Bergdorf Blondes (20 page)

On the way to the airport we drove through Juan-Les-Pins. It’s a cute little place with more shoe and bikini shops than you can imagine. I couldn’t resist a thirty-second shopping spree. The driver stopped the car, saying, “Five minutes,
mademoiselle
. It’s forty-five minutes to the airport from here.”

About twenty-five bikinis, fourteen sarongs, and six pairs of wedge-heeled espadrilles later—you know how it is in the Hamptons in summer, it’s required procedure to change pool outfits between every meal—I hopped back in the car. The shopping easily made up for last night’s humiliation. I mean, the girls in New York were going to kill themselves when they saw the espadrilles I’d gotten them. I say, if you are lucky enough to go on gorgeous trips abroad, take your girlfriends something fashionable back. It was only the middle of May and I had a few weeks until Fourth of July weekend, but for a New York girl it’s never too early to start bulk-buying beachwear.

The driver dropped me at Terminal One. I headed for Gate Zero, where all the private planes depart from. No sign of Patrick or Jazz. They probably hadn’t arrived yet. I approached a man dressed in uniform.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur, je cherche Monsieur Patrick Saxton.”

“Il est parti, mademoiselle,”
replied the man.

I looked at my watch. 1:30
PM
. I was only half an hour behind schedule. Surely Patrick hadn’t gone without me?

“What?” I said.

“ ’E leave one hour ago with girl with tan.”

How could he? How could
she
? Especially after I had written that really nice article about her. I suddenly felt weak and shaky: those du Cap Bellinis catch up with you at the most inconvenient moments.

“How am I supposed to get to New York?” I said. No doubt this lovely pilot would shove me on someone else’s G-V later. I mean, I was totally dressed for it.

“
ne sais pas
,” the man exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air.

He turned abruptly and walked off. My outfit had done nothing to influence him. As he was almost out of the lounge he pointed through the glass windows ahead. I followed his arm with my gaze. Across the street I could see the entrance to Terminal 2. My heart sank. Look, I don’t have anything against airports
per se
, but I could see more people crowded into that lobby than there were at the whole of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade last year. The trouble with going on a private plane is that afterward you never, ever want to fly commercial again. My advice to anyone who is about to fly private is to
only
do it if it is
going to become the norm. Honestly, at that moment I wished I’d never seen the suede ceiling or eaten the delicious sandwiches in Patrick’s gorgeous little G-V.

What was I thinking! If I wasn’t careful I was going to turn into Patricia Duff or someone really spoiled like that. I could fly commercial, like just about everyone else in the world. Summoning up all my self-esteem I dragged my much-increased baggage across the street. The heat was burning. By the time I got to the Air France desk I felt like a tuna melt.

The stewardess behind the counter was gray-haired and impeccably groomed. She looked at me as she might regard a used Band-Aid.

“Oui?”
she said. “Can I ’elp you?
Madame
.”

Why do French ladies always go out of their way to upset young girls like
moi
by calling them “Madame”? It’s cruel, especially when you’ve got a Bellini hammering at your brain.

“Mademoiselle,”
I said. “I’ve missed my flight to New York. When’s the next one?”

“Three
PM
. Okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“That will be 4,376 euros.”

“What?” I gulped.

“We ’ave only business class available.”

“What about taking a later flight?

“We are
completely full
.”

I was close to tears. I didn’t have 4,376 euros to
blow on a one-way ticket to New York. Still, I bit my lip and handed over my Visa card. I would write off the whole trip as a very pricey disaster from which I had learned a costly moral lesson: never dress as a WASPy iceberg if you can dress as an ice princess in Alexander McQueen instead. But, god, it would have been so much cuter to have spent those euros on something fun like that pink striped wing chair I want from ABC Carpet & Home on Broadway.

“
Merci
,” said the stewardess, swiping the card. “You will be boarding in ’alf an ’our.”

“Which gate, please?” I asked.

While she was checking, I gazed down the line of counters. A couple of desks down I spotted a familiar figure. I craned my neck to get a better look: it was Charlie Dunlain, checking in at the LA desk. Oh, god, I really didn’t want him to see me. I
loathe
chance encounters, particularly with people who recently saw you when you’d just overdosed on Advil. Even worse, I suddenly noticed that Charlie was way cuter than I remembered. He looked tan and amazingly at ease with himself. He’s like the only person I’ve ever heard of who actually looks better in airport lighting. That’s success for you, I guess. Seeing him at that moment made me positively diabetic, I swear it. The shock made my blood sugar drop like crazy. Suddenly I felt giddy: maybe I was going to faint with
embarrassment. I snapped my head back and stared in the other direction.

