The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes

  That day, when I called Lauren’s cell it was dead. When I called the house, the line went straight to voicemail. What was even odder was Thack’s reaction: for a kid whose business was in deep trouble, who was banking on Lauren being photographed in his gown at the Oscars, he didn’t seem at all panicked, even after the Nina-gate fiasco, as he called it.

  “Isn’t the toile delicious?” he said, gazing at Lauren’s gown with a dreamy look on his face. “The silhouette is totally John Singer Sargent.”

  The toile was a desperately romantic shape. Corseted sharply on the bust, pinching into a tiny waist and floating out into a dreamy skirt, it was a dress far chicer than anything you see at the Oscars now.

  “Thack, she’s not here,” I protested in vain.

  “Ha!” he giggled cheerfully. “The dress is killer.”

  “Thack, the accounts are not even vaguely killer this month,” I pointed out.

  “Everything will be fine, Sylvie, stop fretting. Now, who else am I dressing for the Oscars?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him: no one.

  “Miss Sylvie! Mii-sss!” wailed Lauren’s maid, Agata, on the phone two days later. Her voice was choked with tears, hysterical. “She’s gone! Gone!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. Agata sounded incredibly upset.

  “Lauren came home from Tokyo. Then she said she was going out for five minutes and…and she never came back. Her passport is gone, b-b-but…” she cried, barely intelligible.

  “Well, maybe she’s on vacation,” I suggested, trying not to betray my own worry.

  “She never goes away without me packing a case for her. Never. She doesn’t even know how to pack a case. Uggghhh! I think she’s dead!”

  “Agata!” I gasped. That’s not true—”

  “But, Miss, she left her jewels,” gulped Agata. “She always takes her jewels on vacation!”

  Without a bagful of diamonds a vacation simply wasn’t a vacation if you were Lauren Blount. Agata was right: the jewels said it all. Lauren had officially disappeared.

  23

  Revenge Is Iran

  THEY MET AT A COCKTAIL PARTY, and were married within three days. On Saturday, Sophia D’Arlan, of Paris and New York, and Sheikh Faisal Al-Firaih, of Jeddah, Saudi Ara bia, and Geneva, Switzerland, said to be worth 17 billion, wed in a civil ceremony in the tiny European principality of Luxembourg. (Faisal already has four wives, and this was, apparently, one place in Europe he could remarry legally.) They plan to live between his palace in Jeddah and his vacation ranch in Iran.

  “I can’t stand it! I married the Husband Huntress off to the only man I know who can be four other women’s husband and hers at the same time.” Salome laughed as she read the story out loud from the “Vows” section of the New York Times several days later. “Ranch in Iran? What about a harem in Iran? Ever heard of Sharia law, Sophia?”

  Faisal Al-Firaih was Salome’s ex-husband’s uncle (“everyone in the family’s called Faisal, even the daughters,” she explained). He was apparently thrilled with his new Western wife. Salome, meanwhile, was thrilled with herself. She had achieved her goal. Salome was convinced that Sophia was never going to be allowed to set foot in the land of the infidels again. Meanwhile, Marci had hired Ivana’s aforementioned divorce lawyer and was claiming that she was going to go through with a divorce. Her sex life had gone crazy. She was determined to complete a Make Out Challenge more demanding even than Lauren’s.

  The news on Lauren wasn’t as hopeful. She had properly vanished. It was reported in the newspapers, and Lauren was newly dubbed the Disappearing Debutante Divorcée in the press. She seemed to become as famous as Princess Diana overnight, with the disappearance written up as a desperately glamorous tragedy. Even Dominick Dunne had gone on the trail for his Vanity Fair column, to no avail. Some press items suggested she had been spotted boarding a small plane alone at Teterboro a few days ago, others that she had been seen wandering, drunk, around duty-free shops in Geneva airport buying Swiss cuckoo clocks. You can imagine the whispers at dinner parties: “She was dreadfully unhappy” “Too much money” “No, it was the diamonds. Far too many diamonds at a young age brings on early madness” “If she’d stuck to Pilates this would never have happened” “Louis kidnapped her, and she’s locked in his cabin in Alaska. He couldn’t bear to see her having such a good time” “She wasn’t drinking enough water. If she’d drunk two liters of Evian a day she’d be here now.” My favorite was, “She’s gone into hiding at Brigitte Bardot’s place in France.”

