HYPERION
Copyright © 2006
Plum Sykes
All right reserved.
ISBN: 1-4013-5244-8
Chapter One
Lost-Husbands Edition
Married girls in New York these days put almost
as much effort into losing husbands as they once did
into finding them. It’s not uncommon for husbands to be
mislaid almost as soon as the honeymoon begins. This is a
particular hazard in locations like Capri or Harbour Island,
where the glamour quotient of the early-morning beach
gang rivals that of a front row at a Valentino couture show.
Some husbands, like Jamie Bellangere, get forgotten as early
as Barbados airport, an airline terminal so social it is considered
perilous for new spouses to pass through even a whole
year after marriage. As the twenty-six-and-a-half-year-old
former Mrs. Jamie Bellangere always says in her defense, of
course she forgot to get Jamie into the hotel’s courtesy car!
The concierge from Sandy Lane had just called her with a
message from the Douglas Blunketts saying that they expected
her on “the tub” for dinner at eight! (“the tub” being
Blunkett slang for their 150-foot sailing yacht, Private Lives).
Meanwhile, that lethal little airstrip in Mustique is even more
notorious than Barbados: marriage vows tend to slip a new
bride’s mind right at the bamboo baggage carousel. This is
usually because Mick Jagger has just invited her to dinner,
which tends to happen the second a new wife’s plane has
landed.
* * *
The social demographics of Careyes, Mexico, are such that
there is no place better suited to the exotic pleasures of the
Divorce Honeymoon. A sexually scandalous vacation is the
newfound, but nevertheless inalienable, privilege of the debutante
divorcées-New York’s young, social, newly unwed girls.
It must be spent in a spot where the atmosphere is uplifting,
the views are spectacular, acupuncture and exercise facilities
abound, and conversation topics are lighter than a soufflé.
Popular subjects range from “How far did you swim today?”
“Did you get to the island?” to “Can I wear white jeans for dinner?”
and “Are you invited to the Goldsmiths’ for New Year?”
There are so many parties every night it’s literally impossible
to stay home unless you are the one throwing the party.
Then, everyone’s permanently drunk because the only thing
anyone drinks all day are miceladas-a make out friendly mix
of beer, lemonade, and tequila. To be blunt, Careyes is the
ideal spot for the gorgeous divorcee because she can have sex
with a different hedge fund manager every night if she wishes.
I met Lauren Blount on the beach on Labor Day. You know
how it is in Careyes. You’re best friends in five minutes flat
because you’re both wearing Pucci bikinis. Lauren was one
week into her Divorce Honeymoon, and she told me everything
in a minute. Still, that didn’t mean I really knew a thing
about her.
“The day of my divorce was sort of glamorous, actually,”
said Lauren from under the wide-brimmed black sunhat she
had found in her canvas Hermès tote. “Like the hat? Yves
Saint Laurent gave it to my mom in 1972.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
Lauren’s beach look was impossibly chic. Her lithe, petite
body was a delicious cocoa brown, which set off to perfection
the chocolate and turquoise geometric print of her bandeau
bikini. Her toes were manicured an understated flesh pink,
and her brunette locks, gleaming like espresso beans, fell in
loose waves around her shoulders and grazed the sand when
she moved. Six long strands of tiny seed pearls dropped
gracefully from her delicate throat, and she had three
gold bangles that she’d bought in the souk in Marrakesh
pushed up around her forearm.
“Mama would murder me if she knew I was wearing her
pearls on the beach,” said Lauren, noticing me looking at
them. “The saltwater ruins them. But I just felt very Tender Is
the Night when I woke up today, and I had to wear them. I’m
totally into 1920s Riviera chic, aren’t you?”
“I adore it,” I agreed.
“God, it’s so hot. There’s too many people here,” sighed
Lauren, gazing along Playa Rosa. There were maybe three
people on the beach. “Why don’t you come up to the
house?”
“I’d love to,” I said, getting up from my lounger.
