Bergdorf Blondes Read online

  Zach was a spectacularly talented gift-giver. He always found things that I really wanted but didn’t even know about until he gave them to me. On my birthday he surprised me with a beautiful black-and-white print of one of his photographs from the “Drowned” series he’d done a few years back. (The photo is of a burned-out truck, half submerged in a lake. I know it sounds like a weird birthday gift, but I was overwhelmed.) Here’s the pick of the other gifts: leather-bound first edition of my personal bible, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes; galuchat jewel case from Asprey (that’s a dead stingray by the way); baby pink monogrammed stationery from Mrs. John L. Strong that takes weeks to order unless you’re someone like Zach and can charm them into doing it in a day; fringed antique Peruvian shawl from the flea market in Lima.

  Zach loved to take me for dinner at out-of-the-way, dreamy little restaurants. Of all of them, Jo Jo, on East Sixty-fourth Street, was my favorite. It’s right off Madison Avenue, with a little paned window that you can glimpse twinkling candles and chandeliers through. You sit on slouchy velvet banquettes at little black lacquer tables. The walls are painted a faded old blue and antique screens separate the tables upstairs. Honestly, you can go there and feel like you are the only pair of sweethearts in the world. The night we went there—on an indulgent date celebrating our two-month anniversary—I think Zach wrapped his ankles round mine all night, as though he never wanted to let go. We just giggled and laughed and kissed all through dinner, at stupid things like how awesome the French fries were (the secret is they cook them in truffle oil or something crazy like that).

  The only thing that slightly freaked me out in the first few months was Adriana A. A few times when I was over at Zach’s loft in Chinatown, the phone rang and Zach didn’t pick up. Adriana’s voice came on the answering machine, asking Zach for lunch or dinner or drinks, to discuss work. Anyway, it turned out I was worrying about nothing. After a while she stopped calling.

  The only person who wasn’t delighted by my romance was Mom. It wasn’t that I shared all the details of my Manhattan love life with her, but she’d read about it in a gossip column and called to check whether or not it was true.

  “Darling, I heard Little Earl might be coming home for Christmas”—it was late December—“and I do think you two are meant for each other.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Mom, I’m sure Little Earl would loathe me on sight. And I have no intention of spending my life in a drafty castle looking at sheep. Anyway, I’m sure you and Dad would like Zach.”

  “Who are his parents, darling?”

  “I’ve no idea. He comes from Ohio, he’s a successful photographer.”

  It was true that I actually knew very little about Zach—apart from the fact that he was very handsome, lived in Chinatown in a huge loft, and never went to bed without drinking an espresso first. He took his career very seriously and sometimes would disappear for days without warning. He could be very mysterious and elusive when he wanted—which of course I adored.

  Julie always says she can pack a bag for a weekend in St. Barths “in a heartbeat.” This is an outright lie. She actually takes about a week to pack for a trip, but the point I’m trying to make is that when you’re as madly in love as I was, everything seems to happen in a heartbeat. After what seemed like fifteen seconds—but in real time must have been six months, around the middle of March—Zach asked me to marry him. Can you imagine? We’d been having such fun it felt like no time at all had passed.

  The only trouble was that the proposal meant that moi and not Julie would be the one with the PH, which was somewhat of a conflict of interest. But even if I was secretly freaked that Julie was going to be beyond mad at me about it, I couldn’t say no. I was madly, madly in love. Zach was the perfect PH in every way. Despite the fact that sometimes his work binges meant that he vanished into a black hole for a whole week and didn’t return my phone calls, he’d always emerge with a fabulous dinner invitation and thrill me all over again.

  Julie was surprisingly relaxed when I told her I was engaged. She approved of Zach, recognizing that he was way too arty for her. She didn’t seem to mind as much as you’d think that I’d snagged my PH first, saying, “Your wedding will be my dress rehearsal—I’ll learn from your mistakes.”

