Part 11 (1/2)
”Come up to the suite now,” I said.
”Are you sure I'm not inconveniencing you and your husband?” asked Nina, concerned.
”Not even vaguely.”
Hunter was completely and utterly 100 percent wrong about this girl. Nina was genuinely genuine, as opposed to fake-genuine. No actress can fake punctuality.
When we got up to the suite I took Nina into the drawing room and ordered two cafes cremes from room service. Just as we were tucking into a plate of pains aux chocolats, Hunter put his head around the door and said h.e.l.lo to Nina before going out.
”What a cutie,” said Nina, as the door closed.
I smiled. ”He's pretty great,” I said.
”And so successful. I keep reading about this show he's working on. It sounds amazing,” she said.
I spread out one of Thackeray's look books on the table for Nina to peruse. There were eighteen outfits in the collection, of which six were evening gowns. I hoped there was enough choice. Nina picked up the book and studied the photographs intently, moving them this way and that to get a closer look at the details.
”Wow,” she breathed. ”This one is very Fatal Blonde, no?”
She was pointing at a picture of a sky blue, chiffon mousseline dress. It had a tiny waist, and the hem swirled on the floor in a pool of tulle.
”That's the Grace dress. Thackeray based it on one of Grace Kelly's gowns in To Catch a Thief,” I told Nina.
”That is literally my favorite movie. Can I really borrow it?” gasped Nina, looking excited.
”We'll make you your own,” I said.
”I don't mind borrowing. Young designers can't afford to give away clothes.”
”I insist,” I said. ”We'll make the Grace dress for you, and you should choose another one. You may freak out on the night of the premiere and hate the Grace dress suddenly. You need a choice.”
Nina did choose another dress-a black d.u.c.h.esse satin c.o.c.ktail frock with a bow on each shoulder and a s.e.xy split up the front. The trouble was, I had promised it to Salome for Alixe's ball. Feeling slightly guilty, I told Nina she could have it exclusively. Salome would freak if she knew Nina Chlore was going to wear it too. But the cookie always crumbles in favor of the movie star, fas.h.i.+on-wise. That's just the way it is.
The next morning-after a delicious dinner the previous night at Bra.s.serie v.a.g.i.n.aud and a midnight stroll along the river-two cars were waiting outside the Bristol for Hunter and me, our luggage loaded up. Hunter was going to Frankfurt, then on to Denmark and back to New York. I was going to Moscow from a different airport, and then returning to New York. Our blissful Paris week was done, but I didn't feel sad, even though I wouldn't see Hunter for two weeks. In fact, I felt restored. Marriage was heavenly. As I went over to check that the right bags were in the right car, I felt insulated from the pain of our imminent separation by a blanket of love and smoochiness.
”I think everything's in your car, darling,” I said, looking into the trunk at Hunter's two ancient navy blue Globetrotter suitcases. ”But...I don't think this is ours.”
There was a tan overnight bag in the trunk of Hunter's car. It definitely wasn't his.
”Excuse me,” I called to the busboy. ”Can you remove this bag?”
”Oui,” he replied, starting to lift the bag from the car.
As he did so, a luggage tag on the side of the bag flipped over. It read SOPHIA D'ARLAN. I froze.
”Hunter-” I started to say, as I turned to look at him, but stopped. There was Sophia D'Arlan, walking toward me, waving. Before I could think any further, Sophia was kissing me h.e.l.lo, saying,” I can't believe you're not coming with us. Hunter promised me I'd get to hang out with you. I'm totally gutted. Hunter's such a pill, forcing me to go to Frankfurt like this just because I speak German. It's an absolute hole there, a hole. By the way, did Nina Chlore choose something? I told her she just had to wear Thack.”
”She did. Thank you for sending her,” I said. What on earth was going on?
Hunter came over. He greeted Sophia in a very offhand way, as though there was nothing untoward about him taking a multi-lingual, Sardinian-legged beauty on a business trip with him. What had Marci said? Never trust a man who's always on a business trip? In an instant, my Parisian glow dissipated, and I felt the familiar twitches of paranoia again. I made a huge effort to appear unruffled. Suddenly Hunter had me in his arms and was giving me a hug.
”G.o.d, I'll miss you, darling,” he was saying.
”Me too,” I whispered.
”What are you doing in Moscow?” interrupted Sophia. ”It's a dump, a terrible dump.”
Still with my arms wrapped around Hunter-very possessively, I admit-I said, ”I'm meeting Lauren, for the ice polo. She's fallen in love with this guy out there.”
