The Debutante Divorcee (12 page)

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 duchesse satin cocktail frock with a bow on each shoulder and a sexy 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, fashion-wise. That’s just the way it is.

The next morning—after a delicious dinner the previous night at Brasserie Vaginaud 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 hello, 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.

“God, 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 God. 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
. Flustered, she looked at her watch and said, “Oh, we’d better be going. Do report what Monterey’s like when you’re back…God, 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.

T
he 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 glass 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 associate 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 plas
tic 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 Café,” 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 Café 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 classic Helmut Newton photograph. She rested
her left hand on Gerski’s right arm throughout dinner, even while they were both eating.

“Eeeuch!” declared Lauren, perusing the menu. “Gerski, are you trying to poison us?”

The menu was deadly. Offerings included a
meriton
of cocks combs and a baked pie stuffed with chicken plucks and liver.

“All very healthy. You must try it,” said Oksana. “The chicken plucks keep the skin soft.”

“So, your friend Mr. Monterey will definitely be at the ice polo tomorrow afternoon,” said Gerski later on in the evening.

“He’s not ‘my friend,’ Gerski. I am here for Fabergé cuff link acquisition only,” said Lauren, utterly unconvincingly.

Lauren was, of course, on a mission. She had her sights firmly set on Giles Monterey. For all the flakiness about marriage and love, the debutante divorcée takes her “work” very seriously. Lauren swished the cocks combs around her plate.

“I can’t eat this. I feel like I’m in biology class. Well…hmmm, Ok…
maybe
I can get the jewels and score Make Out Number Three at the same time. That would be convenient.”

“How do you know Monterey will be there for sure, Gerski?” I asked.

“Because he’s playing. So he better show up or there won’t be a game,” replied Gerski.

“God, a polo player! How hot! I
can’t stand
it,” ex
claimed Lauren, nearly bursting with excitement. Noticing Gerski scrutinizing her disapprovingly, she quickly added, “You know me, Gerski…nothing’s ever
all
business with me, is it?”

“I don’t want you getting involved with someone like Monterey,” said Gerski sharply.

“Why not?” asked Lauren, a smile creeping to the edge of her lips.

Gerski just looked at her and sighed. Then Oksana said, “He’s
serdtseyed
. He’s a number-one, top-quality, first-class—how do you say it?—heart-eater.”

“Heart
breaker
,” breathed Lauren. “He sounds
exactly
my type.”

Even gently fluttering snowflakes couldn’t disguise the depressing Stalinist architecture of the stadium that Lauren, myself, Gerski, and Oksana drove across town to that Saturday afternoon. Cinder blocks are cinder blocks, snow-covered or not. Still, excited, we trudged in our snow boots across the racetrack, dodging ponies and traps racing around it in the snow.

When we finally arrived at the polo field, it was hardly the romantic, Anna Karenina-esque scene I had expected. Moscow’s tower blocks loomed in the distance, and the snow on the pitch was muddied and disheveled. Still, inside the tent alongside, the Russian girls were a glittering diversion. Twenty-first-century
Dallas
is the best way to describe the dress code at the ice polo that afternoon. The uniform consisted of high-heeled snowboots (honestly, and in case you’re wondering, they’re YSL), reams of yellow diamonds, and as much fox fur as was humanly possible to load onto one female without crippling her.

The tent was packed, and a Russian folk band was performing loudly at the far end.
Sbiten
, a hot wine that tastes like boiling maple syrup, was being handed around. Along with the jewels, the furs, and the noise, one thing was for sure: this was not, thank God, the Bridgehampton polo.

Gerski found some friends, and we joined their table. The polo wasn’t due to start for half an hour, so there was much gossiping to be done in the meantime. Suddenly I heard an American voice exclaim, “Sylvie! Hi! Lauren! Ola! It’s so
rad
to see you
here
.”

I turned to see Valerie Gervalt walking toward us. She was with Marj Craddock, a waspy girl Hunter vaguely knew from New York, and both their husbands. Decked out in pearls and the palest furs, they looked extraordinarily understated next to the Russian girls. Valerie and her gang flopped down at a table next to ours.

“Isn’t Ralph Lauren
genius
for wearing in the snow?” said Marj.

“I like it better in Aspen,” said Valerie. “Why aren’t we in Aspen?”

“I love it here. Where else can you get away with
the Ralph white minky?” replied Marj, stroking her coat.

You know what they say. You can take the girl out of Bridgehampton, but you can’t take the Bridgehampton polo out of the girl.

“Is your husband here?” asked Valerie, looking at me. “I’m dying to meet him. I keep hearing so much about him.”

“He’s working in Germany,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.

“He’s
never
around, is he? Poor thing, he must get so lonely.”

“He’s with a colleague,” I said, thinking suddenly of Sophia’s language skills.

“Could that ‘colleague’ be one Sophia?” said Marj, giving me a pitying look. “I’m glad she’s not my husband’s ‘colleague’! Ha ha ha!”

