The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund (5 page)

 

 

 

 

Publicists court press and attention, which WASPy matriarchs, like Sherry Von, avoid. Kiki and Hal's wedding had gotten a ton of press, much to Sherry Von's chagrin, as she pronounced sending wedding photos to magazines uncouth. She believed your announcement should
only
be in the
Times
, and then you should never appear in the papers again until it's your obituary.

There was some leeway for the occasional cameo on Bill Cunningham's charity party page in the Sunday Styles section, but that was it. Before I got married, I worked at two monthly women's magazines covering music and writing features on musicians. It was far more acceptable than Kiki's party-and-flashbulb-centric milieu, but hardly Sherry Von's world, either, and the second I got pregnant, I was encouraged to quit. It's not like I was obsessed with my daily grind, so I happily threw myself into motherhood and never looked back. Okay: Sometimes I've looked back. For one, I always used to see bands. I knew every new act, hot track, and trend. Now I was out of touch; when I tune in to the MTV Video Music Awards I don't recognize half the names, whereas I used to know everyone who cleared their throats by a microphone. I have a very eclectic musical spectrum, loving hard rock and Broadway show tunes and a little in between. Tim loves classic rock, which I abhor; he favors the Eagles most of all, and their music is like a cheese grater to my ear. Plus, aside from seeing new hot bands, I also missed interviewing illustrious people—I'd written about indie rock bands and British invasion groups, and had done cover stories on everyone from Gwen Stefani to countless bubblegum teen pop idols. I always secretly dreamed of one of them asking me to write their biography. I found profiling people fascinating, and sometimes wished I had kept a toe in the work pool rather than cut bait altogether; sometimes deep down when I was with all the other moms or volunteering or doing tours at Miles's school I was dying to scream,
But I'm not just a mom, I'm cool! I used to see bands three nights a week! I don't play “Baby Beluga” for my kid, I play vintage R.E.M.!
But I had no regrets.

Kiki, on the other hand, loved her work and could never quit. And she was very successful, with all kinds of high-profile accounts from fashion houses to car companies, each one trying to penetrate the young, cool scene in New York. Even before she married Hal, Kiki was a name around town, known for her lavish parties, for being a muse to Zac Posen, even for a fling with Christian Slater in the nineties. A high-profile marriage only added to her omnipresence in the party picture pages. So now in the foaming wake of the divorce, the press was lapping up every detail about lawyers, possible prenups, and the epic battle that would ensue. One reporter had even called me at home, but per Tim's instructions, I simply answered, “No comment,” then apologized (not in Tim's instructions) before hanging up.

It wasn't until I met Kiki for one of our secret lunches that I realized how dark and dirty Tim's family would play it. Kiki had a college friend from her U. Penn sorority who was in New York for a day of meetings. As she ran around town, the friend started noticing the same guy in a brown suit cropping up at various points throughout the day. Paranoid, she took the train to SoHo, always looking in store windows' reflections to see if he was still there. He was. Finally, in the middle of West Broadway and scores of people, she spun around and came face-to-face with the man, demanding to know why he was following her. Surprisingly, he admitted he was a private investigator and said he was sorry but was just doing his job, tracking Kiki and trailing her pal for added due diligence.

Upon hearing this, back at her apartment, Kiki paused and had a Keyser Söze-style flashback of various people watching her around her neighborhood. There was a guy buying fruit next to her at Gourmet Garage who showed up at Barneys, which was odd since it was by the Goyard corner, where men didn't often lurk, and then he was even walking by the Lexington Avenue window of Simadi, the hair salon where she got weekly blow-outs. The pieces fell into place, and she realized the Talbotts had hired a sleuth to dig up dirt on her.

“So I've put the brakes on with Gustave and any other guys, for now,” she told me just before Christmas at La Goulue, looking both ways at the preened yummy mummies slurping their liquid lunches. “I could give a shit what the papers say, but it's this freaky investigator shit that wigs me out. I feel like Sherry Von has called in the CIA.”

“Listen, there's nothing they can say. You haven't done anything wrong; you're separated and you've filed for divorce.”

“But it's such a double standard. I have to be very discreet. I finally got out of a frigid marriage and I still can't see anybody or they'll label me a whore. But I'm no gold-digging slut. I work, and I just so happen to be kicking ass. I just hired Ellen Barkin's attorney. Two can play hardball.”

And hardball she played. She landed a fair settlement, won the acrid, unhinged, fiery fury of Sherry Von Hapsburg Talbott, and got herself a fresh new start.

 

 

 

I
n January, just after Kiki and Hal's divorce was finalized, I exhaustedly trekked home after a particularly chilly day in the park (though I am one of those people who is always cold, as in sweatshirt-on-the-beach cold) watching Miles in his Super Soccer Stars class. We ordered in a pizza, as I was too lazy to cook (read: heat up Citarella takeout). One of the good things about marrying the son of Sherry Von is that he never expected me to whip up some insane dinner in full apron mode, 1950s style—the only thing in her life his mother ever made for dinner was reservations.

Tim was away yet again, this time in Oregon at some giant convention center-slash-hotel, so I was in a pattern of tucking Miles into bed and then facing the question of what to do with myself from 8:00 until midnight, when I fell asleep. I had already booked our sitter just in case I wanted to escape and have one of those luxurious dinners alone at Etats-Unis wine bar, something I occasionally treated myself to when Tim was out of town. So when Posey called me and asked me to join the other hedge fund conference widows for dinner at Sette Mezzo, I was game.

When I got to the restaurant, our normal window table was full with Trish, with her trademark bright red shoulder-length hair and strand of pearls; Emilia, dressed to the nines; raven-haired Mary; and smiling Posey, who waved through the window as I approached. Once we all kissed hello and ordered, the sport of choice commenced: killer people-watching. It was like golf for women.

