Bergdorf Blondes (13 page)

It wasn’t as though I could hang out with Julie. On our third morning she had spotted the only PH in the place—Todd Brinton II, the twenty-seven-year-old Brinton’s frozen TV dinners heir. He was immaculately dressed in the European uniform of the jet-set kids—pressed white shirt, gold cuff links, jeans, car shoes. Julie thought the sexy thing about him was that he looked like an Italian race car driver but was an American, so she could understand him. I had barely seen her since they met.

“What about Charlie?” I said to her one night. It was late and we were drinking cocktails in a corner banquette in the Hemingway bar.

“He’s so cute!” she replied. “He calls all the time. Adores me. I think he might visit. He’s very worried about you…And don’t look at me like that, there is nothing wrong with having two boyfriends. My shrink thinks it’s very healthy for me, because then I don’t get obsessed with either of them.”

I became more clinical by the day. Every gilded corner of this palace for paying guests made me worse. There were references to death everywhere. The women breakfasting in
L’Espadon
, the mirrored and swagged dining room, had had so much Botox
they looked like they’d been embalmed. The bath in my room was so vast I feared I would drown in it. Then there were the bathrobes: every time I looked at one of those beautiful fluffy peach robes embroidered in gold with the words RITZ—PARIS, all I could think was how chic it would be to be found dead in one. It was tragic really—I mean, there was a time when a totally exclusive hotel robe could make me delirious with happiness. I remember the first time I wore one of the pale gray robes at the Four Seasons Maui, I felt as good as I did one of the
very few
times I took cocaine.

It was obvious: I was meant to die in a Ritz bathrobe. It was the only thought that had made me happy in days: I would kill myself in
très
glamorous circumstances. I finally understood the whole Sid and Nancy, Romeo and Juliet scenario—it was better to die than live with the pain of a broken heart. I would wear the fluffy Ritz robe with Manolos—I lived in Manolos and frankly I wanted to die in them, too. The next day I asked Julie how Muffy’s sister’s daughter had killed herself.

“Heroin,” she said. I had no idea where they sold heroin in Paris. “Why do you want to know? You’re not feeling suicidal, are you?”

“No! I’m much better today,” I said. This wasn’t a total lie because, now I’d decided on death, I felt great about life again.

“I don’t know why these kids just don’t OD on Advil,” remarked Julie. “It’s so much easier than getting crack or whatever.”

Advil? You can die from Advil? I had a whole bottle of it upstairs. I wondered how many Advil it would take.

“Well, anything over two would be an overdose, I guess,” said Julie.

It was horrible to think that three of those little headache pills could leave you dead. I would take eight just to be sure. God, why didn’t more people kill themselves if it was this unstressful?

“You want to come to Hermès this afternoon?” continued Julie.

“You went only yesterday,” I pointed out to her. “Don’t you think you should cut down a little? It’s getting to be a habit.”

If I wasn’t going to be around anymore, the least I could do was leave Julie with some helpful moral guidance.

“At least I’m not addicted to Harry Winston like Jolene,” said Julie. “Then I’d really be in trouble. Now, you coming or not?”

“I think I’ll go to the Louvre,” I said innocently. “Don’t worry about me.”

Julie left and I went back into my bedroom. Death would not be immediate. I had many things to sort out first, such as
but hopefully I could prepare everything and be dead by the time Julie got back. I knew she’d go straight from Hermès to meet Todd and party all night with him. She rarely got in before six
AM
.

1. My outfit
   
2. My suicide note
   
3. My will
   

I called room service and ordered two mimosas and a plate of
foie gras
. There would be things I’d miss about life, like room service at the Ritz, which is so quick I’d barely said the word
mimosa
before it appeared. And the little buzzer they have right by the tub labeled FEMME DE CHAMBRE that you push if you need something urgently, like a glob of bubble bath or a
café crème
.

Now I finally understood why I adored that Sylvia Plath poem where she says that dying is an art, like everything else. I scribbled my good-bye note on that beautiful Ritz notepaper they do here. It would be very Virginia Woolf—tragic but smart. She wrote the best suicide letter ever—no self-pity, very brave—and it worked brilliantly. I mean, everyone thinks she’s a genius, don’t they? I started writing. I would be brief:

I was only saying hello to a few of the people I knew, and already the note was as long as the guest list at Suite 16. I continued:

I put the Da Silvano bit in for Julie. She would feel
really
sorry for me about that because she would kill herself too if she couldn’t get that corner table.

Next I wrote my will. You’d be amazed how easy it is when you really think about it. It read:

T
HE
L
AST
W
ILL AND
T
ESTAMENT OF A
B
ERGDORF
B
LONDE
B
RUNETTE

To my mom
—My next highlight appointment with Ariette. Even if this conflicts with something really important like my funeral you should come to NYC for it because it’s impossible to get in with Ariette if you are a regular civilian.—My discount cards: Chloé (30% off); Sergio Rossi (25% off—a little mean but still worth it if you buy two pairs of shoes); Scoop (15%—totally mean discount but CBK had a personal shopper there and maybe if you contact her she’ll shop for you). I mean, Mom, you could look
beautiful
if only you’d pay someone to choose your clothes.

To my father
—The lease on my NY apartment so you will have somewhere to escape from Mom.

To Jolene and Lara
—The Pastis private number—212–555-7402. Ask for table 6, which is next to where Lauren Hutton sits. Use my name or they won’t take the booking.

To my editor
—The Palm Beach heiress story notes. You can find them under “v.rich.doc” on my laptop. (PS, Thanks for the extension on my deadline. Sorry I didn’t deliver.)

