READ EXCERPT: 'The Debutante Divorcee,' by Plum Sykes

April 18, 2006 — -- Plum Sykes brought her readers into the world of privileged Mahattan socialites with her debut novel, "Bergdorf Blondes," while making them laugh, too. She does it again with her second book, "The Debutante Divorcee," where the glamorous newlywed narrator takes up with a far more glamorous new divorcee.

Sykes says she got the idea for the book while covering stories for Vogue magazine.

"I would always see these fab girls arriving out at midnight at Bungalow 8 looking incredible, and I would say, 'who's that?' " Sykes said. "And someone would tell me, 'Oh, she just got divorced yesterday.' And I couldn't believe it. She wasn't at home moping or crying, she was out having the time of her life. And I loved that concept."

Below is an excerpt from the first chapter of the book.

Married girls in New York these days put almost as much effort into losing husbands as they once didinto 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 just invited 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 divorcées -- 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 soufflé. 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 divorcée 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 knowhow 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 everythingin 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 Hermès 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 bandeaubikini. 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, señorita," 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 houseopposite.

"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 divorcée look, and Milton was like, 'We have to be upstairs, everyone's upstairs,' when actually there wasn't a soul up there, except Beyoncé 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.