Part 12 (2/2)

The night before Phoebe's daughter's christening, I was restless. I hadn't seen Hunter for almost two weeks, but he was finally coming home the following night. We'd been speaking constantly, but the thought of actually being back together with him was almost too much: I couldn't possibly sleep. At 2 A.M. I was still tossing around unhappily under the comforter. Wide awake, I finally decided to get up for a while and catch up on some emails-there was no point staying in bed any longer. I slipped on my cashmere robe and wandered into the study.

I sat down at Hunter's desk and switched on the study lamp. I had left my laptop in the office, so I turned on Hunter's desktop computer, which I occasionally used when I was home. I was about to type an email when I noticed a file on his desktop I hadn't seen before: underneath it read, sjphillipssketch. jpeg.

S. J. Phillips, I mused to myself. Wasn't that the name of the jewelry store Lauren had mentioned when we were on our way back from Moscow? Feeling tremendously guilty, I clicked on the icon. It popped open, showing a one-page doc.u.ment. The following was written on the page in a curly, old-fas.h.i.+oned typeface: S. J. Phillips, Jewellers, 139 New Bond Street, London, W1.

By Royal Appointment.

Underneath was an intricate sketch, in pencil, of an oval-shaped, amethyst pendant with an S snaking elegantly around it in tiny diamonds. ”The necklace will be ready for collection after November 20” was written next to the sketch. I gulped. So that was what Hunter had been up to in London! He had commissioned a special jeweled pendant for me. How sweet of him to pretend he had been at a last-minute business meeting. No wonder he had sounded so vague when I had interrogated him so ferociously about it-he was covering up his beautiful, romantic little love project. Hunter could go on last-minute business trips to S. J. Phillips anytime he wanted. Hopefully, I thought, as I returned to bed, suddenly sleepy and relaxed, Hunter was picking up the jewel while he was in Europe. I could hardly wait to see him. (And not just because of the jewel, honestly.) Phoebe has more friends-slash-business-a.s.sociates than the president of the United States. No wonder she had to take out the whole church on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twelfth Street for the christening of her newborn, Lila Slingsby. She couldn't possibly share a christening like regular people do. Not only would she never have been able to squeeze in everyone she wanted, other parents might have objected to the commercial undertones of the Phoebe Bebethemed christening: the entire church was decked out with yellow primroses that had been specially grown and white satin ribbons that were tied in bows absolutely everywhere you looked, even around the crucifix at the foot of the altar. Even though I was rather tired that afternoon, I was so excited about Hunter coming back that I felt unusually buoyant. I was in love. It was easy to be pleasantly amused by Phoebe's exhibitionistic display of motherhood.

The unborn Lila Slingsby had been present at so many parties in New York while still womb-bound that the joke at the christening was that she was the first Socialite Fetus of note in the city. Indeed, the little embryo certainly had the best introduction to the world, socially speaking. Lila Slingsby had been born at New York Presbyterian, under the care of Dr. Sa.s.soon. (Everyone wants that hospital because you can bring in your own nurses / chef / manicurist, and everyone wants Dr. Sa.s.soon, because he was rumored to have delivered Caroline Kennedy's children, and every mother in New York wants an introduction to those kids.) ”It's a power christening,” whispered Lauren, perusing the crowd from our pew. She was dressed elegantly in a cream, ruffled Oscar de la Renta party dress. A thick rope of oversize black pearls hugged her slim neck. ”No one here isn't a someone. I love Phoebe, but she's sick. I mean, doesn't her kid have grandparents? Or don't old people wear enough Balenciaga to be seen here?”

Lauren had a point. As she and the thirteen other G.o.dparents were summoned to the altar, it was impossible not to notice that not one G.o.dfather was not a captain of industry, super-hot hedge fund manager, or a media company owner-operator. The G.o.dmothers were wealthy beauties, fas.h.i.+on types, or high-end socialites. Whatever little Lila Slingsby was going to need later in life-an interns.h.i.+p at MTV, a front-row seat at Lacroix couture, a permanent table at Pastis-one of her G.o.dparents would arrange it, because they probably owned it. It was sweet of Phoebe to prepare her little girl's life so perfectly.

Phoebe's double-width carriage house on West Thirteenth Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues was bulging with friends when Lauren and I arrived after the service. Lila was fast asleep in her mother's arms, which made it all the easier to show off her outfit to everyone, and whenever anyone congratulated Phoebe, she just looked at Lila and declared, ”Lila is a miracle...doesn't yellow look spectacular on her?”

After a few minutes I spotted Marci on the other side of the crowded drawing room. I hadn't seen her since that dreadful night at her apartment, so I headed over to talk to her.

”Hi Sylvie,” she said when I reached her. ”I'm feeling amazing.”

Marci looked fairly amazing. She was wearing a very pretty orange silk dress printed with posies of pink roses.