  I was very depressed. Lauren might have been spoiled, she might have been the flakiest of all the New York flakes, but she was fun and a great friend, and underneath it all, she had a heart of gold. She really cared about Marci, Salome, and all her girlfriends, and, selfishly, I hated not having her around to care about me. What if something terrible had happened to her? I kept wondering. Lauren’s disappearance only exacerbated my anxiety about Hunter’s absence. Yesterday Hunter’s office had called asking me if I had heard from him. They had found his BlackBerry under a pile of papers on his desk and were very worried. It had been at least five days now, and not a word. Even when Milton tried to reassure me by telling me that it sounded like Hunter had gone into “the straight man’s cave” I didn’t feel any better. I felt very much alone, and even slightly envious of Sophia—at least she knew the whereabouts of her husband.

  The following Monday morning I wandered disconsolately into Café Rafaella for breakfast, regretting that I wasn’t there with Hunter. When the waitress brought two lattes and two croissants, as she usually did for Hunter and me, I felt so dejected I couldn’t even face telling her there was no need for two of everything anymore. As I sipped my coffee and regarded the other cup, I felt like I was breaking bread with a ghost. I dismally picked up a copy of the New York Post.

  I got the shock of my life.

  “What?” I blurted to no one in particular.

  There, screaming at me in bright red ink from the cover of the paper was the splashy headline:

  DEBUTANTE DIVORCÉE’S

  SECRET WEDDING!

  See Page 3 for Dress, Details and Dish!!!

  I turned to page 3. There, radiant, Lauren smiled out from a black-and-white photograph. Snow was swirling around her, and a wedding gown of white organdie was blowing behind her…Was she in…Russia? I peered more closely at the photograph. There were little gold turrets in the background…It looked exotic and wintry. The dress was as slim as could be at the bust and then flowed out around her legs and feet, with a huge train…no way! It was Thack’s dress. It looked to die for. Had he known all along? Of course he had! No wonder he was so relaxed that day when she hadn’t shown up at the studio. Next I looked at Lauren’s face: her eyes were immaculately lined in black eyeliner, slightly sixties-style, and her hair was falling in soft, loose waves around her face. She seemed to be wearing some kind of huge jewel around her neck, although it was hard to see exactly what it was. In one hand she had a bouquet of white camellias, and in the other a cigarette. It was very her, that particular touch. Her eyes were sparkling as though she was bursting with happiness. But where was the groom?

  I quickly scanned down to the text on the page. I gasped as I read:

  NEW YORK’S MOST GLAMOROUS DIVORCÉE, Hamill heiress Lauren Blount, who once declared she would never remarry and coined the phrase “debutante divorcée” to describe herself and her fun-loving girl friends, was spotted tying the knot in Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, St. Petersburg. The bride wore a gown of organdie and silk by young New York designer Thackeray Johnston. It is rumored there were 200 yards of hand-rolled hems on the dress, and 17,000 seed pearls embroidered on the train. She carried a stole of white ermine fur, and a blue diamond heart hung at her neck, thought to be the famous Princess Letizia of Spain’s heart. The stone was a gift from the groom, Giles Monterey, about whom little is known. It is thought the couple met over a pair of Fabergé cuff links on show at the Hermitage in St. Petersbur
g. The couple have known each other for five weeks. Several days ago Miss Blount disappeared from her New York residence. She was feared dead or kidnapped. When asked for a comment, the new Mrs. Monterey, radiant despite the minus-twenty-degree weather, said, “Say hi to all my girlfriends in New York for me,” and disappeared into a blacked-out Mercedes. The couple departed immediately on a four-month honeymoon.

  A tear trembled down my nose: everyone was getting married, which only highlighted my lonely plight. I stared down at the newspaper as drop after drop splashed onto it. Just then something white came into view: a handkerchief was being pushed toward me. How embarrassing. I looked up, flushed: there was Hunter.

