Part 5 (2/2)
”Lauren! I'm busy,” hissed Salome, barely unlocking her lips.
Salome resembled a Middle Eastern Sophia Loren. Her skin was the color of an overpriced Fauchon praline, and her shoulder-length black tresses glistened like an oil slick. Bambi-length eyelashes framed her jade irises, and her decolletage was corseted into a very revealing frock. She had the cla.s.sy Arabian bombsh.e.l.l look down.
”Salome, you've got to be discreet,” said Lauren to Salome's hair. She sounded slightly bossy.
Salome glanced up momentarily and winked naughtily at Lauren.
”Darling, happy divorce!” she said. ”Why be discreet when everyone knows everything anyway?”
The ”everything” that ”everyone” knows is that Salome, a twenty-eight-year-old Saudi princess, had married Harvard-educated Faisal Al-Firaih, a nephew of the king, when she was twenty-one, in an arranged marriage. A few years after they wed, he brought her to New York, where he was taking care of family business. About a year ago he'd had to go back to the Middle East for three months, which was when Salome discovered Bungalow 8, the after-2 A.M. private club favored by downtown royalty. Meanwhile, Manhattan disovered Salome, and Salome discovered she loved being photographed. Although she looked as sophisticated as a panther, Bungalow 8 was only the second nightclub Salome had ever been to. She went man-crazy and vodkatini-mad, and h.o.a.rded Bungalow 8 slippers as though they were art. One night she was spotted making out with Shai Fledman, an AmericanIsraeli property guy. Unhappily, Faisal read about his wife the next morning in Page Six Online under the extended headline ”The Saudi-Princess-Israeli-Hunk Diaries.” He called Salome from Riyadh, said, ”I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you,” and that was it. Under Sharia law they were instantly divorced. Now Salome's dating the Jewish guy. Her parents won't speak to him. His parents won't speak to her. Salome's parents won't speak to her either, which is why Salome calls herself the One Woman Road Map.
I couldn't stop staring at Salome, partly because of her show-stopping performance in the kissing department, but also because she seemed to glow from within. Thackeray, I thought, would love to dress her if Alixe Carter didn't work out, which was looking less and less likely. Salome was far more intriguing than a movie star or TV celebrity.
”She'd be great for Thackeray,” whispered Lauren.
”Exactly what I was thinking,” I said under my voice.
Lauren literally dragged Salome off Shai, amid much giggling and hysterics. She gestured toward me.
”I want you to meet my friend Sylvie,” said Lauren.
”Hi,” said Salome. ”I love your dress.”
”Thanks,” I said.
I would call Salome next week and get her into the studio. I had to be smarter about this one than I had been about Alixe. A waiter glided by with a tray of champagne.
”Want some?” I asked Salome.
”Nope. Champagne doesn't do anything. I only drink spirits. Vodka shot, please,” she said to the waiter.
”Coming up,” he replied, and headed back toward his station.
Just then, a very in-proportion pregnant person-as far as I can gather, the only kind of pregnant people allowed out at night in Manhattan-appeared. She had a glossy ponytail and was wearing skinny jeans and a ruched peasant top. Her belly was as neat as a cantaloupe underneath it.
”Lauren! My eligible man's already with someone else!” she said excitedly.
”Phoebe Calder. G.o.d, I so appreciate you being here. Midnight's really late for a pregnant lady. You look really thin,” lied Lauren.
”I feel like a sideways camel,” lied Phoebe.
”I wouldn't even know you're pregnant,” lied Salome.
Just then the waiter appeared with an entire tray of vodka shots. He put them down on the little table beside us. Everyone except Phoebe took one. Shai, miserable now he was no longer glued to Salome, took two.
”Phoebe, have you met Sylvie?” said Lauren.
Phoebe smiled warmly at me. I hadn't met her before, but her name sounded familiar. She blinked a little shyly, and then said, ”I've known Hunter since I was a debutante. I heard you did the secret wedding thing. Congratulations on nailing him. He's devastatingly handsome. What a player he was. Ooooh, he was wonderful.”
”Yes, he's pretty wonderful,” I agreed, ignoring Phoebe's other observations.
Salome, who, I decided, was a more sensitive soul than her appearance would suggest, rapidly changed the subject. ”When are you due?” she said, between vodka shots.
”A month or so. We just came back from our last trip to Europe. Dr. Sa.s.soon would have had me arrested if he'd known I was still flying. Sylvie, we spotted Hunter in London. Two weekends ago. He's still madly attractive, madly.”
”Paris,” I corrected her. ”He's in Paris.”
”Well, we saw him in London. Ooops.”
What was Phoebe talking about? Hunter was in London? Two weekends ago? But...my mind whirred back. Was that...was that the weekend I hadn't been able to get hold of Hunter? My breath caught in my throat. I tried to scramble through my mental calendar, piecing together dates...it was almost exactly two weeks ago, wasn't it, that I had been unable to track down Hunter...although, who knew what two-or was it three by now-vodka shots had done to my diary skills? This was ludicrous. Phoebe was talking nonsense.
”He was in his hotel in Paris all weekend,” I said firmly. ”Business meetings.”
”Absent husbands! Ha ha ha!” laughed Phoebe. ”I never see mine either. It's wonderful.”
Sensing an awkward atmosphere, Lauren asked, ”How's your baby line going, Phoebe?”
”Eeeuuch! It's such hard work. My samples are in Shanghai. They should be back next week.”
”Excuse me, I'm going to the restroom,” I said, and exited quickly.
When I got there I locked myself into a stall. Had Hunter been in London? Why would Phoebe say that? More importantly, if he had been there, why hadn't he told me? Suddenly I heard the door to the ladies' room bang open. Someone knocked on the door of the stall, and I came out to find Salome and Lauren peering at me with concern in their eyes.
”There you are,” said Lauren. ”Don't worry about Phoebe; her brain's totally mushed when she's pregnant. There's no way she saw Hunter in London. She just loves to stir things up.”
”Really?” I said. I hoped Lauren was right.
”Yes,” said Salome. ”The only thing Phoebe ever says is, 'My samples are in Shanghai!' It's her mantra. They've been there two years.”
This wasn't quite true. Phoebe was an extremely successful, if notoriously ambitious, baby-wear creatrice. But it was sweet of Salome to pretend she was a total loser.
”Come on back out. I want you to meet someone,” said Lauren, tugging me by the hand.
The ”someone” was Sanford Berman. (His second name had been shortened from Bermothovoski when his family moved from Russia to America in 1939). He was sitting awkwardly on one of the fur poufs in his suit and tie, sipping Perrier. Despite being the ancient, Jello-bodied mogul type, he oozed powerful-man charisma. He seemed to know everyone, and everyone wanted to know him. Phoebe was circling his pouf like a famished lioness when Lauren and I walked over, but as soon as Sanford saw Lauren, his focus s.h.i.+fted. It was as though he'd trained a searchlight on her. He couldn't see anyone else.
”Ah,” he said, holding his hands out to Lauren, who took them in hers. Sanford remained pouf-bound, and Lauren sat down next to him. Everyone else stood around, looking down at both of them. ”The most beautiful girl in New York.” Sanford raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it.
Sanford was completely and utterly, madly, whatever you want to call it, in love with Lauren.
”Sanford, I want you to meet Sylvie,” said Lauren, gesturing toward me.
”Nice to see you,” I said, shaking Sanford's hand. It felt like a cold pack.
”If you're Lauren's friend, you're my friend,” said Sanford amiably.
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