Still, this wasn’t as bad as it could have been last night, I reminded myself. I mean, here I was,
not
in the WASPy iceberg dress, in a top-class outfit possibly slightly reminiscent of Lee Radziwill in Capri in the seventies, acting completely unsuicidal, totally normal, just taking a plane to New York like any normal, unsuicidal girl. Maybe I should say hello. Then I could leave and never speak to him again.

“Hi!” I called out, suddenly embarrassed. There. Done. So what if he hated me, I didn’t care in the slightest. Charlie turned and looked at me. God, I felt faint again. Those Bellinis are so sneaky sometimes.

“Oh, hi, er…” he said awkwardly, and added, “I think someone wants you,” gesturing toward the counter.

I turned back to find the stewardess glaring at me.

“Madame,” she huffed, handing me back my credit card. “
Alors
, I regret you cannot travel. Your card has been denied.”

“Can you try it again?” I asked anxiously.

“
Non
. Could you move aside please?”

Suddenly I felt really, really sorry for used-up supermodels. This must be exactly what it’s like for them: one minute it’s PJs everywhere, the next minute you can’t even get arrested in coach. As I started to gather up my things, Charlie called out, “Hey, let me walk you
to your gate. It’s right next to the departure lounge for LA.”

Eew, god. It’s one thing being abandoned by a private jet. I would actually even say it’s a positive learning experience. I mean, no one has to know, right? It’s quite another being discovered smack-dab in the middle of the G-V abandonment process by someone you know. There was no way I could let Charlie find out I was ticketless and cashless. He’d be so disapproving. He sauntered over and picked up my bags.

“Wow, are they letting you take all this as hand baggage?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, as if I always take a suitcase and four shopping bags as carry-ons.

“Are you…okay?” said Charlie, looking concerned.

“Fine!” I replied. Surely Charlie’s rave reviews in Cannes had obliterated all memory of the Advil incident.

“Really? I’ve been worried about you, after…Paris,” he said awkwardly.

“I’m fine. Everything’s great.”

I don’t tell lies, but when I do I am
très
convincing. We headed toward Departures. Inside, I was freaking. I mean, how a ticket was going to transpire between here and the boarding gate I knew not. I didn’t want to be humiliated again in front of this man. If only Charlie wasn’t such a gentleman, carrying my bags like someone out of
The Palm Beach Story
, I wouldn’t have
been in any risk of being found out. In the meantime, I tried to chitchat with him as if everything were as great as I was pretending it was.

“I’m glad you and Julie, you know, cleared up everything,” I said.

“Yeah, we figured it out. What a girl. The incredible Julie!” he said with a fond smile.

She’d really done a number on him. He was totally into her. He didn’t have a clue what she was really up to. None of her boyfriends ever did. You know what? With my sudden bout of hypoglycemia, combined with my Bellini headache, I felt a little sad for Charlie all of a sudden. I mean, he was probably an okay person, whether I disliked him or not. It’s like that Thierry Mugler perfume, Angel; I loathe it, but it doesn’t mean it’s a bad perfume. I mean, millions of people think it smells totally awesome. I guess Charlie was my Angel, if there’s such a thing as an analogy between men you hate and scents you hate.

We arrived at security. I couldn’t get through without a boarding pass.

“Actually I’ll say good-bye here,” I said breezily. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Have a safe flight,” he replied, handing me my bags.

“Will do. Thank you.”

Charlie turned toward the long security line. I’d done brilliantly. He had absolutely no idea about any
thing. I waited until he had walked away and then picked up my things and headed toward a café. There’s nothing like a five-dollar orange pressé to really lift your spirits when you’ve been abandoned by a movie mogul and almost rescued by a patronizing and annoyingly cute movie director. I sat at the counter, dipped my head into my
International Herald Tribune
, sipped my juice, and wondered what on earth I was going to do. I think a little tear crept down my cheek. Now that I was alone, outfit or no outfit, I was miserable. I felt like a fool.

“Planning on missing your flight?”

He was back. What was wrong with the guy? Just because Charlie was dating Julie that gave him no right to interfere in my personal travel plans, or my personal suicide plans, for that matter. He stood there smiling at me as if my life were some kind of comedy or something.

“Yes,” I snapped grumpily. I’d lied enough for one day. I didn’t care what Charlie thought of me anymore.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s private,” I answered.

“Are you all right?”

“Well, if you really want to know, I’ve been abandoned by some guy who brought me here on his G-V. There’s no space in economy. The Air France people won’t accept my credit card and my fiancé’s already got another damn fiancée.”

To my horror, a big fat tear rolled down my cheek. Charlie passed me his handkerchief, and I grabbed it, furious he was witnessing another scene.