”Oh?” said Sophia.
”A Mr. Giles Monterey.”
Something amazing happened next. Sophia, the cool, I-know-everyone-in-the-world-and-everyone-on-the-moon-too Sophia, was suddenly lost for words.
”Giles Monterey? She knows Giles Monterey,” whispered Sophia finally, in awe. ”My G.o.d. I've always wanted to...meet him.”
From the blush on her face, she may as well have said, I've always wanted to marry him. Fl.u.s.tered, she looked at her watch and said, ”Oh, we'd better be going. Do report what Monterey's like when you're back...G.o.d, I can hardly bear it!” said Sophia. ”Come on, Mr. H.”
Mr. H? She called Hunter by a stupid nickname? This was peculiar. I didn't like it. Even I didn't have a nickname for Hunter. Still, there was nothing for it but to wave happily as Hunter and Sophia headed over toward their car. Just before they disappeared inside it, I saw Sophia looking at Hunter in a hungry way. Her gaze lingered on him. She looked as though she hadn't eaten for a week.
14.
Mr. Moscow.
The girls in Moscow, with their flat, blonde hair, slanting bones, perfect bodies, and dead eyes, behave exactly the way American men think all women should. They sit at dinner, look decorative, smile, and never speak. It's a business deal: the amount a girl is allowed to talk decreases in exact inverse proportion to the amount of dollars or euros her boyfriend has, and the more Versace and Roberto Cavalli dresses he buys her. That's why Russian billionaires are always accompanied by exceptionally beautiful women who chat about as much as Holly Hunter did in The Piano.
The night before the ice polo, the lobby of the Park Hyatt Hotel on Neglinnaya Street was buzzing with just such girls and their dates. In the tradition of the new and phenomenally rich, what the crowd lacked in taste it made up for in colored diamonds and white fur. It's not the done thing to remove your sable in Russia, even if you are in a piping-hot hotel lobby. How else would anyone get to see it?
Lauren and I were sitting at the bar observing the scene. Daylight robbery in New York and Paris is one thing, but in Moscow it's been inflated to meet with billionaire-size expectations. Eighty dollars for a gla.s.s of pink champagne at the bar at the Park Hyatt is standard. Even Lauren was appalled.
”Phoebe would love it here.” she observed. ”By the way. She had her kid. It's called Lila Slingsby, and she wants you to come to the christening. It's about ten days after we get back.”
Suddenly Lauren jumped off her stool and exclaimed, ”Gerski!”
A rather stout Russian man wearing a thin black leather jacket was striding toward us. He walked as though he were invading a minor nation. When he got close, Lauren kissed him on both cheeks and gave him a long hug.
”Ah! So long! How is your father?” he asked with a tender look in his eyes. Then, winking at both of us, he went on jovially, ”You two are the only respectable people in this place. Everyone else has six bodyguards.”
Gerksi, who turned out to have numerous bodyguards himself, was to be our ”minder” for the weekend. A longtime business a.s.sociate of Lauren's father, Gerski was a fifty-eight-year-old Siberian who had introduced Mr. Blount to the financial benefits of Russian crouton factories. Gerski oversaw all of Mr. Blount's toasted bread interests. His genius had been to package the croutons, American style, in little plastic bags. Gerski had made Mr. Blount even richer than he already was, and Mr. Blount had made Gerski richer than his wildest dreams.
”Right, Pushkin Cafe,” said Gerski. He ushered us toward the exit, glancing dismissively at the crowd in the bar.
With its roaring fires and waiters dressed in high boots and breeches, the Pushkin Cafe feels like the kind of place Chekhov's three sisters would have frequented, if they'd ever gotten out of the house. The building resembles an ornate chateau, wedding-cake deep with molding copied from the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. You'd never know the whole thing's a total fake, put up about five years ago.
Gerski seemed to know everyone in the restaurant. He had gotten us one of the best tables-downstairs in front of a huge gilt mirror, where we could see the crowd coming in and out. We'd only been seated a few minutes when a young girl-she couldn't have been more than seventeen years old-joined us. Oksana was Gerski's girlfriend-” girlfriend” being a loose term in Moscow, since the richest men prefer to have a different one every night. Oksana was tough, despite her youth. She'd spent two seasons modeling in Milan, which made her a little more outspoken than her peers. She was wearing a daringly cut black satin dress, and two sugar-lump-size brilliant-cut diamond studs in her ears. She looked like she had walked out of a cla.s.sic Helmut Newton photograph. She rested her left hand on Gerski's right arm throughout dinner, even while they were both eating.