by Plum Sykes
“Planning on missing your flight?”
He was back. What was wrong with the guy? Just because Charlie was dating Julie that gave him no right to interfere in my personal travel plans, or my personal suicide plans, for that matter. He stood there smiling at me as if my life were some kind of comedy or something.
“Yes,” I snapped grumpily. I’d lied enough for one day. I didn’t care what Charlie thought of me anymore.
“Why?” he asked.
“It’s private,” I answered.
“Are you all right?”
“Well, if you really want to know, I’ve been abandoned by some guy who brought me here on his G-V. There’s no space in economy. The Air France people won’t accept my credit card and my fiancé’s already got another damn fiancée.”
To my horror, a big fat tear rolled down my cheek. Charlie passed me his handkerchief, and I grabbed it, furious he was witnessing another scene.
“Is this that Eduardo guy?” said Charlie.
“Eduardo’s married!” I said, my voice cracking. “And so is Mr. G-V!”
Even though he was now armed with the pathetic truth about my lousy situation, Charlie still looked mildly amused.
“Well maybe this is good?” he said.
“It’s not good, it’s a tragedy,” I said.
“It’s good to learn not to take vacations with men you hardly know.”
What was he talking about? I had known Patrick for at least twenty-four hours before I agreed to the Cannes trip. He had that look on his face again, as if I should know better. Maybe I should.
“Come on,” he said. “You need to get on that plane.”
Charlie rushed me back to the ticket desk, whipped out a credit card, and bought me a ticket then and there. He handed me my boarding pass and we went through security together. All the while I looked at the floor and walked in a state of embarrassed silence. At the gate, the last passengers were boarding the New York flight.
“Go on,” he said, pushing me toward the door to the plane.
“Thanks. I’ll pay you back,” I said, mortified.
“Forget it. Chalk it up to experience. Just do me a favor, don’t go accepting rides on private jets with married men, okay?”
I made my way onto the aircraft, livid. Charlie really didn’t understand. It’s physically impossible for a New York girl to turn down a ride on a private plane, ever.
* * *
Julie Bergdorf’s Reading List
1. American Ballet Theatre fall benefit committee list. Julie says there’s so many family intrigues going on there it’s better than Tolstoy.
2. Ian McEwan’s Atonement, specifically page 135. That’s the hot sex scene.
3. Vows section of Sunday Times. It’s important to know who’s off the market.
4. Talking of markets, the FTSE 100 is why Julie loves the Wall Street Journal.
5. Barneys New York spring catalog.
6. Last ten pages of The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. Julie’s figured out that no one ever guesses she hasn’t read the whole thing if she mentions Chip’s relationship with the neurologist.
7. Running list for Michael Kors’s fall show.
8. The Drama of the Gifted Child, by Alice Miller. It’s really helped Julie not be so hard on herself for being so dramatic. She says it was almost compulsory reading at Spence.
9. Julie’s address book. You wouldn’t believe who’s in there, and neither can she.
10. Paris couture schedule. It’s useful to know it by heart.
* * *
9
Whenever a celebrated chef opens a new restaurant in New York, which is just about every five minutes as far as I can tell, the whole city gets pretty psyched. It’s like all these girls who normally won’t touch human food suddenly think eating is cool again. Most tastings are populated with razor-slim society girls who are determined to be seen at the tasting and taste nothing. Then they tell the chef how much they adore his new edibles and go back home and starve themselves for the rest of the night.
A few days after I’d gotten back from Cannes, Julie and I attended just such an event on the Lower East Side. China Bar is a retro-inspired Asian restaurant serving 1970s Chinese food in an ultra-modern space. Everyone told the chef that his deep fried duck ribs were “exquisite.” They would. They hadn’t tried them. Muffy went too far though. She told the celebrated chef “your wontons are better than at Mr. Chow’s,” which was just a total falsehood. I don’t approve of lies, unless it’s for a good cause like helping people. I mean Julie tells the best lies, like when she’s raising money for her school’s charity, she tells donors that, you know, Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones are opening a new wing, when in actual fact she’s opening the new wing. But telling an impressionable young cook he’s a genius when his food should be at the bottom of the Hudson River is just plain cruel.
