Lauren's never been anywhere she can tell you about, she often says when she returns from one of her frequent disappearances. Then you read somewhere or other that she's been at Mr. Revlon or whoever's place in Barbuda and he's been asking her what companies he should buy or what she thinks about hedge funds or distressed companies in Russia. Later you hear that while she was down there some rock star was staying with Mr. Revlon too. But the fact was, he was totally bored by Mr. Revlon and was only there for Lauren, who barely spoke to him and told him she'd never heard his music, which made him crazy for her.

"Marci, I think maybe we were at Brown together," I said.

Marci looked at me curiously for a moment and then said, "Sylvie...Wentworth?"

"Yes," I told her, "Well, it's Sylvie Mortimer, now I'm married to Hunter."

"Congratulations," said Milton. "You make a cute couple."

"I hear you're absolutely best friends with Lauren," said Marci. Suddenly she looked troubled as she added, "Well, actually she says you're her second best best friend. I'm her best best friend. Officially."

"Darling, I'm Lauren's best friend," declared Milton dramatically.

"Well, I only just met Lauren, in Careyes," I said, sensing an atmosphere. "I barely know her."

"I know. Lauren told me all about you. She says you're the most wonderful influence on her," said Marci, slightly grudgingly.

Suddenly Marci seemed nervous. She scanned the room, tugging awkwardly at her tweed skirt.

"I'm so unoriginal, aren't I? The only thing I could be was Bridget Jones Two because I'm so enormous. And don't tell me I'm thin because I know I look like a museum. But at least my husband looks like Mark Darcy-well, Mark Darcy with red hair. Ha ha ha!"

"Darling, I've just spotted an old acquaintance over there," said Hunter, "I'm just going to pop over and say h.e.l.lo, all right?"

"Sure, sweetie," I said, as Hunter headed over toward a group in the far corner.

Milton patted the sofa next to him, and Marci and I sat down.

"How's married life?" asked Milton.

"It's so nice-" I started, but Marci interrupted me.

"Being married has got to be the draggiest drag of all time," she groaned. "My self-esteem will never get over it. I love and adore Christopher and everything, but marriage is totally hideous. The only girls I know getting any s.e.x are divorced."

I must have looked surprised, because the next minute Milton was nodding his head and saying, "Absolutely true."

"Milton, is it true that Axel Vervoordt escorted the parquet in the corridor from Holland? Personally?" said Marci. "I heard Lauren's converted the wine cellar into a fur vault. Apparently it's colder than Alaska down there. Or is that just a rumor?"

"I couldn't possibly divulge my clients' secrets," said Milton, suddenly sphinx-like.

There was an awkward pause and Marci went bright pink. "I didn't mean to pry-"

"Now, what's happened to that fabulous husband of yours?" he interrupted, looking at me and changing the subject.

"He's-"

I looked around. I couldn't see Hunter anywhere. Then I spotted him standing over by the piano. He had his back to me and was chatting to two girls dressed as white-faced Harajuku twins. One of them was very plain, the other noticeably beautiful, with such extraordinary cheekbones it was hard not to stare. The ordinary one soon moved off, and I could see Hunter still chatting to the cheekbones. The girl's face was framed by a gleaming wig of straight j.a.panese hair. She was wearing a white shirt, a black tie, and a mini-kilt. Her legs were of the insanely long, rangy variety indigenous to summertime Sardinia. On her feet were extremely high platform shoes and knee-high white socks. She looked weirdly chic actually, especially with Lauren's all-white room as a backdrop.

"There he is," I said, pointing Hunter out. "Let's go over and get him."

We all got up. But the second Marci laid eyes on the Hara-juku girl, she stopped and stared.

"Un-be-liev-able!" uttered Marci. She sounded incensed. "He's with Sophie D'Arlan. Look at her! Touching his arm like that," she whispered as we all crossed the room toward them. "She's an outrageous flirt. I don't like to gossip, at all, you know, I think it's evil, but apparently Sophie is always having an affair with several people she shouldn't be. You'd better watch out for her."

"Marci, we got married four weeks ago. I don't think she'll go after a newlywed," I said, unconcerned.

"Don't think the fact that you're married is going to stop Sophie. She only dates husbands."

"Stop scaring Sylvie," retorted Milton, hobbling behind us on his high heels. "I'll see you later. I've just spotted the real David Bowie."

With that, Milton wobbled off toward the garden. Meanwhile, when Marci and I reached Hunter, Marci hugged and kissed Sophie in a friendly way, despite what she had been saying a few seconds before.

"Sophie, do you know Sylvie?" said Marci, turning toward me.

"I don't think I do. Hi. I'm Sophi-a D'Arlan," she said, extending her hand. She spoke with a trace of a rather exotic French accent. "Marci, quit calling me 'Sophie.'"

"Sylvie's married to Hunter," added Marci, exaggerating the word married in an unnecessary way, I thought.

