The Debutante Divorcee Part 7

"I wanted to," I said.

I'd brought him breakfast in bed, and we sat together on top of the duvet munching croissants I'd ordered in from Balthazar bakery. At about a quarter to eight, my cell phone rang. I picked it up.

"h.e.l.lo, Sylvie. It's Sophia. How are you?"

"Oh. Hi," I said, slightly shocked.

"Can I speak to Hunter? It's really urgent, and his phone must be switched off. I couldn't get through to him."

I reluctantly handed Hunter the phone. Suddenly the bubble of well-being vanished and the doubt of the previous night crept back.

"It's Sophia, for you."

Hunter took the phone. While he listened to Sophia, he started to frown.

"You think there's nothing you can do? Oh G.o.d...no, actually I don't fancy coming back to Paris next week. I just got back to New York...Haven't seen Sylvie for weeks...Can it wait until my next trip?...I see. Yeah. OK. Let me get back to you," he said, and hung up.

Sophia was trying to get Hunter back to Paris already? I could feel my robe starting to cling to my suddenly clammy skin. Forgetting all Lauren and Tinsley's advice, I blurted, "Darling, why didn't you tell me you'd hired Sophia?" I was trying very hard not to sound horribly jealous.

Hunter looked surprised. "I've only hired her to help with the permits for filming at the chateau. Her boyfriend, Pierre, is something high up in the Paris town hall, and she said she'd get him to help out. We were having so many problems. I thought I ought to pay her something. It was inappropriate her doing all that work for free. She's very connected in Paris, you know."

"So everyone says," I responded a little coldly.

"I hope I don't have to rush back there," sighed Hunter. "Look, if I do, would it make it up to you if we made a very long weekend out of it?"

"Yes, darling, of course it would," I said.

It would, I was sure of it. I shrugged off my slight feeling of irritation. I had absolutely nothing to worry about, I told myself. I quelled an urge to check with Lauren and Tinsley as to whether I should be suspicious about the invitation to Paris. Was this a bluff? No, they would only convince me that Hunter and Sophia were going to rendezvous. I had to stop listening to them. After all, I was the happy wife, they were the singletons. Marriage was infinitely preferable to divorce.

9.

The UnGoogle-able Man.

Everyone working at A La Vieille Russie, the discreet jeweler on the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, looks like they just died. Inside, the place feels more like a mausoleum than a jewelry boutique, with dusty, meringue-thick moldings and lights trained on gla.s.s cases housing "important" Russian gems. Lauren adores the place. She thinks it's the finest jeweler in New York because it's so old-fas.h.i.+oned and un-starry. It was to be her first stop in her search for the Faberge cuff links, and a few days later, she persuaded me to accompany her there.

"I'm wearing this new perfume called Park Avenue," she said on the way uptown in the car. "I'm trying to seem uptight, to go in there. That's their thing." Having said that, Lauren didn't look uptight: she was wearing a vintage, cerise Giorgio di Sant'Angelo dress that plunged almost to her waist. She was dressed for Studio 54, not Fifty-ninth Street.

After the divorce shower, Sanford had given Lauren specific details about the cuff links he wanted. He said they were "the mother of all Faberge cuff links," given to Tsar Nicholas by his mother, the empress dowager, on Easter 1907. They were egg-shaped, yellow enamel, with the imperial crown worked in the center in gold filigree. The genuine pair had an inventory number scratched on the back with a diamond, which was only visible with a loupe. Sanford had lost them to an unknown telephone bidder, but Lauren suspected that the staff at ALVR could find the buyer or may, possibly, have bought the cuff links anonymously on behalf of one of their clients.

Sanford had always wanted, being Russian, to own a piece of Russian history. He'd also heard Tom Ford collected Faberge cuff links, which made him feel very much OK about spending over $100,000 on two pieces of yellow enamel that each measured less than half a square inch.

"Ah, yes, I do know of the Easter cuff links," whispered Robert, the corpse-slash-salesperson in the store that morning. He spoke quietly, as though he was afraid of waking the dead.

"Yeeaay," said Lauren, as quietly as she could. "I knew you guys would find them for me."

"Miss Blount, we have no idea where the cuff links are now," said Robert. He started tidying a few things on his desk, as though that was the end of the conversation.

"Who bought them?" I asked.

"We can't talk about our clients, miss," said Robert with a disapproving glare.

"Robbie, stop it!" said Lauren. "Come on, please, I have a very important client who will pay anything for them. He lost them at auction and he's devastated. I could cut you in on the deal."

"Miss Blount, the answer's no. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"-can I try this?" interrupted Lauren.

She was leaning over a gla.s.s case, pointing at an antique turquoise and diamond bracelet that was shaped like a serpent. Robert sighed.

"Certainly, Miss Blount," he replied, unlocking the case and delicately lifting out the object.

Lauren put it on and slid it up her arm as far as it would go, Egyptian-style.

"Oooh," she breathed. "Oooh. Oooh. Oooh."

"It's awesome," I said.

"It's twenty-two awesome big ones as well," she said, looking at the price tag dangling under her arm. "I'm not sure, Robbie-"

"-No doubt we could work something out for you, Miss Blount. You are a regular client," said Robert, watching Lauren like a hawk.