When we arrived the restaurant was so crowded with girls not eating and men not noticing them you could barely move. Julie whipped two saketinis (the new in drink—it’s a cross between sake and a martini) off a tray and we grabbed a free booth.
“Hey sweetie, I’m sorry you saw that thing about Adriana and Zach,” said Julie.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Anyway, it proves he’s completely fickle. Thank god you didn’t marry him. So, tell me about Patrick,” said Julie, changing the subject.
“I loved the du Cap, but…” I stopped mid-sentence. I hoped Charlie hadn’t told Julie what had happened at the airport. I didn’t want anyone knowing Patrick Saxton was such a hopeless date that he’d actually abandoned me on another continent. Luckily I didn’t have to explain. Jolene interrupted us.
“He-e-e-y!!! How are you?”
Jolene had a Shanghai Cosmopolitan (the other new in drink in New York—it’s a Chinese version of a Cosmopolitan) wobbling in one hand and was dragging Lara along with the other. Jolene was wearing tailored white pants that flared at the ankle and Lara was in a black minidress covered in zippers. Maybe she thought punk was back or something. Maybe it is. Lara looked bored but Jolene’s face was pink with excitement.
“Michael Kors!” announced Jolene dramatically as she reached the table. “He!” Dramatic pause. “Is!” Another pause “GOD!!! Look! Have you seen his spring slouchy pants?” She spun around to show off her new silhouette. “It’s the skinny-wide leg. Makes your legs look narrow without doing the Jappy skintight thing.” (Jolene is 50 percent JAP but in 100 percent denial about it.)
“Michael Kors understands the inside of a woman’s thigh,” she went on, “like no other man I know—”
“Enough already, Jolene!” said Julie, exasperated. “You need to focus on something else. Like, what about reading something now and again?”
“I read all the time,” said Jolene. “I would estimate I read Vogue magazine at least once a day. Anyone want another Shanghai Cosmo? Back in a minute,” she said and flitted off. She was like a demented dragonfly tonight. Lara slid onto the seat next to me.
Julie looked irked.
“I swear I’ll be committed if one more person mentions those new slouchy pants that they think they discovered before anyone else. There’s nothing to say about those damn pants except go try them on,” she complained.
She had a point. The chitchat at New York parties was so low-brow sometimes I could barely keep up. Julie’s face suddenly brightened.
“Wait!” she cried. “I’m going to start a reading group, you know, a book club. It’s the only way to improve Jolene’s cotton wool brain. It would improve all of us.”
“I just like going kickboxing at Equinox to improve myself,” said Lara, grimacing.
“Exactly the problem,” sighed Julie.
Jolene slipped back into the booth with another drink.
“Jolene, do you wanna join my book club?” shouted Julie over the din of the party.
“Is that like Oprah’s Book Club?” Jolene replied enthusiastically.
“Not exactly. I
t’s more like I’m going to hire a really cute brain-box NYU professor to teach us all about important literature. I wonder what we should read?”
“What about Virginia Woolf? She looked really good in that movie The Hours,” said Jolene.
“No one is allowed to mention clothes if they come to my book club, Jolene. And that includes you, Lara,” said Julie, shooting her a look. “They’re only allowed to discuss books. Okay?”
“I totally get it,” said Lara. “But is it okay to watch the movie of the book if you haven’t got time to read the book of the book?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re totally Dead Poets Society?” said Julie.
She was perched bewitchingly on a stack of books in the office of Henry B. Hartnett, a young English lit teaching assistant at NYU. A few days after the China Bar party, Julie had called around the English department at NYU in search of a tutor. She was determined to start a book group, particularly after Muffy told her on the q-t that Gwendolyn Baines and Cynthia Kirk were planning to start one. Julie had to be first.