At this news, Sophia seemed to visibly pale, despite her powder-white face. She put her hand out toward the piano, as though to steady herself.

"You got...married? Hunter?" said Sophia, looking at him accusingly.

"They're wearing matching wedding rings, Sophie," said Marci pointedly. "But I guess it's too dark for you to notice, Sophie."

"It's Sophi-a," she said. Then, with a loud sigh of disappointment, she added, "Anyway, congratulations, Sylvie. I've known your gorgeous new husband, G.o.d...forever, since high school. We were like that," she said, crossing her index and forefinger together. Then, glancing at Hunter, she added, "Hunter...I can't believe you didn't tell me you were taking yourself off the market. Who knew?! Married."

She seemed to stare at Hunter for a little too long, eventually turning to me and saying, "Hunter is being so nice. He's helping me with something I'm working on. So sweet."

"He is sweet, isn't he?" I said, smiling at Hunter. I felt him loop his arm around my waist and squeeze me affectionately.

"Yes, he's a very attentive husband," said Marci, quite obviously directing this at Sophia.

"Hey, girls, enough of that," said Hunter, looking embarra.s.sed.

"Would you be sweet, Sylvie, and just let me steal Hunter for another five minutes, to discuss my project?" said Sophia.

Without waiting for an answer, she steered Hunter off toward the fireplace. Marci looked after them, her expression sulky.

"I'm probably being paranoid," she huffed.

"Talking of husbands, Marci, where's yours?" I said in an effort to change the subject.

"I don't know," said Marci. She didn't appear to be at all disturbed by this revelation.

"Marci, what do you mean you don't know?" I laughed.

"I forget."

"Marci!" I protested.

"Oh, who knows...Christopher's probably off somewhere ghastly like Cleveland selling something. I can't possibly remember. What does it matter anyway?"

Just then Lauren reappeared, skating expertly across the marble with a small silver tray balanced on the palm of her left hand.

"Tequila shot, anyone?" she asked, setting the tray down on a little side table. Marci took one and downed it in a single gulp.

"Where's Hunter?" said Lauren, looking around. "I want to get to know him better."

"Over there with Sophia D'Arlan," I said, gesturing toward the fireplace, where Sophia was still talking with Hunter, with a serious look on her face. "Apparently they're old friends."

Lauren pirouetted expertly on her roller skates and then bent double and touched her toes. From this position she said, "Sophia says that about everyone's husband."

"Hunter's helping her with some project she's working on," I said.

"Believe me, Sophia D'Arlan doesn't need anyone's help. She's better connected than Verizon. Her mom's a de Rothschild or something, and her dad won the n.o.bel Peace Prize for some deathly boring French play he wrote."

"Oh," I said. "Well, Hunter's just nice like that. He's good to everyone."

Lauren stood up and surveyed the crowd.

"Even if my husband were a saint I wouldn't let Sophia near him. What did I tell you about those Husband Huntresses?" said Lauren, eyebrows raised. "Oh, G.o.d. Here we go."

Before Lauren could tell me anything else, the DJ struck up "Good Times" and everyone was dancing. I barely noticed, but I must have been dancing for almost an hour when out of the corner of my eye I saw Sophia kissing Hunter on both cheeks, French style, I guess. Then she threw both her arms around his neck and hugged him, before making her way off. Hunter immediately headed over to us, weaving his way past a glamorous couple dressed as Liz Taylor and Richard Burton who were dancing with two girls dressed in white Carolina Herrera wedding gowns. They were both blonde, barefoot, and holding bouquets of white roses.

"Here comes Hunter. Mind the Renee Zellwegers!" cried Lauren as he approached. When he reached us, she continued dancing and said, "You've been missing all the fun. How was it over there?"

Hunter wrapped one arm around me and let the other fall over Lauren's bobbing shoulders.

"Not very thrilling without you two," said Hunter. "Shall we get a drink? I'm parched."

A few minutes later as we sipped at our Saccotinis by the bar Hunter said, "Now, I had a great idea. How about I set Lauren up with my best friend? He's my oldest college buddy."

"Who?" I said.

"You haven't met him yet, darling. He's out of town on business a lot. He'd be perfect for Lauren. He's incredibly smart, and definitely glamorous enough for you-"

"That's really dolly of you, Hunter," interrupted Lauren. "But I don't do blind dates. I think they're tacky."

"We could all have dinner next time he's here," insisted Hunter.

"Don't do setups either. I only do anonymous hot s.e.x," she replied, deadpan. "But thanks. You're very sweet, as your wife says."

"I may have to take matters into my own hands," sighed Hunter, with a knowing smile. "You two would be a great match."

"You sound like that guy on The Bachelorette," wailed Lauren. "Gross!"

"I can't interest you in a glittering marriage, then?" said Hunter, refusing to let his enthusiasm be dampened.

