Part 6 (1/2)
Phoebe peered at Sanford expectantly, but he didn't say anything to her. Sanford turned back to Lauren, and said, ”My dear, I have a business proposition for you.”
”Finally. You want me to find something for your lovely wife?” asked Lauren.
”No, it's for me.”
”I hope you're gonna spoil yourself.”
”Remember those Faberge cuff links I lost at auction-”
”-wait!!!” interrupted Phoebe. ”The same thing happened to me. When I lost a Lalique gorgon pendant at the Phillips auction, I was physically sick. I went to the doctor and said, I'm going to die. And the doctor said, if you want to live you must buy the gorgon. So I bought it from Fred Leighton after the auction for double the price, and here I am. Alive.”
Everyone looked at Phoebe. She suddenly blushed and said, ”I'm really focusing on my business. My samples are in Shanghai, you know.”
”We know,” said Salome. ”Let's go get dessert.”
Salome and Phoebe disappeared and Lauren and I were left with Sanford. He turned and fixed her with a commanding look.
”I'm serious, Lauren. I want to own the Nicholas II Faberge cuff links. I haven't a clue who's got 'em now.”
Sanford, I learned, had surprisingly exquisite taste. Owners of Faberge cuff links can barely hold on to them right now, they are so desired, even with price tags of $80,000 and up. If they'd looked Tsar Nicholas, or possibly Rasputin, in the face, they were even more sought after. For Lauren, the more difficult the commission, the more crazed she was about pulling it off. She once told me she usually spends more money on private planes in pursuit of the jewels than she ever makes in profit, but, as she says, what else is she going to do between lunch and dinner?
”I can find them for you,” she said, ”but, Sanford, there's no knowing if the owner will sell.”
”You could persuade a man to give you his entire portfolio just by blinking at him,” said Sanford flirtatiously.
Lauren laughed.
”I'll try my best,” she said.
”Thank you, my darling,” said Sanford. He kissed her on the cheek and wobbled shakily off the pouf to leave. ”I have to go, but keep me posted, OK?”
Lauren nodded, and looked after him as he left the room. She seemed a little wistful.
”He's cute,” she said.
”He's completely in love with you,” I told her.
”Pshhht,” she said, laughing. ”He's such an awesome friend. This is a brilliant project. Those cuff links are so rare. For once I feel really excited about something. Other than my s.e.x life.”
”Darling, it's Sylvie,” I said.
”Honey, you're up so late. What time is it there?” said Hunter.
It was 3 A.M. in New York, 9 A.M. in Paris. I was standing in the kitchen, wide awake, phone clenched in my hand. There was no way I could sleep when I got home after Lauren's shower. I was too freaked out about what Phoebe had said, though I couldn't admit it to myself earlier.
”I just got in from Lauren's divorce shower. It didn't even start till midnight.”
”Go to sleep and let's speak when you wake up,” said Hunter.
”Hunter, I'm missing you ma.s.ses,” I said.
Since that difficult conversation a couple of weeks ago, when Hunter had gone AWOL from his hotel, everything had returned to normal. I had almost forgotten about the whole episode, and Hunter had been sweeter than ever, despite his absence, calling to chat whenever he could. I half didn't even want to mention what Phoebe had said tonight. But I had to.
”I met an old friend of yours tonight. Phoebe?” I said.
”I haven't seen her in years. How was she?” asked Hunter.
Years? What about a couple of weeks ago, I thought. Internally steeling myself, I replied, ”Very pregnant. She said she saw you two weekends ago, Hunter.” I paused, then added, ”On your secret trip to London.”
There was a silence at the other end of the phone. I angrily opened the fridge and poured myself a gla.s.s of champagne from an open bottle. I took a sip. Nothing happened. I didn't feel delightfully dizzy. Maybe Salome was right about champagne: it didn't work.
Suddenly Hunter said, ”Phoebe! She never talks any sense. Her hormones are probably all over the place. I did see her, at Chez Georges in Paris, with Peter, her husband. She's huge.”
”Why did you say you hadn't seen her for years?” I demanded.
”Sylvie, darling. I love you very much. You have nothing to worry about.”
Had I mentioned being worried? Why did he suddenly think I was worried? Did that mean I really did have something to worry about?
”I'm not worried,” I lied.
”Good. So stop worrying and go to bed. Forget about Phoebe. She's just a pregnant flake. Would you mind going out to dinner with her and her husband when I'm back?”
Is it possible, I wondered as I lay in bed that night, for a marriage to be briefer than Liz Taylor and Nicky Hilton's? Six weeks in, and I was already worrying about what my new husband was up to while he was away on business. But you go to a divorce shower, and suddenly the world is full of wicked husbands and boyfriends, and then you wake up (late) the next morning and your husband's a saint. What had I been thinking last night? I was not the next Liz Taylor, and Hunter had not been lying to me. He had made it very clear that he had seen Phoebe, but in Paris. Phoebe had simply made a mistake, due to her pregnancy. Maybe being around all those divorcees had made my brain mushy.
Over the next few days I busied myself with work and the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the apartment. Milton's team had worked miracles, and we suddenly had a stunningly beautiful apartment. Hunter was due back in a few days' time, and I was dying to see him. He was going to love the apartment, I was sure of it. I could barely think of anything else. Work was a good distraction. I managed to get hold of Salome, who was sweet and gracious when I spoke to her and said she would love to wear Thackeray to Alixe Carter's ball. We arranged an appointment for a week away. Thackeray loved the sound of her, saying, ”I've gone beyond Alixe Carter anyway. A Saudi princess is so much more now.”
A few days later, Milton arrived at the apartment staggering under the weight of two chandeliers he'd brought back from Paris. I helped him set them down in the hallway, and then we did a ”walk-thru” of the apartment, as Milton called it. It looked gorgeous, and we ended our tour in my favorite spot, the kitchen. It now had pretty cream cabinets, mirrored back splashes, and a bright red silk blind at the window with a chocolate brown grosgrain trim. There was an old oak farm table in the middle of the room, with vintage bamboo chairs scattered around it. Milton had insisted on little red silk wall lamps instead of those recessed spotlights everyone has.
”You need an Aga in here. The new white one,” said Milton. ”Then it'll be really cozy.” He looked at his watch, seeming rushed. ”I can't stay long. I'm leaving for Uzbekistan in the morning. Following in the footsteps of Diane von Furstenberg and Christian Louboutin. Three months on the Nouveau Silk Road. To work on my Target furniture line. I won't be back till January. How do you like the apartment?”
”I love it. I can't wait for Hunter to see it,” I said happily.
”Look at you, you're so cute,” said Milton. ”You're so in love with him, aren't you?”
I blushed a little and nodded.
”No one I know is in love with their actual husband anymore,” said Milton. ”Even the gay guys.”
”That's terrible,” I said. ”Iced tea?”
I poured two drinks and emptied a bag of chocolate chip cookies onto a plate. Milton grabbed one and perched on one of the chairs.
”Mmmm,” grinned Milton.
”Did you have fun in Paris?” I asked, leaning against the countertop.