”I love your dress, Marci,” I said.

”Sophia sent it over to me after Christopher went, to cheer me up. I'm rather looking forward to being a divorcee now. Sophia says we'll have such fun. She's become an incredibly close friend of mine in the last twelve days. She calls all the time from Europe. She even says she'll talk to Christopher for me now that he's not speaking to me. She's so supportive.”

”Oh,” I said rather unenthusiastically. Still, even a mention of Sophia couldn't dampen my mood that day.

”Hey, I need to discuss something with you,” said Lauren, suddenly, pulling me aside.

”What?” I said.

”It's Monterey. I haven't heard a thing. Two weeks and I haven't heard a thing! I'm going nuts. I guess I'll have to just wait, right?”

”I don't see what else you can do. He is...engaged,” I reminded her.

”I guess,” moped Lauren. ”Anyway, you looked thrilled with life. What's going on? Are you pregnant?”

”No!” I said. ”Hunter's coming back tonight. I can't wait to see him.” I was so excited about the jewel I couldn't help but tell Lauren about it. ”And last night, I found this gorgeous sketch on Hunter's computer from S. J. Phillips of an amethyst pendant with an S wrapped around it in diamonds. It's so beautiful. Isn't that sweet of Hunter?”

There was a long pause. Lauren looked pensive, then she said, ”Darling, is it for you, or...her?”

”What?” I said, confused.

”Well, think. S is Sylvie, but S is also for Sophia.”

”Of course the necklace isn't for Sophia!” I cried, upset.

”How can you be sure?” said Lauren in a low voice.

”I'll ask him,” I declared, worried.

”Don't do that!” ordered Lauren. ”First, it's supposed to be a surprise, so if it is for you, you're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g things up for yourself by admitting you've been sneaking around your husband's computer. And second, a wife must never, ever confront a husband unless she has concrete proof of misdemeanors. Otherwise he'll think you're neurotic and scary and that will be the end of everything.”

”It can't be for Sophia,” I said, unsure of myself, ”...can it?”

”Look, I'm probably being neurotic,” said Lauren, ”But remember that picture of Sophia's shoe in that New York magazine story?”

I suddenly remembered flicking through the magazine on our trip back from Moscow. I felt nauseous.

”I'll have to speak to him,” I said. ”Tonight-”

”-No,” interrupted Lauren. ”A one-off Bruno Frisoni shoe isn't enough...proof. There was this one time, years ago when I was first married to Louis, and he was spending all his time with my thenbest friend, Lucia, and I accused them of being up to no good and...they were secretly planning a gorgeous surprise birthday for me! It was completely innocent. Sometimes I think that was one of the things that drove him to cheat on me eventually: I was so suspicious. You have to be sure before you do anything. You can't say a word. Promise me you won't mention it.”

I nodded reluctantly. ”OK,” I said. Maybe Lauren was right.

”Good. Then if it turns out he is cheating,” said Lauren with a rea.s.suring smile, ”at least you can console yourself with the knowledge that you behaved with great dignity and didn't get all neurotic and scary before it was completely appropriate.”

16.

Christmas Card Envy.

That December, the last thing on anyone's mind as they opened Valerie and Tommie Gervalt's Christmas card was Christmas. Valerie had taken the personalized greeting card up a very compet.i.tive notch. Smiling from a photograph on the front of the card was her three-year-old daughter, Celeste. She was wearing a pale blue tweed Emily Jane coat, of the type only found at Harrods in London. She had a gray beret on her head, and her feet were clad in black lace-up boots that looked as though they came straight from the costume department of Little House on the Prairie. Celeste was standing next to a pillbox-hatted busboy on the front steps of the Ritz Hotel in the Place Vendome. Underneath the photograph were the words: ”Celeste-Paris Couture-Summer”

”Her kid looks like a hobgoblin,” chuckled Hunter when he saw it. We were having breakfast together at home the morning after he'd gotten back from Europe, and enjoying opening the pile of cards that had arrived that morning in the mail. ”Valerie is New York's finest example of unvarnished social climbing,” he declared.

”Here, open this one,” I said, handing Hunter a bright red envelope. ”And I'll open this.”

”Oh my,” mused Hunter as he handed me the card he had just pulled out of the envelope. It was a Christmas card from Salome. The cover photograph, of herself in her Christian Lacroix wedding gown, was beautiful. She'd had her ex-husband, and the minister, Photoshopped out of the picture. Inside, she'd had the following words printed, graffiti-style: Happy Holidays!

Love,

Me, Me, and Me.

Next I opened my envelope. Almost as unvarnished as Valerie's card in its display of gorgeousness was the missive inside. It was from Sophia and her five sisters. It featured a shot of the girls (all, naturally, Gwyneth Paltrow look-alikes) waving from the back of a 1960s pickup truck in Colorado.

”How pretty,” I said. ”They're all so beautiful.”

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