Bergdorf Blondes

by Plum Sykes

  You know how I was totally gutted after the disengagement because my apartment suddenly became an invitation-free zone? Well, the minute everyone in Manhattan knew I’d been a guest of the Prince at the palazzo, my mantelpiece became so crowded with stiff white cards I needed a crane to clear it. I was secretly concerned that these were transparently tactical invites sent in case I became a Princess. But I decided to imagine that I was receiving them because I was genuinely popular. Otherwise I would have been headfirst back into that Advil bottle. Denial can be very beneficial for one’s social life.

  There’s nothing like dating an “of” in New York. Apart from the fact that Eduardo was just dreamy on the looks and personality front, everyone in New York wants to marry an “of.” Felipe of Spain, Pavlos of Greece, Max of Sweden, Kyril of Bulgaria—those boys have gorgeous American girlfriends and wives coming out of their ears. Like most exiled royalty, they all love being in New York, where they feel appreciated. (Apparently Europeans aren’t nearly as friendly to them as us.) No one here minds at all that the Princes don’t have kingdoms anymore. Most people in New York think Savoy is a very swanky hotel in London, but they still adored Eduardo. It doesn’t matter where you’re “of,” the point is to be “of” Somewhere. A New York girl would kill to marry a domain-less Prince and get to call herself a Princess. The only people who mind about the whole kingdom thing are the Princes themselves, who take it all très seriously.

  Eduardo lived in an immaculate bachelor pad on Lexington and Eightieth. It was an excellent place for late-night trysting. Whenever I couldn’t fluently translate all that French quotation stuff Eduardo was into, I amused myself by scanning the walls and bookshelves, which were crammed with paintings and sepia photographs of his ancestors in crowns and majorly sparkly tiaras. Who knew they were so into Harry Winston back then? If only they put that in the history books, New York high school girls would consider the unification of Italy a very important part of their education.

  The minute Julie hit New York we met for a decaf latte at Café Gitane on Mott Street. Gitane is wall-to-wall with supermodels dressed like street urchins in very expensive Marni clothes. Everyone thinks it’s supercool. I have to admit I’ve picked up a few fashion directions from the girls there myself on occasion. Julie actually fit in surprisingly well because she was wearing her new “French” Marc Jacobs combat pants which looked genius on her. She’d chosen a table in a dark corner, which was odd because Julie usually wants to sit in the most prominent spot wherever she goes.

  “Hi, darling,” she said when I arrived. “I know, I know, you’re looking at me weirdly because this is a freaky table for me but I’m being, like, low-key.”

  I was confused. Julie is actually politically opposed to being low-key.

  “Why? It’s so not you,” I said.

  “Ssshhhh!” she whispered, putting her sunglasses on. “We don’t want anyone hearing us.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re on suicide watch.”

  “I’m fine. I’m totally off the Advil and so into Eduardo. Look at me, everyone says I’m radiant.”

  “We all know the secret of radiant in New York after a breakup—Portofino, okay. So don’t even think about trying that one on us.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and Lara and Jolene. We’re watching you 24–7. You’re moving into mine, no arguments.”

  “No way,” I said. “Look, Tracey made that room stunning, but I don’t want to live there.”

  “You have two options. Either you live in The Pierre with me, or you go into therapy.”

  Julie was as transparent as a glass of San Pellegrino sometimes. Living with her was okay for five minutes when I was sick, but I didn’t want her stealing all my clothes. That was her real motive, I was sure of it. She never, ever gives anything back, even big things like Versace pantsuits. She’s a black hole for fashion and you don’t want any of your nice stuff near it.

  I was convinced therapy would make me ill. Girls in New York who are in therapy are the worst to be around. They talk about their childhoods nonstop. Julie thinks therapy has all the answers and is totally into getting really upset over her childhood to try and figure out why she has so many tantrums. She just can’t admit that the tantrums are adult spoiled-brat tantrums. She thinks it really traumatized her that her mom forced her into Lilly Pulitzer dresses between the ages of four and ten in Palm Beach when all the other kids had been allowed to wear CK jeans. Julie’s shrink traced her adult addiction to shopping back to this public humiliation.