After a few minutes, in walked a nervous Millie Lange. After a quick smile and greeting by our table, she walked with an older woman—who I guessed was her mom or aunt—to the back of the restaurant. All the women swooped like hungry vultures on the bloody carcass of poor Millie, a mom whose sons were in the second and fourth grades in our school, who had just gotten divorced due to her husband's excessive cocaine use, which even stints at Promises, Paradise, Passages, and Cirque Lodge couldn't remedy.

“Poor thing. Ugh, I mean, who's gonna go for her now?” scoffed Emilia, hand through her coiffed mane. “She has her sons, thank goodness, but what guy would want that baggage?”

“Well, maybe she could get some older guy,” offered Mary, with a look of concern across her freckled, black-Irish complexion. “You know, some rich gray-hair type in his fifties or sixties, and then thirty-seven will seem young to him!” I knew that Mary, like Posey and me, hoped Millie would land on her feet. But New York is a tricky town for women
d'un certain âge
, as Sherry Von likes to say.

Posey had testified that Millie Lange came from a very powerful old-New York family and that luckily she would have plenty of money and enough influence to maintain her social standing.

“Her father was a huge ad guy. Like CEO of one of the big agencies. He invented the Energizer Bunny.”

“Come on,” I said, snorting up my Sprite.

“Seriously,” said Trish. “And it's still going and going and going, that rodent.”

“It's so funny,” I mused. “Who would have thought a rabbit with Corey Hart sunglasses banging a big drum would become an icon?”

“There's no accounting for random successes,” said Posey. “Just look at Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I mean, how bizarre is that?
Billions
.”

“Oh, check it out, Cassidy Freedkin is sitting in the corner.” Emilia subtly gestured, sipping her Chianti.

“I heard she's chairing the NACHO benefit at the Waldorf this year,” said Trish. “She just hired two publicists to get herself more ‘out there,' she told me.”

“It's so weird,” whispered Mary. “I assumed that since she's so obsessed with New Yorkers Against Childhood Obesity, her daughter would be, like, rolling into the room à la Violet Beau-regard! But she's the skinniest one at Ballet Academy East! Her mom won't let her NEAR that vending machine. Instead she buys her ten-packs of shiny stickers to distract her from the Nutter Butters.”

“I know, I mean I could rake the leaves at my farm with her kid!” Trish laughed.

“Meanwhile, Cassidy looks great,” remarked Posey.

“Yeah,” agreed Emilia, looking disappointed. “What's she doing, South Beach? Atkins? Macrobiotic?”

“I heard she's big on the Two Finger Diet,” whispered Mary.

There were a few more sightings: Kincaid and Peach Saunders loudly ordering risotto with “a double helping of white truffles” for everyone at their table of eight; Chip Berlin and his wife,

Patty, sitting mute, not speaking for their entire dinner; and Mac McMonigle and Kent Quick and their decked-out wives going through four bottles of wine and laughing way too loudly.

“So sad,” said Emilia, leaning in. “I hear Chip Berlin has a standing high-priced hooker at the Ritz-Carlton every Thursday afternoon!”

“I heard that, too!” exclaimed Mary, flushed with gossip high.

“How does she not know?” asked Trish, eyes aflame.

“Ostrich syndrome, just denial,” said Posey. “Or maybe she does know and doesn't care. She gets her lifestyle. . . .”

“Yeah, I mean, where's she gonna go?” said Emilia.

“You always know everything,” I told Mary, who beamed.

“Well, I'll admit I am privy to a ton of scoop. But let me tell you girls this: For all the stuff that's going down in this town, we don't have a thing on the Greenwich hedge fund scene. That place appears perfect, with the lawns and the four blond kids and the golden retrievers, but we were out there this weekend and let me tell you, some of these gals were doing lines in the changing room at Round Hill!”

“No!” gasped Posey, hand over mouth.

“Yes,” continued Mary, leaning in. “And in the bathroom at Polpo, too. The DEA could do a full-on raid, I swear! You know that guy Burke Lockhart from Triton Partners?”

“Wait, the guy who has five daughters and won't let his wife stop until he gets a boy?” asked Trish.

“Yes. And while he's making her into a baby factory, he's in his Ferrari getting BJs from the wife of Kent Colgate from SaturnRings Capital!”

“You lie,” I said, stunned.

“I'm telling you, we city rats are tame next to those preppy country mice.”

“Here's to staying in the city!” said Posey, raising her glass. We all clinked glasses and cheered our sometimes odd but definitely fun urban existence.

“Oh, and speaking of BJs, get this,” said, Mary, eyes ablaze. “Corbett walked in yesterday after school and said, ‘Mom, Richie Frank told me where babies come from.' So I asked him where Richie said babies come from, and he said, ‘The daddy sticks his penis in the mommy's mouth.' I said, no, darling, that's where
jewelry
comes from!”

We were all howling. All in all, it was a great (if a bit raunchy) night.

 

 

 

I got home and flipped on the television. My other husband was David Letterman, but he wouldn't be on air in forever. And the barrage of depressing reality TV was too much to bear. I hit the guide button and scrolled down to find—YES!—
Sixteen Candles
. Jackpot. It was amazing to me that I was now more than double these kids' age and yet in my head they were still the same age as, or even older than, me, as if frozen in time from when I first saw them in fifth grade. And, oooh, Jake Ryan. Someone spatula me off the carpet now. That last scene, with the cars scooting away in every direction leaving only his red chariot, chills. So many teen movies nowadays have just fast-paced zingers, insta-comebacks, and Teflon-skinned bad-asses who never let anything get to them.