The Debutante Divorcee

The Debutante Divorcee

by Plum Sykes


$14.99 View All Available Formats & Editions
Choose Expedited Shipping at checkout for guaranteed delivery by Tuesday, May 28


The delicious New York Times bestselling follow up to Bergdorf Blondes, a chic and witty tale of marriage, friendship, and divorce, that moves from New York to London, the Alps to Moscow, now back in print in a gorgeous, eye-catching package.

Newly married Sylvie Mortimer has found bliss with her Divine New Husband, Hunter. But her perfect Town & Country life is about to be rocked by a divine and dangerous predator—her new friend, the very rich, very young, very thin, very pretty, and very divorced Lauren Blount.

New York’s most reckless and glamorous Debutante Divorcee, Lauren is also the city’s most eager Husband Huntress. And now she’s got her sights on a new man: Sylvie’s Divine New Husband. . . .

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780062355829
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 08/19/2014
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 288
Sales rank: 697,013
Product dimensions: 5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.86(d)

About the Author

Plum Sykes was born in London and educated at Oxford. The author of the novels Bergdorf Blondes and The Debutante Divorcée and the Kindle Single memoir Oxford Girl, she is a contributing editor at American Vogue, where she writes about fashion, society, and Hollywood. She has also written for Vanity Fair. She lives in the English countryside with her husband and two daughters.

Read an Excerpt

The Debutante Divorcee

By Plum Sykes


Copyright © 2006 Plum Sykes
All right reserved.

ISBN: 1-4013-5244-8

Chapter One

Lost-Husbands Edition

Married girls in New York these days put almost as much effort into losing husbands as they once did into finding them. It's not uncommon for husbands to be mislaid almost as soon as the honeymoon begins. This is a particular hazard in locations like Capri or Harbour Island, where the glamour quotient of the early-morning beach gang rivals that of a front row at a Valentino couture show. Some husbands, like Jamie Bellangere, get forgotten as early as Barbados airport, an airline terminal so social it is considered perilous for new spouses to pass through even a whole year after marriage. As the twenty-six-and-a-half-year-old former Mrs. Jamie Bellangere always says in her defense, of course she forgot to get Jamie into the hotel's courtesy car! The concierge from Sandy Lane had just called her with a message from the Douglas Blunketts saying that they expected her on "the tub" for dinner at eight! ("the tub" being Blunkett slang for their 150-foot sailing yacht, Private Lives). Meanwhile, that lethal little airstrip in Mustique is even more notorious than Barbados: marriage vows tend to slip a new bride's mind right at the bamboo baggage carousel. This is usually because Mick Jagger has justinvited her to dinner, which tends to happen the second a new wife's plane has landed.

* * *

The social demographics of Careyes, Mexico, are such that there is no place better suited to the exotic pleasures of the Divorce Honeymoon. A sexually scandalous vacation is the newfound, but nevertheless inalienable, privilege of the debutante divorcees-New York's young, social, newly unwed girls. It must be spent in a spot where the atmosphere is uplifting, the views are spectacular, acupuncture and exercise facilities abound, and conversation topics are lighter than a souffle. Popular subjects range from "How far did you swim today?" "Did you get to the island?" to "Can I wear white jeans for dinner?" and "Are you invited to the Goldsmiths' for New Year?" There are so many parties every night it's literally impossible to stay home unless you are the one throwing the party. Then, everyone's permanently drunk because the only thing anyone drinks all day are miceladas-a make out friendly mix of beer, lemonade, and tequila. To be blunt, Careyes is the ideal spot for the gorgeous divorcee because she can have sex with a different hedge fund manager every night if she wishes.

I met Lauren Blount on the beach on Labor Day. You know how it is in Careyes. You're best friends in five minutes flat because you're both wearing Pucci bikinis. Lauren was one week into her Divorce Honeymoon, and she told me everything in a minute. Still, that didn't mean I really knew a thing about her.

"The day of my divorce was sort of glamorous, actually," said Lauren from under the wide-brimmed black sunhat she had found in her canvas Hermes tote. "Like the hat? Yves Saint Laurent gave it to my mom in 1972."

"It's gorgeous," I said.