"Could that something include the mysterious Mr. Faberge cuff links?" Lauren was deadpan, suddenly all business.

Robert huffed. He tipped his head to one side. He glowered slightly at Lauren.

Then he beckoned us to follow him into a back office. It was cramped, with a huge leather desk piled with books, jewel cases, and sketches of gems. Robert somehow squeezed himself behind the desk and tapped at an ancient-looking PC. A photograph of the cuff links appeared on the screen. They were beautiful and delicate, and the yellow enamel was so intense it seemed to glow. Underneath, a few particulars were listed: Price: $120,000 Client: G. Monterey Payment type: Bank Transfer "G. Monterey," I asked. "Who is he?"

"We never met him. Someone called on his behalf, the money was wired, and the cuff links were taken to the Park Hyatt in Moscow. They were very secretive," explained Robbie. "Wouldn't give us contact numbers. That's normal with many of our clients based in Russia. It's so dangerous, no one wants you to know anything about them. Now, Miss Blount, how would you like to pay for the bracelet?"

"I can't believe you had to buy that bracelet," I said to Lauren when we were in a taxi heading back downtown.

"I'll bill it to 'the client'," said Lauren cheekily. "Sanford wants those cuff links so bad, he doesn't care what it costs him. And I suspect," she said, with a raised eyebrow, "my research is going to be quite costly."

I laughed. Lauren didn't get away with murder, she got away with homicide.

"Sanford is actually an angel, you know," she said. "If he wasn't married-twice-with two small daughters, and G.o.d knows how many other stepkids, I might, you know..."

"Really?" I said.

"-actually, I just don't know if I could imagine-" Lauren paused. She looked over to the driver to make sure he wasn't listening and then whispered "-it would be like making love to a waterbed."

"Oh, G.o.d, Stop," I begged her. "You're totally out of control."

"My s.e.x life is. What I would give for a young, unmarried, weight-loss Sanford. If only he had a son."

As the cab jerked us down Fifth Avenue, I rifled in my bag and pulled out my BlackBerry.

"OK, now I am going to find the mysterious G. Monterey," I said.

Despite the lurches of the cab I managed to type GOOGLE into my BlackBerry, and then the name G. Monterey.

"Why don't we go to Moscow to find him the first weekend of November? It's the ice polo. It'll be fun," said Lauren.

I was tempted. I'd heard Moscow was crazily fun, and that everyone in fas.h.i.+on was doing amazing business there. Maybe I could score some commissions for Thackeray.

"It could be great, but can I let you know? I might go to Paris with Hunter then."

"So everything's good with him?"

"He's been adorable since he's been back," I said.

"So sad you won't be joining our ranks," said Lauren. "Just kidding."

Suddenly a message popped up onto the BlackBerry's screen. It read, Your search-G. Monterey-did not match any doc.u.ments. No pages were found containing "G. Monterey."

"That's annoying," I said.

Lauren looked over my shoulder at the message and frowned. She took the BlackBerry from me and tapped at the little machine a few times, trying several different versions of the name. Nothing came up.

"The UnGoogle-able man. G.o.d, how attractive," she said finally. "I must hunt him down in Moscow."

"What's happened to the Make Out plan?" I asked.

"Maybe Monterey can be Number Two," said Lauren.

"What if he's seventy-nine years old?" I asked.

"Of course he's not," declared Lauren. "I can feel the vibe. I'm madly in love with him already."

10.

Gorgeous West Village Wives.

Gorgeous West Village Wives, as an indigenous tribe, are pretty much at the top of the New York food chain right now. Their natural habitat-specifically, the terrace at Pastis, the doorway of the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street, and the stone steps outside their own West Ninth Street town-house-seems like a little Manhattan paradise all its own. No wonder it's jammed with tourists all weekend now. The out-of-towners just stand there, open-mouthed, gazing at the G.W.V.W.'s blinding white teeth and wonderful hair, which is always s.h.i.+ny and swinging back and forth with the regularity of a metronome.

Liv Tyler, Olatz Schnabel, SJP-you can barely get a lunchtime table anymore at Saint Ambroeus on Perry Street for all the glamorous mommies and their buggies. These girls have fantasy careers (movie star being a fav), wear vintage Spanish ponchos to get coffee at Jack's on West Tenth Street in the mornings, and never seem to leave the house without their epidermis glowing in the manner of a girl who has just had spectacular s.e.x. They ooze happiness and contentment even while pus.h.i.+ng a Bugaboo Frog on six-inch Roger Vivier heels.

I can honestly say there is nothing quite as demoralizing for a newlywed than b.u.mping into one of these extraordinary creatures at seven o'clock on a cold night on your way home from work. It hurts, it really does.

A few days after Hunter had gotten back, I'd decided to cook dinner at home. We were both exhausted from work and needed a cozy night in. Thack and I had been working long hours finalizing our spring order book, and Hunter had been locked in script meetings till late at night. I popped into Citarella on the corner of Ninth Street and Sixth Avenue to pick up some delicious Italian food for the evening. Just as I left the meat counter, I remembered that we had run out of Drano, so headed toward the back of the store to get some. As I was scanning the shelves, I started adding some more household items to my cart-Soft Scrub, toothpaste-all the domestic products that seem to be required in ever-increasing quant.i.ties once you are married. It was depressing actually, I thought, as I piled detergents and dishwasher powder into the cart.

