see. Yeah. OK. Let me get back to you,” he said, and hung up.
Sophia was trying to get Hunter back to Paris already? I could feel my robe starting to cling to my suddenly clammy skin. Forgetting all Lauren and Tinsley’s advice, I blurted, “Darling, why didn’t you tell me you’d hired Sophia?” I was trying very hard not to sound horribly jealous.
Hunter looked surprised. “I’ve only hired her to help with the permits for filming at the chateau. Her boyfriend, Pierre, is something high up in the Paristown hall, and she said she’d get him to help out. We were having so many problems. I thought I ought to pay her something. It was inappropriate her doing all that work for free. She’s very connected in Paris, you know.”
“So everyone says,” I responded a little coldly.
“I hope I don’t have to rush back there,” sighed Hunter. “Look, if I do, would it make it up to you if we made a very long weekend out of it?”
“Yes, darling, of course it would,” I said.
It would, I was sure of it. I shrugged off my slight feeling of irritation. I had absolutely nothing to worry about, I told myself. I quelled an urge to check with Lauren and Tinsley as to whether I should be suspicious about the invitation to Paris. Was this a bluff? No, they would only convince me that Hunter and Sophia were going to rendezvous. I had to stop listening to them. After all, I was the happy wife, they were the singletons. Marriage was infinitely preferable to divorce.
9
The UnGoogle-able Man
E veryone working at A La Vieille Russie, the discreet jeweler on the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, looks like they just died. Inside, the place feels more like a mausoleum than a jewelry boutique, with dusty, meringue-thick moldings and lights trained on glass cases housing “important” Russian gems. Lauren adores the place. She thinks it’s the finest jeweler in New York because it’s so old-fashioned and un-starry. It was to be her first stop in her search for the Fabergé cuff links, and a few days later, she persuaded me to accompany her there.
“I’m wearing this new perfume called Park Avenue,” she said on the way uptown in the car. “I’m trying to seem uptight, to go in there. That’s their thing.” Having said that, Lauren didn’t look uptight: she was wearing a vintage, cerise Giorgio di Sant’Angelo dress that plunged almost to her waist. She was dressed for Studio 54, not Fifty-ninth Street.
After the divorce shower, Sanford had given Laurenspecific details about the cuff links he wanted. He said they were “the mother of all Fabergé cuff links,” given to Tsar Nicholas by his mother, the empress dowager, on Easter 1907. They were egg-shaped, yellow enamel, with the imperial crown worked in the center in gold filigree. The genuine pair had an inventory number scratched on the back with a diamond, which was only visible with a loupe. Sanford had lost them to an unknown telephone bidder, but Lauren suspected that the staff at ALVR could find the buyer or may, possibly, have bought the cuff links anonymously on behalf of one of their clients.
Sanford had always wanted, being Russian, to own a piece of Russian history. He’d also heard Tom Ford collected Fabergé cuff links, which made him feel very much OK about spending over $100,000 on two pieces of yellow enamel that each measured less than half a square inch.
“Ah, yes, I do know of the Easter cuff links,” whispered Robert, the corpse-slash-salesperson in the store that morning. He spoke quietly, as though he was afraid of waking the dead.
“Yeeaay,” said Lauren, as quietly as she could. “I knew you guys would find them for me.”
“Miss Blount, we have no idea where the cuff links are now,” said Robert. He started tidying a few things on his desk, as though that was the end of the conversation.
“Who bought them?” I asked.
“We can’t talk about our clients, miss,” said Robert with a disapproving
Sophia was trying to get Hunter back to Paris already? I could feel my robe starting to cling to my suddenly clammy skin. Forgetting all Lauren and Tinsley’s advice, I blurted, “Darling, why didn’t you tell me you’d hired Sophia?” I was trying very hard not to sound horribly jealous.
Hunter looked surprised. “I’ve only hired her to help with the permits for filming at the chateau. Her boyfriend, Pierre, is something high up in the Paristown hall, and she said she’d get him to help out. We were having so many problems. I thought I ought to pay her something. It was inappropriate her doing all that work for free. She’s very connected in Paris, you know.”
“So everyone says,” I responded a little coldly.
“I hope I don’t have to rush back there,” sighed Hunter. “Look, if I do, would it make it up to you if we made a very long weekend out of it?”
“Yes, darling, of course it would,” I said.
It would, I was sure of it. I shrugged off my slight feeling of irritation. I had absolutely nothing to worry about, I told myself. I quelled an urge to check with Lauren and Tinsley as to whether I should be suspicious about the invitation to Paris. Was this a bluff? No, they would only convince me that Hunter and Sophia were going to rendezvous. I had to stop listening to them. After all, I was the happy wife, they were the singletons. Marriage was infinitely preferable to divorce.
9
The UnGoogle-able Man
E veryone working at A La Vieille Russie, the discreet jeweler on the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, looks like they just died. Inside, the place feels more like a mausoleum than a jewelry boutique, with dusty, meringue-thick moldings and lights trained on glass cases housing “important” Russian gems. Lauren adores the place. She thinks it’s the finest jeweler in New York because it’s so old-fashioned and un-starry. It was to be her first stop in her search for the Fabergé cuff links, and a few days later, she persuaded me to accompany her there.
“I’m wearing this new perfume called Park Avenue,” she said on the way uptown in the car. “I’m trying to seem uptight, to go in there. That’s their thing.” Having said that, Lauren didn’t look uptight: she was wearing a vintage, cerise Giorgio di Sant’Angelo dress that plunged almost to her waist. She was dressed for Studio 54, not Fifty-ninth Street.
After the divorce shower, Sanford had given Laurenspecific details about the cuff links he wanted. He said they were “the mother of all Fabergé cuff links,” given to Tsar Nicholas by his mother, the empress dowager, on Easter 1907. They were egg-shaped, yellow enamel, with the imperial crown worked in the center in gold filigree. The genuine pair had an inventory number scratched on the back with a diamond, which was only visible with a loupe. Sanford had lost them to an unknown telephone bidder, but Lauren suspected that the staff at ALVR could find the buyer or may, possibly, have bought the cuff links anonymously on behalf of one of their clients.
Sanford had always wanted, being Russian, to own a piece of Russian history. He’d also heard Tom Ford collected Fabergé cuff links, which made him feel very much OK about spending over $100,000 on two pieces of yellow enamel that each measured less than half a square inch.
“Ah, yes, I do know of the Easter cuff links,” whispered Robert, the corpse-slash-salesperson in the store that morning. He spoke quietly, as though he was afraid of waking the dead.
“Yeeaay,” said Lauren, as quietly as she could. “I knew you guys would find them for me.”
“Miss Blount, we have no idea where the cuff links are now,” said Robert. He started tidying a few things on his desk, as though that was the end of the conversation.
“Who bought them?” I asked.
“We can’t talk about our clients, miss,” said Robert with a disapproving
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