The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DUTTON

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First printing, April

Copyright © 2009 by Jill Kargman

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Kargman, Jill, 1974-

The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund / by Jill Kargman. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-02243-6

1. Rich people—Fiction. 2. Adultery—Fiction. 3. Divorced women—Fiction.

4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title. PS3611.A783E'.6—dc22 2008042999

 

 

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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First of all, I want to worship the amazing Trena Keating, who is a brilliant yummy mummy of three-slash-editor in chief—I bow down to you and Lily Kosner for all your incredible insights and wisdom. To the incredible ICM posse: Jennifer Joel and Amanda Urban, plus Josie Freedman and Elliot Webb on the “leff coass.” Special thanks to Steven Beer and Mary Miles of Greenberg Traurig. Megakudos to Lee-Sean Huang for help making the graphs, and a special shout-out of major thanks to my anonymous Hedge Fund Deep Throats for the Wall Street crash courses and juicy tidbits, plus amazing supporters like Amelia's mom, Laura Tanny, Jacky Davy, Lisa Jacobs, Aviva Drescher, Tiffany Dubin, Carrie Karasyov, Janisse Tio, Tara Lipton, Alexis and Philip Mintz, the Heinzes, the Bevilacquas, Dan Allen, Jenn Linardos, Michael Kovner and Jean Doyen de Montaillou, Suzanne Cleary, Allison Aston, Beth Klein, and especially Carol Bell and Barbara Martin.

And to my Kikis: All of you inspired me to write this ode not just to finding
amore
, but also to true friendship, and I love you so much: Vanessa Eastman, Jeannie Stern, Dana Jones, Trip Cull-man, Lauren Duff, and most of all, Lisa Turvey for all your genius early edits, notes, and advice.

Last but not least, my family: Willie, Mom, Dad, and all the Kopelmans and Kargmans, especially my LC—thank you for being the best, most supportive husband—and to Sadie, Ivy, and Fletch, I love you, my little nuggets.

a. is for Armani, Aston Martin, Aman Resort, AmEx (Black)

b. is for Bonpoint, Bergdorfs, BOTOX, Bulgari

c. is for Cartier, Chauffeur, Chanel, Citibabes, Concierge

d. is for Dolce, Driver, Doorman, Dior

e. is for Emaciated, Endowment, Envy

f. is for Fendi, Frette, Furs, Frederic Fekkai

g. is for Gucci, Golf, Goyard

h. is for Housekeeper, Helicopter, Hamptons

i. is for iPhone, The Ivy, Italy

j. is for Jacadi, Jewelry, Jimmy Choo

k. is for Kelly Bag (in every color)

l. is for Lanvin, Louboutins, La Perla, Lobel's, Long/Liquid Lunches

m. is for Missoni, Mercedes, Manicures

n. is for Nina Ricci, NetJets, Nannies

o. is for Oscar de la Renta, Opera Tickets

p. is for Pilates, Porthault, Paris, Pricey Parties

q. is for Quantity, Quality

r. is for Rive Gauche, Rachel Roy

s. is for Swifty's, Saks, Season Tickets, Skybox, Second Home

t. is for Tiffany, Teterboro, Third Home

u. is for Ungaro

v. is for Vogue, Valentino, Van Cleef, Vivier, VIP List

w. is for Whatever, Whenever, Whomever I Want

x. is for Xanax

y. is for Yellow Diamond, YSL, Yacht

z. is for the Zone, Zegna, Zenith

New York, 2006

 

 

 

 

 

I
t is 1789. An ethereal mist rolls through the gray-smudged streets as coiffed heads are rolling into baskets at the Bastille. The muddied, bedraggled, and oft-diseased onlookers cheer in every Parisian alley. Dawning is the day when preened, brioche-nibbling, wig-powdering royal schmucks no longer shall prance the palace courts in ornamented couture; the chasm between the upper crust and the crumb-eaters is closing with each crisp slice of a once-bejeweled neck, to the thrill of the roaring crowd.

As a raging Broadway geek, I had seen
Les Misérables
probably twenty times, but the music was even sweeter when a limited engagement briefly reopened on Broadway recently. It was packed with tourists and fanatical theater-worshippers like me, and I relished the airtight lyrics and live voices versus my well-worn CD. Seeing it again was like enjoying a short season of a favorite fruit you know you can't savor next month—blood oranges for your ears.

Even in the decade since it last appeared on the Great White Way, a lot has changed in our gritty city. In New York, a glistening new empire was raging, full of the same boundless excesses and sheltered luxuries in which cosseted royals reveled. I thought how lucky I was. Not only because we are now rid of gangrenous wounds, lepers, and inefficient sewer systems, but also because even if there were a class pyramid like the one they had in old Europe, I knew I would be at the triangle's apex, safe from the storm of clamoring mobs raising tattered flags and angry voices. No, I'm not a blue-blooded queen; I'm a normal, down-to-earth, non-over-the-top gal. But I must confess: I am a hedge fund wife.

But wait!

Don't let go of that guillotine rope!

I'm not like the rest of them. I promise. I am not some skeletorious trend-splashed fashion victim or five-foot-eight Xanax tablet with a face. I look my thirty-four years and have not succumbed to the BOTOX needle or boob lift, despite the 9.81-meters-per-second force of gravity taking its toll. Okay, some of my friends are a little OTT, but some are very down-to-earth, and their favorite thing about having money is giving it away. While I must admit, a gal can obviously love the perks of not stressing about dough, there are some drawbacks to the world that I inhabit. Namely the incessant quest for perfection at all costs. In every way—perfect kids, homes, bodies,
lives
. Many of my friends are slaves to their appearance: nips, tucks, $600 creams made of sheep's placenta, trainers, lipo, the works. Anything to be fabulous. But I myself am more drab than fab. More J.Crew than J. Mendel. Sometimes I'll stare at a fashion spread and wish I knew how to work a look like that, but even though I could maybe afford the crazy price tag, I could never in good conscience do it; I'm just not wired that way. I grew up in a well-off but supergrounded, relaxed family in Boston, where people didn't flash cash—my dad is a sweet-natured retired pediatrician and my loving late mother was the epitome of warm elegance rather than opulence, class instead of crass. Sure, a few classmates of mine were megamillionaires (back when that was a big deal), but they made their chauffeurs drop them blocks before school out of an embarrassment of riches. Now in New York I regularly see Rolls-Royces with kiddie car seats glutting the street in front of my son Miles's school. In Boston, the entrepreneurs really created products and didn't show their money around Versailles style. The father of a girl I knew invented the nail clipper; another developed the lawn mower as we know it—patents that still yield serious buckaroos, but none of the families were advertising it. Even though many of my parents' friends had money, there wasn't the flamboyant arrogance I see now.