The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund Read Online Free PDF

when Tim’s dad, Chuck, died in a heliskiing accident, she always managed to take my sympathy and warp it into a complete lack of understanding of how someone could be so cold. Granted, her marriage was not exactly the warm, loving nest my parents had; Tim had always told me his father was this larger-than-life Wall Street legend, world-class athlete, and the consummate charmer, while his reserved wife never doted on him or their children the way my mother always had. Despite all her family wealth, and as the ultimate hedge fund wife, Sherry Von was a fundamentally unhappy soul, a malcontent who never nurtured and probably never was nurtured.
    â€œYou just know that bitch is popping Dom corks right now,” Kiki said, probably correctly. When Kiki and Hal began their firestorm romance, Sherry vented to Tim and me that Kiki was “not our kind,” i.e., Jewy Jewstein from Five Towns in Long Island (or, as Kiki’s hilarious and equally colorful dad, a Jacuzzi salesman in Ronkonkoma, would pronounce it, “Lawn Gyland”). In fact, Sherry Von previously had referred to all Jews as “Canadians” when she needed to employ codespeak. And now Kiki had given Sherry just want she wanted: validation.
    â€œI think the second best thing about this is that I don’t have to see that evil vitriolic slag anymore.” Kiki laughed, sipping her wine. “Though I do feel bad leaving you in that fucking Locust Valley quagmire alone.”
    I tried to keep up my end of the conversation, but I was reeling with devastation and shock that Kiki was really and truly moving on and there was 0.00 percent chance of a reconciliation. See, being with Kiki was like having a pocket stand-up comedian. Her every observation was geniusly funny, and acutely accurate. My heart suddenly felt like it was ten pounds of lead as she blithely spoke of Gustave and all the sex she had missed for years with frigid Hal but would now be free to have. I simply sat, trembling. I knew the Talbott family was cultlike in its team quality of sticking together and that Kiki would be on the outs and big-time. And because there was no glue of a child to keep her somewhat in our orbit, I was certain that Sherry Von’s pronouncement from on high would be that Kiki was dead to us.

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    â€œFOR SALE: Wedding Dress. Size 6. Worn once by mistake.”
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    T he fallout from Kiki’s affair was, indeed, nuclear. The first time I saw Sherry Von post-divorce was a few months later at Thanksgiving, in Locust Valley, at Hillendale, the family manor, which was not unlike the Cleary compound in Wedding Crashers , though I wish there had been some fun goth brother or drunken grandma to liven stuff up. The only remotely quirky or interesting presence was Hubert, Sherry Von’s devoted gay southern assistant-slash-driver-slash-chief of staff. He worshipped the ground she walked on, despite being treated like crap by her, and tended to her every whim, whether shipping her Louboutin heels to have the laces fixed, booking her at-home pedicure (God forbid she be spied with her feet naked IN PUBLIC!), or simply fastening a ruby necklace. Hubert was immaculate: French cuffs; a quiet, soothing aura; and only kind things to say. Every other word out of his mouth was “divine,” and I loved him. My crappy Banana Republic dress? “Divine.” Miles’s vocabulary? Divine. I wondered how on earth he put up with Sherry Von’s moods and barked orders.
    Hubert had overseen the dining room’s divine décor for the evening: Over pumpkin pie served by Sherry Von’s staff (who wore full antiquated outfits with the frilly white aprons and caps like the ones you get in a prepackaged “French Maid” Halloween costume), sterling Puiforcat utensils clinked against fine Baccarat china, and fine wine was quietly sipped from Yeoward crystal. The table was immaculate. The food: impeccable. The flowers: richly arranged