  “I’ve done something terrible,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  24

  Silver Linings

  “Stop,” I protested, wiping my tears with Hunter’s handkerchief. “I’ve done something awful. Darling, I’ve made the most ghastly mistake. I thought you were having an affair with Sophia, and then I discovered she was cheating with Marci’s husband, and…I can’t believe I didn’t trust you. I’ve been so dumb, demanding a divorce, which is the last thing I want. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “No,” said Hunter, looking me straight in the eye.

  I froze. I had gotten what I deserved. I just stared at Hunter, horrified at what I had done.

  Next something strange happened. Hunter sat down at the table, and took my hand in his. Then he said,

  “I don’t have to forgive you…It’s not your fault. I made a very silly mistake.”

  He had a strange expression on his face. Oh God, was he going to say he had been with Sophia after all? This was too horrible for words. I stared back at him, swallowing anxiously, waiting.

  “What?” I finally stammered.

  “Hiring that ghastly Sophia. I mentioned to her on that trip to London that I wanted to get you something special, to make up for canceling the honeymoon, and she offered to help me choose something for you. She told me it wouldn’t matter if I copied her necklace. I was a fool. I know what she’s like. I should have known that she would engineer things to her advantage. I wish I’d never hired her. She’s been a man-eater since high school. Always whipping up these affairs around herself that are usually lies—”

  “Shush,” I said, holding my hand up to Hunter’s lips. “I never want to hear another thing about that wretched girl.”

  Although I was relieved to have Hunter back, I still felt incredibly angry at even the briefest mention of Sophia’s name. She had caused so much damage. My only consolation was that I knew she would never escape her Saudi life.

  “I promise Sophia will never be allowed anywhere near us again,” said Hunter.

  “Really? You really mean that?” I said stiffly.

  Much as I wanted to embrace my husband, I still couldn’t quite relax after everything that had happened. Hunter noticed my reluctant air. Trying to reassure me, he said, “When do I not mean what I say, darling?” with a little twinkle in his eye.

  I paused. When I really thought about it, the fact was Hunter didn’t go back on his promises. Finally I just said, “Never, darling.”

  Hunter looked relieved and put his hand up to stroke my cheek. Then he said, “I can’t bear that you saw Sophia wearing that gorgeous necklace. I’m going to get you something even more beautiful, my darling.”

  “Actually I love it—”

  “That’s too bad because I have already commissioned something so exquisite you won’t believe it.”

  I melted faster than an ice cream on a hot Fourth of July. Suddenly I felt a delicious mix of laughter and tears bubbling up inside me. Hunter leaned across the table and kissed me for a long time on the lips. Then he got up and came and sat next to me on the banquette with his arm looped around my neck. With the other hand he dabbed at my tears with a handkerchief. It felt divine, just the way things should be.

  “Where have you been these past few days?” I asked, although I wasn’t really concerned about it anymore.

  “Thinking.”

  “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Darling, I have to ask you something else,” I said. “No vague answers, please.”

  “OK. I will be completely clear and transparent. What do you want to know? Anything.”

  “Why are you so secretive? Always disappearing? All those secret phone calls, and all that time you’re on the Internet, and you’ll never let me know what you are doing. If you weren’t having an affair with Sophia, what were you up to?”

  Hunter just smiled and opened his briefcase. He took out a flat brown envelope and handed it to me. HONEYMOON #2 was written across the top.

  “Eeek!” I cried, delighted. I handed the package back to Hunter.

  “Aren’t you going to look at where we’re going?” he said, pushing it back toward me.

  “No. A new bride never knows where she’s going on her honeymoon. It should be a surprise.”

  “Absolutely. I’m glad you trust me to take you somewhere nice.”

  “I do, darling, I do,” I said. But I couldn’t resist needling my husband a little. “Even after you canceled our last honeymoon.”

  “You’re very brave,” he said, tearing off a piece of croissant and popping it into my mouth. “You look like you haven’t eaten for a week.”

  “I couldn’t eat while you were gone,” I said through my mouthful of breakfast. “By the way, can you believe Lauren got married?”

