Bergdorf Blondes (24 page)

It was after midmorning by the time I’d gotten home from the Mercer, located my lost cell phone, spoken to the police, and sorted out the mess in the apartment. As far as I could tell, only one thing had been taken from the apartment—the chinchilla coat. It was disastrous—it wasn’t even mine. Valentino would never lend me anything again after this. I’d read about couture burglaries in
New York
magazine, where thieves steal to order. Apparently it had happened to Diane Sawyer, who’s famously chic, and now everyone on the Best Dressed List was terrified that their closets were going to be targeted too. I only had a few minutes to change for the lunch. I threw on a nipped-in linen jacket and a vintage lace skirt and by 12:45 I was in a taxi whizzing up to Sotheby’s on York Avenue.

Just as I’d suspected, anxiety hit me hard as we swerved round the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Oh, the guilt after a night of regret! It’s almost unbearable. Julie could never, ever find out about my one-night stand with Charlie. She was highly possessive about ex-boyfriends. I suspected Julie’s revenge could be worse than Gretchen Sallop-Saxton’s. When K. K. Adams ended up marry
ing a guy Julie dated for three days in eighth grade, Julie banned her from the salon at Bergdorf’s for life. It was like the spa version of death row. Her hair never looked good after that, which was a terrible shame for K. K. If Julie ever found out about me and Charlie, she’d never speak to me again and I wouldn’t get any of my clothes back I’d lent her. The only thing I could console myself with was the knowledge that last night would never ever be repeated. That’s the good thing about one-night stands: by definition they’re over immediately. Eventually, it’s like it never happened at all. Strictly
entre nous
, I’ve had a few and I can’t recall a thing about any of them.

The Chanel pastel mafia were out in force at the lunch. There must have been twenty-five girls in the dining room seated at large round tables, which were groaning with floral center pieces decorated with pink diamonds, black pearls, and dark rubies. It is the custom at such lunches to drape the room in jewels, in the manner of Elizabeth Taylor’s bedroom. I slipped into my seat next to Julie. She was wearing flip-flops, bright red Juicy sweat pants, and a pink Taavo T-shirt that read
I AM NEW YORK
in red glittery letters.

“This is so dull,” she mouthed at me.

Our table wasn’t exactly party central. The other four girls—Kimberley Guest, Amanda Fairchild, Sally Wentworth, and Lala Lucasini (I think she’s a P.A.P. by way of Spain) were intently discussing the “torture” of getting out to Southampton on the L.I.E. with the summer traffic. Sometimes I feel really sorry for those girls; I mean, they’re very sweet and all, but a lot of the time it’s like they’ve forgotten they’re not their mothers.

Julie turned to me and drew her finger across her throat. She doesn’t understand why everyone freaks out about the Long Island Expressway when they could just take a helicopter like she does. She whispered, “I wish someone would do something crazy, like start a fight.”

I laughed. Then she said, “So, I’m hooking up with Charlie this afternoon. He’s so adorable!”

“What?”
I said, incredulous.

“He’s in town, we spoke earlier.”

“But Julie, I thought you and Charlie had broken up.”

“What?”
she gasped. Now it was her turn to look incredulous.

“He told me he broke up with you in Paris.”

“I don’t believe it!” she said. “When did you speak to him?”

Without thinking, I said, “Last night.”

Julie turned scarlet.

“It
was
you on his phone, wasn’t it? You were with him this morning. I don’t believe it!”

“What?” I said. There was a silence.

“You didn’t,” she said slowly.

“No!” I said, blushing furiously.

“You did. I can tell,” said Julie. “You look exhausted and you’ve got The Glow.”

Was it that obvious I’d had a 450-second kiss with someone of the opposite sex that morning? Julie is the queen of intuition. I would be too if I spent that much money on psychics. It’s impossible to hide anything from her, particularly affairs of the heart.