“Is this that Eduardo guy?” said Charlie.

“Eduardo’s married!” I said, my voice cracking. “And so is Mr. G-V!”

Even though he was now armed with the pathetic truth about my lousy situation, Charlie still looked mildly amused.

“Well maybe this is good?” he said.

“It’s not good, it’s a tragedy,” I said.

“It’s good to learn not to take vacations with men you hardly know.”

What was he talking about? I had known Patrick for at least twenty-four hours before I agreed to the Cannes trip. He had that look on his face again, as if I should know better. Maybe I should.

“Come on,” he said. “You need to get on that plane.”

Charlie rushed me back to the ticket desk, whipped out a credit card, and bought me a ticket then and there. He handed me my boarding pass and we went through security together. All the while I looked at the floor and walked in a state of embarrassed silence. At the gate, the last passengers were boarding the New York flight.

“Go on,” he said, pushing me toward the door to the plane.

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back,” I said, mortified.

“Forget it. Chalk it up to experience. Just do me a favor, don’t go accepting rides on private jets with married men, okay?”

I made my way onto the aircraft, livid. Charlie really didn’t understand. It’s physically impossible for a New York girl to turn down a ride on a private plane, ever.

W
henever a celebrated chef opens a new restaurant in New York, which is just about every five minutes as far as I can tell, the whole city gets pretty psyched. It’s like all these girls who normally won’t touch human food suddenly think eating is cool again. Most tastings are populated with razor-slim society girls who are determined to be seen at the tasting and taste nothing. Then they tell the chef how much they adore his new edibles and go back home and starve themselves for the rest of the night.

A few days after I’d gotten back from Cannes, Julie and I attended just such an event on the Lower East Side. China Bar is a retro-inspired Asian restaurant serving 1970s Chinese food in an ultra-modern space. Everyone told the chef that his deep fried duck ribs were “exquisite.” They would. They hadn’t tried them. Muffy went too far though.
She told the celebrated chef “your wontons are better than at Mr. Chow’s,” which was just a total falsehood. I don’t approve of lies, unless it’s for a good cause like helping people. I mean Julie tells the best lies, like when she’s raising money for her school’s charity, she tells donors that, you know, Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones are opening a new wing, when in actual fact
she’s
opening the new wing. But telling an impressionable young cook he’s a genius when his food should be at the bottom of the Hudson River is just plain cruel.

When we arrived the restaurant was so crowded with girls not eating and men not noticing them you could barely move. Julie whipped two saketinis (the new in drink—it’s a cross between sake and a martini) off a tray and we grabbed a free booth.

“Hey sweetie, I’m sorry you saw that thing about Adriana and Zach,” said Julie.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Anyway, it proves he’s completely fickle. Thank god you didn’t marry him. So, tell me about Patrick,” said Julie, changing the subject.

“I loved the du Cap, but…” I stopped mid-sentence. I hoped Charlie hadn’t told Julie what had happened at the airport. I didn’t want anyone knowing Patrick Saxton was such a hopeless date that he’d actually abandoned me on another continent. Luckily I didn’t have to explain. Jolene interrupted us.

“He-e-e-y!!! How are you?”

Jolene had a Shanghai Cosmopolitan (the other new in drink in New York—it’s a Chinese version of a Cosmopolitan) wobbling in one hand and was dragging Lara along with the other. Jolene was wearing tailored white pants that flared at the ankle and Lara was in a black minidress covered in zippers. Maybe she thought punk was back or something. Maybe it is. Lara looked bored but Jolene’s face was pink with excitement.

“Michael Kors!” announced Jolene dramatically as she reached the table. “He!” Dramatic pause. “Is!” Another pause “GOD!!! Look! Have you seen his spring slouchy pants?” She spun around to show off her new silhouette. “It’s the skinny-wide leg. Makes your legs look narrow without doing the Jappy skintight thing.” (Jolene is 50 percent JAP but in 100 percent denial about it.)

“Michael Kors understands the inside of a woman’s thigh,” she went on, “like no other man I know—”

“Enough already, Jolene!” said Julie, exasperated. “You need to focus on something else. Like, what about reading something now and again?”

“I read all the time,” said Jolene. “I would estimate I read
Vogue
magazine
at least
once a day. Anyone want another Shanghai Cosmo? Back in a minute,” she said and flitted off. She was like a demented dragonfly tonight. Lara slid onto the seat next to me.

Julie looked irked.

“I swear I’ll be committed if one more person mentions those new slouchy pants that they think they discovered before anyone else. There’s nothing to say about those damn pants except go try them on,” she complained.