  I pointed to the Post story. Hunter didn’t seem surprised at all.

  “Didn’t I always tell you she’d be married with three kids in no time?” he said.

  “But…to Giles Monterey? He was engaged!”

  “I told you they’d be the perfect couple, didn’t I?”

  It was true. Hunter had an uncanny sense for Lauren’s love life that even I couldn’t fathom.

  “Darling, can I just ask one more question, and then I promise that’s it?” I said.

  “Go ahead,” he replied. “Anything you want.”

  “Who is that lousy college friend you’re always running off to visit? It’s really been bugging me.”

  “Oh, he’s…well, can you wait until the honeymoon? Then I promise I’ll tell you. Actually, you’ll meet him.”

  “Even better!” I said. “But I hope this is not a honeymoon with all your college buddies…OK?”

  Hunter came closer. He put his lips close to my ear and whispered, flirtatiously, “Now, my darling, I haven’t seen you for a few days, why don’t we go home and…you know what?”

  “It’s Monday, what about work…,” I said, mildly protesting. But…Hunter looked so cute. He had that sort of slightly rumpled, just-got-off-a-plane look about him this morning that I found irresistibly sexy. And I had missed him so much. I couldn’t help but be tempted. “Actually, I think we should…you know what too.”

  25

  Honeymoon—For Real

  I wrote pretty much the same thing in my diary every day of our honeymoon:

  Honeymoon. Boat. Husband. Divine.

  Honeymoons are bliss. They just are. From dawn to dusk, dinner to breakfast, and all the time in between, you actually do feel like the Eternity couple. Unlike attempted Honeymoon #1, Honeymoon #2 was dreamy. In late January, Hunter and I left a snow-covered New York, and about seven hours later (it seemed like seven minutes—which everything does when you’re on honeymoon; it all goes far too quickly) we kicked off our shoes and stepped onto the teak deck of a very beautiful, truly immaculate, sailing sloop, named—very appropriately, I thought—Happiness. It was moored in Gustavia Harbor in St. Bart’s, a pretty little bay surrounded by lush green hills dotted with pink and yellow beach houses.

  A wind-burned Italian captain, Antonino, greeted us. He was dressed in tan Bermuda shorts, an immaculate white polo shirt, and tortoiseshell sunglasses. He matched the boat exactly, as did the six crew members. Every chair and lounger was upholstered in the same tan as Antonino’s shorts, and
the woodwork was either lacquered a glossy white or polished to a deep walnut. You literally couldn’t move for tan and white on that boat: it was like being inside a coffee ice cream. There were tan terry toweling robes, monogrammed with a white H, matching striped Bernardaud china and even custom swimming shoes in the same colors.

  We spent the next couple of days sailing lazily around the bays and coves of St. Bart’s. We did the same things every day: swim, smooch, and sunbathe. Seriously, that’s all we did. It wasn’t like we needed any variety. We’d anchor in a charming cove, get off the boat, stroll around the little village, and then drink citron pressés in an outdoor café while reading the Herald Tribune. In the afternoon we would sail to a secluded bay for swimming and waterskiing.

  Occasionally, another boat would glide into the bay and anchor far enough away to not disturb us, but close enough to be observed through binoculars. Spending hours peering through long lenses at someone else’s deck is considered, on boats, an acceptable sport. It’s endlessly fascinating speculating who the black specks on the far-off deck are, and what they’re up to.

  Other activities included an awful lot of eating, frequent mid-afternoon honeymoon sex, which, I can confirm, is way better than non-honeymoon sex, and—God, how delicious—freshly baked cakes for tea. I think tea and cake was my favorite honeymoon meal. There is something comfortingly old-fashioned—yet glamorous—about throwing an emerald green Allegra Hicks kaftan over a hot pink bikini and sitting in the shade drinking tea and eating fresh ginger cake while on board. The cakes were accompanied by silly, romantic, honeymoon-ish chats. Our teatime conversations mainly consisted of me veering from how much I loved Hunter in his new Villebrequins to what type of cake I could get tomorrow, and Hunter telling me I looked cuter fatter.