  “Julie, I’m not doing either of them. I’m fine, I’m better,” I insisted. “I’ve fallen madly in love with someone else.”

  “You’ve only known him a few days! You’re infatuated. Even if this royal kid is the real thing, you need to figure out why it is you stayed with Zach when he was treating you worse than the shit on the soles of his sneakers.”

  “But Julie, I’ve forgotten all that now. It’s like I was never even engaged to Zach. I don’t even feel like it happened to me. I feel like it happened to someone else, in a movie. That wasn’t really me.”

  “So who was it then? You can’t pretend this stuff didn’t happen. If you don’t figure it out now, you’re going to end up under someone else’s sneakers.”

  Why did Julie think it was such a smart idea to relive something vile that I’d very successfully blocked out of my mind? She’s met with way too many head doctors. My view is that the best way to deal with icky things is to forget about them.

  “You nearly died a week ago and you think you’re ‘fine’?” said Julie. “You could have grade two bipolar manic depression or something terrible like that. This is very serious. At least get a brain scan or something.”

  Like most New York girls, Julie gets an MRI every time she gets a headache. She is so familiar with the grading system of depression she could diagnose it. She continued, “Does Eduardo know what happened?”

  “Of course!” I said. “I told him everything.”

  I would hate for Julie to know that I told her an outright lie, but of course I hadn’t told Eduardo a thing about what had happened in Paris. He thought I was there for the boutiques, like all American girls. The truth is, I absolutely hated myself for the whole Advil thing. Charlie hated me for it. Julie wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. I didn’t want anyone else hating me. It would have been so not smart to tell Eduardo the truth about me at this early stage or he might hate me, too.

  “Well, that makes me feel better about him,” said Julie. “But at least think about seeing Dr. Fensler. Even if you feel fine it could be useful.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I said.

  Entre nous, the truth is that when Eduardo was out of town—which he was a lot because of business—I sometimes felt a little Advil-y again. I’d thrown away all the pills in the apartment, but when I was alone at night those Ritz-robe-type feelings would come back and freak me out. Whenever I remembered Zach even for a second I felt like going straight out to Bigelow’s Pharmacy on Sixth Avenue and buying the biggest damn tub of tablets I could find. I could never seem to call Eduardo at the really bad moments because his cell hardly ever worked in these godforsaken places like Iowa that he had to travel to. A lot of the time he was away on weekends, too. On top of all this, when I’d called the Palm Beach heiress to rearrange, she’d replied, “I already did the interview. The magazine sent someone else.”

  One Sunday—and Sundays are murderous, aren’t they?—I almost felt like running out to The Wiz again and buying a DVD player. Eduardo was unreachable on one of his trips. I was a reject, the stale bagel that no one wanted. I kept staring at Zach’s Drowned Truck photo. I’d never noticed before, but it looked slightly out of focus. Maybe it wasn’t such a great photo after all. I decided to take it down, but it left such a gaping hole I had to put it up again, which made me even more miserable. By the time I called Julie, it was four in the morning, but she was awake: she was fasting on blueberries now and the hunge
r pangs were keeping her up.

  “Julie,” I said, “I’m so sad.”

  “Why sweetie, I thought you and Eduardo were in total bliss,” she said.

  “I adore Eduardo but Zach’s the one I want. I’m thinking of calling him. I’m sure he misses me.”

  “Ooohhh. Hold on,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Fensler first thing and make an appointment for you. You’ll never get in otherwise.”