  You can imagine Mom’s reaction when I told her I was marrying Zach. First she threatened to die of a headache and then she insisted on throwing the wedding at Swyre Castle, which you can hire for functions. Even if it wasn’t exactly my first choice of venue, I was so happy I decided to let Mom do whatever she wanted. She had the church, flowers, hors d’oeuvres, cake, scheduling, and even the particular type of confetti (freeze-dried rose petals from Covent Garden Market) mapped out in immaculate detail within hours of hearing my news. I guess Mom had been planning my wedding since the day I turned sixteen and had decided to put a brave face on the fact that I was marrying an American photographer rather than a British Earl.

  After the engagement I felt like the most popular kid in high school or something. Everyone in New York was as addicted to Zach as I was. We were invited everywhere together, and everyone wanted to know about the wedding plans. Even the girls at my office were in love with Zach. They’re all smitten with Jude Law, too. And my skin had never looked better.

  You can imagine how delighted I was when my editor asked if I wanted to go out to LA for a few days to interview a famous actress. She sweetly insisted I take the gorgeous fiancé and booked us into a four-room penthouse suite at the Chateau Marmont, the famous one with a grand piano. People are so nice to you when you’re engaged it’s crazy. A whole four days with Zach sounded like bliss: in fact, it would be the longest time we’d spent together since we’d met. I couldn’t wait.

  When my friend Daphne Klingerman, who is an actress-turned-professional-wife of a brilliant agent-turned-producer-turned-studio-head, heard I was coming to LA, she e-mailed me from her Blackberry, saying,

  Can’t talk am in yoga class can I throw you party in beverly hills?

  I can’t imagine what yoga position you can send an

  e-mail from, but Daphne has been practicing Ashtanga yoga every day since her last role so I guess she’s an expert because her last role was more than two years ago.

  Spring is the best time to be in LA and I totally worship the Chateau Marmont, like everyone else in Hollywood. It always makes me think of Rapunzel’s castle, perched like that just above Sunset Boulevard, with its little turrets peeking serenely above the craziness on the ground. By the time we arrived that night, it was very late. Even so, the lobby was buzzing with the usual super-cool Hollywood kids that favor the Chateau. I wasn’t tempted by the scene: all I wanted to do was get Zach upstairs and take him on a very, very risqué trip somewhere south of the equator.

  Our suite was totally sick, in a good way. The sitting room was huge and had two long modern sofas at one end, the grand piano at the other, a huge Art Deco mirror, and a slick, 1950s Italian coffee table in the center of the room. On top of it was an ice bucket containing a bottle of vintage champagne. The bedroom had nothing but a very inviting bed, two silver lamps, miles of stereo equipment, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, which opened onto a terrace. While Zach tipped the bellboy I stepped out into the evening air, and looked into the Los Angeles night. The view was electric with its millions of lights stretching from Hollywood to the valley. Even though I was exhausted, the suite was so sexy I thought Zach would have no problem going to Brazil all over it and maybe even exploring as far as the Amazonian jungle immediately.

  “Zach! Do you want to…hit the rainforest?” I called coyly from the balcony. He was unpacking in the bedroom.

  “I’m busy.”

  “Hey, come on!” I giggled. “Stop being so boring.”

  “Stop being so needy,” he replied, without turning around from the closet.

  “Darling, Sting and Trudy visit the rainforest all the time and no one thinks they’re needy,” I said.

  Zach didn’t s
ay a thing. He didn’t get the joke at all. He always giggled with me about my silly jokes, but tonight he was different. He said he just wanted me to leave him alone so he could check his e-mails on the Internet, which is a real waste of a four-room suite at the Chateau if you ask me.

  By 1 AM Zach still showed no sign of getting into bed. He was frantically typing at his keyboard in the sitting room, with a hostile look on his face. It was like he hadn’t even noticed the view or anything. And as far as I know, men just don’t turn down sex with women, period. When I finally mentioned this to Zach, he turned away from his laptop and looked very annoyed.

  “Can you please let me get on with my work for one second?” he huffed.

  I suddenly felt shamefully guilty for demanding his attention all night when he was so busy. “I’m sorry. What are you working on?”

  “New ad campaign. It’s a lot of money and the pressure’s really on.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Which campaign?”

  “Luca Luca. They want a whole new approach.”

  “Is Adriana A in it?”

  “Yeah. She’s a drag. Can I get on now?”