Lauren's beach look was impossibly chic. Her lithe, petite body was a delicious cocoa brown, which set off to perfection the chocolate and turquoise geometric print of her bandeau bikini. Her toes were manicured an understated flesh pink, and her brunette locks, gleaming like espresso beans, fell in loose waves around her shoulders and grazed the sand when she moved. Six long strands of tiny seed pearls dropped gracefully from her delicate throat, and she had three gold bangles that she'd bought in the souk in Marrakesh pushed up around her forearm.

"Mama would murder me if she knew I was wearing her pearls on the beach," said Lauren, noticing me looking at them. "The saltwater ruins them. But I just felt very Tender Is the Night when I woke up today, and I had to wear them. I'm totally into 1920s Riviera chic, aren't you?"

"I adore it," I agreed.

"God, it's so hot. There's too many people here," sighed Lauren, gazing along Playa Rosa. There were maybe three people on the beach. "Why don't you come up to the house?"

"I'd love to," I said, getting up from my lounger.

"We can have lunch and hang out all afternoon. The Casa's got the most divine sunken living room. It's to die," she said, gathering up her tote and slipping on a pair of gold leather thong sandals.

It's generally agreed in Careyes that without a sunken drawing room one would die, socially. Not a soul will visit if you don't have one. If you do, it must simultaneously offer shade from a partial, immaculately thatched roof while being open to the breezes of the ocean, even if that means the Moorish antiques are eaten away at an alarming rate by sea salt.

Casa Papa, as Lauren nicknamed her father's house, is a whitewashed, sun-bleached Mexican castle with a bright blue pool washing around it like a moat. When we arrived, Lauren led me through the house and out into the sunken drawing room. That second, a maid dressed crisply in a blue-and-white-striped uniform-she would have looked more at home on the Upper East Side-appeared with a turquoise chiffon robe in her hand that Lauren threw straight over her bikini. Moments later another maid arrived bearing a tray filled with just-made quesadillas and guacamole, glass plates, and candy-pink linen napkins.

"Mmmmm! Thank you, Maria," said Lauren. "Puede hacer nos el favor de traer dos limonadas heladas?"

"Si, senorita," nodded Maria.

Maria bustled about setting a low lacquered table, then disappeared inside to track down the lemonade.

"God, this is nice," I said, throwing my beach bag on the floor and flopping onto a deep sofa while Lauren curled up in a wicker chair. In the center of the room the huge red trunk of an ancient, twisted candelabro cactus grew up to the ceiling. From where we were sitting we could just make out a tiny figure sunbathing on the terrace of the house opposite.

"That's my cousin, Tinsley Bellangere," said Lauren, squinting. "I can't believe she's lying out like that-so dangerous in this heat. And after her whole family died of skin cancer! She's had all her freckles lasered off. Tinsley's on her divorce honeymoon too, which is nice for me. I call her Miss Mini-Marriage. She was married to Jamie less than three days, which is something of an achievement, no? Anyway, do you still want to hear about the divorce day?"

"Absolutely," I replied. Who could resist? There's nothing like hearing about another girl's love life to make three hours pass in three seconds.

"I got my divorce papers signed. I guess that was three weeks ago now. The biggest thing in the divorce was the dog, Boo Boo. That took months. I got him. Anyway, that night I decided to celebrate with Milton Holmes-he's the family decorator, and my best friend, sort of. Milton was obsessed with going to the private room at Harry's Downtown, even though it was like, August twelfth and I knew there wouldn't be a soul there. I was dressed head to toe in black frayed Lanvin with my great grandmother's ivory barrette in my hair. I thought I was absolutely it-but when I look back it's like I was dressing for a funeral-oh, thank you so much," said Lauren as Maria returned with a jug of iced lemonade and two tall glasses. "Sorry. God, I'm going to have to have a cigarette."

Lauren delved into her tote and pulled out a little green crocodile case the size of a lipstick holder. The silver-lined box contained two "platinums," as she calls them-two Marlboro Ultra Lights. She lit one, then left it untouched on the side of the ashtray.