“Did what?” asked Amanda politely.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Slept with
my boyfriend
!” shrieked Julie.

Sally and Kimberly’s forks, poised to plop a delicate slice of lobster into their mouths, jolted to a dramatic halt just in front of their lips. Their mouths were paralyzed wide open like two immaculate little black holes.

“Julie—” I said.

“How could you?” said Julie, furious. “I am never, ever speaking to you again. Or lending you any of my diamonds.”

She stood up, slapped her napkin loudly on the table, and dramatically drew in a long breath. Then she announced, “Sally, Amanda, Lala, Kimberley. I’m leaving.”

As Julie marched toward the exit all four girls rose and abandoned the table. The chatter in the room hushed. All eyes were fixed on Julie. As she reached the door, she turned and looked right at me, saying, “And by the way, you owe me my Versace pantsuit back.”

This was weird, because it was actually my Versace pantsuit all along, it was just Julie really liked it and borrowed it all the time. I’d only just got it back from her. How could Charlie have been so dishonorable? How could I have been such a fool? Mind you, with my recent history with boyfriends I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised.

“I’m just going…to the restroom,” I said to no one in particular as I left the table.

The minute I was outside in the corridor I heard a crescendo of female babble explode. Julie was right. Now that someone had started a fight, the party was much more interesting.

I called Charlie at the Mercer the minute I was out of the building.

“Charlie!” I said when he picked up. “Why did you lie to me? Why did you say you’d broken up with Julie when you haven’t? How
could
you!” I cried.

“Hey, calm down. I
have
broken up with Julie,” he laughed.

Why did he find everything so funny all the time? It was sick.

“What are you talking about? Julie says you haven’t broken up,” I cried. I was furious with Charlie and even more furious with
moi
.

“You wanna know exactly what happened?” said Charlie.

“Yes, I do.”

“In Paris, I told Julie that I didn’t think we were very well suited, that Todd was more her thing, and we should just continue as friends. So she said no, she couldn’t accept that. I think she said she wasn’t allowing me to call it off, or something crazy like that. So I guess I said fine, but I am still calling it off and she said she wasn’t. I didn’t think she was serious; that’s nutty behavior.”

Admittedly that scenario sounded highly likely. The only person who does any breaking up around Julie is Julie. I don’t recall anyone ever following through on an attempt to leave her. It’s not worth the aggravation. Julie can be
très Fatal Attraction
when she puts her mind to it. Even if Charlie had broken up with her, Julie would never admit it to herself or anyone else. In Julie’s mind Charlie was still her boyfriend, regardless of the fact that he didn’t think she was his girlfriend any longer. That’s what happens when you always get
your own way like Julie: when you don’t, you just pretend you have anyway, and it becomes reality. Although I felt Charlie’s version of events was probably the real one, it was almost irrelevant whether the two of them were officially broken up or not: by Julie’s reckoning, I had broken Commandment #2, which was unforgivable.

“She says she’s never going to speak to me again,” I said.

“She’ll get over it. I can’t understand why you told her anyway. She called me earlier and I didn’t say a thing,” said Charlie.

“She guessed. She said I looked exhausted.”

“Do you fancy dinner?” asked Charlie. “It might be nice to get to know each other a little better. I only ever see you in, well, sort of
extreme
situations.”

I knew what he meant. The idea was appealing. It felt safe and sexy at the same time, which was rather novel.

“I can’t,” I said immediately.

If you are going to turn down dinner with someone as adorable as Charlie, you have to do it right away, before you lose your nerve. And anyway, didn’t Charlie understand that it’s procedure that when a one-night stand is done, both parties are supposed to carry on as though nothing ever happened, regardless of any feelings? Dinner the following evening was not part of the arrangement—sadly.

“Well, I hope you change your mind. I’ll be at the hotel all evening working. I’ll be waiting for you.”

I called Julie’s apartment early that evening from home. I’d had a miserable afternoon, and I wanted my best friend back. I had to apologize. The housekeeper picked up the phone.

