Bergdorf Blondes Page 11

  About fifteen minutes later Julie arrived and led me into the car. We headed up to Bergdorf’s—Julie couldn’t forfeit her highlight with Ariette even for my nervous breakdown. When we arrived we were ushered through to the color room. I sat and watched as Ariette started on Julie’s hair. Ariette also started on the disengagement. She wanted all the juicy details—a request that Julie loyally denied. She just said, “Ariette, baby blonde, please, think CBK, not Courtney Love, and do not mention my friend’s failed relationship.”

  “Sweetie, you need to get in therapy right now. You are having a nervous breakdown. Trust me, I’m having one 24–7, I know what I’m talking about,” said Julie, turning to me.

  “Julie, there’s no way I am going into therapy,” I said. I mean, look what it had done to Julie. She wasn’t exactly the poster girl for analysis.

  “Fine,” said Julie. I couldn’t believe I was getting out of it so easily. “I’ve got a much better idea. You know what I do every time I’m having a nervous breakdown and I’m over therapy?”

  I shook my head.

  “Rehab at the Ritz,” she said.

  Julie thinks a stay at the Ritz Hotel, Paris, can cure all mental illnesses, even the super-duper troublesome ones like schizophrenia. But Paris? With a broken heart? It would kill me.

  “I just want to stay in your guest bedroom for the next six years,” I said.

  “Since you are mentally ill,” replied Julie, “and have no idea what is good for you, I am committing you and taking you to Paris. If you’re going to go nuts you might as well do it somewhere chic. You’ll be able to dine out for months on how crazy you went in Paris.” Julie’s eyes were sparkling with the potential social advantages of a best friend with a nervous system in shreds. “Oh, don’t cry! You’ve escaped a terrible marriage, with a psycho photographer who takes really weird pictures. God,” she sighed heavily, “sometimes I wish it was me having this nervous breakdown.”

  Julie had a point. I mean, even in the depths of romantic woe I could see the appeal of suffering an ul-trasophisticated collapse in Paris with lots of shops close by. I’d much rather have one there than somewhere deadly like the psychiatric department of the Beth Israel Medical Center, where there are no good boutiques as far as I know. The only thing I was beyond paranoid about was that niggling deadline. I took a very irresponsible executive decision only to announce my French trip after I’d returned from it. That way no one could stop me before I left on the grounds that I had a pressing story to write.

  Ooh, I thought to myself, as I stepped onto the Air France plane the next evening, this crise de nerfs (that’s French for mental crisis) is going absolutely brilliantly. I was almost cheerful that night. Even when I saw a hot young couple in the aisle next to Julie and me, trying to upset me by publicly sharing a bottle of echinacea as though they were the pre-divorce Tom and Nicole or something—you know, one droplet for him, one for her sort of thing—I just smiled and thought, next time I’m really in love I’m going to do that too. I was definitely getting better.

  When we got to the hotel early the next morning everyone on reception was just glowing with pleasure to see us.

  “Congratulations, mes chéries,” said the concierge, Monsieur Duré. He always takes care of everything Julie wants there and knows her needs “beyond intimately.”

  “Merci, monsieur,” I said in my intermittently fluent French, which was coming in truly useful already.

  French people are so nice to people about nervous breakdowns I can’t imagine why they have such an icky reputation. M. Duré was the cutest, kindest person I had ever met in my entire existence.

  “So, Duré, where are you putting us? Somewhere heavenly I hope,” said Julie. “Oh, and could we have some café au lait sent up to the room immediately, darling? And a petit bit of foie gras would be divine too.”

  Duré led us to the first floor and a double doorway. It was painted duck-egg blue and SUITE 106 was written on it in gold leaf. This crise was making me really, really happy already.

  “Voilà! Our plus romantique suite. We are so ’appy to ’ear of the engagement,” said Duré, grandly throwing open the doors.

  The sad thing is I never saw the view because I passed out on the threshold. This was very lucky because it gave the maids time to change all the pale pink “engagement” roses to violets before I got to see them.

  “Duré, it’s a disengagement,” Julie was whispering angrily when I came to.

  “Oh! What is a disengagement?” Dure asked.

  “It’s when the marriage is stopped,” I sighed.

  “Ah, vous-êtes une spinster?” he said.

  “Oui,” I replied. I got through an entire box of Julie’s Versace tissues in the next ten minutes, despite the loveliness of our suite. It had a huge drawing room with a balcony and a view over the Place Vendôme. Two bedrooms led directly off it, both with en-suite bathrooms stuffed with soaps stamped with the Ritz logo and shampoos and shower gel in glitzy Ritz bottles. Usually this would have cheered me up. Today the glamour of the bath accessories had zero impact on my mood.

  The problem with negative mind states is that they are about as predictable as ex-boyfriends—you never know when they’re going to come back unannounced. One minute you can be feeling as happy as a rap star in a blacked-out SUV, and the next second something takes your mind to a place almost as hideous as the lobby of Trump Tower. (I say almost because even the ugliest emotional place you can go isn’t as poorly decorated as that golden interior.) I must have been beyond deranged to think things would improve in Paris. I spent my days listlessly trailing after Julie at Hermès and JAR, where she bought a ring set with a cushion-cut cognac diamond for $332,000 because she’d heard Roman Polanski had given his beautiful young French wife the same one. She never wore it because it was insured only while in a safe.

  The Ritz depressed me more than some of Laura Bush’s worst outfits. Duré barely acknowledged me. The maids cast pitying glances my way, even when I tipped them with fifty euro notes I had borrowed from Julie’s wallet. There were no Prospective Husbands here either—I was convinced one of those would resolve my feelings of inadequacy immediately. I had come to the detrimental conclusion that despite everything brilliant Gloria Steinem and Camille Paglia and Erica Jong had said on the subject, it would be très embarrassing to be in New York minus a fiancé. My mind spiraled tragically: why would anyone want to marry me anyway? I wasn’t interesting, I wasn’t really pretty (kind people just pretended I was), and the only boyfriends I had had were with me because they felt sorry for me. Never again would I get the round table at Da Silvano; I could forget about the chef’s special white truffle pasta at Cipriani that he made for favored guests; my platinum Bergdorf’s complimentary card would be taken away the minute the board of directors found out what had happened; when they saw how beyond my breakuprexia had become, the designers would stop sending me clothes to borrow; the VIP room at Bungalow 8 would be off limits; and never again would I see a movie before everyone else because there would be no more invitations to premieres. If I was lucky, the most I could look forward to was a friends-and-family screening for Showtime’s Movie of the Week.

  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 think
s 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.

  My outfit

  My suicide note

  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:

  To everyone I know, especially and including Julie, Lara, Jolene, Mom, Dad; my maid Cluesa, whom I entrust not to hoard my personal effects in the manner of Princess Diana’s butler; my accountant, from whom I ask forgiveness for never paying the $1,500 I owe him for preparing last year’s tax return; and Paul at Ralph Lauren, from whom I fully admit sneaking an extra cashmere cable baby sweater last season—

  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:

  By the time you read this I will be gone. I am très happy here in heaven. Living with a broken heart was too painful for me, and I could no longer be such a burden to you all. I hope you understand why I have done this—I mean, I just couldn’t bear the thought of a lifetime alone. Or the humiliation of never being able to get a good table at Da Silvano again.

  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.

  I love you and miss you all. Say hi to everyone in New York for me.

  Love,

  Moi XXX

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

  THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF A BERGDORF BLONDE BRUNETTE

  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, th
en 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.”