"So here I am in my divorcee look, and Milton was like, 'We have to be upstairs, everyone's upstairs,' when actually there wasn't a soul up there, except Beyonce or Lindsay Lohan, or some other girl of the minute everyone's so tired of they don't even count. Well, actually, I love Lindsay Lohan again. I want to be Lindsay Lohan most of the time, don't you?"

Lauren paused and waited for my answer. This was obviously a serious question.

"Wouldn't it be exhausting to be Lindsay Lohan every day, though?" I said. That many changes of sunglasses must be punishing.

"I'd love the attention. Anyway, I digress. Milton and I went upstairs, and I ordered strawberry tequila after strawberry tequila and ..." Lauren paused and looked around, as though making sure no one else was listening. Then she whispered, "... and next thing I know, this complete stranger sent over a glass of vintage champagne."

"Who was he?" I asked.

"Well. It was ... you're not going to believe it. It was Sanford Berman."

"No," I gasped.

"Totally. And he was celebrating his third company going public or something crazy like that, but I had no idea who he was because I stopped reading the papers recently so I don't have to read about my divorce. Milton was flipping, Sanford's his total icon. Milton said, 'Everyone thinks Rupert Murdoch's huge, but Sanford's so huge he owns Rupert Murdoch.'"

Lauren's cell phone started beeping. She picked it up and turned it off.

"It's him. It's always him," said Lauren ever so blase.

"You should have answered. I don't mind," I said.

"Actually I need a break from him for now. Here's the thing. He's getting way too obsessed with me. Sanford is seventy-one and a half years old. I can't date an antique. Sure, I like antiques, but not as boyfriends. So, where was I?" asked Lauren.

"The drink from Sanford came over," I reminded her.

"Well, I downed that glass of champagne, and then Sanford himself came over and started talking to me. He was so charming-in the way that old things are. He thought it was very 'modern' that I was partying like that on my divorce day. So I was like, 'Ok, let's get another round of shots.' I can't really remember the night well at all," she said, with a coy expression, "except it turns out Sanford's married, but he's asking if he can take me home. So I let him give me a ride. On the way he asked me what I do, so I told him about how I occasionally buy and sell one-off estate jewelry, and he said he wanted to buy some for his wife. I thought that was sweet."

Sanford had called Lauren at 8 A.M. the next morning, asking to view the jewels. He showed up at her place at half past ten that night. They hung out until midnight, and finally Lauren asked Sanford if he wanted to see the jewels.

"He said to me, 'Not really. I just think you're amusing.' Can you believe?" said Lauren, her eyes widening cartoonishly to exaggerate the point. "God, I have to actually smoke a cigarette at this moment in the tale," she added, starting over with another. "Then he started sending his driver over every morning with the Wall Street Journal, a latte, and a warm croissant from Patisserie Claude, at which point I decided being a newly unwed sucks a lot less than being a newlywed. God, my divorce honeymoon is the best," she sighed contentedly as she sunned herself. "I love being divorced."

* * *

It would be impossible not to love being divorced if you were Lauren Blount, of the Chicago Hamill Blounts, who pretty much invented Chicago, depending on who you ask. (There's the Marshall Field's camp and the Hamill Blount camp, and never the twain shall dine in the Chicago Racquet Club together, if you get my meaning.) The rumor is that the Hamill Blounts own more art than the Guggenheims, more real estate than McDonald's, and that Lauren's mother's jewelry vaults are the reason Colombia is running low on emeralds.

It had only been three weeks since Lauren's divorce, but ever since, she'd been going out like crazy. It amused her to dress up in her Chanel couture rehearsal-dinner dress, which was very heavy on the white Lesage lace, and one of her three engagement rings. She was instantly nominated for the Best Dressed List but brushed it off as a silly joke. However, it was actually the consensus among the Pastis set that Lauren truly deserved the honor. (Most of the time a sickening combination of admiration and envy makes the girls who hang out at Pastis physically unable to admit that anyone deserves to be on the BDL, especially if they were in the same class at Spence.)