“Can I speak to Julie, please?” I asked.

“No, miss.”

“It’s really urgent. Is she there?”

“Yes, miss, but she told me that if you called, I had to tell you to return her suede Hogan bag.”

“Oh, I see,” I said sadly. I mean, I’d gotten really attached to that bag after all this time. “Could you tell her I called anyway?”

I collapsed on my bed, bleak. I’d been such an idiot and now I was paying for it. I was desperate for someone to talk to, but I couldn’t face calling Lara or Jolene. They probably wouldn’t speak to me anyway. No one was ever going to speak to me again when they found out what I’d done. Everyone probably knew already anyway. A Sotheby’s lunch is a more effective way of spreading gossip on the Upper East Side than a mass e-mail. I felt like I had nothing to look forward to, except possibly being friends with Madeleine Kroft, if she’d have me. I’m not a self-destructive person, but I
was starting to feel like that demented Elizabeth Wurtzel from
Prozac Nation
.

The thing is, as I lay there on my bed, I started to wonder if one night of regret were to become two nights of regret, would it really be that much more regrettable than one night? Listen, I’d already broken the Second Commandment and there was no going back. It wasn’t like I had any more best friends to lose, or could shock the Sotheby’s crowd more than I already had at lunch. Things couldn’t get worse, whatever I did. But I guess if I had to admit the real, truthful, serious reason I decided to surprise Charlie at the Mercer tonight, it was because last night had been the best sex of my life. I know Dr. Fensler had said that was a terrible omen and everything, but it’s very, very hard to turn down dinner with the best sex of your life. In fact, the more dangerous it is, the less likely you are to reject it. And anyway, I was never, ever going to do it again, with him, after tonight, I swear it. I just really needed to cheer myself up.

I looked at my watch: 8 PM. I got up from the bed and browsed my closet. I selected the perfect Regrettable Night #2 Look—a red sundress by Cynthia Rowley. It’s
très
appropriate for dinner with the best sex of your life because it comes off in less than three seconds, honestly. I slipped my feet into little white flip-flops, threw my hair in a ponytail, brushed my teeth, and left the apartment.

“Could you tell Charlie Dunlain that I’m here?” I said to the concierge when I arrived at the Mercer a little later. “He’s in room 606.”

“606?” said the concierge, tapping at his computer. “Ah…Mr. Dunlain. He’s checked out.”

Checked out? How could he do this to me? Didn’t Charlie know that when a girl says no to dinner she means maybe, which means yes? Then I thought,
Caroline
. The girl who’d called earlier. My stomach felt like it had fallen thirty-six floors down an elevator shaft. I couldn’t take another rejection now.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “He’s meant to be working in his room. He asked me to meet him here.”

“I checked him out myself. He left for Europe this afternoon.”

“Is there a note?”

“I’m afraid not.”

I
knew I hadn’t imagined my Mercer Hotel epiphany when I suddenly found myself turning down a ride on a PJ for absolutely no good reason. A few days later, just before I was due to fly to London for my dad’s birthday, Patrick Saxton called. I had barely said hello before he was trying his G-V trick on me again.

“I’m going over to London tomorrow for the weekend,” he said. “Why don’t you come? No strings attached.”

My general rule is that when you hear “no strings attached” it means ropes will be. Even though, as you know, turning down a ride on a PJ has historically been impossible for me, I went right ahead and did it. A ride on a private plane was not going to console me after the last few days.

“You know I can’t, but thanks for the invitation,” I
said breezily. The night at the Mercer had changed everything.

“Don’t you want to go to London? It’s great over there,” said Patrick.

“I’m already going to London tomorrow night, for my father’s fiftieth.”