“We can have lunch and hang out all afternoon. The Casa’s
got the most divine sunken living room. It’s to die,” she said,
gathering up her tote and slipping on a pair of gold leather
thong sandals.
It’s generally agreed in Careyes that without a sunken drawing
room one would die, socially. Not a soul will visit if you
don’t have one. If you do, it must simultaneously offer shade
from a partial, immaculately thatched roof while being open
to the breezes of the ocean, even if that means the Moorish
antiques are eaten away at an alarming rate by sea salt.
Casa Papa, as Lauren nicknamed her father’s house, is a
whitewashed, sun-bleached Mexican castle with a bright
blue pool washing around it like a moat. When we arrived,
Lauren led me through the house and out into the sunken
drawing room. That second, a maid dressed crisply in a blue-and-white-striped
uniform-she would have looked more at
home on the Upper East Side-appeared with a turquoise
chiffon robe in her hand that Lauren threw straight over her
bikini. Moments later another maid arrived bearing a tray
filled with just-made quesadillas and guacamole, glass plates,
and candy-pink linen napkins.
“Mmmmm! Thank you, Maria,” said Lauren. “Puede
hacer nos el favor de traer dos limonadas heladas?”
“Si, señorita,” nodded Maria.
Maria bustled about setting a low lacquered table, then
disappeared inside to track down the lemonade.
“God, this is nice,” I said, throwing my beach bag on the
floor and flopping onto a deep sofa while Lauren curled up
in a wicker chair. In the center of the room the huge red
trunk of an ancient, twisted candelabro cactus grew up to
the ceiling. From where we were sitting we could just make
out a tiny figure sunbathing on the terrace of the house
opposite.
“That’s my cousin, Tinsley Bellangere,” said Lauren,
squinting. “I can’t believe she’s lying out like that-so dangerous
in this heat. And after her whole family died of skin cancer!
She’s had all her freckles lasered off. Tinsley’s on her
divorce honeymoon too, which is nice for me. I call her Miss
Mini-Marriage. She was married to Jamie less than three days,
which is something of an achievement, no? Anyway, do you
still want to hear about the divorce day?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. Who could resist? There’s nothing
like hearing about another girl’s love life to make three
hours pass in three seconds.
“I got my divorce papers signed. I guess that was three
weeks ago now. The biggest thing in the divorce was the dog,
Boo Boo. That took months. I got him. Anyway, that night I
decided to celebrate with Milton Holmes-he’s the family
decorator, and my best friend, sort of. Milton was obsessed
with going to the private room at Harry’s Downtown, even
though it was like, August twelfth and I knew there wouldn’t
be a soul there. I was dressed head to toe in black frayed Lanvin
with my great grandmother’s ivory barrette in my hair. I
thought I was absolutely it-but when I look back it’s like I
was dressing for a funeral-oh, thank you so much,” said Lauren
as Maria returned with a jug of iced lemonade and two tall
glasses. “Sorry. God, I’m going to have to have a cigarette.”
Lauren delved into her tote and pulled out a little green
crocodile case the size of a lipstick holder. The silver-lined box
contained two “platinums,” as she calls them-two Marlboro
Ultra Lights. She lit one, then left it untouched on the side of
the ashtray.
“So here I am in my divorcée look, and Milton was like,
‘We have to be upstairs, everyone’s upstairs,’ when actually
there wasn’t a soul up there, except Beyoncé or Lindsay
Lohan, or some other girl of the minute everyone’s so
tired of they don’t even count. Well, actually, I love Lindsay
Lohan again. I want to be Lindsay Lohan most of the time,
don’t you?”
Lauren paused and waited for my answer. This was obviously
a serious question.
“Wouldn’t it be exhausting to be Lindsay Lohan every day,
though?” I said. That many changes of sunglasses must be
punishing.
