Part 16 (2/2)
”Chanel!!! Koo-tooor!!!” repeated Nancy. ”IN! CRED! IBLE! You look lovely!!! I understand the lace is from-Oh!!! I see Nina Chlore! Coming over!” Now Nancy looked bored with Mischa Barton. ”ThankyouMischagoodbye-” she said, in the your-time-is-up tone of voice TV hosts reserve for evicting celebrities from their turf.
On the screen, Nina floated toward Mary in a cloud of chiffon. Despite everything, I couldn't help but be excited. I was suddenly glued to the screen, inspecting every last detail of Nina's look.
”Here is Nina Chlore!!! The star of The Fatal Blonde...” Nancy was saying as she approached. ”Nina! Chlore! You! Are! Amazing!”
”Stop!” said Nina sweetly as she arrived at the Access Hollywood stage. ”You are amazing, Nancy. How are you?”
”I'm good! Whose is this...magical gown, Nina?”
”The designer made it specially for me,” smiled Nina.
”How wonderful!!!” screamed Nancy, over the yells for Nina behind her.
”It's Versace,” said Nina. ”There's no one I love more than Donatella.”
I couldn't believe it. Thack would be devastated. And I was in no state to cheer him up. Just then, my phone started beeping. I looked at the screen. Alixe was calling. I decided not to take her call. The last thing I wanted now was a change of dress before Friday. After a few seconds her call went to voicemail.
A few moments later, the phone started ringing again. Alixe was obviously desperate to get through.
I picked up. Alixe sounded blocked up, like she was sick with a cold.
”Is the dress OK?” I asked.
”I love the...d-d-dress,” stuttered Alixe. G.o.d, was she weeping?
”Alixe, are you OK?”
”It's not me. It's S-s-s-ugh-sanford. He's dead.”
”How awful.”
I'd had no idea Alixe was so close to him. She sounded cut up.
”G.o.d, I'm so sorry, Alixe. You sound so distressed,” I added.
”I a-a-a-amm!” she howled. She sounded hysterical. ”It's so incons-s-s-iderate! D-d-d-ying! Like that! Two days before my lovely ball! If only he could have died on Sat.u.r.day. Then I could still have had the party. Now everyone's got to go to the wake on Friday,” she wept. A sound like a pig hoovering a trough of swill shuddered down the line. Alixe had uttered a long, ugly snivel to clear her nose. Finally, brightly, she said, ”Now, can we discuss my outfit? For the funeral?”
19.
The See-and-Be-Seen-Funeral ”What a fabulous place to be dead,” breathed Lauren.
A glamorous funeral at Saint Thomas Church, the Gothic pile on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street, presided over by a minister who happens to be an Orlando Bloom look-alike, is enough to send even the most superficial New York girl straight around the religious bend. For a start, it's right opposite the Gucci store, so it's convenient, and, secondly, there was more brain candy at Sanford's funeral (Charlie Rose / Bloomberg / Oprah) than at one of Rupert Murdoch's Sun Valley summits.
Sanford Berman had died of vanity. One minute he was at the dentist being fitted for a new gold crown for a lower right molar-an item for which he had an aesthetic pa.s.sion-the next he was choking on it, and dead.
Lauren had begged me to accompany her to the funeral. Her sense of regret-regret that she'd argued with Sanford, regret that they hadn't remained friends, regret that she hadn't said au revoir, regret that she hadn't had an affair with him (in her grief she even wished she had slept with the waterbed after all)-hit her, she said, almost as badly as a Marquee Club hangover. She was so headachey on the morning of the funeral that she was completely unable to choose between her black Chanel s.h.i.+ft and her black Dior s.h.i.+ft, despite the fact that there was zero difference between them. She'd ended up in the Dior and had pinned a giant Verdura sapphire brooch at her neck. I, meanwhile, was so traumatized by not having spoken to Hunter for three days that I was equally inept that morning. The only thing I could pull myself out of my gloomy retreat for was a funeral. I had even pinned a black veil to my hair, hoping that no one would be able to see the distress in my eyes. Inevitably, we both arrived at Saint Thomas so late there weren't even any service sheets left.
No wonder Sanford had wished for a funeral here, I thought, as we stepped inside. The place is so cavernous you could fit Disneyland inside it-and 600 friends. As the giant oak door echoed closed behind us, the frenzy of Fifth Avenue was replaced by the comforting hush peculiar to a church.
”Over here,” came a voice from our left.
Marci, Salome, and Alixe had saved us a spot in their pew. We squeezed in. Salome was looking particularly devastating today in a knife-sharp, black silk faille skirt suit from Roland Mouret. She even had black gloves and a black lace handkerchief to complete her look. Marci was in a black crepe-de-chine, tiered-ruffle s.h.i.+ft dress, and Alixe was wearing one of Thack's boxy jackets with a short skirt, and had a black rose pinned to her lapel. They looked like three very glamorous extras from The G.o.dfather.
”I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live-” began the minister solemnly.
”-that minister can resurrect me any time,” murmured Marci, flus.h.i.+ng a hot pink.
”-and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die-”
”Do you think ministers are allowed to have girlfriends?” said Marci in a low voice.
”I thought you were getting back with Christopher,” I whispered.
”I am!” said Marci, affronted. ”It's in negotiation, I told you that before.”
”Oh,” I said. ”That's really good news.”
The minister continued.
”We brought nothing into this world and it is certain...” (he paused, regarding the congregation to make sure they were paying particular attention to a pa.s.sage relevant to themselves)...”and I repeat, it is certain we carry nothing out...”
”It's a shame they don't tell you this stuff before you're dead,” said Alixe. ”It's such good advice. What am I going to do with all the stuff I've bought when I croak?”
”Let us pray,” ordered the minister.
The congregation knelt as one, and silence fell. Suddenly from behind us I heard the church door creak open. Who could be this late? I turned to look. Dressed in long, flowing black chiffon, Sophia D'Arlan appeared. I literally felt my intestines curdle at the sight of her. I tapped Lauren on the shoulder, and we both followed Sophia with our eyes. She walked silently up the aisle, her dress flowing romantically behind her. I think everyone in the congregation looked at her.
”This is not her wedding,” said Lauren disapprovingly. ”How inappropriate.” She sighed, exasperated, and bent her head in prayer again.
I, on the other hand, couldn't help but watch while Sophia walked brazenly to a pew right at the front. Everyone was forced to shuffle up to allow her to sit down. G.o.d, she was selfis.h.!.+ She took a seat next to a man in a dark suit who looked, from behind, vaguely familiar, but it was too far away for me to really see who it was. He leaned in to talk to her. Maybe I could see who it was. NO! Was that- ”Lauren,” I nudged her. ”Is that...Giles?”
Lauren's head shot up. She stared at the man in question, transfixed.
”What is he doing...in the family pew...and...is that Sophia whispering to him?” she said crossly.
”...Amen,” said the minister. ”Now we continue with our first reading, the psalm read by Giles Monterey.”
”What?” gasped Lauren, as Giles made his way silently up to the pulpit.
”Oooh. The cute stepson. We see him at last!” giggled Salome. ”My G.o.d, he's adorable.”
”Salome, did you just say that is Sanford's stepson?” uttered Lauren, amazed. ”Are you sure?”
”His mom-Isabel Clarke Monterey-was a model with my mom in the seventies in London. I used to play with him when we were three. He was hot even then,” said Salome. ”It was a whole huge scandal. My mom says Giles never forgave Sanford for breaking up his mom's marriage and then leaving her two years later. I guess he's here with his mom-look, there she is.”
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