“So, you go to the party, then you hang in my suite at Claridges. Then I’m popping down to Saint Tropez to check out a boat. I’m thinking of buying a Magnum 50. Apparently you can get ten supermodels
and
their legs in the back. Don’t you fancy a spin along the Côte d’Azur? Then maybe we’ll pop down to the Scalinatella, in Capri. It’s my favorite hotel. Let me take you.”

“I can’t, I’m flying with someone else.”

“Who?” said Patrick.

“American Airlines,” I said proudly.

Even I was shocked by how easy it was to refuse Patrick’s offer. I mean, I seemed to be a thoroughly reformed character already.

“You’d rather fly
commercial
than go with me?” said Patrick, alarmed.

“It’s just it’s better if I make my own way,” I replied. I’m an independent girl, I thought—I don’t need anything from a playboy like Patrick Saxton. “Hey, flying coach to London isn’t the end of the world,” I added.

Inside, the past few days had made me feel end of the world-ish, if you want to know the truth. The trouble with nights of regret is that the aftermath invariably consists of many days of regret, only minus the fun bits, like the best Brazil of your life and so on. What was strange was that I felt let down in a way I never did with other cute guys. It was like I’d found someone who I had the greatest Brazil with but who felt as cozy as my oldest friend. I didn’t hear a peep from Charlie, which was slightly mortifying. I’d always thought Charlie had good manners. Still, if he didn’t care to call me, I decided, then I didn’t care to call him.

Meanwhile, Julie didn’t return my messages. Jolene said I shouldn’t take it personally. She reported that Julie had disappeared off on a romantic trip, was madly in love, and wasn’t telling anyone who he was. She wasn’t returning anyone’s calls, even her dermatologist’s, which was a first for Julie. I didn’t believe Jolene. The fact was, I had been a lousy friend to Julie and deserved every bit of punishment I got.

Mom called later that night after I’d spoken to Patrick. It was late and I was tired. It must have been three in the morning in England but Mom sounded wide awake. Even though I was looking forward to the visit, the call set me on edge.

“Darling!” she cried excitedly when I picked up. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your father’s birthday. I’ve left Julie Bergdorf three messages inviting her—
you know how Daddy adores her—and she still hasn’t called back. Is she coming?”

“I’ve no idea, Mom,” I replied.

“What is the matter with you? How long are you staying?”

“I get in Saturday and I have to leave Monday. I’ve got a story next week.”

“Only three days! If you keep on working like this you are going to turn into Barry Diller! A career isn’t everything, you know. Anyway I have the most marvelous sheets for you in the spare bedroom. Irish linen puts Pratesi to shame. Americans simply do not understand linen like us—”

“Mom, you are an American,” I reminded her.

“I’m an English lady trapped in an American woman’s body, like a transsexual, that’s what my yoga teacher says. Now, I’ve heard the family is back, which is such good timing, isn’t it?”

“What family, Mom?”

“The Swyres, dear. I thought you might want to meet up with Little Earl while you’re over. Everyone says he’s
charmant
and more handsome than Prince William and Prince Harry put together.”

Sometimes I wonder if I can get a divorce from Mom. I could cite irreconcilable differences over relations with our neighbor. Apparently Drew Barrymore did that and she turned out really well.

“Mom, we’re not exactly b.f.’s with the Swyres, remember?”

“Darling, I do not want you missing your chance with him again.”

“There are other things in life apart from finding a man to think about,” I said, exasperated. (Like most other girls in New York, I have to confess on the very, very q-t that it is
all
we think about 95 percent of the time. We just don’t admit it in public. It’s way more acceptable to say you worry about your career all the time. Although I generally find the more career a girl has, the more man she thinks about.)

“I’m doing a tent in the garden, like Jackie Kennedy used to do on the White House lawn. Lord and Lady Finoulla have accepted, so I’m thrilled to bits. The forecast’s for rain but it’s always wrong.”

Mom is the queen of denial. It’s rained every year for my dad’s birthday. It always pours on everyone’s birthday in England, even the Queen’s.

