Part 10 (1/2)
”She just wants a hot date,” I said. Hunter had no idea.
”Surely everyone would rather be married than divorced,” he replied.
”You are the most perfect husband,” I said. He was genuinely trying to be sweet.
”No, I'm not. You're the perfect wife.”
Maybe we were the Eternity couple after all.
Marci Klugerson, it transpired the next morning, had not gone missing at all. She had been sleeping all day and watching episodes of Medium on TiVo all night. When she called me at the office out of the blue at around midday, she sounded so doped up it was like talking to a drug addict.
”Do you know? Where...Christopher?...is?” mumbled Marci. She sounded like she wasn't even awake.
”Don't you?” I asked, shocked.
”No...,” wavered the insufficient voice. ”I kicked him out, and he's gone, totally...gone...away.”
It was pathetic. Marci sounded like someone on a Lifetime made-for-TV movie.
”Marci, is it really true about Chris-”
”-Did Tinsley tell you that? He's definitely with someone else. He won't say who. He's said he's gonna end it, but I'm in total shock. Please come over. The only thing I've eaten for the last three days is Seroquel. It's for schizophrenia. But I don't have schizophrenia, I have...”
There was a sudden snuffling and rustling of tissues. Marci was weeping uncontrollably.
”Marci, I have a couple of important appointments this afternoon at work. Can you survive till six? Then I can come over,” I said sympathetically.
”Meeeing in half an hour. She's been hiding out with some guy. Maybe she'll stay with me 'till you get here.”
”OK, good, that's great. See you later-”
”-Waaiiit! One more thing, Sylvie...” Sniffle-sniffle-sniffle. ”Do I get to wear Thack's clothes now that I'm getting divorced?”
Marci's drawing room at 975 Park Avenue would be enough to send anyone into a spiral of Seroquel dependency, missing husband or not. She'd had it done up by Jacques Grange when she got married, which is why she was living in an apartment that looked like the inside of Notre-Dame.
When I arrived just after six, I found Marci perched on a stiffly upholstered, dark green felt sofa in her drawing room. Resting on it was a copy of Maureen Dowd's Are Men Necessary? She had a drink in one hand and a remote control in the other. Her eyes were glued to the TV screen. She was maniacally flicking from one channel to the next. She was dressed in an immaculate white Rochas suit with black lace cuffs and a bow at the neck, fishnet stockings, and very high red shoes. Her hair was arranged in blonde curls around her face. The tears from earlier had vanished. Her face was pale, but she looked ghoulishly beautiful, like Nicole Kidman in The Others. Her countenance was completely calm. She was quite obviously half out of her mind, because one thing Marci never is when she is all right is calm.
”Sylvie, hi,” she said, without moving her eyes from the screen. ”Do you think I can ever go to another party downtown after that kid treated me like that?”
I sat down on the couch next to her and dropped my bag on the floor.
”Marci, I'm really concerned for you. Can I talk to you?” I said gently.
She nodded, mumbling, ”Yes.”
”Maybe you should be thinking about how to salvage your marriage,” I told her, ”not...party invitations-”
”-parties are important when you're...” Marci gulped her drink at alarming speed and then uttered dramatically, ”Alone. You wanna vodka shot?”
”Where's Lauren? Shouldn't she be here?”
”She flaked. She's got that Five o.r.g.a.s.m guy installed in her place. She's trying to take her mind off her wedding anniversary, which is today. She's really depressed too.”
”I'm sorry,” I said. Lauren's status as flakiest girl in New York obviously hadn't s.h.i.+fted.
”I'm sort of angry with her, but I can never get too angry with her. Lauren was so sweet to me when my mother died. She cleared the whole house out and paid all the movers' bills because I was broke then. Maybe Five o.r.g.a.s.ms is the man of her dreams. She deserves someone great.”
Suddenly Marci got up and walked over to the huge mahogany desk at one end of the room.
”I hate this place. I feel like I live in a Ritz Carlton hotel,” she grumbled. She sat down at the desk and picked up the telephone. ”Why don't we go down to the knitting cafe on Bedford Street?”
”Marci, darling, we should stay here,” I said. ”It's really cold out. Why don't I make us some rose-hip tea?”
”I did something terrible today. I tied all Christopher's Anderson and Sheppard handmade suits to a brick and threw them into the East River,” said Marci.
I had to laugh. That really was terrible. But maybe Christopher deserved it.
”Did you ever suspect Christopher?” I said.
”Of course not. He never came out with me, but I believed him when he said he couldn't socialize that much because of work.”
It was true. Marci was never with her husband when she was out. I'd never even met him. All I'd heard about Christopher was that he had bright red hair. Apart from that, he was a blank.
”Never trust a man who's always on a business trip. Men do not work that hard,” declared Marci. ”I bet Hunter isn't always on a business trip. On the weekends and every night.”
”No,” I replied, with a sympathetic shudder. ”But listen, Marci, you're still married to him, and whatever's been going on, you've got to consider patching it up. That's the whole point of being married. For better or for worse and everything.”
”I took the 'for worse' bit out of our vows. Christopher never even noticed.” Marci paused and then, brightening up a little, she said, ”It's so much fun, Salome wants me to spend all next summer with her in East Hampton. She says her place is like a disco palace all season with...uuggghh-ggh-ggh-uuuggh...” Marci was suddenly hiccoughing tears, barely able to breathe.
”How about if I order in something for us to eat?” I said. ”We can just chat tonight.”
”OK, OK...yes. No! Why don't we go to Bungalow 8?”
”Marci, it's seven in the evening. Bungalow 8 doesn't even get going till 2 A.M. You're in no state to be going down there tonight. You should take some time to reflect.”
”I hate Bungalow 8 anyway. I couldn't get in with Christopher. He was too overweight,” said Marci, wiping her tears with her lace cuffs. Then, looking at me desperately, she asked, ”How long does it take to have reflection, exactly? Three weeks? Could I be done reflecting by Thanksgiving?”
13.
Wedding Anniversary F.
To: [email protected]