To Julie, my best friend and the well-dressed sister I never had
—White Givenchy couture tuxedo suit with Chantilly lace trim that I stole backstage from the spring show.
—My Ambien prescription—there’s at least four refills for 30 tablets left, and Dr. Blum will never know.
—My favorite separates, including: McQueen laced leather jacket (1); Chloé jeans (16); Manolos, pairs of (32); handbags, YSL (3), Prada (2); Rick Owens ruffle dress (1)—if it’s too avant-garde for you, I understand; $120 Connolly cashmere socks you stole for me from London store (12); James de Givenchy cocktail ring (1). (I know it’s actually yours but you’d totally forgotten about it.)

The thought of leaving all those gorgeous clothes behind almost made me want to stay. I signed the document and asked the chambermaid to witness it. I mean, I didn’t want anyone disputing the will later. Next, I typed the whole thing up on e-mail and clicked on
SEND LATER
. The e-mails wouldn’t be sent for 12 hours—7:30
AM
tomorrow morning. The TIME DELAY option on the new Titanium G4 Mac is totally genius and I fully recommend it to any suiciders. You don’t want anyone finding you and waking you up after you’ve gone to all the trouble of dying. Can you imagine the Shame Attack that would follow?

Next I planned my outfit: obviously, the Ritz robe was compulsory. I decided my rhinestone-trimmed silver Manolos would go brilliantly with it. I laid it all out on the bed and found a mega bottle of Advil in my makeup bag. I drew the curtains and took off all my clothes. I put on the Manolos. I have to say, they looked awesome with nothing else on at all. I washed down eight Advil with the mimosa and lay down.

Nothing happened. I was definitely still alive because I could see the rhinestones sparkling on my toes, which, I realized with some horror, were manicured red instead of flesh pink, which would have looked way better with those shoes. Maybe eight Advil was a little conservative? I took another, then another, then another until there were none left. About thirty. Oops, I thought, I mustn’t forget to put on that Ritz bathrobe before I die. I’ll just have a
petit
sleep first though. Then I’ll put it on…in a minute.

Ow. Ooow. My nails were
really
, really hurting. My head was agony and I felt nauseous. There was something scratchy against my skin. I was shivering. I opened my eyes then snapped them quickly shut. Oh! God! Beyond dreadful! Apparently I was still in my room at the Ritz. Maybe I was in heaven. Maybe
heaven turned out to be a suite at the Ritz. I glimpsed the silhouette of a man.

“
Excusez-moi, monsieur
, am I dead?” I whispered groggily.

“Nope,” came the reply.

This was
très
annoying. Why wasn’t I dead, what went wrong?

“I found you.”

“Who the hell are you?” I was furious.

“It’s me, you crazy girl.”

I opened my eyes. Charlie Dunlain was standing there looking down at me in a stern fashion. How dare he call me crazy? I was very sane and if by chance I wasn’t, this was a very insensitive moment to be labeling me a lunatic. He had my will in his hand. So intrusive. I tried to grab it from him but I was too dizzy.

“Give me that. That is a very private document,” I said. I managed to sit up a little, which made me feel less sick.

“Well, I’m gutted you didn’t leave me anything.”

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“The door was wide open,” he said, looking a little less serious. I thought I could detect the beginnings of a smile.

He was sick, totally sick. That’s LA movie-director types for you, no feelings at all, everything was just a joke. I looked at the clock: 7
AM
. Not only was it way
before my 10:30
AM
waking-up time, but I wasn’t supposed to have woken up at all.

“Charlie, what on earth are you doing in my room at seven in the morning?”

“I just got off the plane and I thought I’d come by and save you.”

Charlie obviously had no clue about the women’s movement. Didn’t he know that since the 1970s it was illegal to go around randomly saving women?

“I don’t want to be saved. I want to die.”

“No you don’t.”

“I
do
. I hate you!” I croaked. “How dare you go around saving me like that! It’s unforgivable.”

“How dare I? How dare
you
.” He was cross now. I was a little bit terrified of him suddenly. “The only thing that is unforgivable is what you’ve done,” said Charlie.

It was
très
unkind of him to be so cross after all I’d been through. I mean,
hello
, what about some major sympathy?

“What’s the point in saving someone if you’re not going to be nice to them afterward?” I wailed.

“Stop being so darn spoiled and grow up,” said Charlie. He really had no idea how to be nice.

I looked around me. The Ritz robe lay next to me on the bed. A gray coat covered me. It didn’t belong to me. An icky realization crept up on me: it must be Charlie’s. This was deeply embarrassing.

“Charlie, was I, you know, like, nude when you found me?”

“No,” he said.

I was beyond relieved. Then he said, “You were wearing shoes.”

That’s it, I thought. I am never, ever not killing myself again. The whole thing was beyond humiliating. Now I was going to be the girl who couldn’t get married
and
couldn’t kill herself. Forget Da Silvano, I wouldn’t even be admitted to John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street now. I suddenly remembered the e-mail. I could stop it: I had thirty minutes before it went out.

“Charlie, pass me the computer, fast,” I said.

The icon in the
PENDING
box was flashing. I opened it and clicked on
DON’T SEND
, relieved. I noticed the in-box was flickering: I had mail. Out of curiosity I quickly checked it. There was a note from my mother:

Somehow the will had been sent, alas. I had never been very brilliant with the extra features on my Mac.
There were several more e-mails in the in-box, but I decided to read them later—I couldn’t take the humiliation right now.

“Oh, Charlie, this is a disaster. Could you order me a Bellini?” I said.

“No.”

I blinked as if to say,
Why not
?

“The last thing you need is alcohol. That would make you feel worse.”