“Okay, Mom. See you Saturday night. I’m renting a car at Heathrow and I’ll drive straight down. I guess I’ll be with you mid-afternoon.”

“Wonderful. And please do wear makeup for the party—that nice foundation I got you from Lancôme that Isabella Rossellini likes. Dad will be so disappointed otherwise.”

“I’ll try,” I lied. Mom still hasn’t realized that the only person apart from her who still wears foundation in the day is Joan Collins.

The next morning as I packed my bag for England I realized I had to pull myself together. However lousy
things seemed, I couldn’t show up at Dad’s party in a depressed sulk. It was too selfish. I mean, that’s the kind of thing Naomi Campbell does but she can get away with it because she’s got a size-2-body. I’d behaved rashly that night in the Mercer, driven by desperation, insecurity, and a total lack of recent orgasms. Now I had to pay for it. I had somehow contrived to date one brute, one congenital liar, and a professional lothario with a Glenn Close wife. Then to top it all off, I’d slept with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend, who had promptly vanished into thin air. I was destined for the solitary life—well, for the next week or so. I tried to be positive. Hopefully, Julie and I would make up soon—she’d want to borrow that Versace pantsuit again one day, I was sure of it. As I rode out to JFK to catch my plane that Friday evening, I resolved to be cheerful about what I had, rather than miserable about what I didn’t. I mean, most girls would die to own as much Marc Jacobs as me.

There is nothing like being stuck in line at security at JFK Airport at ten in the evening behind a man who is inexplicably travelling with four laptop computers—each of which has to be unzipped, placed in a separate plastic tray, scanned, investigated, and then repacked—to really send your spirits plummeting.
Moments like this can make a girl wish she hadn’t reformed herself after all. If you are going to reform yourself, be selective: there are some bad habits that, for purely practical reasons, should be hung on to. Turning down rides on private planes is
très
foolish. Take it from me, one should never do it.

I arrived at Heathrow at 11 AM the next morning. Before I went to the Hertz desk to pick up my rental car, I snuck into the restroom to change. I wasn’t planning on showing up at home looking as rejected as I felt inside. Paying attention to personal grooming while you are recovering from a one-night stand can improve things immensely. I mean, look at Elizabeth Hurley, her eyebrows get more genius with every breakup. She always looks her best when arriving at English countryside locations for pointless high-profile events like polo games or cricket matches starring Hugh Grant. Inspired by her, I locked myself into a stall and changed into a superfine cashmere orange tee (DKNY) and skinny cream pants (Joie). Accessorized with a tan leather belt, plain gold drop earrings, pale turquoise Jimmy Choo sandals with a delicate gold kitten heel, and a squashy canvas zebra stripe shoulder bag, I thought the look exuded casual, Liz-ish glamour. No one would know I’d obsessed about it for three whole days back in New York.

The clothes weren’t exactly 100 percent practical for the English countryside, but then I wasn’t plan
ning on actually setting foot in the English countryside while I was in it. The only danger to my shoes, which was negligible, would be the short walk from my rental car to the house. Mom had Tarmac’d the drive in front of The Old Rectory years ago when she had realized that even if gravel driveways were
très
English and all that, and considered way classier than Tarmac ones by her peers, they were murder on her favorite tan-and-cream Chanel pumps.

There is nothing in the world—even the infinity pool at the Hotel du Cap—that compares with England on a warm summer’s day. Except perhaps Macaroni Beach in Mustique, but that’s a whole other scenario.

Two hours later I found myself heading off the motorway in my tiny rented Renault Clio toward our village, Stibbly, which is accessible only by narrow, winding lanes. They were wildly overgrown with cow parsley and bramble bushes, which brushed against my side-view mirrors. The British are not into anything manicured—their hedgerows or their nails. I drove past crumbling farm walls and into little villages with thatched cottages, each with a more impressive herbaceous border than the last. Herbaceous borders are an English obsession. They devote whole sections of Sunday newspapers to them, honestly. The
only thing that wasn’t picturesque along the drive was the occasional notice reading PUBLIC TOILETS with an arrow pointing towards a grubby portapotty.