  Zach went back to his computer and I went into the bedroom and slumped on the bed. I felt disappointed. I lay there and stared out through the windows. Suddenly the view seemed bleak as hell. It was depressing. I felt like I’d woken up and found myself slap-bang in the middle of a Paul Thomas Anderson movie.

  I was beyond embarrassed when I called Daphne two nights later. How could I tell her that Zach had barely said a word to me since we’d arrived? I know he was under a lot of pressure, but as far as going to Brazil and all that was concerned, well, I hadn’t left the Arctic Circle once since we checked into the Chateau. I mean, I’m not saying Luca L. isn’t a big deal, but Zach was acting as though he was about to paint the Sistine Chapel. Honestly, he’d barely let me near him. Whenever I even mentioned sex he’d just say, “Stop harassing me,” or something really mean like that. It reminded me of a couple of times in the past few weeks when I’d suggested sex and he’d complained he was too tired or had a backache or something incredibly tiresome like that. I’d believed him, but maybe he secretly hadn’t wanted to make love. The truth was we hadn’t gone anywhere near Rio for over two weeks. Still, I’d never seen him like this before. He wouldn’t do a thing. When I suggested a drive up South Topanga Canyon to my favorite thrift store, Hidden Treasures (you have to check it out, I swear, you just have to), he refused and went back to working on his ideas for the Luca Luca campaign, which is exactly how he’d spent the last forty-eight hours.

  Where had Jude Law gone? This was like being engaged to a different person. The only thing that had stopped me from freaking out was knowing that I had to keep myself together to interview the actress, which I’d done yesterday.

  “Daphne!” I wailed when she picked up.

  “Get out!” she said. Daphne starts every sentence with “get out.” “What is it?”

  “It’s Zach. He’s in this horrible mood. All he’ll do is watch CNN and send e-mails. He’s barely spoken to me since we got here, all because he’s shooting the new Luca Luca campaign with Adriana A. Maybe we should cancel?”

  “Get out! You can’t cancel! Bradley’s flown in Le Cirque on the studio’s plane to do the food! Look, about the not talking to you, don’t worry! Bradley hardly ever talks to me. Men are so sexy when they’re brooding and laconic,” said Daphne. “You gotta come tonight, there’s going to be a lot of people who want to know you and you are going to want to know them.”

  Zach eventually agreed to go to the party, but only after Daphne called him personally and told him there were going to be a lot of Hollywood mogul types there with “serious” photography collections. Strictly on the q-t, I think Daphne exaggerated a little. She has exactly one friend who collects photography. But then Daphne exaggerates everything, especially her age which she claims is twenty-nine but is closer to thirty-nine. As I got ready that night, I tried to be positive. I mean, one of the brilliant things about a virtually silent fiancé is that you have hours to get dressed, so I wore a terribly complicated Azzedine Alaia hook-and-eye number that takes forever to do up. Even my misgivings about Zach’s sudden personality change couldn’t stop me from being thrilled by the Alaia: there are killer dresses and there are killer dresses by Alaia, which are so killer they’re homicidal. At the last minute Zach threw on a white shirt, jeans, and a beaten-up leather jacket, which completely ruined my appetite in advance. He looked so delicious that I knew Le Cirque’s Symphony of Desserts wouldn’t tempt me at all.

  Daphne lives in Beverly Hills in a sprawling Span-ish-style house set in grounds that sprawl almost as far as the Hotel Bel-Air. The driveway was lit with flares and as usual Daphne had gone way overboard with the flowers. There were huge vases filled with jasmine flowers and branches absolutely everywhere you looked, even in the restrooms. She’d gone completely over the top with the staff, too. Daphne likes to have about fifteen butlers per guest, which makes for a very crowded party. When we arrived, the drawing room was so full that guests were already spilling out onto the terrace towards the pool. The whole garden was lit with lanterns Daphne had picked up on one of her shopping trips to Morocco, and loungey tapestried rugs and cushions were spread out on the lawn. I’d barely had a chance to take in the scene before Zach veered off in the direction of Daphne’s collector friends, leaving me standing alone in the center of the party.