A little nervous, Julie had asked me to go with her to meet the NYU “professor” as she’d called him. Julie had come dressed as Sylvia Plath, in a box-pleat gingham skirt and a plait, after seeing Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie. She was even wearing flat shoes. I was shocked. I mean, until now Julie had always pretended she didn’t know what flat shoes were. She had asked me to dress “academic” so that NYU would take us seriously. That morning I’d dutifully thrown on a navy blue vintage shirtwaist. The only thing was, I just couldn’t resist adding black fishnets and red Christian Louboutin heels before I’d left the apartment that morning. Life is just too boring without the little fashion extras, isn’t it?
Henry appeared to have little experience with young women, and even less with Park Avenue Princesses. He seemed bashful, keeping his distance behind a wide desk stacked with examination papers.
“Dead who?” said Henry, baffled.
“You’re cute. I mean, in that brainy outfit you’re wearing and being so shy, Professor,” said Julie. Henry was cute, no argument. His “brainy” outfit consisted of worn-in cords, a linen jacket, and English brogues. His shirt was slightly fraying at the collar.
“Actually, I’m not a professor; I’m not tenured yet. I’m just an instructor. You’re applying for school?”
“Professor! Do I look like a student? I don’t wanna go to school, I wanna, like, improve myself, and my girlfriends, who need a lot of improvement, believe me. It’s like all they can talk about is Michael Kors and what a genius he is and I can’t stand it.”
“Who?” said Henry.
“I’m loving that you don’t know who Michael Kors is!” cried Julie. “Can you teach us about literature, and books? I live at The Pierre, it’s real nice, I’ll send a car for you, I’ll take care of any expenses, I’ll pay you whatever you ask. If you could just lend your mind for a few hours, we’d all really appreciate the improvement. Don’t say no! Don’t!”
Before Henry could reply, Julie continued, “And I could cater whatever you want. What do you think? Shall I get Elaine’s to bring the eats? Would that be literary enough food for you?”
“I think some cheese and crackers is all you generally need.”
“So you’ll do it, Professor? Oh, I’m so, so happy.”
“I’m not a professor, Miss Bergdorf.”
“But you will be one day, right? I mean, I could get Daddy to get you promoted right now if you want, it’s not like he isn’t totally paying for this place already. Okay, so, I’ll send someone to pick you up at six on Tuesday, which is a really good night for a book club because nothing ever happens on Tuesdays.”
“There’s just one more thing, Miss Bergdorf.”
“Yes?”
“We need to decide what book you want to read. Because you all need to read it before Tuesday, so we can discuss it.”
“Eew,” said Julie. You could say there was a minor flag in her enthusiasm when faced with the reality of actually reading a whole book. “But that’s what I need you for, to tell us what to read.”
“A lot of people enjoy a book called In the Heart of the Sea, by Nathaniel Philbrick. I couldn’t put it down,” said Henry.
“Oh, a love story! Is it like that movie Titanic?”
“A little, but with sperm whales,” said Henry. “If you like the Titanic story, you’ll find this most appealing.”
Patrick Saxton had been calling like a maniac since I got back from Cannes. He claimed that he’d left me at Nice airport for security reasons—apparently because of terrorism or something, your plane has to take off exactly when you said it would. I’ve always thought half the point of having a private jet is so you can take off whenever you like, or never take off at all if you suddenly didn’t fancy it. According to Patrick this wasn’t so.
“I begged the pilot to wait longer,” said Patrick over the phone a few days later. “But French air traffic control wasn’t allowing any waiting on the runway that day. I’m so sorry, I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you. I was really worried about you.”
Oops. Maybe Patrick was Mother Teresa after all.
“I’m sorry I was late. It was really dumb. But you could have left me a message,” I said. Or a ticket.