She had a point. The chitchat at New York parties was so low-brow sometimes I could barely keep up. Julie’s face suddenly brightened.

“Wait!” she cried. “I’m going to start a reading group, you know, a book club. It’s the only way to improve Jolene’s cotton wool brain. It would improve all of us.”

“I just like going kickboxing at Equinox to improve myself,” said Lara, grimacing.

“Exactly the problem,” sighed Julie.

Jolene slipped back into the booth with another drink.

“Jolene, do you wanna join my book club?” shouted Julie over the din of the party.

“Is that like Oprah’s Book Club?” Jolene replied enthusiastically.

“Not exactly. It’s more like I’m going to hire a really cute brain-box NYU professor to teach us all about important literature. I wonder what we should read?”

“What about Virginia Woolf? She looked really good in that movie
The Hours
,” said Jolene.

“No one is allowed to mention clothes if they come to my book club, Jolene. And that includes you, Lara,” said Julie, shooting her a look. “They’re only allowed to discuss books. Okay?”

“I totally get it,” said Lara. “But is it okay to watch the movie of the book if you haven’t got time to read the book of the book?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re
totally Dead Poets Society
?” said Julie.

She was perched bewitchingly on a stack of books in the office of Henry B. Hartnett, a young English lit teaching assistant at NYU. A few days after the China Bar party, Julie had called around the English department at NYU in search of a tutor. She was determined to start a book group, particularly after Muffy told her on the q-t that Gwendolyn Baines and Cynthia Kirk were planning to start one. Julie had to be first.

A little nervous, Julie had asked me to go with her to meet the NYU “professor” as she’d called him. Julie had come dressed as Sylvia Plath, in a box-pleat gingham skirt and a plait, after seeing Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie. She was even wearing flat shoes. I was shocked. I mean, until now Julie had always pretended she didn’t know what flat shoes were. She had
asked me to dress “academic” so that NYU would take us seriously. That morning I’d dutifully thrown on a navy blue vintage shirtwaist. The only thing was, I just couldn’t resist adding black fishnets and red Christian Louboutin heels before I’d left the apartment that morning. Life is just too boring without the little fashion extras, isn’t it?

Henry appeared to have little experience with young women, and even less with Park Avenue Princesses. He seemed bashful, keeping his distance behind a wide desk stacked with examination papers.

“Dead who?” said Henry, baffled.

“You’re cute. I mean, in that brainy outfit you’re wearing and being so shy, Professor,” said Julie. Henry was cute, no argument. His “brainy” outfit consisted of worn-in cords, a linen jacket, and English brogues. His shirt was slightly fraying at the collar.

“Actually, I’m not a professor; I’m not tenured yet. I’m just an instructor. You’re applying for school?”

“
Professor!
Do I look like a
student
? I don’t wanna go to school, I wanna, like, improve myself, and my girlfriends, who need a lot of improvement, believe me. It’s like all they can talk about is Michael Kors and what a genius he is and I can’t stand it.”

“Who?” said Henry.

“I’m
loving
that you don’t know who Michael Kors is!” cried Julie. “Can you teach us about literature,
and books? I live at The Pierre, it’s real nice, I’ll send a car for you, I’ll take care of any expenses, I’ll pay you whatever you ask. If you could just lend your mind for a few hours, we’d all really appreciate the improvement. Don’t say no! Don’t!”

Before Henry could reply, Julie continued, “And I could cater whatever you want. What do you think? Shall I get Elaine’s to bring the eats? Would that be literary enough food for you?”

“I think some cheese and crackers is all you generally need.”

“So you’ll do it, Professor? Oh, I’m so, so happy.”

“I’m not a professor, Miss Bergdorf.”

“But you will be one day, right? I mean, I could get Daddy to get you promoted
right now
if you want, it’s not like he isn’t totally paying for this place already. Okay, so, I’ll send someone to pick you up at six on Tuesday, which is a really good night for a book club because nothing ever happens on Tuesdays.”

“There’s just one more thing, Miss Bergdorf.”

“Yes?”

“We need to decide what book you want to read. Because you all need to read it before Tuesday, so we can discuss it.”

“Eew,” said Julie. You could say there was a minor flag in her enthusiasm when faced with the reality of actually reading a whole book. “But that’s what I need you for, to tell us what to read.”

“A lot of people enjoy a book called
In the Heart of the Sea
, by Nathaniel Philbrick. I couldn’t put it down,” said Henry.

“Oh, a love story! Is it like that movie
Titanic
?”

“A little, but with sperm whales,” said Henry. “If you like the
Titanic
story, you’ll find this most appealing.”

