Part 18 (1/2)
”I'm going to kill him. Who was Ivana's lawyer again?”
21.
The Disappearing Husband While Marci was being resurrected against her will by Salome, who had come, saint-like, and picked her up at MOMA, I flew down Fifth Avenue by cab. I couldn't get to the apartment quickly enough: I was desperate to see Hunter and make amends. Why had I been so vile to him earlier? Why hadn't I let him explain his side of the story? How could I have not trusted him! What a fool I'd been, I chastised myself. Why had I ever thought things were as obvious as they seemed: Sophia was far too clever to have been doing what she seemed to be doing. She had tormented me with her flirting with Hunter while distracting Marci and me from her real mission-nailing Christopher. Maybe I had been hanging out with the debutante divorcees far too much and they'd influenced me for the worse. They were paranoid about men, unsurprisingly, and it had made me paranoid too. Certainly, I had not been imagining Sophia's behavior-she had been making a play for my husband, whatever her other motives were-but no less than she was after every innocent husband in New York. Poor Marci. What a wicked game Sophia had played.
What on earth was I going to say to Hunter, I wondered frantically, as the cab swerved down past the corner of Fifth and Twenty-third Street. I couldn't believe that three hours ago I had been demanding a divorce, and now there was nothing I wanted less. I had been wrong about everything, but, however wrong one is, it's hideous having to admit it. ”I'm sorry” was a feeble antidote from a wife who had accused her husband of the ultimate marital crime. I felt terrible, completely ashamed of myself. Panicked and anxious, I could feel my lungs puffing faster and faster: I felt as though I was going to suffocate with shame and embarra.s.sment.
When I finally reached One Fifth I paid the driver and ran toward my building. By now icy rain was coming down in flat, cold sheets, and by the time I got inside I was half-soaked and hyperventilating.
”Is Mr. Mortimer home?” I asked the doorman, Luccio, as I flew past him.
”He left for the airport an hour ago,” said Luccio. ”Where's he going?”
I stopped, dead still, in the middle of the lobby. Hunter had gone? Had I driven him away with my accusations? If so, I could hardly blame him.
”You all right?” asked Luccio.
”Yes...no...I just...”
I scrabbled in my bag for my phone. When I finally found it, I called Hunter's cell. It went straight to voicemail. I left a frantic message telling him how much I loved him and begging him to call me. Next I called his office. Hopefully someone would still be there. After a few rings, one of the interns, Danny, picked up.
”Where's Hunter?” I asked. ”It's his wife.”
”Oh, he went off to...” Danny trailed off. ”Hang on. Let me ask someone.”
I heard voices in the background, and then he came back on the line.
”We're not sure where he is now. He left a couple of hours ago. He said he was going to Zurich...or was it Geneva? Er...”
”When's he due back?” I asked, desperate.
”He's taken his diary from his desk...We don't really know how long this trip is going to be.”
I hung up. Where was Hunter? How was I going to find him? Was I going to be the leavee after all? Maybe, maybe...
I ran out into the street. It was still pouring. Maybe I'd go over to Lauren's. She'd know what to do. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I started walking up Fifth Avenue in search of a cab. Suddenly I heard a familiar voice from behind me.
”Sylvie! Sylvie!”
I turned to see Milton standing behind me. He was tan and dressed in an Afghan hat and a yak-hair cape. He must have just gotten back from his Silk Road.
”Hi,” I said falteringly.
”What's happened? Sylvie, are you crying?”
”It's Hunter. He's gone,” I replied, my shoulders juddering.
”OK, let's get you home,” said Milton, putting a comforting arm across my shoulder.
Half an hour later, Milton and I were installed in the apartment eating Belgian truffles ordered in from the Chocolate Bar. Without drawing breath, I told him the whole story, and I cried my whole guts out, or so it felt. As I talked, it occurred to me that whatever I had seen earlier, with Christopher and Sophia, it still didn't explain the two identical necklaces. Why had my husband given Sophia and me the same jewelry? It was so strange, especially if Sophia was cheating with Christopher. I felt so sorry for Marci! I hoped that Salome was cheering her up.
”Sophia D'Arlan is unbelievable. If I'd been here I could have told you exactly what was going on,” said Milton, who was languis.h.i.+ng on the drawing room sofa in the red silk shalwar kameez that was revealed when he slipped off his cloak.
”What do you mean?” I said, dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to dry myself out in front of the fire.
”Sylvie, Hunter bought that necklace for you. You only.”
”How do you know?”
”Because, darling, I was there. We were all in London that weekend, staying at Blakes-”
”But, Milton!” I interrupted angrily. ”Why didn't you tell me? I remember asking you specifically if you had seen Hunter that weekend when I couldn't get hold of him, and you said you hadn't.”
Milton roused himself from the sofa with a swish of his crimson robes. He sat up and leaned toward me conspiratorially. Then he said in the hushed tones he reserved for spreading the most valuable gossip, ”I shouldn't even be telling you this, but we were all sworn to secrecy. It was so romantic.”
”What was so romantic? Why has Sophia got the same necklace as me?”
”Well...mmm...the pendant was Sophia's idea.”
”No! What do you mean?” I jumped up and started pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.
”Well, we were all sitting around at dinner that Friday night in London at Le Caprice-love Le Caprice, love-and Hunter-who is so sweet, Sylvie, and loves you so much-asked us how he could make up for the canceled honeymoon. So Sophia screams, ”Jewelry!” So Hunter said he wouldn't know what to get you. Sophia pulls out this great pendant with an S on it from under her blouse and tells him to get the same thing made for you.”
”The same?” My voice rose at least three octaves.
”That's what I said. But Sophia told Hunter you'd never know. I think he was so desperate to make up for the honeymoon fiasco that he just plunged in. Sophia even took him to S. J. Phillips herself to commission the piece.”
That explained the photograph in New York magazine. But Milton wasn't finished. He continued, ”It was a rather sweet-slash-stupid straight man's attempt to tell you he was sorry. You know what husbands are like. They never quite know what to buy for their wives. They don't have a clue about jewelry, which I find rather charming, actually.”
”But then why did Sophia tell Marci that Hunter had given her the necklace?” I protested.
”Because, darling, Sophia wanted Hunter for herself,” said Milton. ”She wanted you to think that necklace was for her, and by flaunting hers in front of you, she achieved exactly what she wanted-chaos. It doesn't help that Marci is such a hopeless rumor-monger. Sophia's been playing her like a piccolo.”
”But what about Christopher?” I asked, confused.
”She obviously went after both husbands and settled for the easiest catch.”
”Stop it!” I managed a laugh. ”But, what about that Page Six item?”
”Sophia likes nothing more than planting a story about herself in a gossip column. Listen to me, any rumors that get around about Sophia are created by her, and her only. She says everyone's in love with her, especially the married guys. I actually heard she was hospitalized for it at one stage. That necklace was always for you.”
”Oh, Milton. I've wrecked everything,” I said, feeling daunted. ”What am I going to do?”
”Why don't you have another truffle?”