  Daphne suddenly grabbed my arm and introduced me to a young actress, Betthina Evans, who’d just won a Golden Globe. Betthina was an immaculate size zero; you know, how actresses are: tiny, petite, perfect. She had long, gleaming, honey-colored hair and was dressed in a yellow satin slip dress and strappy silver sandals. She was totally channeling Kate Hudson, which is what everyone is doing in LA right now. She was wearing a sparkling engagement ring the size of Manhattan.

  “Oh, I’m engaged, too,” I said.

  “Where’s your ring?” said Betthina examining my left hand.

  “My fiancé hasn’t got it yet.”

  It was true. Zach kept saying he was going to get me a ring, but somehow he never got around to it. I don’t mean to sound superficial, but it was bugging the hell out of me. I mean, an engagement with no ring is like Elvis without the rhinestones, or a Bellini without the peach juice. I didn’t care what kind of ring it was, but I wanted one. Zach had it easy with me. I’d made no specific demands regarding the ring, whereas Jolene had told her husband-to-be before he proposed that anything less than a D-flawless, five-carat diamond would be unacceptable.

  “Eew!” shrieked Betthina. “There is no way I would have agreed to marry Tommy if he hadn’t given me a ring bigger than California when he asked me.”

  “I’d feel terrible if someone got me a huge ring,” I said.

  This isn’t quite true, actually. Secretly, I wanted a ring that was bigger than the planet but that isn’t the kind of thing you should admit, so I never do.

  “No matter how big a ring starts out, it shrinks when you wear it. And, okay, so this ring was, like, a quarter of a million, but when you look at it from the point of view of what Tommy’s getting—me—it makes it seem cheap, because I am priceless,” said Betthina conclusively.

  “Oh,” I said. Starlets must be exceptionally good at figures because I could never have come up with that equation.

  “Is it true, what I read in Liz Smith? That he gave you the Drowned Truck? How romantic! And listen, even if there wasn’t a ring, I’d agree to an engagement with the hottest photographer in New York. What a fabulous career move! And you’ll get so much press when you break up with him, but just make sure you end it before anyone thinks you’re really gonna go through with it.”

  I must have looked beyond upset, because Betthina suddenly put her arm around my shoulder. She patted me, as though I needed comforting.

  “God! I’m sorry! I say the worst things! But…you’re really going to marry a…photographer? It’s just eve
ryone gets engaged here all the time and they don’t really mean it, especially with really creative people like your fiancé,” she gasped, embarrassed. “I mean, there’s no way I’m marrying Tommy. Eew, gross! Shall we go and talk to your guy? God, look at him! He’s unbelievably cute.”

  Betthina started walking toward Zach. I held her back and whispered, “Actually, um…do you mind? It’s just, we’re not getting on brilliantly tonight. I mean, actually…he’s not really speaking to me. He’s real stressed about work.” I was pink with shame.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it! My first two husbands hardly ever spoke to me. It’s very common. Don’t be upset. You know what they say, the only important thing about a husband is to have one!” She giggled.

  “Oh, I’m not upset,” I said, suddenly bursting into tears. “I’m just, you know, madly in love and, you know, being in love makes you cry almost all the time, doesn’t it? I’m going to the restroom. Nice to meet you.”

  I was completely freaked out. The minute I was out of earshot of the party, I called Julie from my cell. I wanted to kill some time while I tried to calm down.

  “Hi, Julie-shmoolie,” I said. “I’m having a really fun time.”

  “Is that why you’re crying like a Balenciaga bag that lost its buckle?” she replied. “Is something wrong?”

  I told Julie that I was happier than I’d ever been in my life, that there were apple martinis everywhere you looked, and that Le Cirque’s Symphony of Desserts was just delicious. I was just calling to say I wished she could have been at the party.

  “Honey, when you’re drinking martinis and your martini glass is full of tears, you gotta ask yourself, is the Universe trying to tell me something?” said Julie.

  Oh god, when Julie starts talking about the Universe I worry about her. It means she’s been reading an unhealthy amount of horoscope books again. But maybe she had a point, even if she was getting her information from Moon Magic: How to Cast a Natal Horoscope.