Part 7 (2/2)
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.
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