“I tried! They wouldn’t let me. I did book you onto the three o’clock to New York, though, I thought you’d just figure that out.”
“You did?”
“Of course. I would never have left you there with no way home. What kind of a person do you think I am?”
“I’m sorry. I was totally freaked out and not thinking straight.”
“I’d really like to see you again,” he said.
“Well…” I trailed off. Did I want to see Patrick again? I guess I did. He was charming and fun and, once he was divorced, could be a prospect. “Maybe,” I said. I didn’t want to sound too keen.
“Great, I’ll call you to arrange something. By the way, could you give me Jazz’s mobile number?”
“What?” I said, unable to contain my disbelief.
“She left her passport on the plane. I’ve asked my assistant to messenger it back to her, but we don’t know where she is.”
Maybe Patrick was genuine. I couldn’t tell anymore. I didn’t reply for a few seconds. Anyway, the other line was beeping like crazy. I had to get Patrick off the phone.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, gave him Jazz’s number, and switched lines. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jazz. We were so worried about you, what happened?”
“I got delayed, shopping for bikinis,” I replied.
“You’re just like me! I’ve missed so many flights because of shopping, you can’t even imagine. God, Patrick was so mean not to wait. Still, he’s the worst date in New York, so what can you expect?” said Jazz.
“He is?” I said. “Everyone says he’s a saint.”
“Listen, I’ve known Patrick forever. I’ve been dating him on and off since I was fifteen. It’s fun, as long as you know he’s taken. He’s gorgeous, but he’s married.”
“Muffy said he is getting a divorce.”
“He’s been saying that to his girlfriends since the day he got engaged! His wife will never let him go, and he’ll never leave her. She’s the one with the money. It’s her plane, not his. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh,” I said.
“They have an arrangement. No one gets Patrick Saxton. He likes it like that. Don’t you adore married men? They don’t hang around like lovesick puppy dogs.”
“I guess that’s one advantage,” I replied.
“Anyway, do you have Patrick’s new cell number? He asked me to the Venice film festival with him this fall—I’m definitely going. Don’t you love that plane, with those pink gumdrops in the restroom? Of all my friends who go private, Patrick’s plane is the best.”
I gave Jazz the number and put down the receiver. If only I could be as superficial as Jazz, life would be a lot less trouble.
I never knew the “incredible pressure,” as Julie described it, of inviting twelve of New York’s wealthiest girls into your home until Julie dragged me into the paranoid world of dinner party décor. Honestly, she got so distraught organizing her book club meeting you would have thought she was planning the inaugural ball at the White House.
The minute she had invited everyone and sent them a copy of the book to read, Julie was besieged by a mountain of anxieties exclusive to the junior princess gang. She worried that her friends were only attending her book club in order to check out what Tracey Clarkson had done with her apartment. They would “dissect” her taste the minute they were out the door and probably criticize her “for not having something zebra. Everyone has a little zebra something in the house now,” she said. She fretted that her friend Shelley—who always has a Royal Doulton bowl filled with perfectly ripe pomegranates perched on her coffee table to match the hand-painted Zuber wallpaper—would be unimpressed by her own bowl collection. Then there were the plates and espresso cups: she wanted to bring in that French fancy china that everyone else has, even though she didn’t know the name of it and was too ashamed to ask. She’d heard that the in demi-tasse spoons were Buccellati’s silver ones and wondered if she could get hold of any in time. She worried that the material on the bottom skirt of the sofa must be pulled tight down to the floor so that it didn’t look like someone had just sat there, and wanted the cushions to be well plumped, but not overly plumped. Would her housekeeper’s pressing skills be adequate when it came to starching her linen cocktail napkins? The sharpness of the corners of cocktail napkins are the standard by which New York hostesses are judged, she claimed, her face full of fear. She was even freaking out because some of the girls she had invited were not in the photo frames on her walls. If anyone were to notice this, it could precipitate severe social recriminations, like being excluded from certain high-profile baby showers.