By two o’clock in the afternoon I was about fifteen miles from home. A roadside sign read
WELCOME TO THE PARISH OF STIBBLY-ON-THE-WOLD
. The countryside looked wonderfully pretty, as ever, except for a familiar gloomy, run-down building that was once a Victorian hospital marring the view. A board on the gate stated
ST. AGNES’ REFUGE FOR WOMEN
. The place has been used as a safe house for battered wives and single moms for years. When I was a kid I’d see the girls drifting aimlessly around the village. Easy targets, they were unfairly blamed for every ill that befell Stibbly, even the weather vane falling off the church spire.

A couple of miles on I slowed down while I took a particularly sharp bend in the lane. The Renault Clio juddered and suddenly stalled. I put on the handbrake, set the car in neutral, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over and over, but it wouldn’t start. I tried again. Same thing. I think I must have tried to get moving for at least the next ten minutes, to no avail.

Defeated, I let the car roll as far as it could onto the grass verge. I got out and sat slumped on the hood in a moody, Kelly Osbourne–style huff. How was I going to get home? My cell phone didn’t work here (
God
I must get Tri-Band
, I thought, irritated) and I couldn’t see a house or any sign of life in any direction. The only sound was the rustle of the fields of wheat as it swayed gently in the wind. It’s at moments like this that a girl can really regret
not
being squashed between two supermodels on the back of Patrick Saxton’s Magnum speedboat, even if the supermodels are the annoying kind who keep going on about how “fat” they are. Still, I reminded myself, I’d turned over a new leaf: I guess I’d have to start walking.

I put on my sunglasses, grabbed my bag from the front seat, locked the car, and started to stomp down the hill.
God I bet Elizabeth Hurley never breaks down in the English countryside
, I thought as I walked. You don’t get to be the face of Estée Lauder by being the kind of idiot who relies on Hertz for important transportation. She probably gets to the English countryside in ten seconds by helicopter. I had gone only a few yards when I heard the sound of an engine. An old tractor was chugging slowly down the hill pulling a trailer loaded with livestock. A young guy was driving. Maybe I could persuade him to drive me home. As he approached I flagged him down. The vehicle came to a creaky halt beside me. I noticed it had a layer of dust and bits of hay covering its flaky blue paint.

“A’right there?” said the boy.

God he was cute. He had dark curly hair and was wearing a red T-shirt, muddy jeans, and old hiking
boots. He was totally giving Orlando Bloom. My Kelly Osbourne huff disappeared
immediately
, you can imagine.

“I’m good,” I said, smiling. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Broken down?”

“Yeah,” I said, twisting my hair. I know Mr. Farmhand couldn’t have been more than nineteen, but I couldn’t resist having a light flirt with him. (As opposed to a heavy flirt, when you know something’s going to happen, and you’ve had the Brazilian bikini wax in advance and everything.)

“Need help?” he said. God I adore English boys who talk in two word sentences. It reminds me of Heathcliff or something.

“Could you give me a ride home?”

“Where to?”

“The Old Rectory. It’s in Stibbly.”

“Bit far. The heifers,” he said, gesturing at the trailer. “But I can drop you by the farm. They’ll let you use the phone.”

“Okay,” I said. I guess Dad could come and pick me up.

Orlando—whose actual real name was Dave, but I prefer to think of him as Orlando—put out his hand and helped me up onto the tractor seat beside him. He lit a roll up, turned the engine on, and we chugged off. All I can say is this: thank goodness for Hertz and
their useless rental cars. I was so happy sitting there next to him that I barely noticed that my lovely cream pants now had an oily smudge across them where Dave had pulled me up onto the tractor, or that my feet were resting on a bale of hay, covering my gorgeous shoes in dust.