  Dr. Fensler has the glammest waiting room of any shrink in the city. It’s definitely nothing like the lunatic asylums I’ve heard most rich people like Julie go to in New York. Everything about it is gorge, including the Christian Liaigre table that is beautifully arranged with fashion and gossip magazines, even the ones that are really hard to get like Numéro. I scanned the room. It was better than a front row at a Michael Kors runway show. All the other girls there were beyond stunning and almost all of them looked like actresses or socialites. I am sure I saw Reese W., but I couldn’t quite make out if it was her because her sunglasses seemed to cover almost her entire face. The really important detail about the waiting room was that all the girls looked très happy: everyone was just gorgeous and surrounded by shopping bags and decked out in those new Tod’s strappy sandals that you can’t find anywhere and were perfect for the warm June day outside. They were all discussing very nontherapy subjects like their next vacation in Capri and how great St. Barths was last Christmas. These girls looked like they didn’t have any problems at all. In fact, they looked like they didn’t even know what a problem was. There wasn’t a frown or a cross face among them. I was definitely the most miserable and underdressed person there. Dr. Fensler was obviously a genius. I could hardly wait to meet him. I was sure he didn’t take health insurance.

  About ten minutes after I’d arrived, a pretty young nurse in a white velour sweat suit showed me into a treatment room. It was very new therapy: no old leather couch, no analysis books on the shelves, just a bright light and a high lounger exactly like the ones by the pool at the Mondrian Hotel in LA. I sat and waited. I was a little nervous. Anyone who’s had therapy knows it’s excruciating having to reveal everything about yourself to a total stranger and then be informed that you better try to change. The thought of it was very unappealing. But if I left looking as hot as those girls in the waiting room I’d do it gladly.

  The door opened. Dr. Fensler—coiffed and tan—peeked in.

  “He-e-e-y! Hi!!! Am I thrilled to see you!” he said. He sounded way overexcited. He obviously hadn’t noticed that I hadn’t dressed up for him as though I were off to a cocktail party. “You look fan-tastic! My god, that skin. Have you been living in a refrigerator?”

  Before I could reply he chirruped, “Just gotta inject two lips. Back in ten seconds. No one does a lip fix quicker or prettier than Dr. Fensler.”

  Lizardlike, he darted out. Julie was deranged. She hadn’t sent me to her analyst. She’d sent me to her dermatologist. I called her immediately on my cell.

  “Julie,” I said sternly, “Dr. Fensler is a cosmetic dermatologist!”

  “I know. He’s a genius. Everyone who’s anyone wouldn’t be seen at a party without stopping by Fensler first.”

  “But Julie, I’m not going to a party. I’m already at my own party and it’s not fun and I’m trying to leave and I’m not sure Dr. Fensler is the man to get me out of it. I thought you said I needed therapy.”

  “Darling, dermatology is the new therapy,” said Julie. (Julie thinks that anything that is new is good just because it is new.) “Have you seen how tragic people who go to shrinks are? Shrinks make people unhappy. But here’s the thing about Dr. F—you go in for an innocent little Botox shot and you come out feeling happier than if you’d done ten years of therapy. You look pretty, you feel great. Easy. Some girls in New York have got a bit compulsive about it, they go every day. Now, I do not want that happening to you but I think a little dermatological therapy would be a very positive experience for you. It’s kind of like cheating but cheating in a good way.”

  Now I understood why all those girls outside looked so happy. They were classic Botox junkies. No frowns, no expression, just smiles.

  “Julie, I don’t think this is right for me. I want to talk to someone about what’s been happening. I don’t want that frozen Botox look everyone thinks is so in.”

  “No one is saying you have to get Botox. I’m saying, get a peel, maybe get an enzyme jab. You can tell Dr. F. everything. Five percent of the time he’s injecting, the rest of the time he just listens, which is what you need. Look, he understands the whole Manhattan relationship thing better than any couples counselor I’ve ever met and I swear I’ve met every single one on the Upper West Side. Would I ever send you anywhere but the best?”

  “No.”

  I was très tempted. I mean, I’d never heard of therapy that made you look like a Michael Kors girl before. If I was going to be miserable at least I could be attractive with it. I try not to be as tremendously vain as Julie, but sometimes you’ve got to be when your sanity is at stake.

  “Okay. So try it. It’s on me. And by the way, did you see K. K. in the waiting room? I’m convinced she’s been doing that new Botox mask thing from Paris but she swears her motionless face is just from rubbing in Persian rose oil for twenty minutes a night. She’s a lousy liar. No one looks that good with herbal remedies.”