“I’d love the attention. Anyway, I digress. Milton and I
went upstairs, and I ordered strawberry tequila after strawberry
tequila and …” Lauren paused and looked around, as
though making sure no one else was listening. Then she
whispered, “… and next thing I know, this complete stranger
sent over a glass of vintage champagne.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
“Well. It was … you’re not going to believe it. It was
Sanford Berman.”
“No,” I gasped.
“Totally. And he was celebrating his third company going
public or something crazy like that, but I had no idea
who he was because I stopped reading the papers recently
so I don’t have to read about my divorce. Milton was flipping,
Sanford’s his total icon. Milton said, ‘Everyone thinks
Rupert Murdoch’s huge, but Sanford’s so huge he owns Rupert
Murdoch.'”
Lauren’s cell phone started beeping. She picked it up and
turned it off.
“It’s him. It’s always him,” said Lauren ever so blasé.
“You should have answered. I don’t mind,” I said.
“Actually I need a break from him for now. Here’s the
thing. He’s getting way too obsessed with me. Sanford is seventy-one
and a half years old. I can’t date an antique. Sure, I
like antiques, but not as boyfriends. So, where was I?” asked
Lauren.
“The drink from Sanford came over,” I reminded her.
“Well, I downed that glass of champagne, and then Sanford
himself came over and started talking to me. He was so
charming-in the way that old things are. He thought it was
very ‘modern’ that I was partying like that on my divorce day.
So I was like, ‘Ok, let’s get another round of shots.’ I can’t
really remember the night well at all,” she said, with a coy expression,
“except it turns out Sanford’s married, but he’s asking
if he can take me home. So I let him give me a ride. On
the way he asked me what I do, so I told him about how I occasionally
buy and sell one-off estate jewelry, and he said he
wanted to buy some for his wife. I thought that was sweet.”
Sanford had called Lauren at 8 A.M. the next morning,
asking to view the jewels. He showed up at her place at half
past ten that night. They hung out until midnight, and finally
Lauren asked Sanford if he wanted to see the jewels.
“He said to me, ‘Not really. I just think you’re amusing.’
Can you believe?” said Lauren, her eyes widening cartoonishly
to exaggerate the point. “God, I have to actually smoke a cigarette
at this moment in the tale,” she added, starting over
with another. “Then he started sending his driver over every
morning with the Wall Street Journal, a latte, and a warm croissant
from Patisserie Claude, at which point I decided being
a newly unwed sucks a lot less than being a newlywed. God,
my divorce honeymoon is the best,” she sighed contentedly
as she sunned herself. “I love being divorced.”
* * *
It would be impossible not to love being divorced if you were
Lauren Blount, of the Chicago Hamill Blounts, who pretty
much invented Chicago, depending on who you ask. (There’s
the Marshall Field’s camp and the Hamill Blount camp, and
never the twain shall dine in the Chicago Racquet Club together,
if you get my meaning.) The rumor is that the Hamill
Blounts own more art than the Guggenheims, more real
estate than McDonald’s, and that Lauren’s mother’s jewelry
vaults are the reason Colombia is running low on emeralds.
It had only been three weeks since Lauren’s divorce, but
ever since, she’d been going out like crazy. It amused her to
dress up in her Chanel couture rehearsal-dinner dress, which
was very heavy on the white Lesage lace, and one of her three
engagement rings. She was instantly nominated for the Best
Dressed List but brushed it off as a silly joke. However, it was
actually the consensus among the Pastis set that Lauren
truly deserved the honor. (Most of the time a sickening combination
of admiration and envy makes the girls who hang
out at Pastis physically unable to admit that anyone deserves
to be on the BDL, especially if they were in the same class at
Spence.)
