need to be in the spotlight for a day; she was already basking in it all the time: red carpets, gallery openings, a sexy, grainy campaign for the Marc Jacobs Collection, fashion shoots as a guest model when an editor called for “real” people—she didn’t need to be swathed in organza and snapped in glamorized perfection. That was her job on a daily basis.
“Look at us,” said Otto, his arm around her as the paparazzi of Europe gathered at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris for a much-hailed retrospective. “We are the toast of the Continent! You are their muse, too.”
“I can’t believe this,” Eden said, stunned by the hordes of French press and fans, toting cameras, pads, and pens. Her hand cramped from the autographs, her eyes saw orange circles from the blitzes of light from cameras capturing her celebrated visage.
As the Clydes’ fame and fortune increased through the years, so did Eden’s euphoric high. She had it all: her precious son, Cole, who traveled the world with his parents and aced school when he was home, a partner who worshipped her in Otto, and a career of her own: part mother, part muse. And as more and more canvases of her naked body and fierce stare sold at higher and higher and higher prices to museums on every continent, Eden knew she had not only climbed to the heights she’d once dreamed of, she’d transcended them.
11
When I passed forty I dropped pretense, ’cause men like women who got some sense.
—Maya Angelou
M eanwhile, on the same island of Manhattan but in a milieu so drastically different it may as well have been Abu Dhabi, two other lovers were at the top of their game. Chase and Liesel, both twenty-five, had been introduced at the Ball for New York Hospital, where both of their mothers served as trustees, and were instantly the toast of the diamond-paved philanthropic circles of Manhattan. The It Couple. The heads of every junior committee, the most invited guests, the boldfacers on social columns and best-dressed lists. Their evenings were filled with grand parties, opening-night theater tickets, and tête-à-tête cocktails. Their weekends featured jaunts to their families’ country homes, friends’ lavish destination weddings, and little getaways to the Wheatley in Lenox, Massachusetts, or the Mayflower in Washington, Connecticut. Not to mention dinner every night in a capital-lettered ZAGAT establishment: As any discerning eater knows, a restaurant in all-caps means TOTALLY YUMMY BUT FUCKING EXPENSIVE.
“You look beautiful tonight, Buttercup,” Chase said, taking Liesel’s hand as she stepped from their chauffeur-driven car. He had nicknamed her that not for the gold-hued flower but for her resemblance to Robin Wright Penn.
“Aw, thank you, sweetie,” she said, lifting her delicate wrist so he would notice the thin emerald-laced links. “Look, I’m wearing my new bracelet!”
“You wear it well.”
“I love it!”
“I was thinking we should go up to Blantyre this weekend, what do you think?” Chase asked. “It was really great last time when the weather was freezing.”
“Hmmm . . . what about the Wheatley?” Liesel asked, tilting her perfectly coiffed head in serious consideration. Ahh, decisions, decisions. “That food was so delicious. Plus remember that massage therapist who came to our room? Oh, I just love that place. It’s so cozy. But the Blantyre’s great, too. Up to you!”
“Then the Wheatley it is,” Chase said, as if they had just settled on a strategy in a business meeting. “I’ll have Pam book it in the morning.”
When the backdrop for time together is so romantic, lubricated with Dom, sparkling with gems, and scented with peonies delivered weekly from L’Olivier, relationship cracks take longer to emerge. In five-star hotels, anyone could feel misty eyed and hit in the ass by Cupid’s arrow. Hot meal, hot tub, hot sex.
Also, Chase was as gorge as he was loaded. Chase DuPree Lydon’s facial architecture
“Look at us,” said Otto, his arm around her as the paparazzi of Europe gathered at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris for a much-hailed retrospective. “We are the toast of the Continent! You are their muse, too.”
“I can’t believe this,” Eden said, stunned by the hordes of French press and fans, toting cameras, pads, and pens. Her hand cramped from the autographs, her eyes saw orange circles from the blitzes of light from cameras capturing her celebrated visage.
As the Clydes’ fame and fortune increased through the years, so did Eden’s euphoric high. She had it all: her precious son, Cole, who traveled the world with his parents and aced school when he was home, a partner who worshipped her in Otto, and a career of her own: part mother, part muse. And as more and more canvases of her naked body and fierce stare sold at higher and higher and higher prices to museums on every continent, Eden knew she had not only climbed to the heights she’d once dreamed of, she’d transcended them.
11
When I passed forty I dropped pretense, ’cause men like women who got some sense.
—Maya Angelou
M eanwhile, on the same island of Manhattan but in a milieu so drastically different it may as well have been Abu Dhabi, two other lovers were at the top of their game. Chase and Liesel, both twenty-five, had been introduced at the Ball for New York Hospital, where both of their mothers served as trustees, and were instantly the toast of the diamond-paved philanthropic circles of Manhattan. The It Couple. The heads of every junior committee, the most invited guests, the boldfacers on social columns and best-dressed lists. Their evenings were filled with grand parties, opening-night theater tickets, and tête-à-tête cocktails. Their weekends featured jaunts to their families’ country homes, friends’ lavish destination weddings, and little getaways to the Wheatley in Lenox, Massachusetts, or the Mayflower in Washington, Connecticut. Not to mention dinner every night in a capital-lettered ZAGAT establishment: As any discerning eater knows, a restaurant in all-caps means TOTALLY YUMMY BUT FUCKING EXPENSIVE.
“You look beautiful tonight, Buttercup,” Chase said, taking Liesel’s hand as she stepped from their chauffeur-driven car. He had nicknamed her that not for the gold-hued flower but for her resemblance to Robin Wright Penn.
“Aw, thank you, sweetie,” she said, lifting her delicate wrist so he would notice the thin emerald-laced links. “Look, I’m wearing my new bracelet!”
“You wear it well.”
“I love it!”
“I was thinking we should go up to Blantyre this weekend, what do you think?” Chase asked. “It was really great last time when the weather was freezing.”
“Hmmm . . . what about the Wheatley?” Liesel asked, tilting her perfectly coiffed head in serious consideration. Ahh, decisions, decisions. “That food was so delicious. Plus remember that massage therapist who came to our room? Oh, I just love that place. It’s so cozy. But the Blantyre’s great, too. Up to you!”
“Then the Wheatley it is,” Chase said, as if they had just settled on a strategy in a business meeting. “I’ll have Pam book it in the morning.”
When the backdrop for time together is so romantic, lubricated with Dom, sparkling with gems, and scented with peonies delivered weekly from L’Olivier, relationship cracks take longer to emerge. In five-star hotels, anyone could feel misty eyed and hit in the ass by Cupid’s arrow. Hot meal, hot tub, hot sex.
Also, Chase was as gorge as he was loaded. Chase DuPree Lydon’s facial architecture
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