The fact is, marriage comes with an awful lot of non-s.e.xy, non-romantic projects. Like Drano shopping. However cute my new husband was, he went through way more toilet paper than I did. For every six-pack of Charmin I lugged home, I felt a kilo of energy, that, pre-marriage, would have been allocated to love or s.e.x, dissipate into the void of the supermarket checkout. New wives are never allowed to admit it, but being wed is, sometimes, a grind. Even a few weeks after your wedding. Sorry, but it's the truth.

Last night, for example, I had found myself, against my own free will and better judgment, discussing how to deal with Hunter's laundry over dinner with him. Prior to marriage, the only reason to discuss the washer-dryer over dinner was if you were intending to have s.e.x on it. Then, later on, just as we were falling asleep in bed, Hunter had said to me, "Darling, I love you very much. Where are those hiking socks I got in Telluride?"

Is this really the sort of thing that married couples discuss in bed, I'd thought, miserably. Shouldn't we have been making love? Hmm, I'd thought to myself as I drifted off that night, this wasn't at all like an Eternity ad: the truth is, domestically speaking, being married is more like being in one of those suburban sitcoms like Everybody Loves Raymond. No matter how Eternity-ish a husband looks, they all have one or two horrific habits. Hunter's was leaving shaved bristles caked onto the sink. Even more horrific, someone (you) has to point it out and request their removal. No one ever explains that in marriage there is no getting away from ch.o.r.es-even if you are lucky enough to have a housekeeper-and that ch.o.r.es do not put you in the mood for s.e.x.

s.e.x, I thought wistfully, as I dragged a box of trash bags off the top shelf, s.e.x and...dry cleaning. I glanced at my watch: 7:30 P.M. I needed to finish up here and get home. There was a whole bunch of Hunter's cleaning being delivered at 8:00 that I needed to pay for.

I schlepped everything to the cash register. I hate to admit it, but my heart sank when I realized I was on line behind Phoebe Calder. The epitome of the G.W.V.W., she looked glowing. She was carrying a chic-looking parcel of French cheese in one hand and one of her own pale yellow PHOEBE BeBe bags in the other. Her b.u.mp was hidden by a short tweed cape, and she had impossibly skinny Kate Mossstyle jeans on underneath. Her brown hair looked so polished I could virtually see my reflection in it. I had to say h.e.l.lo to her, I thought, slightly gloomily. It would be rude not to. I tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hi, Phoebe," I said.

Pheobe turned and looked at me. She peered at my overflowing cart. There wasn't even a blink of recognition in her eyes. Suddenly she gasped, "Sylvie! Is that you? I didn't recognize you for a minute there. With all that cleaning stuff."

No wonder I was unrecognizable. I wasn't having nearly as much s.e.x as before. Hunter and I used to make love every day when we were dating, I was sure of it. Now, by my estimation, it was every three nights. Was that bad? Excellent? Average? Was that how often the Eternity couple did it?

"How's married life, Sylvie?" said Phoebe, as we waited on line.

Why is this the only question anyone ever asks you once you are married? What are you supposed to say? Maybe I had post-marital depression, I thought to myself grumpily. Surely if you could get post-natal depression, you could get the married version.

"Wonderful," I replied, because that is what you are supposed to say.

Do you have s.e.x with your husband between eating glamorous French cheese and making unaffordable baby wear? I wanted to ask.

"Does Hunter travel as much as he used to for work?" she asked, as the line snaked forward.

"Barely at all," I lied, thinking how little I'd actually seen of my husband since we got married. I didn't want to open up the conversation and have Phoebe regale me with more Hunter-on-the-loose stories.

"I do hope I'll see you tomorrow," said Phoebe, putting her cheese on the counter. The clerk swiped it through.

I looked at her, confused.

"At my new store. The Baby Buggy luncheon? Everyone's coming. Lauren, Marci. Spenderella. It'll be so much fun," said Phoebe in a voice that implied everyone must have fun, or there would be severe consequences. "Didn't you get the invitation?"

Baby Buggy luncheons are, among a certain set, the most exclusive charity baby events in town, peopled by billionaire mommies and their disciples. Their messiah is Jessica Seinfeld, Baby Buggy chair, mother of three, wife of Jerry. How does she have time to wear a different Narciso Rodriguez dress every time she goes out, throw Baby Buggy luncheons, have s.e.x, and get manicures, I wondered.

"Forty dollars, miss," said the girl at the cash register.

Phoebe handed her a hundred dollar bill. Then she said merrily, "This cheese is sixty-four dollars a pound. This place is daylight robbery, daylight robbery."

She smiled happily. There is nothing a woman like Phoebe adores more than being daylight robbed in front of a new acquaintance.

"I'll count you in for tomorrow. One o'clock. All the tickets are gone, but you don't need one. You're my guest."

This wasn't an invitation. This was an order.