Everyone laughed, but I can’t say I was enjoying this line of conversation. Sensing my discomfort, Lauren cut Valerie off saying, “They’ve started! Quick!” and rushed off toward the viewing balcony, which was already getting crowded.

We all watched as eight glistening polo ponies—four on each team—galloped out onto the snowy field. The Moscow Mercedes Team were up against the Cartier International Four.

“There he is, number three,” said Lauren, pointing out a man galloping fast up the far side of the field. “He’s
so
devastating.”

It’s amazing. Lauren’s the only girl I know who can see if a man is devastating even if his face is completely obscured by a helmet and safety mask.

Half an hour later, Lauren had changed her mind. Maybe number three wasn’t so cute, she decided, after his team had lost resoundingly to the opposition. Jack Kidd, an English player in his early twenties, had skidded around the snow-covered arena at terrifying speed, scoring every goal for the Cartiers. The hero of the game, he was cheered when he stomped into the tent, muddied and sweating, a few minutes later.

Polo kit is designed with one purpose in mind—to make its wearer look like a total hottie. Even Prince Charles used to look like a sex god when he played polo. Tight, spattered white breeches and hand-tooled leather riding boots have a devastating effect on the female. Add a handsome face and a beautiful smile to the look and you have, in Oksana’s words, a heart-eater.

“OK, so he
is
cute, after all,” said Lauren gazing at Giles Monterey as he walked into the tent. Suddenly she looked flushed. “Oh, God, I’ve got stomach flutters. Am I getting my nervous rash on my neck?”

Swigging a glass of hot wine, Giles Monterey headed to the far corner of the tent, where he was greeted merrily by a glamorous group of Russians. For someone so elusive he certainly looked very popular. He
was conspicuously tall—he must have been six three—and his dark blonde hair was caked to his head with sweat. His face was flecked with dirt from the game, which only made his eyes look bluer and his smile whiter.

“No wonder he’s UnGoogle-able,” said Lauren. “If you could find him on the internet he’d have more groupies than Elvis. I’m so nervous. I can’t possibly just go up to him.”

“You have to,” I said, egging her on.

“Maybe if I had six tequilas,” she said, swiping a glass of wine off a tray and chugging it. “Ooh, this is strong stuff.”

She grabbed another one, and finally headed, somewhat anxiously, in Monterey’s direction. I went back to our table and joined Gerski and Oksana.

From where we were sitting I could see Lauren’s progress from the corner of my eye. Dressed in a 1960s Givenchy honey-blonde fur cape and matching hat inherited from her mother, Lauren looked like a very stylish Eskimo. As she approached Monterey, it became quite clear that he had noticed her well before she arrived. He stopped talking to his companion and watched her approach, captivated. As they spoke, his face registered first surprise, then delight. They seemed to chat easily, until, a few minutes later, Lauren put her head close to his and whispered something in his ear. Suddenly, Giles Monterey’s face darkened. The smile
vanished. He shook his head at Lauren, and they soon parted company.

“It was
so
weird,” said Lauren.

We were installed in the back of Gerski’s Mercedes waiting to leave the parking lot in a line of identical black cars. All of them, including ours, had black, ruched curtains pulled across the windows. It was like being inside a moving funeral parlor, only we weren’t moving. The traffic was chaos. No one was getting anywhere.

“What happened?” I said.

“Well, we became absolute best friends in thirty seconds, but when I suggested he might want to sell his Fabergé cuff links to Sanford, he freaked. He said, ‘Never would I sell anything to that man.’”

“I can’t believe you’re taking no for an answer, Lauren. That’s not like you.”

“You know what? For once, I’m going to quit immediately. There was something about the look on Giles’ face when I mentioned Sanford. He won’t change his mind.”

“Really?”

“No way. The only trouble is, you know how I said, a while ago, that I was madly in love with him?”

“With who?” I asked. I couldn’t even vaguely keep up with Lauren’s sexual schedule anymore.

“With Giles,” she said, clutching my arm. Her expression suddenly became unusually vulnerable and sweet. “Well, I actually
am
. Sylvie, I’m
madly
in love with him. Exactly as I predicted.”

“Already?” I said doubtfully.

“It’s hopeless. I’m never gonna see him again. And he’s got the pick of the most beautiful girls in Moscow. Why would he want a divorcée?” she sighed. “He’s UnGoogle-able
and
unmakeout-able. Drat.”

For the first time, I saw a little chink in Lauren’s party girl armor. It was disarming, actually, although she did her best to disguise it, exclaiming, “I don’t care! There’s a Make Out Number Three waiting for me somewhere back in New York—”

—Rap-rap-rap.

Someone was banging on the glass. I pulled back the black curtain. Giles Monterey’s wild blue eyes were peering right into mine. The snow was swirling about him, and—I have to say, no disloyalty to Hunter—he was devastatingly handsome. He saw Lauren and gestured for me to open the window. I did so, and he said, “Lauren, I need to talk to you.”

“Meet my friend Sylvie Mortimer,” said Lauren.

“Sylvie?” said Giles. “Sylvie
Mortimer,
you said? You live in New York too?’

“Yes,” I replied.