m divine” or “I’m a little insane.” At cocktail parties, arriving in a dazzling outfit of vintage Missoni or Pucci, she always declares, “I’m ugly; take me home,” immediately endearing herself to the entire crowd, despite her envy-inducing, Monica Bellucci–style beauty and bust.
She was a clever choice for the hostess of Salome’s Revenge—as Salome code-named the cocktail party at which she was planning to avenge Sophia on Marci’s behalf. In the twenty-four hours since the Sophia–Christopher scandal had broken, Salome had pulled together an event at Glamela’s loft on Grand Street. The place was so famous for its contemporary art that no one could refuse the invitation, even Sophia. The pretext was a cocktail for Prince Angus, as he was known, an avant-garde installation artist from Glasgow. His show was opening the next night at Gagosian. No one knew Prince Angus’s real name, but in New York no one cares what British people are really called.
“What an amazing space!” I gushed, when Glamela opened the door to me that night. I was being overly enthusiastic in an effort to hide my desperate mood: it had been twenty-four hours since Hunter had disappeared, and I hadn’t heard a word from him. When I’d called his office again this morning, Danny had told me that Hunter had not checked in to the hotel in Zurich where he was supposed to be staying. No one knew where he’d gone.
“Isn’t it hilarious?” agreed Glamela, as she led me through the loft. She was wearing a paisley chiffon gown that floated behind her as she walked, barefoot, through the vast space. Her only jewelry was an emerald-and-gold bracelet that she wore on her left ankle, like an Indian princess. “Can you believe it was once Manhattan Mini Storage?”
Of course the loft had been Manhattan Mini Storage: it was big enough to store the entire eastern seaboard in here. The drawing room alone must have been fifty feet long, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking across the pretty rooftops of SoHo. Everywhere you looked there was art: a giant Jeff Koons poodle here, a Cecily Brown oil there, a Tracey Emin rug on the floor. With its dark floors and white lacquered walls, the room was the perfect backdrop for the work. The only furnishings in the room were two white leather stools and a white baby grand piano.
“Everyone’s in the library,” said Glamela, chiffon swooshing quickly ahead of me.
The “library” was much cozier than the rest of the apartment, but still ultra-modern. All the “books,” wrapped immaculately in brown paper, were, on close examination, revealed to be old-school videotapes. The room was crowded with art types.
“Over here!” said Tinsley.
She was lounging on a huge sofa draped in a goatskin rug, dressed in a red velvet puff-sleeved frock that looked like it was intended for a four-year-old. She was chatting with Prince Angus. Dressed in slashed tartan drainpipes with safety pins holding them together, and with a long fringe of bleach-blonde hair, he looked like a cross between Sid Vicious and David Hockney. He was strangely sexy, in that way that creative types just are, even though they are totally weird-looking. I went over and joined them, grabbing a glass of champagne on the way.
“’Ello!” said Prince Angus, when I sat down by Tinsley. He spoke exactly like one of the Beatles.
“Isn’t he divine?” said Tinsley, looping a long arm around Prince Angus’s neck. “Salome’s got the most savage crush on him already.”
“She’s tasty!” said Prince Angus.
“Isn’t she?” I agreed. “What’s your show about?”
“I shipped a Tudor hovel from Penrith to New York, and I’ve painted the outside to look like a cartoon of a Mock Tudor mansion in Beverly Hills. The show’s called Mock Mock Tudor. Haaahhhhaaa!” he chuckled. “Is the lovely Salome single?”
“She could be, for the right…Muslim,” said Tinsley, looking at Prince Angus a little dubiously. “She’d decided to date within her religion now. Too much angst with her parents otherwise.”
“Oh,” said Prince Angus, a little wistfully.
Just then I saw Sophia from the corner of my eye. Ugh! I loathed the sight of her. However, for the sake of Salome’s plan, which I assumed was devilishly clever, I attempted to appear calm. Sophia was standing by the fireplace at the other end of the room, with one arm resting on the mantelpiece. She was dressed head to toe in white cashmere and a cream fur gilet. She seemed to be laughing hysterically with…Salome. What was Salome up to? A little way off, Valerie and Alixe were standing together chatting. What was going on? And where was Lauren? Wasn’t she supposed to be here?
I headed over toward Alixe and whispered, “What is Salome up to?”
“I love your necklace, Alixe,” interrupted Valerie, before she could answer.
“Lanvin. I’m so dull. Everyone’s got these already,” said Alixe, fingering the long skein of black pearls wrapped in delicate net. “The trouble is, if I buy a necklace I have to have the ring and the bracelet and the earrings. I can never just get the necklace. You can’t imagine the trouble I’m in with myself,” she huffed. “Adore your dress.”
“I just wanted to stay under the covers tonight, so this is my under-the-duvet dress,” replied Valerie.
This was completely disingenuous on Valerie’s part. She was wearing a searingly tight black cocktail dress with a white ribbon tied in a bow at the waist. She couldn’t have looked less like someone who was in bed.
Suddenly there was yelling and waving from the fireplace.
“Faisal! Darling! Over here!” sang Salome, who was dressed in a chocolate-brown-and-white polka dot cocktail dress.
She was gesturing at someone. Everyone turned to see who it was. An extraordinarily beautiful Persian man, dressed in an immaculate dark suit and a red keffiyeh, was strolling into the library. He looked like a modern Omar Sharif, with eyes like black diamonds. I swear I could hear a collective intake of female breath as he strode across to where Salome was waiting at the fireplace.
“Salome. The Beauty,” declared Faisal as he took Salome’s outstretched hand and kissed it. “And who is this…flower?” he asked, turning toward Sophia.
“I’m Sophia D’Arlan,” said Sophia, dredging up her most seductive expression for Faisal.
I couldn’t quite see how all this was going to punish Sophia—it seemed far too pleasant. What was Salome thinking? Was this man Salome’s ex-husband? And where wa
s Lauren? There was still no sign of her. Meanwhile Sophia, in inimitable style, moved in on Faisal like a tiger killing its prey. Twenty minutes later they left the party together, arm in arm, much to the shock of the guests gathered at the party. The only person who didn’t seemed freaked out was Salome, who was happily perched on the sofa, snuggling up to Prince Angus all the while. As the door closed behind Sophia and Faisal, Salome literally fell off the sofa and lay on the floor giggling like an exotic wind-up doll.
“I’m a genius!!! Haahhheeeehhahhahaha!” tittered Salome madly.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Wait and—giggle-giggle-hahaaha—see! I am completely evil.”
Aside from the generally peculiar nature of Salome’s revenge party, there was something else that struck me as odd that night: Lauren had never shown up. Since she was obviously in on whatever plan Salome was pursuing, it seemed strange—but not overly so. After all, Lauren always didn’t show up for things she was supposed to show up at. But when, the next day, I still hadn’t heard from her and she failed to come to Thack’s studio for a fitting she’d scheduled, that really was strange. Lauren had been invited to attend the Oscars by one of the Warner kids, and had given Thack a huge check to pay for a dress she wanted made. Even Lauren was impressed by the Oscars: I couldn’t imagine her not being obsessed by her outfit. Aside from all this, I was desperate for someone to talk to about Hunter: it was the last thing I wanted to analyze with Marci or Tinsley. It had been two days, and there was still no word from Hunter. Even his office had started to get concerned. What had happened to him?