Part 5 (1/2)
”We're all going to some restaurant in the rue Oberkampf. I think she got the table.”
Monday was not a good day. Hunter still didn't call, I couldn't track him down, and on top of that Alixe Carter never showed up for her fitting. I was sure I'd heard Lauren confirm the date and time-2 P.M., Monday September 20th. But Alixe didn't telephone, she didn't email, and her cell went straight to voicemail. Annoyed, Thackeray spent the entire day angrily sketching gloomy Oscar gowns that, hopefully, no actress would be doomed to wear. I, on the other hand, buried my head in the accounts in a poor attempt to distract myself from my own anxiety.
By the time I finally heard from Hunter that evening I was into the emotional false-positive stage of the whole not-hearing-from-your-husband drama, where you have cried and fretted and finally emerged relentlessly cheerful. I'd even told myself a million times, to the point where I almost believed it, I don't need a husband anyway. It was almost seven in the evening when he called.
”h.e.l.lo, darling,” I said cautiously when I heard his voice. My heart was beating a million miles a minute.
”I've been missing you like mad. Where were you all weekend?” he said.
”Where was I? I was wondering where you were. I called you, like, fifteen times. Where did you get to?” I said irritably. I felt a little annoyed suddenly.
”Here,” said Hunter. ”Where else would I be?”
What? This was bizarre.
”The hotel said you checked out,” I replied.
”That's odd. I was here all weekend. I couldn't call when I wanted to because...I had endless business...meetings and then with the time difference...”
”I wonder why they said you weren't there,” I said, trying not to sound accusatory.
”The hotel must have made a mistake,” said Hunter. ”Now, about that divorce shower of Lauren's...I think you should definitely be the maid of honor. And I want a full report of all the evil goings-on that night.”
”Oh, absolutely.” I laughed. Maybe everything was all right.
”And about that other item...Sabbia Rosa...nice store-”
”-did you get me something?” I asked excitedly.
”I couldn't possibly divulge, darling...”
”Darling, I'm sorry,” I said.
”For what?”
How could I have not trusted Hunter? Going to Sabbia Rosa like that after only one tiny email hint was admirable husband behavior. The mixup this weekend was obviously the hotel's fault. Still...it was odd, the whole thing. But...well...what did it matter? I was probably just being overly paranoid with Hunter away for such a long time and everything.
”For missing you so much,” I lied.
”I think about you all the time. I keep thinking Paris isn't really Paris without my beautiful wife beside me.”
”You're my favorite,” I said. He was. Period.
”So, listen, I found the most amazing location last week for the country house scene. It's this fantastic old chateau, about two hours north of Paris.”
”How did you find it?”
”Milton. He called out of the blue last week, and we had breakfast at Cafe Flore. We got chatting about interiors. He mentioned that Sophia had shown him this incredible s.p.a.ce, so I took a look. The whole team's up there now working on it.”
”How nice of Sophia,” I responded-very generously, I thought.
Then something struck me. Hadn't Milton just told me yesterday that he hadn't seen Hunter yet? Maybe I'd misheard him. Still, I felt a little peculiar suddenly.
”Yeah. She's a useful contact here. Look, I must run to dinner, we're all meeting up. I'll say hi from you.”
”Lovely,” I said and hung up.
Why was everyone, including The Woman Who Only Dates Husbands, having dinner in Paris with my husband when I was in New York? This was all wrong. I must plan a weekend in Paris, soon.
7.
The Divorce Shower.
Alixe Carter's parties always live up to her nickname: Spenderella. Spenderella is the only girl in New York under thirty-five who can honestly say that she has a ballroom, which is the location for her annual New Year's ball. She says, and honestly believes, that she paid for her palace on Charles Street with royalties from her Arancia di Firenze soap line. Even though everyone knows that Alixe's husband, Steve, actually pays for everything with revenues from his chain of casinos, this is never mentioned by writers from women's magazines or Alixe's coterie of slavishly devoted girlfriends, a.k.a. the ladies in waiting.
”Did I overdo the pear blossom? Or underdo?” she asked with a worried expression as Lauren and I arrived, just after midnight, at the penthouse suite of the Hotel Rivington, the location for the Divorce Shower. She was wearing a white Ungaro gown, printed with crimson poppies. It perfectly suited her floral theme. ”If anything's wrong, I completely blame Anthony Todd, whom I adore. He did the flowers, you know.”
Anthony Todd, had, as usual, wildly overcompensated on the $60-a-stem pear blossom front. The absurd price was justified by the fact that pear blossom is completely out of season on October 2nd, which was, of course, the main reason Alixe wanted it. (Now that status handbags were gauche accoutrements, status blooms filled that gap in her life.) The rumor was that she'd done more damage to New Zealand's pear orchards to create her spring garden than McDonald's ever did to the rain forests. ”Rebirth!” declared Alixe, explaining the reason for creating a spring blossom orchard in the fall, although everyone knew the only criterion Alixe ever used for deciding floral themes was that the latest one should be more glaringly costly than the last.
”It looks amazing, Alixe,” I said, rea.s.suring her.
”Sylvie Mortimer? So thrilled to finally meet you. Bon divorce, girls,” she squealed, turning to greet another guest.
Alixe didn't mention the missed dress appointment. Nor did I.
”Right, let's get alcohol fast,” said Lauren, leading the way to the bar. ”Two champagne on the rocks, in tumblers,” she said when we arrived. ”I read somewhere that Fred Chandon used to drink it like this. Isn't that glam?”
The barman poured our drinks, and Lauren handed me one.
”Can you see anyone cute here?” she asked as her eyes scanned the room. ”Do I look tacky?”
Lauren's flawless outfit conformed to the unspoken dress code of the Hotel Rivington-unreconstructed black tie. She was wearing a cloud-gray, floor-length, ruched Tuleh dress, with tiny white polka dots. A jacketini-a small, barely shoulder-length garment made of approximately half an inch of illegal monkey fur-covered her shoulders. Her eyes were framed by false eyelashes and las.h.i.+ngs of kohl, and her hair was falling in unbrushed waves around her shoulders. I, on the other hand, was dressed in one of Thack's most demure white lace dresses. I wanted to make it quite plain that I was not on the prowl for cute guys.
”You look really great,” I told her.
”I feel weird,” she said, her eyes darting around the ma.s.s of guests. ”It's all way too cool in here for me.”
The party wasn't exactly your typical girly shower (thank G.o.d). The wraparound gla.s.s windows of the penthouse, through which you could see the street-lights s.h.i.+mmering red and orange below, were a glittering backdrop for the party scene. Here and there I could make out silhouettes of men with their arms wrapped around girls' waists, little groups perching on tiny sofas that had been brought in for the night, and intimate twosomes lounging on giant fur poufs that were scattered about the party. There was even already some kissing going on beneath the pear blossom, whose blooms were so lusciously puffy they looked fluffier than whipped cream.
”Who's that?” I asked.
Right next to me a very exotic-looking girl was propped up on a bar stool, frantically kissing a dark-skinned man. She was edging him farther and farther back against the bar. It looked incredibly uncomfortable for him. As he was pressed backward, a skullcap suddenly fell off the back of his head and plopped onto the bar. He didn't notice, and Lauren and I tried hard to stifle our giggles.
”That's Salome Al-Firaih. She's known,” whispered Lauren archly, ”as the Middle East Peace Plan Divorcee. She's never not kissing someone of the opposite religion. She's unbearably cool. I'm modeling myself on her.”
With that, Lauren stepped over to Salome and tapped her on the shoulder, saying, ”Salome. You should be careful. This isn't Geneva. This is the Hotel Rivington.”