"Now you sound like my grandmother. I can't think of anything worse than being glitteringly married." Lauren suddenly looked embarra.s.sed. "I mean, unless I was you two. Sorry."

Suddenly Marci appeared, looking irritated.

"Where have you been all night-" she started.

At that moment Lauren's cell rang. She glanced at the screen, smiled, then set the phone on the marble slab and left it ringing.

"That's probably, like, Jay-Z or someone calling to ask if they can come to the party," said Marci, whose gaze seemed glued to the phone. "Why don't you answer?"

At this, Lauren just shrugged and skated off. A little later, when the party was thinning out and we were all pretty relaxed, I was lounging on a sofa with Hunter when Marci came and plopped down next to us. In a slightly rambling, drunken manner she informed us that one of the main reasons she and just about everyone else in New York is obsessed with Lauren is because she never answers her cell. She only returns calls, never takes them. Apparently no one has ever seen Lauren so much as dial a number. So you can only speak to her if she returns your message. It's rumored that she's never given her landline number to anyone except her maid. She doesn't care if a man calls her back-which means they always do-and then she doesn't call them back for three weeks. Some girls in New York-the ones who are jealous of her-dismiss Lauren as rude. But Marci says she's "scared, like Greta Garbo," and that's why she doesn't return calls.

"I've heard people say really cruel things, like that Lauren gets home after all the parties and stares at the fireplace and cuddles her dog all night in bed because she's so lonely. But that's just mean. She's so sweet and no one really knows how ghastly it was with her sister being killed like that so young. She smiles through everything, even with family tragedy. Lauren's got a heart of gold, even if she is frivolous. Anyway, most people here are just too available," continued Marci. "Too available for dinners, or for magazine shoots, or for TV appearances, or for s.e.x. Lauren's never available for anything."

The fact is, Lauren can be counted on to cancel an eight o'clock dinner that other girls would die to be at, at precisely eight o'clock, and get away with it. New York hostesses take the long view: the philosophy has to be that if she didn't show this time, maybe she will the next, but not if you get angry with her. Then, she's always canceling for such exotic reasons-I gotta go see Dad's soccer team in L.A. / I'm stuck at the airport in Aspen / b.o.o.boo ( a Hungarian Vizsla) has got allergies-that it's impossible to be angry. If you complain, it might look like you are jealous of her dad / place in Aspen / dog. Lauren is so unavailable that even when you visit her, the door is always answered by someone else. Often it's her maid, Agata, who is Polish and wears all white-white shoes, white pants, white shirt-and tells you, "Miss Lauren will be down shortly. Who can I say is calling?" as though no one was expected at this unforeseen moment. While you're waiting, Agata offers you fresh sage tea. There's always a pot of it warming on the kitchen stove in case Lauren feels like some at 3 A.M. Agata worships Lauren because she lets her wear her jewelry around the house when she's cleaning.

"Maybe we should go and see if there's some down there now," added Marci. "A shot of sage tea might help my impending hangover."

Just then Lauren roller-skated back over to us. She perched on the arm of the sofa.

"Someone talking about Agata's sage tea?" she said. "It's on its way up."

"Delish!" exclaimed Marci, her eyes glowing with excitement. She obviously worshiped Lauren even more than Agata did.

"So, Hunter, Sylvie was saying you're leaving for Paris this week," said Lauren.

"Yup, I'm off for a few weeks, actually," said Hunter. "Can you look after my darling wife-"

"-did I hear someone saying they're going to be in Paris?"

It was Sophia. She was suddenly standing there, looking straight at Hunter. "I'm going to be there too. Maybe we can meet for a verveine? At the Costes? I get so lonely over there.... Anyway, I just came over to say good-bye to both of you. You make the most gorgeous couple. Of course, I'm devastated for me."

"Why are you leaving now?" asked Marci. "There's still a lot of party left here, you know."

"I have a very busy night ahead," said Sophia, with a wink. She turned to go and then paused, looking back over her shoulder, saying "Hunter, I'll call you in Paris."

Lauren shot me a quick warning look. I looked at Hunter, but he seemed unconcerned. Sophia appeared to be living up to her reputation, but my darling husband seemed to be completely incorruptible. Tabloid couple we were not.

4.

Professional Friends.

According to absolutely everyone who is an authority on such matters, the invitation of invitations that fall in New York was from Alixe Carter. It arrived at terribly short notice, a few days after Lauren's birthday, and was hand-delivered. No one mails anything anymore in New York. A mailed invitation is a sign that the hostess is ambivalent about your presence at her event; if she wanted to be sure of your getting the invitation, and a prompt response, she would have messengered it.

The paper of the envelope was the same pale gray as the Dior salon is, and the script on the card was letter-pressed in old-fashioned white type. Though it looks plain, this is the most popular style of invitation going in New York City, even though, or perhaps because, white script is double the price of the pastel pink ink at Smythsons, which is double the price of the "standard" colors.