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

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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 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 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 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.

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