Part 17 (1/2)

Salome pointed at a woman sitting in Giles' pew. When she turned to the side, I could see that she was beautiful, if fragile-looking. Lauren meanwhile had turned ashen, as though the blood had drained from her body. She was obviously madly in love. She didn't move her eyes from Giles while he read: ”The Lord is my shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing.”

He paused, and regarded the congregation, as though looking for someone.

”He shall feed me in green pastures,”

He paused again, and seemed to catch Lauren's eye. For a moment the two of them seemed locked in each other's gaze.

”And lead me forth beside the waters of comfort-”

THUNK!.

Lauren had fainted.

”Yeah,” sighed Salome unsympathetically, as she regarded Lauren collapsed on the pew. ”He had that effect on all the girls at pre-school too.”

”It's so 1987 here, I love it,” declared Salome, as she walked into Swifty's. ”If nothing else we are guaranteed an Ivana sighting. Is that Bill Clinton?”

Swifty's, on Lexington and Seventy-second Street, isn't the most obvious spot for a wake. Still, Sanford Berman had lunched there three times a week, and had decreed in his will that his wake would take place there, mainly because he thought the Swifty's caviar would cheer up the mourners.

While Lauren recovered from her love-faint in the restroom, Marci, Alixe, Salome, and I had promised to observe the UnGoogle-able man and Sophia D'Arlan on Lauren's behalf. She was convinced Sophia had designs on Giles. The trouble was, none of us could see either of them. The restaurant was so crowded it was impossible to see where anyone was.

”This is almost better than my New Year's ball,” huffed Alixe, as she surveyed the crowd. ”If it wasn't a funeral I'd be having the most amazing time. ”Look, there's Margarita Missoni.” She looked over at a willowy girl dressed in a floor-length knitted black dress with silver leaves embroidered around the hem. She was surrounded by older men. ”I'm so desperate to get her to use the Arancia bubble bath. Do you think it's a sin to network at a wake?” Alixe didn't wait for an answer. She bounded straight after her.

”Girls! She's over there!” said Salome suddenly. She nodded discreetly toward an alcove on the far side of the room, in which were framed the silhouettes of Sophia D'Arlan and Giles. ”They're...chatting.” She looked piqued. ”It's outrageous. Grave-side flirting is unforgivable.”

”Is Sophia wearing...sequins with that chiffon?” asked Marci, with slight disdain. She craned her neck to get a better look at her outfit. ”That is a woman interested only in perpetuating the myth that she wears Valentino.”

Marci obviously loathed Sophia at this point. I, meanwhile, observed the scene pensively. What was Sophia up to, flirting with Giles like that, while planning to run off with my husband too? The girl was unbelievable.

”OK, I'm going over there to break it up,” said Salome, marching off in the direction of Giles and Sophia. She had an enormous grin on her face, as though she was enjoying herself immensely.

”Shall we sit down for a moment?” said Marci, suddenly looking serious. ”I need to talk to you.”

We ventured out of the main room and wandered along a side corridor. Two little armchairs perched invitingly at the end of it, and we headed straight for them.

”Uggh!” sighed Marci, collapsing into one of them.

Marci waited for me to be seated and then said, ”Listen, I heard something I thought you might want to know. Hunter and Sophia are meeting tomorrow at MOMA.”

”They are?” I whispered. ”You're sure?”

She nodded.

”I'm really sorry, Sylvie. I overheard something yesterday. Apparently Sophia was having tea at The Mark with Phoebe when she suddenly got a phone call. I'm told that she made a plan for a s.e.xy rendezvous with a married man. She's picked the most romantic spot in the museum: she's meeting him at six o'clock in front of the Monet on the mezzanine.”

20.

MOMA Madness Later on that afternoon-it must have been four o'clock-Hunter finally got me on the phone. I hadn't meant to pick up my cell, and when I heard Hunter's voice, I became so jittery I felt a chill come over my body.

”Darling, where on earth are you? I've been out of my mind,” said Hunter.

I couldn't believe Hunter had finally gotten ahold of me. My friends had been sworn to secrecy about my whereabouts, and I'd barely turned on my cell phone for the last few days. But there was a little part of me that was secretly relieved that my husband had sought me out.

”Away from you!” I cried.

”What on earth is the matter, Sylvie?”

”You know exactly what the matter is!” I said. ”Sophia-”

”What are you talking about?” said Hunter.

I paused before I spoke. How was I going to put this? Finally, I took a long breath and said angrily, ”Marci told me that it's an open secret that you and Sophia are having an affair.”

There was a shocked silence.

”What?”

”The fact is, you were with Sophia in London that weekend. You took her to that jewelry store. She told Marci-and half of New York apparently. And then I saw her in Megeve wearing my necklace. I can't believe you!”

”I never gave Sophia that necklace. I can explain-”

”She's still wearing it.” My voice rose as my angst level increased. ”No more 'explanations.' I know what you're up to. You've been lying to me for months-”

”Darling, it's not what you think-”

”Just leave me alone, Hunter. I don't want this.” I could hear my words coming faster and faster, as though I may not have time to get it all out. ”I've never been so unhappy. I want a divorce. I'd rather be the leaver than the leavee,” I said, echoing Lauren's words.

”The what?”

”Leav-er!” I yelled at him, and hung up in a fury of misery and melancholy.

I stared at the cell phone in my hand. Now I was full of doubt. Hunter sounded genuinely shocked. Not at all guilty. But no doubt guilty men cultivate non-guilty tones of voice, I told myself. And then, Lauren had said something terrifying about men being more affectionate toward their wives when they are being ultra-devious elsewhere. I had to see for myself.

You can imagine my state when I arrived at MOMA at ten before six and saw a line that snaked all the way along Fifty-third Street as far back as Sixth Avenue. Hundreds of eager art-lovers were patiently-no, happily-standing in line to see inside the great gla.s.s box. Just then, a bus spewed out a full load of French tourists. I looked at my watch: 5:55 P.M.

”How long does the line take?” I asked a guard hopefully.

”Forty-five minutes,” he replied, automaton-like.

”But-” I've got to catch my husband cheating on me in five minutes, I wanted to say. G.o.d, it was depressing.

”Can I buy a ticket somewhere else?” I asked.

It was deathly cold out here. My hands were slowly turning a ghastly shade of lilac. Devoid of Christmas lights, chilling its inhabitants to the bone, and drowning in slush-nothing is crueler than New York in January. Especially when your husband's on the loose with a crazy Husband Huntress.

”Yeah. Internet,” replied the guard.