Patrick Saxton had been calling like a maniac since I got back from Cannes. He claimed that he’d left me at Nice airport for security reasons—apparently because of terrorism or something, your plane has to take off exactly when you said it would. I’ve always thought half the point of having a private jet is so you can take off whenever you like, or never take off at all if you suddenly didn’t fancy it. According to Patrick this wasn’t so.

“I begged the pilot to wait longer,” said Patrick over the phone a few days later. “But French air traffic control wasn’t allowing any waiting on the runway that day. I’m so sorry, I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you. I was really worried about you.”

Oops. Maybe Patrick was Mother Teresa after all.

“I’m sorry I was late. It was really dumb. But you could have left me a message,” I said. Or a ticket.

“I tried! They wouldn’t let me. I did book you onto
the three o’clock to New York, though, I thought you’d just figure that out.”

“You did?”

“Of course. I would never have left you there with no way home. What kind of a person do you think I am?”

“I’m sorry. I was totally freaked out and not thinking straight.”

“I’d really like to see you again,” he said.

“Well…” I trailed off. Did I want to see Patrick again? I guess I did. He was charming and fun and, once he was divorced, could be a prospect. “Maybe,” I said. I didn’t want to sound too keen.

“Great, I’ll call you to arrange something. By the way, could you give me Jazz’s mobile number?”

“What?”
I said, unable to contain my disbelief.

“She left her passport on the plane. I’ve asked my assistant to messenger it back to her, but we don’t know where she is.”

Maybe Patrick was genuine. I couldn’t tell anymore. I didn’t reply for a few seconds. Anyway, the other line was beeping like crazy. I had to get Patrick off the phone.

“I’ve gotta go,” I said, gave him Jazz’s number, and switched lines. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Jazz. We were so worried about you, what happened?”

“I got delayed, shopping for bikinis,” I replied.

“You’re just like me! I’ve missed so many flights because of shopping, you can’t even imagine. God, Patrick was so mean not to wait. Still, he’s the worst date in New York, so what can you expect?” said Jazz.

“He is?” I said. “Everyone says he’s a saint.”

“Listen, I’ve known Patrick forever. I’ve been dating him on and off since I was fifteen. It’s fun, as long as you know he’s taken. He’s gorgeous, but he’s married.”

“Muffy said he is getting a divorce.”

“He’s been saying that to his girlfriends since the day he got engaged! His wife will never let him go, and he’ll never leave her. She’s the one with the money. It’s her plane, not his. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh,” I said.

“They have an arrangement. No one gets Patrick Saxton. He likes it like that. Don’t you adore married men? They don’t hang around like lovesick puppy dogs.”

“I guess that’s one advantage,” I replied.

“Anyway, do you have Patrick’s new cell number? He asked me to the Venice film festival with him this fall—I’m definitely going. Don’t you love that plane, with those pink gumdrops in the restroom? Of all my friends who go private, Patrick’s plane is the best.”

I gave Jazz the number and put down the receiver. If only I could be as superficial as Jazz, life would be a lot less trouble.

I never knew the “incredible pressure,” as Julie described it, of inviting twelve of New York’s wealthiest girls into your home until Julie dragged me into the paranoid world of dinner party décor. Honestly, she got so distraught organizing her book club meeting you would have thought she was planning the inaugural ball at the White House.

The minute she had invited everyone and sent them a copy of the book to read, Julie was besieged by a mountain of anxieties exclusive to the junior princess gang. She worried that her friends were only attending her book club in order to check out what Tracey Clarkson had done with her apartment. They would “dissect” her taste the minute they were out the door and probably criticize her “for not having something zebra.
Everyone
has a little zebra something in the house now,” she said. She fretted that her friend Shelley—who always has a Royal Doulton bowl filled with perfectly ripe pomegranates perched on her coffee table to match the hand-painted Zuber wallpaper—would be unimpressed by her own bowl collection. Then there were the plates and espresso cups: she wanted to bring in that French fancy china that everyone else has, even though she didn’t know the name of it and was too ashamed to ask. She’d heard that the in demi-tasse spoons were Buccellati’s silver ones and wondered if she could get hold of any
in time. She worried that the material on the bottom skirt of the sofa must be pulled tight down to the floor so that it didn’t look like someone had just sat there, and wanted the cushions to be well plumped, but not overly plumped. Would her housekeeper’s pressing skills be adequate when it came to starching her linen cocktail napkins? The sharpness of the corners of cocktail napkins are the standard by which New York hostesses are judged, she claimed, her face full of fear. She was even freaking out because some of the girls she had invited were not in the photo frames on her walls. If anyone were to notice this, it could precipitate severe social recriminations, like being excluded from certain high-profile baby showers.