Lauren oozed rich-girl chic. She wasn’t extremely tall, but
because she was so delightfully proportioned, with tiny fine
wrists and arms, she could pull off virtually anything. Her exquisite
legs, which drew so much envy among her set, “reflect
years of private ballet instruction,” she always said. She
looked rather like a cleaned-up, freshly laundered version of
her icon-the young Jane Birkin: she had the long chestnut
locks, the eye-grazing fringe, and the year-round tan (easy
when there’s a family home in every resort from Antigua to
Aspen). When casually dressed she exuded a natural glamour
that was low on bling and high on class. Her daytime
uniform consisted of long, skinny pants from Marni, little
lace blouses by Yves Saint Laurent, and minuscule, shrunken
leather jackets from Rick Owens. If she wore vintage, it had
to be Ossie Clarke or Dior, and she would fly to London especially
to stock up on the best things at the Dover Street
Market.
Dressing up, though, was Lauren’s real obsession. If you
dropped by mid-afternoon, she was just as likely to be clad
in a cerise organza cocktail frock by Christian Lacroix as she
was to be in her Pilates leotard (a hangover from the ballerina
days). Her collection of ball gowns-Balmain couture,
McQueen couture, original Givenchy couture-was a matter
of some envy among New York’s social set and was stored
in a climate-controlled walk-in closet that was the size of a
small studio appartment. Gowns were “gifted” to Lauren on
a weekly basis by everyone from Oscar de la Renta to Peter
Som, but she always returned them, however beautiful. She
felt it was tacky not to pay for clothes, saying, “I give to charity.
I don’t take it.” Her great weakness, though, was real jewels,
particularly when they were most inappropriate-there
was nothing that amused Lauren more than wearing a priceless
Indian ruby in bed.
* * *
“Maybe I should invite Tinsley over here so she can get some
shade. She’s crazy to be sunbathing like that,” said Lauren a
little later. “It must be the divorce. Tinsley thinks she’s having
fun, but she’s getting more deranged by the second. She’s
changing bikinis seven times a day now, which has got to be
a sign of mental instability. I love her, and I want her to be OK,
not getting chemo.”
Lauren clicked open her little silver cell and called Tinsley,
who said she’d be over in ten minutes. The bikini-clad
figure waved from her terrace and disappeared from view.
“They always take that place over Labor Day. You’ll like
her,” said Lauren. “What are you doing here in Careyes anyway?”
“I’m on … honeymoon,” I said unsurely.
“Real honeymoon?” asked Lauren.
“Yes,” I answered reluctantly.
“Alone?”
“Sort of,” I mumbled, lowering my eyes. (The floor is an
excellent place to look, I always find, when admitting one has
lost one’s husband about three seconds after the wedding.)
“Sounds a lot like my divorce honeymoon. It’s really immaterial
whether you have a husband with you or not.”
Lauren giggled and caught my eye. When she saw my face
she abruptly stopped. “Oh! I’m sorry! You look so upset.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, I wiped
a stray tear from my nose with the back of my hand.
“What happened?” said Lauren sympathetically.
“Well … huh,” I sighed.
Maybe I should tell Lauren the whole hideous story. She
was almost a complete stranger, but then lots of people pay
a fortune to tell a stranger their most intimate thoughts in
therapy every week.
I was beyond embarrassed, I realized, as I told Lauren my
sorry tale. The fact was, my “honeymoon” felt about as romantic
as solitary confinement right now. My new husband,
Hunter, had been forced to leave on the second day of our vacation
to close a business deal. Now, I have never been one
of those girls who dreamed about her wedding day all her life,
but I had dreamed about my honeymoon: it was meant to be
the most delicious, sexy two weeks of your life, the vacation
version of heaven. When Hunter had explained that he had
to leave, in a terrible rush, I behaved in a very grown-up way,
I thought, and told him I understood. But inside I was desolate.
Hunter promised to deliver another honeymoon, but a
substitute vacation held no appeal. How do you get that blissed-out,
just-married feeling six months after the wedding? By definition,
you can only feel just-married for about a minute.
Honeymoons have a small window of opportunity, bliss being
as transient as it is.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from The Debutante Divorcée
by Plum Sykes
Copyright © 2006 by Plum Sykes.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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