Part 7 (1/2)

”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.”