Lauren oozed rich-girl chic. She wasn't extremely tall, but because she was so delightfully proportioned, with tiny fine wrists and arms, she could pull off virtually anything. Her exquisite legs, which drew so much envy among her set, "reflect years of private ballet instruction," she always said. She looked rather like a cleaned-up, freshly laundered version of her icon-the young Jane Birkin: she had the long chestnut locks, the eye-grazing fringe, and the year-round tan (easy when there's a family home in every resort from Antigua to Aspen). When casually dressed she exuded a natural glamour that was low on bling and high on class. Her daytime uniform consisted of long, skinny pants from Marni, little lace blouses by Yves Saint Laurent, and minuscule, shrunken leather jackets from Rick Owens. If she wore vintage, it had to be Ossie Clarke or Dior, and she would fly to London especially to stock up on the best things at the Dover Street Market.

Dressing up, though, was Lauren's real obsession. If you dropped by mid-afternoon, she was just as likely to be clad in a cerise organza cocktail frock by Christian Lacroix as she was to be in her Pilates leotard (a hangover from the ballerina days). Her collection of ball gowns-Balmain couture, McQueen couture, original Givenchy couture-was a matter of some envy among New York's social set and was stored in a climate-controlled walk-in closet that was the size of a small studio appartment. Gowns were "gifted" to Lauren on a weekly basis by everyone from Oscar de la Renta to Peter Som, but she always returned them, however beautiful. She felt it was tacky not to pay for clothes, saying, "I give to charity. I don't take it." Her great weakness, though, was real jewels, particularly when they were most inappropriate-there was nothing that amused Lauren more than wearing a priceless Indian ruby in bed.

* * *

"Maybe I should invite Tinsley over here so she can get some shade. She's crazy to be sunbathing like that," said Lauren a little later. "It must be the divorce. Tinsley thinks she's having fun, but she's getting more deranged by the second. She's changing bikinis seven times a day now, which has got to be a sign of mental instability. I love her, and I want her to be OK, not getting chemo."

Lauren clicked open her little silver cell and called Tinsley, who said she'd be over in ten minutes. The bikini-clad figure waved from her terrace and disappeared from view.

"They always take that place over Labor Day. You'll like her," said Lauren. "What are you doing here in Careyes anyway?"

"I'm on ... honeymoon," I said unsurely.

"Real honeymoon?" asked Lauren.

"Yes," I answered reluctantly.


"Sort of," I mumbled, lowering my eyes. (The floor is an excellent place to look, I always find, when admitting one has lost one's husband about three seconds after the wedding.)

"Sounds a lot like my divorce honeymoon. It's really immaterial whether you have a husband with you or not."

Lauren giggled and caught my eye. When she saw my face she abruptly stopped. "Oh! I'm sorry! You look so upset."

"I'm fine," I insisted. Hoping she wouldn't notice, I wiped a stray tear from my nose with the back of my hand.

"What happened?" said Lauren sympathetically.

"Well ... huh," I sighed.

Maybe I should tell Lauren the whole hideous story. She was almost a complete stranger, but then lots of people pay a fortune to tell a stranger their most intimate thoughts in therapy every week.

I was beyond embarrassed, I realized, as I told Lauren my sorry tale. The fact was, my "honeymoon" felt about as romantic as solitary confinement right now. My new husband, Hunter, had been forced to leave on the second day of our vacation to close a business deal. Now, I have never been one of those girls who dreamed about her wedding day all her life, but I had dreamed about my honeymoon: it was meant to be the most delicious, sexy two weeks of your life, the vacation version of heaven. When Hunter had explained that he had to leave, in a terrible rush, I behaved in a very grown-up way, I thought, and told him I understood. But inside I was desolate. Hunter promised to deliver another honeymoon, but a substitute vacation held no appeal. How do you get that blissed-out, just-married feeling six months after the wedding? By definition, you can only feel just-married for about a minute. Honeymoons have a small window of opportunity, bliss being as transient as it is.


