The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund (19 page)

“Oh, no thanks,” Kiki said, looking at her watch. “I have concert tickets. Sorry!”

She managed to bolt, but not before Lyle begged her twice more to reconsider. She wouldn't, and instead pulled away from him to give me a kiss and head toward the coat check to retrieve her fur. I watched Lyle trace her every move until her exit.

“Kiki! Stay!” I whispered at the door. “Lyle Spence is staring at you.”

“Yuck. Too good-looking. Too cocky. So not my type.”

“Don't judge a book by its cover,” I replied, watching him watch us.

“I don't read books. I read magazines.” Kiki winked. “And you only judge magazines by their covers.” And with that, she was gone.

At the dinner, John was seated next to Lyle and some mega-collector whose name I couldn't remember, a huge hedge funder from Greenwich, Connecticut. His wife, Missy, was familiar from the various charity circuits, and her boobs were literally defying gravity.

I almost started laughing in the poor woman's face because I remembered Kiki's comment at the gallery about her beaded beige number: “If you could weave vomit, it would be that dress,” she said.

So there sat Missy in beige as her husband went on and on about futures markets and China. Word had it they'd met when she was a flight attendant on his NetJets charter, and with her bod, she gave new meaning to the word “liftoff.”

“Excuse me, honey,” George said, hailing a waitress. “But can I get some fresh cheese on the arugula, please? This Parmesan tastes like sawdust.”

“Mine, too,” chimed in Missy. “It's
inedible
.”

Nice. Stifling a grimace, the waitress swiftly removed the offending plates from his and her majesty. I felt disgusting, remembering countless nights out with Tim's friends, who often spoke to waiters that way. Plus, Missy was once serving pretzels and peanuts herself, so why the turbulent 'tude?

The chair next to me remained empty during the salad course, until a man I instantly recognized pulled it out and sat down with profuse apologies. “The traffic was a disaster. The U.N. is a nightmare, I'm so sorry—”

“Is it Elliot? I just met you recently, right?” Super-green-eyes guy.

“Yes. And you're Holland.”

“Good memory.” I wondered what he was doing at the dinner. “Everyone calls me Holly, though.”

“Elliot! Hello, dear,” said Missy, rising to kiss him. Her massive, tanned boobs pressed against him as her husband talked with Lyle and John about acquiring a canvas for their Amagansett home.

When he sat back down, I inquired about his buxom friend. “What's Missy's last name again? I met them through my ex-husband once.”

“Missy and George Miller.”

“Is he in finance?”

“Yes. He has a hedge fund, Miller Ventures.”

“Ahh, figures,” I said. “Well, at least if their private jet crashes, her chest could get her across the Atlantic!”

I couldn't believe I'd said it out loud.

I was sponging Kiki's style of unleashing unsolicited brazen commentary. Shit.

But to my relief and surprise, Elliot was cackling. Guffawing, even.

“Yeah, you're right, no sinking there.” He laughed, leaning in conspiratorially. “She's a character. I sat next to her at a dinner once and she went on about how she hired a surrogate for all three babies even though she could carry them,” he said in disbelief. “She was too paranoid about George losing interest if she got stretch marks. I was floored.”

Holy moly. You can't invent that!

“So you must be a hedge funder, too, no? I saw you at that nightmare event last week.”

“Um, I—”

He paused, waving back to someone who had called to him, and then turned back to me. “I'm an art consultant.”

Hmm, so I'd pegged him wrong. “Oh . . . so is this a good moment for you?”

“So-so.”

“You must work for a ton of those awful hedge fund people.

They all have too much money and decide they want to be collectors all of a sudden but have no taste, right? Let me guess: They just want the big names. Even if it's a crappy Picasso or Warhol, they're label whores, right?”

“You seem to know your stuff,” Elliot said.

“That's a fun job,” I pondered aloud. “Shopping with other people's money, very cool. I'd love to visit artists' studios and galleries all day.”

“Well, let's do it sometime,” he offered.

I looked down the table at John, who was deep in conversation with Lyle. But before I could even entertain the idea of juggling all my potential suitors, Elliot popped that idea bubble.

“Not a date, just . . . as friends,” he added.

“Oh, okay, sure,” I said. Maybe he wasn't single? I didn't see a ring. “I'd like that.”

“Great!”

“Do you have a card or something?”

“No. No, I don't. Uh . . .” He fumbled for a piece of paper.

Luckily I had little cards, which I'd had printed after fishing out a pen from my bag too many times. I handed one to him.

Just then, John got up, walked over, and squatted beside me on the floor next to my chair.

“How about we get out of here?” he asked, in front of Elliot.

“Um, sure—” I said, gathering my coat.

“I'll see you soon, then,” I said to Elliot, who rose to say good-bye.

But before John and I reached the door, there was a hand on my arm.

“Holly, I like that spitfire Kiki,” said Lyle Spence, his eyes flashing. “How can I reach her?”

I smiled, knowing Cupid's arrow was lodged in his bum. After a parade of skeletal models and actresses and glamazons who perhaps rocked out at a photo op but bored him to tears the next morning, he was curious about Kiki, who had stormed into his gallery looking incredible in a Proenza Schouler satin dress and black Mendel coat with black leather high boots. It was clear to me that she had made her mark, like a constellation in that massive white loft, but in reverse: She was a bold, black-clad, fiery point of heat against the white sky of his cavernous space. I happily wrote down her number and walked out into the cold night with John holding my hand.

 

 

 

A
hhh, what to discuss on a date, post-divorce. The air between you is fertile ground for landmines of the past—baggage and children and exes. Should I plunge right in? Regale John with my whole history? With Nick there had been loud music, ambient bar noise, and no void to fill with intense conversation, but there I was with John, alone. I felt like talking points had to be structured, plotted out, almost, to avoid the elephant in the room: the Split. The demise of my marriage had been pervading my every thought and it seemed unnatural to be a tabula rasa now. I felt like a slalom skier expertly swerving to avoid the stakes of my last ten years looming down the hill. Or you can do what I did: Turn the spotlight on the man and make it all about him.

“Your work is . . . incredible, John. You have so much talent. I . . . loved the paintings.” I couldn't make eye contact, though. Like a shy adolescent, I couldn't be up front about his up-front twig and berries.

“Thanks,” he said, looking me right in the eye. “Were you surprised by the subject matter?” he asked boldly.

Clearly I wasn't too good at hiding my coy reaction.

“I was, uh, well, surprised at first, but I truly thought the pieces were truly amazing. Uh, the canvases, I mean.”

“I'm glad to hear it. And I'm glad you came, Holly.”

We walked and talked until we reached a clearing of buildings, revealing a full moon gleaming in the sky.

“God, look at that moon,” I said in awe. “It's like a movie.”

“Why is it like a movie?” he asked.

“I don't know; it's just so . . . perfect.”

“Are you one of those girls who is obsessed with movies?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I stammered.
Yes, you are, you liar.
“I guess, a little.”

“Oh,” he said.
Wrong answer, Holly!
“I'm not much of a film buff.”

“Me neither: ‘Buff' sounds all art house and indie, like I watch four-hour Korean films. I don't like films, I like movies. I like expensive Hollywood movies.”

“Either way, it's a fantasy. I prefer real life to that. How could a movie capture
this
? Nature is perfect on its own. It doesn't have to be a faithful simulacra in art to be perfect.”

Uh-oh, the artist thought I said something weird and childish. “I don't know, I just always do that I guess. A photograph or a movie can be kept forever and nature is fleeting. I am just saying the moon is so big and bloated, it's almost surreal. And tomorrow it will wane and be more real again.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” he said blankly.

“It's just that sometimes I see something like this and this sounds weird, but it's almost painful because it's
too
good. And it'll be over and there's no rewind button.”

“I'd rather never go backward. Life should only be on the play button.”

“Mm-hmm,” I offered halfheartedly.

“Like . . . now, for example.”

John stopped in his tracks and put his arm around my back, pulling me in and kissing me out of the blue. It wasn't some great jolt of mad love, but still, I felt buzzed. Like with Nick, a kiss beyond a decade-long marriage was still new, and I felt young and desirable. And scared. I was suddenly aware that he had raging hormones and his strength, holding and pressing me, was somewhat alarming. Tim's boyish face and hands were so different—John's sexily vein-defined hand grabbed me desperately, and while I was fully absorbed in our make-out-fest, my mind wandered to the paintings of his body, taut but worn. With younger guys, you know where they've been. But John, who had never married, probably had had a lot of experiences, and I could feel it in his body, all the women he had touched with those hands. And forget about silly “bases” and fooling around with a nearly fifty-year-old—non-shag hookups were clearly not happening at this phase of life. While I sometimes wanted to be Kiki-esque on a free and lust-spiked level, I'd never had sex without some sense of deep comfort. With thoughts of this entering my mind mid-kiss, I told John I was a bit tired and freezing and wanted to go home. I think he was surprised, but he kindly hailed a taxi. He offered to drop me off out of his way, and leaned in to kiss me again in the cab. It was nice, but I wasn't so blinded by frenetic passion that I didn't notice Mohammed the driver staring at us through the rearview, which semicreeped me out. But John didn't seem to see or care. His hand went down my neck to the top button of my coat, which he nimbly unfastened. He slid his hand down my back and grabbed me with those worn hands that gripped brushes all day. He kissed the side of my face and neck, which tickled in a sexy way that lit me up and made me feel warm and alluring, which is exactly what I needed. But then, in the heat of our encircled arms . . .

“I said, GO UP SIXTH! Comprende?”

Rude . . . John had totally snapped at the driver mid-neckbite. Who wasn't even Spanish. His snap was arresting, but then he turned his attention back to me and told me I was beautiful.

“Holly—” He lunged for me.

We kissed until we reached my building. I kissed him good night and went upstairs and crawled into bed, thoughts spinning dizzily through my head as I glanced at the cable box. Midnight. Maybe Kiki would be home by then? I hit her number on speed dial.

“YOU GAVE HIM MY NUMBER? ARE YOU ON CRACK?”

Caller ID.

“What? Wait, Lyle Spence? He called you already?”

“TWICE. What were you thinking? I know I give my number out to lots of guys, but I choose them based on good vibes. The guy could be a serial killer.”

“No way. Serial dater, maybe. You struck a chord in him.”

“So he said on my machine. Scumbag. He's hot as hell, sure, but I don't like 'em so pretty. How was your night?”

I turned
Letterman
on mute and regaled her with details about the breathless smooching, the flattering comments. But also that my gut said John Taplett, he of mammoth penis, was not The One.

“Who cares?” she said, almost laughing. “You don't need Mr. Wonderful, Holly. You need Mr. One-Nighter.”

“I'm not good at that. I get attached. Not Glenn Close attached, but I'm emotional. Plus, I feel like if it's not going to be my husband, then why should I waste precious time?”

Kiki was quiet. “I seriously do not understand how you can just get divorced and be talking about that prison of marriage again so blithely! Anyway, what makes you so sure he's not the next Mr. Holly?”

“I don't know. He's sexy and very confident, but I don't have the same comfort zone I did with Tim.”

“Holly, news flash: It's apples and oranges! One was a husband you were with for years, and the other is one night so far. No one could compete with that—it's two totally different things! No one could be as close as Tim after one night.”

As I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I realized that she was right. I just prayed the ghost of my marriage wouldn't make it impossible for me to ever connect with someone again.

—Zsa Zsa Gabor