  Dr. Fensler popped his head around the door and trotted in. “Julie,” I said, “I gotta go, he’s here.”

  “So, tell me everything,” he said. “Broken up with your boyfriend?”

  I nodded.

  “I am going to make you beautiful, and happy, like all my girls. You’ll never think about him again. Don’t worry! You can come every day if you need it. A lot of girls do when they’re going through a trauma like this.”

  He came closer and started examining my skin.

  “Ee-wchhh!” he yelped. “I see a pimple. Have you been flying recently, to Europe?”

  “Yes,” I answered. Maybe this man was a genius after all.

  “Jet lag acne. Everyone’s got it. It’s new, totally new. You’re depressed, you’re stressed, you’re circling the globe like a maniac, you can’t handle the time zones, your hormones are up the wazoo—bang! Jet lag acne. You know all the supermodels come straight off the Air France flight from Paris to me. In, out, peel, jab, and they’re fantastic again. They look better and they feel happier. Now tell me about this boyfriend you lost.”

  I told him the whole story, exaggerating a few parts to make it more entertaining. Naturally I left out the most humiliating bits, like the thing about never going to Brazil. I didn’t want Dr. F. knowing really private stuff.

  “There’s more,” he said. “You’re hiding something.”

  Reluctantly I told him about my Parisian suicide attempt, which I’d edited out. I also admitted the excruciating truth about never getting any Rio after the trip to LA.

  “Well, he was either blind or gay,” joked Dr. Fensler, trying to cheer me up. “That kind of rejection is very upsetting.”

  “I feel really bad about myself,” I said. “The feelings won’t go away.”

  “Nothing that a quick Alpha-Beta peel won’t remedy,” said Dr. Fensler, snapping on plastic gloves.

  He prepared some bottles of potent clear liquid and asked me to lie down. He dabbed the first solution on my face. It stung.

  “Ouch!” I squealed.

  “Ah. Very good! Your skin is going to look immaculate when you leave here. Every cell will be perfection. You will never let anyone hurt you like that again. You must be wondering why you stayed so long with such an unpleasant person.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak because the fumes from the chemicals were so strong.

  “You know what that’s all about? Staying with a jerk?”

  I shook my head. I was still very confused about my attraction to someone who, I realized after the fact, had been completely horrible to me.

  “Classic dysfunctional relationship.
They chip away at you until you feel like you’re nothing without them. No one can understand why you stay. But you do. From your end, it’s a typical case of low self-esteem. My dear, you build up that self-esteem and no one will be able to touch you. When you get it back, men will be drawn to you uncontrollably. Self-confidence is highly sexually attractive. You have to love yourself before anyone decent will really love you. I can make you beautiful on the outside but you gotta make yourself beautiful on the inside, too. Lecture over. Okay, I’m putting the second solution on now.”

  This burned even more than the first one. I couldn’t imagine how this could possibly be good for your skin or your soul. I managed to utter, “Well, I think my self-esteem is improving. I’ve met this new guy who looks out for me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.”

  “Where is he?” asked Dr. F.

  “Oh, travelling. For work. He travels a lot,” I replied.

  “Well, just make sure he isn’t married and living in Connecticut with three kids!”

  I giggled. Dr. Fensler was really amusing me.

  “Now I am going to leave this last layer to sit for five minutes and then you will be glowing, my dear. You are a fabulous girl. Don’t settle for anyone who doesn’t treat you like the princess you are. No more bullies, no invalidators, no energy drainers.”

  I had no idea what an invalidator was, but I would avoid it. Maybe the right dermatologist is the secret to personal happiness in New York, like Julie says.

  Dr. Fensler fussed around his countertop for a while and then asked, “How was the sex with the guy you were engaged to?”

  People ask the most personal questions. It’s so intrusive the way they just ask you about Brazil as though they were talking about a casual vacation to Palm Springs or something.