Excerpted from The Debutante Divorcee by Plum Sykes Copyright © 2006 by Plum Sykes. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

The Debutante Divorcee 3.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 61 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed Bergdorf Blondes, even though it was really shallow it was still a fun read. Plum's 2nd book was just awful. Totally, totally, totally unrealistic and actually very boring. Save your money and time and don't buy this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I find Plum Sykes to be intriguing, how could you not be, with someone who's first name is PLUM. I read BB a year and so ago, and even though I found it to be utterly superficial, I must confess there was a couple of illustrative sentences that made me laugh. But her second attempt as novelist is right down appalling. It shows Miss Sykes has no real empathy for what's happening in the world today and her characters besided obviously predictable are so so shallow. I wouldn't recommend this book even to Paris Hilton. It's pure garabage.
GailCooke More than 1 year ago
Early on in her follow-up to ¿Bergdorf Blondes,¿ Plum Sykes has one of her characters describe their conversation topics as ¿lighter than a souffle.¿ That¿s also a good description of ¿The Debutante Divorcee¿ - it reads easily, is very fluffy, and has no substance. But, for chick-litophiles it will be the Taj Mahal. A contributing editor for Vogue, London born Sykes knows her territory and its inhabitants well, and she plays both for all they¿re worth. Designers, hot spots, and romantic peccadillos are inserted almost as often as punctuation marks. In Sykes¿s world the characters may be authentic but for the real world they come off as selfish, pretentious stick figures. It¿s a bit hard to relate to one (Lauren) who is determined to make out with five men before Memorial Day, and another (Sylvie) who had hoped that ¿matrimony would be like the Eternity ad: a very gorgeous you, a hot him, and oodles of vanilla-colored cashmere sweaters.¿ When she feels her dream has not come true she copes as only Sylvia can - with late night TV which she feels puts things into perspective. Now, these young women may be beautiful and wealthy but they¿re also some of the most vacuous females to ever appear on page. The plot is a bit of a meandering one, which could be accurately described in a few lines: Sylvie thinks she¿s losing her husband to a ¿husband huntress,¿ Sophia. Lauren takes Sylvie under her authentic Chanel wing. Mix-ups ensue, but all¿s well in the end. Unfortunately, ¿The Debutante Divorcee¿ is ¿The Group¿ sans satire or ¿Sex and the City¿ without affecting characters. Sykes is a good writer with an eagle eye for detail and excellent comic timing. We understand there¿s a third book in the offing and hope the third time is a charm. - Gail Cooke
Guest More than 1 year ago
I thought this book was great. Bergdorf Blondes was better but this held my attention and kept me wanting more.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I found Plum Sykes' first book intriguing. Her second book, however, leaves a lot to be desired. The plot is weak and characters are flat. A bit of a disappointment.
shelleyraec on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Couldn't have cared less about the constant name dropping and boring lives of self involved socialites - ddn't appeal to me at all - had to make myself finish it
Brianna_H on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The Debutante Divorcee is witty and fast paced. It will appeal to the type of woman who subscribes to Vogue magazine (I am one of these women). Overall this is a fun book that can be read in one sitting.
MsNikki on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Fun, fashion fluff...what's there not to enjoy
moonriver on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
was expecting this to be great, as I really liked Bergdorf Blondes, but it didn't live up to the first book at all. I found it not so funny and just...dull. I liked the characters and it was definitely a fast read, but I was disappointed.
brainella on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is a fast read, but pretty predictable. It's mostly superficial and about society women who are vapid and spoiled. It all wraps up happily at the end. If it hadn't been a book club book, I wouldn't have bothered.
pru-lennon on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
i wouldn't say it was terrible but this book could've been a lot slimmer. i've read her bergdorf blondes & i don't think debutante divorcee is as readable.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Was expecting light, pleasant, fun read in the "fluff" style. The first three or more chapters started off in that vain and then the storyline just tanked. It was an extremely boring, dull read. And totally missed the mark.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Not my usual kind of book but liked the humor.
Rosiecat More than 1 year ago
I love reading but this was so boring I did not finish it. Do not waste your money!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Lindsie More than 1 year ago
I actually enjoy Plum Sykes superficial novels- they are meant to be funny, not entirely true. This novel shows the funnier side of rich divorcees. These women simply wont sit and cry for months and years when they become divorced, instead, they spend their riches going on divorce honeymoons to tropical places and buying super expensive fur coats and jewelry. This book is laugh out loud funny! I highly recommend it. After all, there is a love story within it!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved this book. The superficial characters are hilarious. A great beach read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Light and amusing, a very fun read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago