"Chasing Harry Winston" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weisberger Lauren)if you think it’s too big, you don’t deserve it“Come to bed, baby. It’s almost one-don’t you think it’s time to call it a night?” Russell pulled off his T-shirt and turned on his side to face Leigh, resting his head full of black curls on his right hand. He rubbed the sheets with his left hand and patted them a little, a gesture that was meant to be tempting, appealing, but that Leigh always found a little threatening. “I just have a few more pages. Is the light bothering you? I can move to the living room.” He sighed and picked up his book, Her first thought was that he sounded like a whiny, petulant child; this was, after all, one of the most sought-after manuscripts of the year, and it was crucial that she have it read for the next morning’s acquisitions meeting. It had taken eight impossibly long years of dedicated hard work to finally-finally!-be within striking distance of senior editor (there were, after all, only six at Brook Harris, and she could potentially be the youngest one), and Russell seemed to think that after a year of dating he was entitled to commandeer her entire life. Next thought: She was the most horrid, unappreciative, ungrateful bitch alive for even thinking such things about Russell. She certainly wasn’t this resentful a year ago. When he approached her at the book party Brook Harris was throwing in honor of Bill Parcells (who had just written a memoir of his years as the Cowboys’ coach), she recognized him instantly. Not that she ever watched ESPN-she didn’t-but with his boyish smile and dimples and reputation as one of the most desirable bachelors in Manhattan, she knew enough to be extra charming when he introduced himself. They’d talked for hours that night, first at the party and then over Amstels at Pete’s Tavern. He had been almost shockingly up-front about being sick of the dating scene in New York, how he was over dating models and actresses and was ready to meet, in his words, a “real girl,” implying, of course, that Leigh was a perfect candidate. Naturally, she was honored by the attention: Who wouldn’t want Russell Perrin pursuing her? He fulfilled every single little box on every single checklist she’d drafted in the last ten years. He was, by all accounts, exactly the kind of man she hoped to find but never actually thought she would. Now here she was, almost a year into a relationship with a gorgeous guy who also just happened to be sensitive, kind, caring, and madly in love with her, and all she felt was smothered. It was abundantly obvious to everyone else in Leigh’s life that she had finally met The One; why wasn’t it clearer to her? As if to drive this point home, Russell turned her face to his, looked into her eyes, and said, “Leigh, sweetheart. I love you so much.” “I love you, too,” Leigh answered automatically, without a second’s hesitation, although a third-party observer-even a perfect stranger-might have questioned the sincerity behind her declaration. What were you supposed to do when someone you liked and respected very much, someone you wanted to get to know better, announced after two months of otherwise casual dating that he was head over heels in love with you? You did what any confrontation-averse person would do and said “I love you, too” right back. Leigh figured she’d grow into those words eventually, be able to say them with more conviction once they got to know each other better. It upset her that a year later she was still waiting. She forced herself to look up from the page and assumed a syrupy-sweet voice. “I know it’s been really hectic lately, but it’s like clockwork every year: The second the calendar hits June, everything turns chaotic. I promise it won’t last forever.” Leigh held her breath and waited for him to explode (which so far had never happened), waited for Russell to tell her he wouldn’t tolerate being patronized and that he didn’t appreciate being spoken to like she was the parent and he was the toddler who had just mashed peanut butter into the carpet. Instead, he smiled. And not a smile filled with resentment or resignation; it was genuine, full of understanding, and impossibly apologetic. “I don’t mean to pressure you, baby. I know how much you love your job, and I want you to enjoy it while you can. Take your time and come to bed whenever you’re ready.” “While I can?” Leigh’s head snapped up. “Are you really bringing that up again at one in the morning?” “No, sweetheart, I’m not bringing that up again. You’ve made it perfectly clear that San Francisco is not in your plans for right now-but I’d really like it if you weren’t so closed-minded about it. It would be an incredible opportunity, you know.” “For you,” Leigh said, sulkily as a child. “For both of us.” “Russell, we haven’t even been together a year. I think it’s a little early to start talking about moving across the country together.” The level of annoyance in her voice surprised them both. “It’s never too early when you love someone, Leigh,” he said, his own voice even and steady. This very evenness, which had appealed to her so much in the beginning, could now infuriate her; his refusal to get mad, his complete mastery of his emotions, made her wonder if he ever even heard what she was saying. “Let’s not talk about it now, okay?” she asked. He sat up and slid to the end of the bed, closer to the corner where Leigh had placed her comfy reading chair and soft white-light reading lamp. The oversized down comforter-the one she’d spent weeks searching for, testing every brand on the market for softness and puffiness-slid to the floor and nearly knocked the bonsai tree off the nightstand. Russell didn’t appear to notice. “Why don’t I make you some tea?” he asked. Again Leigh felt like she needed to harness every ounce of willpower not to scream. She didn’t want to go to bed. She didn’t want tea. She just wanted him to She took a deep breath, slowly, without being obvious about it. “Thanks, but I’m really fine. Just give me a few more minutes, okay?” He gazed at her with an understanding smile before bounding out of bed and wrapping her in a bear hug. She felt her body stiffen; she couldn’t help it. Russell just hugged harder and sneaked his face into the crook of her neck, wedging it in just above her shoulder and under her chin. His five o’clock shadow scratched her skin and she squirmed. “Does it tickle?” He laughed. “My dad’s always said I’d eventually have to shave twice a day, but I never wanted to believe him.” “Hmm.” “I’m going to get some water. Want some?” “Sure,” Leigh said, although she didn’t. She turned her attention back to the manuscript and had worked her way through half a page when Russell called from the kitchen. “Where do you keep the honey?” “The what?” she yelled back. “The honey. I’m making us tea and I want to make it with warm milk and honey. Do you have any?” She took a deep breath. “It’s in the cabinet above the microwave.” He returned moments later with a mug in each hand and a bag of Newman’s Own chocolate chip cookies between his teeth. “Take a break, baby. I promise I’ll leave you alone after a midnight snack.” She bit into a cookie and remembered all the years in her early and mid-twenties that she had wanted this scene so badly: the doting boyfriend, the romantic late-night picnic, the comfortable apartment filled with all the things she loved. Back then it had felt almost impossible or, at least, very far away; now she had it all, but the reality didn’t feel anything like the fantasy. With cookies barely swallowed and tea still unfinished, Russell curled himself around a pillow and promptly fell into an intensely deep and restful sleep. Who slept like that? It never ceased to amaze Leigh. He claimed it came from a childhood surrounded by chaos, from learning to sleep through the clamor of two parents, two sisters, a live-in nanny, and three chatty beagles. Perhaps. But Leigh figured it had more to do with his clear conscience and his clean living and, if she was going to be really honest, with the fact that his life just wasn’t really all that stressful. How hard would it be to sleep like a baby if your daily routine included two hours of exercise (an hour of weights and an hour of cardio) and lacked caffeine, sugar, preservatives, white flour, and trans fats? If you taped a weekly thirty-minute show on a subject (sports) you loved innately just by virtue of being male, and had a team of writers and producers who put it all together for you to read? If you had healthy and productive relationships with both family and friends, all of whom loved and admired you for just being yourself? It was enough to make a person sick, or at the very least resentful, which, if she was being perfectly frank, it often made Leigh. Tonight it succeeded only in making Leigh desperately want a cigarette. No matter that she’d quit nearly a year ago, right when she and Russell started dating; not a day went by that she didn’t desperately yearn for a nice long drag. Smokers always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. They claimed they loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between their fingers. That was all well and good, but there was nothing quite like actually smoking it: Leigh loved Leigh wasn’t an idiot, though, and certainly knew all the nasty drawbacks of her beloved habit. Emphysema. Lung cancer. Heart disease. High blood pressure. Having to endure graphic photos of blackened lungs in magazines and terrifying commercials of gravelly voiced people with tracheotomies. The yellowed teeth and the wrinkles and the smoky hair and the stained top knuckle on her right middle finger. Her mother’s constant harping. Her doctor’s dire predictions. The maddening Just-in-Case-You-Haven’t-Heard voice total strangers used when they sidled up to her outside her office building to enumerate smoking’s many dangers. And then Russell! Mr. My Body Is a Temple would never, She popped an extra piece for good measure and set aside the manuscript. It usually wasn’t too difficult to get engaged by a hot book that multiple publishing houses were clamoring for, but this one felt like drudgery. Would the American public really want to read Often one of her friends was on IM at two in the morning, but tonight all was quiet. Leigh clicked through her favorite Web sites quickly, efficiently, her eyes scanning the pages for information. On cnn.com, an alligator attack in South Florida. On Yahoo!, a video demonstrating how to make a watermelon basket using only a chef’s knife and a nontoxic marker. On gofugyourself.com a funny bit about Tom Cruise’s bangs and the Flowbee. On neimanmarcus.com an announcement regarding upgraded shipping on all leather accessories. “Hey there,” he whispered in her ear, his breath still smelling of cookies. She lay there limp, simultaneously praying he would fall back to sleep and hating herself for wishing that. “Leigh, baby, are you awake? I know I am.” He gave another little push just in case she wasn’t sure what he meant. “I’m exhausted, Russ. It’s so late already, and I have to be up early for the meeting tomorrow.” “I promise you won’t have to do a thing.” He pulled her closer and kissed her neck. She shivered, which he interpreted as delight, and ran his fingers over her goose bumps, which he took as a good sign. When they first started dating, she thought he was the best kisser on earth. She still remembered their first kiss-it had been positively transcendent. He took her home in a cab after the book party and the dive bar, and just before they reached her building, he pulled her toward him for one of the softest, most amazing kisses she’d ever experienced. He used the perfect combination of lips and tongue, the ideal pressure, the exact right amount of passion. And there was no doubt he had plenty of experience on which to draw, having been one of the most well-known and sought-after men she had ever met. Yet in the last few months, it had started to feel like she was kissing a stranger-and not in an exciting way. Instead of soft and warm, his mouth now often felt cold and damp and a little shocking on her skin. His tongue probed too voraciously; his lips always seemed either rigid or fleshy. Tonight, against the back of her neck, they felt like they were made out of papier-mâché before it properly hardened. Pulpy papier-mâché. Refrigerated, pulpy papier-mâché. “Russ.” She sighed and clenched her eyes closed. He stroked her hair and rubbed her shoulders, trying to relax her. “What, baby? Is this so awful?” She didn’t tell him that each touch felt like a violation. Hadn’t the sex once been fantastic? Back when Russell was a bit elusive and flirty and seductive, and not quite so clingy or so determined to settle down with a more serious girl than all the flighty ones from his twenties? It all seemed like so long ago. Before she realized what was happening, he worked her shorts down to her knees and pulled her even closer. His upper arms were huge, literally bulging under her chin and inadvertently pressing against her throat. His chest threw off heat like a furnace and the hair on his thighs felt like sandpaper. And for the first time ever while in bed with Russell, she began to feel the familiar heart-attack symptoms begin. “Stop it!” she breathed, her whisper louder than she planned. “I can’t do this now.” His embrace slackened instantly and Leigh was instantly grateful that it was too dark to see his face. “Russ, I’m sorry. It’s just that-” “No worries, Leigh. Really, I understand.” His voice sounded calm but distant. He rolled away from her and within minutes his breathing steadied to its deep-sleep rate. Leigh finally fell asleep just before six, just as the lady above donned her various foot accoutrements and commenced the day’s clomping, but it wasn’t until the next morning’s meeting, at which she felt inarticulate and thick-tongued from exhaustion, that she remembered her final thought before drifting off. It was of dinner with the girls a couple of weeks earlier and their proclamations of change. Emmy was going to expand her experience by having lots of affairs and Adriana had made a resolution to give monogamy the old college try. For the ten days since then Leigh hadn’t been able to think of anything she was willing to contribute. Until now. Wouldn’t it be funny to announce that she was going to work up the nerve to end her flawed relationship even though she was utterly terrified of being alone and convinced she wouldn’t meet anyone who loved her half as much as Russell so obviously did? That she kept waiting and waiting to feel the way about Russell everyone thought she should, but that so far it hadn’t happened? Ha-ha. She was trying to think of something else-the weather, her upcoming trip, the fact that her parents were discussing the possibility of moving back to the States-but Adriana’s mind refused to focus on anything other than the gorgeous contrast between Yani’s rough, ropelike dreds and the milky texture of his skin. Each time he stretched or straightened that beautiful midsection, her pulse quickened. She watched covertly as a droplet of perspiration traveled from his forehead to his neck and tried to imagine what it tasted like. When he placed his huge hands over her hips, it was all she could do not to groan. A coarse dreadlock brushed against her shoulder; he smelled like moss, overpoweringly His voice got louder, but only slightly. “Gently place the left palm on the floor and rotate your body into plank position. Feel the energy flow from your hands to the earth, from the earth to your hands. Don’t forget to breathe. There; hold it right there.” Adriana tried to block out the sound of his voice and, when that wasn’t possible, to reconfigure his words so that they sounded slightly saner. The class moved like a choreographed dance troupe, a collection of sinewy limbs and tight torsos that made the movements appear almost effortless. She loved yoga and she lusted after Yani, but she had minimal tolerance for the touchy-feely stuff. Correction: The touchy-feely stuff was great, as long as it was Yani touching As usual, the class consisted exclusively of women. Adriana had expertly scanned the room upon entering and, after determining herself the most fit and attractive woman in attendance, laid out her mat and saved a space for Leigh. She felt proud that in this room of beautiful women-all in their twenties or early thirties, all but one at or under their ideal body weight, all groomed to within an inch of their lives despite the early Sunday morning and the physical nature of the activity-she was the most beautiful. This realization no longer surprised or delighted her the way it had when she was younger; rather, it gave her a little added confidence bump that helped smooth along the day. The fact that Yani wouldn’t sleep with her most likely indicated that the problem was his and not hers, a theory she wanted her friends to confirm at a post-yoga breakfast. “It just doesn’t make any sense,” Adriana said, placing her mouth delicately around a spoonful of granola. “What do you think is wrong with him?” Leigh sipped her coffee and smiled at the waitress for more. The diner at the corner of Tenth and University wasn’t the best brunch place around-the servers were always surly, the eggs were sometimes cold, and the coffee ran the gamut from watery to bitter-but it was close to the studio and both girls could be certain that they would never see anyone they knew. There weren’t many places in downtown Manhattan where you could dine sporting yoga pants and sweaty ponytails without raising eyebrows, so they persevered. “I don’t know. I don’t suppose you think he’s gay?” “Of course not,” Adriana snapped. “And there’s no chance that he’s just not that into you…” Adriana gave one of her cute mini-snorts. “Please.” “Well, then it’s got to be one of the usuals. Erectile dysfunction, mid-herpes outbreak, freakishly small member. What else could it be?” Adriana considered these options, but none of them felt quite right. Yani seemed peaceful, accepting, completely self-assured in that strong, silent way. No man had ever “What else? Why, isn’t it obvious? He’s a total bed-wetter and he’s terrified of being found out.” Emmy seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and for the briefest moment Adriana was irritated to have the attention shifted away from her. “Hey! We didn’t know if you’d make it. Here, give me your stuff,” Leigh said, holding out her arms. “What, don’t you want me to sit next to you? I promise I’ll sit really close, maybe rub my shoulder against yours. It’ll be fun.” Leigh sighed. Adriana patted the seat next to her; she knew Leigh had “space issues” and she tried to be understanding, but it was annoying always having to be the one who got crammed inside booths and crowded in banquettes. “How does Russell deal with the fact that you can’t stand being near anyone?” “It’s not that I ‘can’t stand being near anyone.’ I just like a little buffer zone. What’s wrong with a little personal space?” Leigh asked. “Yeah, but seriously: Does he get it? Accept it? Or does he hate it?” Leigh sighed again. “He hates it. I feel bad. He comes from a huge, happy family of mouth-kissers! I’m an only child with parents as affectionate as ceramic statues. I’m working on it, but I can’t help that all that closeness and touching seriously freaks me out.” Adriana raised her hand in defeat. “Fair enough. As long as you recognize the issue.” Leigh nodded. “Definitely aware. Constantly, neurotically, miserably aware. And working on it, I promise.” Emmy collapsed onto the bench beside Adriana; the padded vinyl heaved a bit with the extra ninety-five pounds and then settled. “How was yoga? Still no love from the Y-man?” “Not yet. But he will succumb,” Adriana said. Leigh nodded. “They always do. For you, at least.” Emmy clapped her hand on the table. “Girls, girls! Have we forgotten so soon? Adriana is no longer seeking casual encounters. Of course, she’s welcome to become Yani’s girlfriend, but according to the rules, she cannot be his one-night stand.” “Ah, yes. The rules. Agreed to after one too many cocktails and, at least as of today, not settled yet. I think that still makes Yani fair game.” Adriana made a point to smile cutely, not sexily, focusing on deepening the dimples that appeared when she was acting her most girlish. Emmy blew her a kiss. “Honey, save those dimples for your future boyfriend. They’re worthless at this table. And besides, I have news.” “Duncan news?” Leigh asked automatically, forgetting for a second that they’d now been broken up for nearly three weeks. “No, not Duncan news-although I did run into his sister, who told me that he and the virgin cheerleader are going in on a Hamptons share with three other couples for July and August.” “Mmm, sounds great. They can pay twenty grand for a small bedroom and shared bathroom and bumper-to-bumper traffic, all so they can spend the summer Adriana shuddered. Just the thought of that summer was enough to make her feel on edge. It had been her idea-what could be so bad about a mansion in the Hamptons with a pool, a tennis court, and forty to fifty single, professional twentysomethings?-and she’d campaigned Emmy and Leigh vociferously for weeks until they finally agreed. All three had been so miserable with the 24/7 noise and partying and drinking-till-you-puke theme that they’d spent each weekend of their half-share huddled at the far end of the pool together, clinging to one another for sanity’s sake. “Please, no! Don’t go there. Even all these years later, it’s still traumatic.” “Yeah, well, Duncan and the trainer can go hang themselves for all I care. I had a long talk with Chef Massey this week and he’s still interested in having me do some work abroad. He’s planning to open two new restaurants this year alone and needs people on-site to oversee the progress, help with hiring, stuff like that. And of course, menu ideas whenever possible. I start a week from Monday.” “Congratulations!” Leigh said. Adriana squeezed Leigh’s hand and tried her hardest to appear pleased. She wasn’t unhappy for Emmy-after all, the girl “…so I’ll be traveling one to two weeks out of every four. And he’s going to start looking for a new GM for Willow so I can focus even more on the new restaurants. I’ll get to do a bit of everything: scouting, hiring, menu consultation, and then, once they open, stay on for a few weeks to make sure everything runs smoothly. How awesome is that?” Emmy beamed. Adriana hadn’t heard a word. “What’s going on?” she asked. Leigh glared at her. “Emmy was just saying that Chef Massey’s offer is still on the table. And Emmy’s going to take it.” “The salary isn’t quite what I hoped for, but I’ll be traveling so much that I’ll barely have any living expenses. And-are you ready for this?-my first trip is to Paris. For ‘training.’ How amazing is that?” Adriana tried not to resent the ebullient look on Emmy’s face. Emmy accidentally sipped from Adriana’s coffee cup and it was all Adriana could do not to stab her hand with a fork. Why on earth was she so upset? Was she really such a jealous, petty person that she couldn’t be happy for her own best friend’s success? She forced herself to smile and utter some sort of congratulations in the only way she knew how. “Well, you know what that means, don’t you, “Yes, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking about that.” “Backing out already?” Adriana said coyly. She cradled her coffee cup and pressed her lips to the edge. Emmy cleared her throat and pretended to smooth her eyebrow with an extended middle finger. “Backing out? Hardly. I was going to clarify a few rules, is all.” “You’re all about rules today, aren’t you?” Adriana sniped. “Hey, don’t take it out on me that you’re losing your touch. It’s not my fault Yani couldn’t be less interested,” Emmy said. “Come on, guys.” Leigh sighed. No matter how many years passed or how much responsibility each assumed, they still managed to bicker like bitchy teenagers on a regular basis. In some way, though, each found it comforting; it reminded them how close they really were: Acquaintances were always on their best behavior, but sisters loved each other enough to say anything. “Can I help it if I’m eager to get started? As neither of you has been shy about pointing out, I’m way, way behind,” said Emmy. Adriana reminded herself to play nicely. She clasped her hands together and said, “Okay, let’s do it. How many men are you thinking of this year?” Leigh, desperate not to remind the girls that she hadn’t agreed to any changes, anxiously chimed in. “I think three sounds fair, don’t you guys?” Adriana made a noise as though she were choking on her coffee. “Three? Please! That’s a good month, not a good year.” “For once, I’m going to agree,” Emmy said. “With all the traveling I’m going to be doing, I don’t think three is realistic.” “So, what, are you going to screw a guy in every country you visit?” Leigh laughed. “Like, ‘Here’s my passport and here’s my hotel key, come on in’?” “I was actually thinking more like a guy on every continent.” “Shut up!” Leigh and Adriana said in tandem. “What? Is that sooo impossible to imagine?” “Yes.” Leigh nodded. “Ridiculous,” Adriana agreed. “Well, I’ve decided. One man for every continent I visit. Foreign, sexy men. The less American, the better. And no strings attached. No relationships, no emotional entanglements-just pure, unadulterated sex.” Adriana whistled. “ “What about Antarctica?” Leigh asked. “I don’t think Adi has managed to sleep with a guy from Antarctica.” “I thought of that. Antarctica does seem a little unrealistic. Which is why I think Alaska can count for Antarctica.” Emmy pulled a crumpled paper from her messenger bag and smoothed it flat on the table. “Is that a chart? Please don’t tell me you made a chart.” Adriana laughed. “I made a chart.” Leigh looked toward the ceiling. “She made a chart.” “I’ve got it all figured out. Obviously, I already have North America, so that leaves six more. And, technically speaking, Mark-Otis’s daddy-was born in Moscow, so he really could count for Europe.” “I call bullshit on that,” Leigh said. “It has to be within “Seconded,” Adriana said. “We’ll give you America-North only-but Mark is a no-go. Why would you even want him to count for Europe? You’re going to Paris in a few weeks!” Emmy nodded. “Fair enough. One down, six to go.” “What if you meet a Japanese guy in Greece, or an Australian in Thailand?” Adriana asked, looking perplexed. “Do they count as Asia and Australia, or does the sex have to take place Emmy’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.” “Let’s give the girl a break,” Leigh said, looking to Adriana. “I think nationality or location should count. My god, it’s amazing enough that she’s even going to attempt this.” “I’m fine with that,” Adriana agreed. “And in a demonstration of goodwill, I think you should have a free pass as well.” “Meaning?” “Meaning that you should get to skip one continent. Otherwise, I think you’re just setting yourself up for failure.” “Which one?” Emmy asked, appearing slightly relieved. “What if Swiss guys counted as a wild card?” Leigh asked. “It’s a neutral country. I think if you sleep with a Swiss guy he can count for anywhere.” The girls laughed and laughed, the kind of laughter that happens all too rarely after college. Adriana pulled a blue tin tub from the front pocket of her yoga bag and rubbed a bit of clear salve on her lips, aware that both her friends and nearly every patron at every surrounding table appeared transfixed by her little ritual. It made her feel a little bit better. She’d had trouble ridding herself of the thoughts that had been plaguing her lately, namely that her looks wouldn’t last forever. She had known this intellectually, of course-the way a teenager knows death is inevitable-but she was completely unable to comprehend the reality. Her mother had been reminding her of this very fact since the day Adriana had, at the age of fourteen, agreed to two dates with two different boys on the same night. When asked which one she would choose to see that night, Adriana gazed at her still-beautiful mother with uncomprehending eyes. “Why would I break plans with either one, Mama?” Adriana had asked. “There’s time enough for both of them.” Her mother had smiled and cupped Adriana’s cheek in a cool, open palm. “Enjoy it now, Of course she was right, but Adriana hadn’t counted on “always” coming so soon. It was time to utilize her beauty for something more important than attracting a steady stream of lovers. Her pledge to find a boyfriend was a step in the right direction, but it wasn’t far-reaching enough. With great flourish, Adriana held her left hand up and sighed dramatically. “Do you see this hand, girls?” Both nodded. “By this time next year, there will be a diamond on it. An extraordinarily large diamond. I hereby declare that I will be engaged to “Adriana!” Emmy shrieked. “You’re just trying to outdo me.” Leigh choked on a piece of cantaloupe. “Engaged? To whom? Are you seeing someone?” “No, not currently. But Emmy’s commitment to making a change has inspired me. Plus, it’s time to face facts, girls. We are not getting any younger, and I think we can all acknowledge that there are only a limited number of rich, handsome, successful men between the ages of thirty and forty. If we don’t claim ours now”-she cupped both hands around her firm breasts and pushed them upward-“then we may as well forget it.” “Well, thank god you figured it out,” Emmy said with amusement. “I’ll just point to one of the dozens-no, hundreds-of successful, handsome, single men in their thirties I know and just make him mine. Yes, that’s the plan.” Adriana smiled and tapped Emmy’s hand patronizingly. “Don’t forget rich, “If by “Laugh if you must,” Adriana said, feeling slightly irritated that, as usual, she wasn’t being taken seriously. “But there’s nothing funny about a five-plus-carat round stone in a micropave setting from Harry Winston. Nothing funny at all.” “Yeah, but it’s pretty funny now,” Emmy said while Leigh dissolved into laughter. “Adriana engaged? It’s impossible to imagine.” “No more impossible to imagine than the serial monogamist putting out for every foreign stranger who crosses her path,” Adriana shot back. Leigh wiped away a tear, taking care not to pull the delicate skin beneath her eye, skin that was probably already doomed anyway from her smoking days. She wasn’t sure if it was the endorphins from a particularly strenuous yoga class or the semi-dread of having dinner with Russell’s parents later that night, or just the desire to share in her friends’ fun, but before she could stop it-almost before she even knew it was happening-Leigh started to talk without any forethought or awareness. “In honor of your acts of bravery,” she was saying, the words feeling as though they emerged entirely of their own volition, “I, too, would like to propose a goal. By the end of this year, I will…” Her words faded. She’d begun speaking without knowing what to say, assuming something would come, but she had nothing to offer. She found her job mostly rewarding, if a tad boring at times; she was perfectly comfortable with the number of men she’d slept with so far; she’d already snagged herself a boyfriend fitting all of Adriana’s criteria-not just any man but a famous one, a man half of the country and the entire female population of Manhattan clamored to date; and she had finally saved enough to buy her own apartment. She was doing exactly what was expected of her. What was she supposed to change? “Get knocked up?” Emmy offered helpfully. “Have plastic surgery?” Adriana countered. “Make your first million?” “Have a threesome?” “Get hooked on booze or drugs?” “Learn to love the subway?” asked Adriana with a wicked smile. Leigh shuddered. “God, no. Not Emmy patted her hand. “We know, honey. The dirt, the noise, the unpredictable schedule…” “All those people!” Adriana added. After twelve years of friendship, she felt like she knew Leigh better than she knew herself. If there was one thing that drove the poor girl mad-even more than mess or loud, repetitive sounds or surprise-it was crowds. The girl was an anxious wreck these days, and Adriana and Emmy discussed it every chance they got. Emmy broke the moment of silence. “Take it as a good sign that you don’t have an area of your life that requires massive restructuring. I mean, how many people can really say that?” Adriana nibbled a leftover piece of toast. “Seriously, Emmy reached for her nearly empty glass of grapefruit juice and turned to Leigh. “And to recognizing perfection when it’s present.” Leigh rolled her eyes and forced a smile. “To gorgeous foreigners and boulder-sized diamonds,” she said. Two glasses met hers and made a wonderful clinking sound. “Cheers!” they all called in unison. “Cheers to that.” If all of her irritatingly verbose colleagues didn’t shut the hell up in the next seven minutes, there was no way Leigh could make it from West Midtown to the Upper East Side by one. Didn’t these people ever get sick of hearing themselves talk? Didn’t they get “Summer is a tough time for a religious biography-we knew that going in,” one of the associate editors commented with some trepidation, still unaccustomed to speaking at meetings. Someone from the sales team, a sweet-faced woman who looked far younger than her thirty-some years and whose name Leigh could never remember, addressed the table. “Of course summer isn’t ideal for anything other than beach reads, but the season alone doesn’t account for these disappointing numbers. Orders from everyone-B amp;N, Borders, the independents-are all significantly lower than forecasted. Perhaps if we could generate a little more buzz…” Jason, the only other editor who had been promoted as quickly as Leigh and whose existence at Brook Harris was the only thing that kept her sane, sighed and looked at his watch. Leigh caught his eye and nodded. She couldn’t wait any longer. “Please excuse me,” Leigh interrupted. “But I have a lunch appointment I can’t miss. A business lunch, of course,” she added quickly, although of course no one cared. She quietly gathered her papers and shoved everything into the monogrammed leather folder that accompanied her everywhere and tiptoed out of the conference room. She had just swung by her office to grab her purse when her phone rang and she saw her publisher’s extension on her caller ID. Leigh had just decided to screen him when she heard her assistant’s voice call out, “Henry, line one. He says it’s urgent.” “He always says it’s urgent,” Leigh muttered to herself. She took a calming breath and picked up the receiver. “Henry! Are you calling to apologize for missing the sales meeting?” she joked. “I’m willing to overlook it this time, but don’t let it happen again.” “Ha-ha, I’m cracking up on the inside, I promise,” he said. “I’m not keeping you from a lunchtime manicure or a quick jaunt to Barneys, am I?” Leigh forced a laugh. It was positively eerie how well he knew her. Although technically it was a “There’s someone in my office I’d like you to meet. Come on over here for a minute.” Goddammit! The man had a gift for intuitively sensing the most inconvenient moments of her day and then asking for something. It was uncanny and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, if he bugged her office. She took another calming breath and glanced at the clock. Her appointment was in fifteen minutes and the salon was a ten-minute walk away. “I’ll be right there,” she said with enough cheer to fell a sequoia. She speed-walked through the cubicles and winding hallways that separated her office from Henry’s. He obviously wanted her to meet a potential author or someone new they’d just signed, since he was a big believer in demonstrating how Brook Harris was run like a family and insisted on personally introducing all the editors to all the new authors. It was one of the qualities that had most impressed her when she’d first started out-and one of the main reasons so many authors signed with Brook Harris and stayed for their entire careers-but today it was really fucking annoying. Anyone less than Tom Wolfe and she wasn’t interested. She ran calculations as she rounded the corner and passed the elevator bank. Her congrats-on-joining-the-family-we’re-so-happy-to-have-you or some similar we’d-be-thrilled-and-honored-to-have-you-join-the-family speech would take only a couple of minutes. Another minute or two to feign interest in the new/potential author’s current work, plus one more to congratulate him on the success of his previous publication, and there was a chance she’d be out in under five. At least she’d better be. She’d been up so late the night before trying to finish her notes on the last chapter of her newest memoir acquistion that she had slept straight through her alarm and had to race, unshowered, to make the sales meeting on time. It wasn’t until Leigh found a toweringly tall pale purple orchid on her desk with a note that read, “I love you and can’t wait to see you tonight. Happy First Year!” that she even remembered that Russell had made reservations at Daniel to celebrate their one-year anniversary. Typical. It was the single day in her entire career-possibly her entire life-that she’d overslept and left the house looking like a homeless person, and it was the only time it mattered. Thankfully Gilles had agreed to fit her in for a last-minute blowout (“You can have Adriana’s appointment at one if she doesn’t mind,” he’d offered. “She doesn’t mind!” Leigh had screamed into the phone. “I take full responsibility!”) and she planned to swing by Barneys and pick up a bottle of cologne or a tie or a dopp kit-really, whatever was closest to the register and came prewrapped-on her way back to the office. There was absolutely no time for dawdling. “You can go right on in,” Henry’s perky new assistant drawled. Her spiky, pink-streaked hair didn’t fit with the Southern accent-or the conservative corporate culture-but she seemed able to spell and didn’t appear overtly hostile, so it was overlooked. Leigh nodded her thanks and barreled through the open door. “Hello!” she sang to Henry. She guessed the man sitting opposite him, facing away from her, was in his early forties. Despite the early summer weather, he wore a light blue shirt and an olive corduroy blazer with patches over the elbows. His dirty-blond hair-light brown, really, now that she looked more carefully-was the perfect amount of shaggy, just grazing the top of his collar and falling slightly over the tops of his ears. Before he even turned to look at her, she knew, intuited, that he would be attractive. Perhaps even gorgeous. Which was partly why she was so taken aback when their eyes finally met. The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she’d expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn’t until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen. “Leigh, may I introduce you to Jesse Chapman? You’re familiar with his work, of course. And Jesse, this is Leigh Eisner, my most promising editor, and my favorite, were I forced to choose.” Jesse stood to face Leigh, and although his eyes remained fixed on hers, she could feel him appraising her. She wondered if he liked girls with stringy ponytails and no makeup. She prayed he did. “He says that about everyone,” Leigh said graciously, extending her hand to meet Jesse’s. “Of course he does,” Jesse said smoothly, standing to envelop her right hand between both of his. “And that’s why we all adore him. Please, will you join us?” He waved his hand toward the empty space beside him on the love seat and looked at her. “Oh, well, actually, I was just-” “She’d love to,” Henry said. Leigh resisted the urge to glare at him while she settled into the ancient couch. Henry cleared his throat. “Jesse and I were just discussing his last novel. I was saying how we all-really, the entire publishing industry-thought the Smiling again, this time with the slightest expression of amusement, Jesse turned to Leigh. “And what did you think, dear? Did you think the review was warranted?” Leigh was shocked by his assuredness that she had not only read but remembered both the book and this particular review. Which, irritatingly, she did. It had been the cover of the Sunday Leigh spoke, as she often did, without thinking. It was a habit at direct odds with her methodical personality, but she just couldn’t help herself. She could meticulously organize an apartment or schedule a day or create a work plan, but she couldn’t seem to master the concept that not all thoughts need to be spoken. The girls and Russell claimed they found it charming, but it could be downright mortifying sometimes. Like in a meeting with your boss, for instance. Something about Jesse’s gaze-interested yet still aloof-made her forget that she was in Henry’s office, talking to one of the greatest writing talents of the twenty-first century, and she barreled ahead. “The review was petty, to be sure. It was vindictive and unprofessional, a hit job if I’ve ever seen one. That said, I think Henry inhaled and instinctively placed his hand over his mouth. Leigh felt faint; her heart began to race at top speed and she could feel the sweat starting to dampen her palms and feet. Jesse grinned. “Telling it straight. No bullshit. That’s rare these days, wouldn’t you say?” Not sure whether this was an actual question, Leigh stared at her hands, which she was wringing with a frightening ferocity. “A regular charm school here, isn’t it?” Henry laughed. His voice sounded hollow and more than a little nervous. “Well, thank you for sharing your opinion with Mr. Chapman, Leigh. Your Leigh took this as her cue to leave and was positively ecstatic to oblige. “I, uh, I’m so…I meant no offense, of course. I’m a really huge fan and, it’s just that-” “Please don’t apologize. It was a pleasure meeting you.” With tremendous effort, Leigh resisted the urge to apologize again and managed to get herself off the couch, past Jesse, and out of Henry’s office without further humiliation, but one look at Henry’s assistant’s face and she knew she was screwed. “Was it really that bad?” she asked, gripping the girl’s desk. “Whoa. That was ballsy.” “Ballsy? I didn’t intend to be ballsy. I was trying to be diplomatic! I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I said that. Ohmigod, eight years of work and it’s all down the drain because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Was it really that bad?” Leigh asked again. There was a pause. The assistant opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. “It wasn’t good.” Leigh checked her watch and grudgingly acknowledged to herself that there was no chance of making her appointment or getting back in time for the calls she had scheduled all afternoon with various agents. Back in her office, she began to work the phones. Her first call was to cancel with Gilles and the second was to Barneys. A pleasant-sounding salesclerk in the men’s department agreed to messenger a gift to her office before six. Leigh was baffled when he asked what she’d like; unable to think clearly and not particularly caring, she instructed him to make it in the $200 range and charge her American Express. By the time the gift-wrapped box arrived at five-thirty, Leigh was close to tears. She hadn’t heard another word from Henry, who usually couldn’t make it an hour without multiple phone calls or stop-ins. She’d managed to run to the gym briefly-no workout, just a quick shower-but she didn’t realize until she was standing under the blessedly hot water that she’d left her gym bag in the office, the one with her cosmetics, a change of underwear, and, most important, her hairdryer. Although she would have thought it impossible, the mini-dryer attached to the gym wall with what seemed like a two-inch cord actually left her hair looking significantly worse than it had before the shower. Russell and her mother called her cell phone during the walk back to her office, but she screened both of them. Russell stood outside Daniel, looking relaxed and fit and happy. Like he’d just returned from a month in the Caribbean, where he’d done nothing but treat his body like a temple. His charcoal gray suit hugged every toned muscle. His skin glowed with the health of someone who runs six miles a day; he was freshly washed and shaven. Even his shoes-a pair of black lace-ups that he’d bought on their last trip to Milan-literally shined. He was groomed to perfection, and Leigh resented him for it. Who on earth managed to work a full day and keep their tie that clean or their shirt that crisp? How was it always possible to match that well, to have coordinated cuff links with trouser socks, shoes with briefcases? “Hi, gorgeous. I was starting to worry.” She pecked him on the lips but moved away before he could open his mouth. “Worry? Why? I’m right on time.” “Well, you know, I just hadn’t heard from you all day. You did get the orchid, right? I know the purple ones are your favorite.” “I did. It was beautiful. Thank you so much.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears-it was the higher-pitched, polite tone she used with her doorman or dry cleaner. Russell placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the front doors. They were immediately greeted by a tuxedoed man nearing the end of middle age who appeared to recognize Russell. They conferred momentarily in whispers, the maître d’ leaning in toward Russell, the two men clapping each other on the shoulders. A moment later, he motioned for a young girl in a tight but conservative pantsuit to show them to their table. “Football fan?” Leigh asked, more to appear interested than because she actually was. “What? Oh, the maître d’? Yeah, he must have recognized me from the show. What else could explain this table, right?” Only then did Leigh notice that they had easily the best table in the whole restaurant. They were facing the entire gorgeous room from their perch under one of the dramatic archways. The lighting was so soft and perfect that Leigh thought she might even look good under it, and the heavy brocade and acres of rich red velvet felt soothing after such a hellish day. The tables were adequately spaced to keep people from sitting on top of one another, the background music was unobtrusive, and there didn’t appear to be a single person talking on a cell phone. From strictly an anxiety standpoint, this place was heaven on earth-a particularly good thing tonight, considering Russell would be even less thrilled than he usually was if she made a fuss over the table selection. She relaxed even more after a glass of pinot grigio and some delicately caramelized sea scallops, but Leigh still couldn’t completely switch gears from work to romantic dinner à deux. She nodded her way through Russell’s description of a companywide memo he was thinking of authoring, his suggestion that they try to make it to his college buddy’s Martha’s Vineyard home sometime that summer, and his recap of a joke one of the show’s makeup artists had told him that morning. It wasn’t until the waiter delivered two flutes of champagne and something called a coconut “What’s this?” she asked with genuine excitement, already envisioning an initial pendant of some sort, or perhaps a pretty gold bracelet. “Open it and see,” he said softly. Leigh fingered the plush velvet and grinned. “You shouldn’t have!” “Open it!” “I just know I’m going to love it.” “Leigh, open the box. You may be surprised.” The look in his eyes gave her pause, as did the way his hand tensed around his champagne glass. She snapped open the lid and, just like they do in every bad rom com she’d ever seen, she gasped. There, nestled in the very middle of the necklace-sized box, was a ring. An engagement ring. A very huge, very beautiful engagement ring. “Leigh?” His voice shook. Gently, he took the box from her and plucked the ring out. In one swift movement, he took her left hand in his own and slid the ring onto the proper finger. It fit perfectly. “Leigh, honey? I’ve loved you since the moment I met you, one year ago today. I think we’ve both known from the very first night that this was something special-something forever. Will you marry me?” Emmy’s first meeting the next day with a local culinary staffing company wasn’t until two o’clock-one of the many benefits of the hospitality industry-but she was really starting to feel the jet lag. When she’d arrived at the hotel that morning at ten, she had ordered a light room-service breakfast of coffee, croissant, and berries (after a quick conversion from euros to dollars, she realized the cost was $31, not including tip) and then bathed using the three-ounce bubble bath she found in the minibar ($50). Following a quick nap and few hours spent confirming the next day’s appointments, she’d had a Niçoise salad and a Coke in the restaurant’s outdoor garden ($38). None of it felt particularly extravagant, though, when compared to dinner, a simple steak-frites she had eaten alone in the hotel’s lobby lounge two hours earlier. Steak, fries, and a single glass of red wine. (“House wine? What do you mean by ‘house wine’?” the waiter had asked with a barely suppressed sneer. “Ah,” he said after a moment of intense thought. “You mean ‘inexpensive,’ yes? I will bring it to you, madam.”) The bill had come to a whopping $96, and the wine tasted like Manischewitz. He hadn’t even called her mademoiselle! Occupying a prime sliver of real estate on chic Rue du Faubourg in the 1st arrondissement-just steps from the Ritz and Hermès-the Hotel Costes was legendary for its celeb-heavy clientele and ultra-chic late-night lounge scene. When the travel department asked if she had any hotel preferences, Emmy couldn’t work up the nerve even to suggest the Costes. It wasn’t until the agent had given her a choice between there and a gorgeous riverfront hotel on the Left Bank that she practically shrieked with excitement. What better place to get started on Tour de Whore ’07? Emmy had spent a full week anticipating her stay at the Costes. One hour after arrival she was awed by its coolness; two hours later she was intimidated; three hours after that she was ready to check out. The Costes might be the best place in town to be seen, but it seemed impossible that anyone actually So she sat as unobtrusively as she could manage in the lounge, reading e-mails on her laptop and savoring an espresso (a flawless one, she grudgingly conceded). Her sister wrote that she and Kevin were planning to come to New York for the Fourth of July, and asked if she’d be in town. She had just written back to say that they could have her studio and she’d stay at Adriana’s when her new company-provided international cell phone rang. “This is Emmy Solomon,” she said as professionally as possible. “Emmy? Is that you?” “Leigh? How did you get this number?” “I called your office here and said it was an emergency. I hope you don’t mind?” “Sweetie, is everything okay? It’s two in the morning there.” “Yeah, everything’s fine, I just wanted you to hear it from me before the word got out over e-mail. I’m engaged!” “Engaged? Oh my god! Leigh, congratulations! I had no idea you guys were even thinking about it. This is so exciting! Tell me everything.” Emmy saw a uniformed staffer shoot her a nasty look, but she glared right back. “I, uh, guess I wasn’t really expecting it, either,” Leigh said. “It just sort of came out of nowhere.” “Well, how did he do it?” Leigh described what was supposed to be a simple anniversary dinner, how haggish she’d looked and felt, and what each of them had ordered at Daniel in measured, factual detail. By the time she got to the dessert-time proposal, Emmy had started interrupting in a desperate attempt to get to the good stuff. “I don’t care how “It’s huge.” “How huge?” “Very huge.” “Leigh!” “Just under four.” “Just under four! Carats? Four “I’m worried it’s too big. How can I wear something like that to work? I work in Emmy wanted to scream. “I won’t even dignify it with a response. Did you tell Adriana that you think it’s…I can’t even bring myself to say it.” “Yes. She told me if I think it’s too big I don’t deserve it.” “I’ll second that. Now stop being a goddamn idiot and tell me more. Have you set a date yet? When do you think you’ll move into his place?” The silence on the line was so complete that Emmy thought they’d been disconnected. “Leigh? Can you hear me?” “Yeah, sorry about that. We haven’t even come close to picking a date yet-I don’t know, next summer, I guess? The summer after?” “Leigh! You’re thirty years old and not getting any younger. You think we’re going to let you be engaged for two “I’m not “You met a year ago, Leigh, and as you’ve pointed out yourself on numerous occasions, he fits every checklist of everything you’ve been looking for in a man. And more. You’d be insane not to lock this up at the earliest possible date. At the very least, you need to get yourself situated in his apartment. Stake your claim.” “Emmy, you’re being ridiculous. ‘Stake my claim’? Are you kidding? You know how I feel about living together before marriage.” Emmy shrieked a little and then, remembering where she was, slapped a hand over her mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to abide by that absurd idea? My god, Leigh, you sound like some religious freak!” “Oh, Emmy, save it. You know it has nothing to do with any religious or moral reason. It’s just the way I want it. It’s a little old-fashioned. So what?” “Does Russell know?” “He certainly knows how I feel in general.” “But he doesn’t know that now, even though you’re engaged to be married, you’re not going to move in with him?” “We haven’t gotten there yet. I’m sure he’ll be totally understanding.” “Good god, Leigh. You know you’re going to have to live with him at some point, don’t you? Even though he’s a boy and he’s gross in the bathroom and might want the TV on sometimes when you don’t? You have thought about this, haven’t you?” Leigh sighed and said, “I know. In theory that all sounds okay, but in reality…I’m just used to living alone. I Slightly relieved that Leigh had, at the very least, opened up about her fear of cohabiting, Emmy eased a little. “I know, sweetie. It’s scary for everyone. Hell, Duncan and I dated for five years and never made it official. But you love him and he loves you and the two of you will figure it out. If you want to wait until you’re legal, well, who am I to tell you what-” “I’m not in love with him, Emmy.” Leigh’s voice was unwavering and their connection was crystal clear, but Emmy was certain she hadn’t heard correctly. “What did you say? I can’t hear a goddamn thing here.” Leigh was silent on the other end. “Leigh? Are you there? What did you just say?” “Don’t make me say it again,” Leigh whispered, her throat catching on the last word. “Sweetheart, what do you mean? You two seem so happy together! You’ve never uttered a negative word about Russell, only told us over and over how sweet and kind and thoughtful he is,” Emmy coaxed. “None of that changes the fact that sometimes I’m bored to tears when I’m with him. I know I shouldn’t be, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am. We don’t have anything in common! He loves sports; I love reading. He wants to go out and network and meet people, and I just want to hole up at home. He’s not the least bit interested in current events or the arts-just football, weight training, nutrition, stats. His college injury. I’m not denying that he’s a terrific guy, Em, but I’m not sure he’s terrific for me.” Emmy liked to think of herself as fairly intuitive, but she hadn’t sensed this for a second. “Who’s that?” Leigh asked. “Excuse me?” Emmy peered at the man; she was momentarily intimidated, but that quickly shifted to irritation. “I requested that you please remove your shoes from the chair. “Emmy, what’s going on? Who is that?” Emmy, usually uncomfortable with any type of confrontation, felt a wave of anger course through her. She forgot all about Leigh and glared at the man. “ Leigh laughed. “Tell him how it is.” Emmy made a point of speaking loudly into the phone. “I’m sitting in the lounge because it’s too goddamn dark to read in my own room-just sitting, mind you-and I have one of my legs tucked under me. And you want to know the type of shoes I’m putting all over the furniture? Ballet slippers. Like, not ballet-style flats but actual soleless ballet slippers. I’m a “Got to love French hospitality,” Leigh said. “Am I to assume that you haven’t snagged yourself a lover yet?” “Nice try. Don’t think you’re changing the subject that easily.” “Em, I really appreciate your listening, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay? I’m sure everything will work out.” “It’s really beautiful,” Leigh said softly. “So classic. I don’t know how he knew I liked that-I’m not even sure I knew I liked that. We never went shopping or looking; we never even talked about it.” “That’s Russell for you. What shape is it?” “A larger emerald-cut stone in the middle flanked by two smaller emerald-cuts on the side of a very thin platinum band.” Emmy whistled. “Sounds gorgeous. Did you really not have any idea?” There was a long pause. For a moment Emmy again thought that they’d gotten disconnected, but then she heard Leigh breathing heavily. “Are you okay, honey? Leigh?” More breathing, this time in shorter, more shallow bursts. “Oh, I’m fine. Just a little racing heart. Must be all the excitement, you know?” Emmy pressed her cell phone to her ear, desperately wanting to hear just a little of the giggly, girly enthusiasm of someone who had just gotten engaged, but Emmy knew better. Leigh wasn’t a giggly, girly girl: She was funny, she was sensible, she was loyal, and she was neurotic; giggly just wasn’t her thing. Maybe Leigh was also feeling a little uncomfortable describing her ring when everyone had expected Emmy to be the first. Emmy flashed back to the dinner a few months earlier when she’d excitedly told Leigh and Adriana that Duncan had asked for her ring size. Not necessarily the most romantic gesture, she remembered thinking, but it definitely indicated good things. She felt her face redden at the memory of her excitement and decided she’d save Leigh from feeling any more pity for her. “So what’d you get him for your anniversary?” Emmy asked with extra, perhaps excessive, cheer. Another long pause. It sounded like Leigh was trying to moderate her breathing with measured breaths. “Leigh?” “Sorry, I’m, uh, I’m fine. Just a little…uh, I got him a laptop bag. An orange one.” She took another deep breath and coughed. “From Barneys.” Emmy tried to mask her surprise. “Russell finally got a laptop? I never thought I’d see the day. How did you finally convince him?” “He still doesn’t have a laptop,” Leigh sighed. “Oh, Emmy, I’m the worst person ever!” “Honey, what’s wrong? I’m so confused. Are you planning on buying him a laptop? That’s cute! You couldn’t have known he was going to propose that night. Don’t worry about it. Russell is the last person to get upset over something like that.” There was another long pause, and when Leigh finally spoke, Emmy could tell she was crying. “I got him an orange laptop bag because I was too lazy to pick out something personal,” she said, her voice filled with anger and regret. “I called the store and gave them my credit card number and that’s what they sent over. A laptop bag! For someone who doesn’t own a laptop. In orange.” There was a sniffle. “Russell hates bright colors.” “Leigh, sweetheart, don’t be so hard on yourself. Russell loves you so much that he asked you to spend the rest of your life with him. Don’t let some dumb present get in the way of that. I bet he didn’t mind at all, did he?” “He laughed it off, but I could tell he was hurt.” “He’s a big boy, Leigh. He can handle a little gift mix-up.” Both girls knew that wasn’t what had happened, but they let it slide. “So tell me, was everyone else excited?” Leigh dutifully described her mother’s reaction, and Adriana’s, and Russell’s family’s, interjecting jokes and amusing observations in all the right places. It wasn’t until the girls hung up, promising to talk in more depth the next day, that Emmy let herself feel a twinge of concern. Could there really be a problem with Leigh and Russell? Was it possible Leigh really was having serious doubts? “Pardon?” The male voice came from just over her right shoulder, but Emmy, convinced that another hotel employee was preparing to chastise her for something, ignored it. “Excuse me?” the voice persisted. “Forgive me for interrupting you.” Emmy glanced up, remembering at the last minute to appear colossally bored and displeased with the interruption, but the moment she said “Yes?” in the most irritated tone she could muster, she regretted it. Peering down at her was a guy with the kind of classical good looks-thick dark hair, crinkly eyes, easy smile full of straight white teeth-that made him almost universally attractive. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or movie-star sexy, but his pleasing appearance combined with his confident approachability made Emmy think that there wasn’t a sane woman on the planet who would find him unappealing. “Hi,” she murmured. He flashed another smile and motioned to the chair beside her with a questioning look. Emmy just nodded and stared as he sat. He was younger than she originally thought, perhaps even under thirty. Her lightning-fast appraisal-honed over so many years that it was now nearly instinctive-produced all positive points. Meticulously cut yet still casual navy cotton sweater over a white collared shirt. Good jeans that were blessedly devoid of deliberate rips, excessive fading, logos, studs, embroidery, or flap pockets. Simple but elegant brown loafers. Regular height, reasonably fit without being obsessive, well groomed but still masculine. If she had to criticize something, she might say that his jeans were a tad too tight. Then again, if one was going to seduce European men, tight jeans were an occupational hazard. Newly emboldened by his approach, and not forgetting that the only men she’d spoken to in France so far all worked at the Costes, Emmy smiled. “I’m Emmy,” she said. He grinned and offered her a hand. No rings, no bitten nails, no clear polish-all good signs. “Paul Wyckoff. I couldn’t help but overhear what that jackass said to you…” Dammit. There was no denying the obvious: Despite the painted-on jeans and the good manners and her fervent desire for it to not be so, Paul spoke English with an American accent. He was undeniably born and raised in the States, or perhaps-at the most exotic-Canada. She was bitterly disappointed. “…it’s just incredible, isn’t it?” he was saying. “It never ceases to amaze me how much people are willing to pay to be treated so poorly.” “So it’s not just me?” Emmy asked, slightly relieved that the hotel hadn’t singled her out. “Definitely not,” Paul assured her. “They’re positively abusive to “Well, thank you for that. I was starting to develop quite a complex.” “I’m glad I could help. The first time I stayed here, I was a paranoid wreck. My parents used to drag us all over the world-I practically grew up in hotels-but it only took a day here to make me feel like a bumbling idiot,” he said. Emmy laughed, already forgetting about Paul’s lack of eligibility. Which was lacking, of course, for game purposes only. It had taken less than four minutes of small talk to deduce that he would make the perfect husband. But no! No, dammit; she wasn’t going to fall into that trap again. “Glad to know I’m not alone.” Emmy finished her coffee and licked the spoon clean. “Why did your family travel so much?” “This is where I should say ‘army brat’ or ‘diplomat’s son,’ but really, there’s not one reason. Mostly my parents are just schizophrenic about where they live, and they’re both writers. So we were always on the move. I was actually born in Argentina.” It took Emmy only a split second to understand the significance of that fact. “Does that make you Argentinean?” Paul laughed. “Among other things.” “Meaning?” “Meaning that I’m an Argentine because I was born in Buenos Aires while my parents were both working on books. We lived there off and on for a couple of years before heading to Bali. My father is English, so I’m automatically conferred UK citizenship, and my mother is French, but their citizenship laws-like their customer service-tend to be tricky, so I’ve never claimed that one. It may sound interesting, but I assure you, it’s a colossal mess.” “It’s just that you sound so…American.” “Yeah, I know. I went to American schools my entire life, literally from kindergarten on, in whatever country we were in. And I went to university in Chicago. It kills my dad that I sound like a born-and-bred American.” Emmy nodded, trying to process it all. Or really to catalog every detail so that her triumphant e-mail to the girls that night would be airtight. “You ready for something a little stronger?” Paul asked. “You might need it after listening to me talk about myself for so long.” “What were you thinking?” she responded, deliberately heavy on the eyelashes and the forward lean. He laughed. “Nothing too crazy. Maybe switch from coffee to wine?” They shared a bottle of something rich and velvety and so heavy with tannins it made Emmy’s mouth pucker. A Bordeaux, she would wager, although she could no longer venture a guess to the particular vintage, as she’d been able to years ago, when she’d spent six months traveling all over France, working random restaurant jobs and visiting vineyards. Bordeaux had never been one of her personal favorites, but tonight she loved the way it tasted. They chatted effortlessly through another bottle, during which time Emmy envisioned their imminent honeymoon (an oceanfront villa in Bora Bora with an open-air sleeping pavilion and a private plunge pool, or perhaps a luxury African safari where they’d make love in their net-draped bed before a driver whisked them past elephants and lions in an imposing black Range Rover) only once. Things were quite flirtatious, actually, until Emmy asked-casually, she thought-how Paul felt about kids. His head snapped up. “Kids? What about them?” Was she not being as subtle as she thought? The wine must be clouding her judgment. She’d thought that asking whether he had any nieces or nephews would serve as a totally natural segue into soliciting his opinion about having his own kids one day, but perhaps this was more transparent than she had originally figured? “Oh, nothing in particular,” Emmy said. “They’re just so adorable, aren’t they? Although it does seem like so many people don’t want them these days, doesn’t it? And I just can’t imagine that. I don’t mean immediately, of course, but I definitely know I want them at some point, you know?” Something about this observation seemed to remind Paul that he was late for his previously unmentioned plans. “Yeah, I guess. Listen, Emmy, I’m actually really late meeting up with some friends,” he said, staring at his watch. “Really? Now?” It was nearly midnight, but it felt like four in the morning. She was pleasantly drunk and mellow and determined to seduce Paul like the sexually independent and freethinking woman she was. Never mind that she really just wanted to continue their conversation upstairs, tucked under a comfy duvet while they languidly talked and kissed until sunrise. She would lay her head on his chest and he would play with her hair, occasionally cupping her chin with a strong hand and gently pulling her lips to his. They would laugh at each other’s silly puns and share secrets and talk about all their favorite places to visit, hoping but not yet saying-after all, it was only their first night-that they would someday travel to all of them together. They would wake in the late morning and Paul would tell Emmy how adorable she looked all sleepy and disheveled and they would order room-service breakfast (flaky croissants, fresh orange juice, coffee with full-fat milk, and a whole plate of plump, juicy berries) and work out their plan for- “Hey there. Emmy?” Paul placed a few fingers on the top of her hand. “You still with me?” “Sorry. What were you saying?” “I was saying that I have to get going. I was supposed to meet some friends at ten, but I, uh, got distracted.” His sheepish smile made her heart skip a beat. “Any other time I’d invite you to come-I’d insist on it-but, well, it’s actually a birthday party for my ex, and I’m not sure she’d be thrilled if I brought…someone. You know?” The projector in Emmy’s head came to an abrupt stop; the screen showing the two of them laughing as they raided her minibar for more wine was replaced with one where she alone watched the endless loops on CNN International, clad in her holey gray T-shirt, popping those massive French She managed a smile. “No, no, no. Of course! I totally understand. It would be weird and inconsiderate to show up with another girl. Plus, I’m really feeling the jet lag right now-Christ, it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks. And I have such an early meeting tomorrow, so I wouldn’t be able to go, anyway.” Paul motioned to the waiter for their check. “No, please, let me,” she said, reaching rather forcefully across their tiny table. A remixed Shirley Basset song thumped from the speakers behind them and Emmy was surprised to see how thoroughly the entire lobby had transformed into a dark velvety lair of magnificent people. “I really am sorry to leave like this, but they’re my oldest friends and it’s been forever…” “Of course! Don’t worry about a thing.” She had already accepted that she was going upstairs alone. The idea of falling into bed with Paul as part of a promise she made to her friends felt ridiculous. Who was she kidding? It just wasn’t in her nature. Fine for other girls-fantastic, in fact, for people like Adriana-but Emmy just wasn’t made like that. She wanted to know someone, know him in every sense of the word, and sex was something that naturally followed that process, not some impulsive act that took the place of it. Besides, she was here all week. Maybe they could meet again the next day for dinner… Oh, wait, she had evening meetings the next night. Well, then they’d have to meet for drinks afterward. Start at the hotel, perhaps, because it was the most convenient, and then roam some charming cobblestone streets before ducking into the perfect Parisian bistro for some late-night He walked her to the tiny elevator tucked into a pitch-black corner of the lobby and stepped aside as an exceedingly attractive couple stepped off. “It was nice to meet you, Em. Emmy. Which do people call you?” “Both. But my closest friends have always used Em, so I like that.” She gave him her most winning smile. “Well, uh, I’m headed out in the morning, so I guess this is good-bye.” “Oh. Really? Where’s home?” She realized she didn’t even know where he lived. “Not home yet, unfortunately. I’ll be in Geneva for the next two days, and then possibly Zurich, depending.” “Sounds busy.” “Yeah, the travel schedule can be intense. But, uh, well, it really was great to meet you.” He paused and grinned. “I said that already, didn’t I?” Emmy told herself that the lump in her throat was a combination of PMS and jet lag and too much wine, and had absolutely positively nothing to do with Paul. Yet she was afraid she’d cry if she tried to speak, so she merely nodded. “Get some rest, okay? And don’t let any of the Costes people push you around. Promise?” She nodded again. He tipped her face up toward his own and for a second she was quite certain he was going to kiss her. Instead, he looked into her eyes and smiled again. Then he kissed her cheek and turned away. “Good night, Emmy. Take care of yourself.” “Good night, Paul. You, too.” She stepped onto the elevator, and before the doors closed, he was gone. “Fatty! Fatty! Fatty!” the nasty bird cawed. It had awakened, like a human infant, at five-forty-five that morning-a Saturday!-and refused to go back to sleep. Adriana tried humming to it, feeding it, holding it, playing with it, and, finally, locking it in the guest bathroom with the lights off, but the little winged beast persisted in its verbal barrage. “Big girl! Big girl! Big girl!” it screeched, its head bobbing up and down like a dashboard dog. “Now you listen to me, you little fucker,” Adriana hissed, her lips nearly touching the cage’s metal bars. “I am a lot of things-a lot of lousy, crummy things-but fat is The bird cocked its head to the side as if he were considering her question. Adriana thought he may have even nodded, and she turned to go back to bed, satisfied. She hadn’t even stepped through the bathroom door when the bird cawed-more quietly this time, she would swear-“Fat girl.” “You bastard!” she screamed, nearly lunging at the cage. It took every ounce of willpower not to toss the whole thing out the twenty-sixth-floor window. The bird merely looked at her curiously. “Oh my god,” she muttered to herself. “I’m talking to a parrot.” Adriana had always thought Emmy was overreacting about the bird; it wasn’t until this very moment-when the sleep deprivation really began to set in and her self-esteem hung by a thread-that she understood how damaging it must be to reside with the animal fulltime. She rooted through the linen closet in search of an oversized towel but eagerly grabbed a Frette fitted sheet when it was the first thing she saw. Tossing it over the cage and tucking its elasticized border snugly underneath, Adriana briefly worried that she might be suffocating it. Deciding she could live with that possible consequence, she drew the bathroom blinds and shut off the lights. Miraculously, the bird remained quiet. It wasn’t until she was safely back under the covers with her cucumber eye mask resecured that she exhaled. Thank god. She was drifting off when the phone rang, and she was so tired that she actually answered it. “Adi? Are you still sleeping?” Gilles’s voice, uncharacteristically deep for someone so slight, boomed through the phone. “We’re not meeting today until one. It’s only ten. Why are you calling me?” “Well, well, someone’s not a morning person!” he sang, sounding delighted. “Gilles…” “Sorry. Look, I have to cancel lunch today. I know I’m a hideous friend, but I got a better offer.” “A better offer? First the bird calls me fat, and now you’re saying you got a better offer?” “The bird? “Forget it. So enlighten me, what constitutes a better offer than chopped salads and Bloody Marys and manicures?” “Oh, I don’t know… Maybe, um…let’s see…only the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you ready for this?” “I’m ready,” Adriana said, working hard to sound highly uninterested. “The agency called to say that Ricardo got stuck on a shoot in Ibiza and couldn’t make it back for today’s booking.” “Mmm.” Adriana vaguely remembered that Gilles and Ricardo were sworn competitors, although she tended to think that this vicious competition stemmed more from Gilles than from Ricardo, who, much to Gilles’s chagrin, seemed quite content to accept almost all of the agency’s most prestigious assignments. He did most of the big names in Hollywood and his calendar was booked annually for-and a year in advance of-the awards shows. The two men had gone to beauty school together, assisted together at all the Madison Avenue salons, and then, even though both were promoted to the floor at the exact same time, Ricardo had somehow become a superstar. “Any idea what today’s booking is?” Gilles sounded ready to jump out of his skin. “Let’s see, what could it be? A photo shoot!” she said with snotty faux enthusiasm. He ignored her. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m sure you don’t want to hear what it will be like to do Angelina’s hair on the set of “Angelina?” “The one and only.” “Her sexiest movie ever?” “They’re saying it makes Adriana exhaled. “Do you think Brad will be there?” “Who knows? Anything’s possible. I heard there’s a good chance she’ll have Maddox with her.” Maddox. An interesting development. As much as Adriana disliked children-especially the shriekers and the ones with runny noses-she’d fallen in love with the entire Brangelina brood. Granted, screams and snot didn’t really come across in the pages of “I’m so there!” she squealed, her usually aloof demeanor completely shattered. “Where and when?” Gilles was kind enough not to laugh. “I thought you might be interested,” he said with deliberate coolness. “Corner of Prince and Mercer in an hour. I’m not sure where the hair and makeup trailers will be parked exactly, but text me when you’re there and I’ll come find you.” Adriana clicked her phone shut and bolted into the shower. Hesitant to look like she’d made any effort beyond the cursory, she applied a little lemon-scented baby powder to her roots but kept her hair unwashed, resulting in a sexy tumble of waves. She used tinted moisturizer instead of her usual skin-perfecting foundation and rubbed a bit of lip gloss into her cheeks before slicking it across her lips. A quick dab of white shimmer powder in the corners of her eyes-a trick passed down from her mother’s modeling days-and a single coat of brownish-black mascara completed her face. Her wall-mounted magnifying mirror confirmed that not a trace of makeup was detectable, but the outcome left her looking fresh-faced, glowing, and gorgeous. The outfit took a bit longer. She discarded two sundresses, a belted tunic, and a pair of tight white pants before finding the winner: perfectly worn skinny Levi’s that literally lifted and displayed her ass, topped with two barely-there racerback tanks layered one over the other and finished with this season’s Chloe buckle flats. Her skin, permanently tan from both genes and months spent on the beaches of Rio, literally popped against the white cotton tank tops, and her hair spilled down over her shoulders. She added a mismatched bunch of gold bangles to one bronzed wrist and chose a pair of small, understated gold knot earrings to finish the look. Forty-five minutes after hanging up with Gilles, Adriana tiptoed past the guest bathroom toward the front door, loathe to wake the sleeping bird. “Arghwahhhhhhh!” She heard flapping and another screech-indiscernible in content but oddly mournful in nature-followed by more frantic flapping. “You cannot die right now,” she addressed the sheet-draped cage. “At least have the courtesy to wait until after I meet Maddox. Better yet, wait for Emmy. I have no idea what to do with a dead bird.” Silence. Then, a positively sorrowful cry. She’d never heard anything like it before, but the misery of it made her shiver with fear. Adriana jumped forward and tore the sheet from the cage, desperate to quiet the suffering animal. “What is it, Otis?” she crooned through the bars. “Are you sick?” It wasn’t until Otis cocked his head in that telltale-and perfectly healthy-way that Adriana knew she’d been had. She’d made it out of the bathroom and halfway through the foyer before Otis belted out “Fat Girl!” in triplicate, stopping only to cackle between calls. “Go ahead and die, you winged rodent. I hope it’s long and slow and very painful. I’ll dance on your miserable birdie grave.” The whole situation was enraging! Just because Emmy felt too guilty to sell or murder the damn bird should not mean that others had to endure its abuse. What are you supposed to say when your best friend calls the night before her trip, panicked that her vet no longer boards birds in his kennel? Any remotely rational person would say exactly what Adriana had said-namely, that if she couldn’t wear it, eat it, or accessorize with it, she wasn’t interested-but Emmy’s sheer panic had eventually worn her down. She swore that Otis was relatively low maintenance and that with the exception of a few moody outbursts, Adriana probably wouldn’t even notice he was there. Yeah, not notice. That’s why she was standing in the elevator, wondering if her hips looked a bit wider these days. Or why she was about to trek the twenty blocks downtown rather than take a cab, because Her heart rate was elevated from a combination of physical exertion and excitement by the time she arrived, and she felt a little sticky from sweat, but the dampness gave Adriana a sheen that heightened her beauty. Not a few passing men wondered if she’d just rolled out of bed after a morning of lovemaking; the others wondered what it would be like to join her. Gilles appeared moments after she texted him. He noticed a group of PAs standing outside one of the trailers watching them, so he grabbed Adriana’s hips, pushed his pelvis against hers, and kissed her full on the mouth. “Damn, girl, you’re gorgeous,” he announced. “Almost makes me wish I were straight.” “Yes, “Tempting, I have to say. Commit to one person for the rest of my life and a woman at that? Just castrate me now.” “Wait, I think I’m onto something. We’d have a completely open relationship, of course-you’d be welcome to sleep with anyone you like-but we could go to parties and family stuff together and still have our own separate lives. We’d be the new Will and Grace. I think it sounds fantastic.” “Yes, Adi dear, but what, may I ask, is in it for me? You forget, I do all of those things now without being married…” “What’s in it for you? Hmm,” Adriana pressed her forefinger to her lips and pretended to think. “Let’s see. Oh, I don’t know…unrestricted access to my unlimited trust fund, perhaps? Would that work?” Gilles dropped to one denim-glad knee and brought her hand to his lips. “Adriana de Souza, will you marry me?” She laughed and pulled him up. “One year, “I’m hard right now, I swear I am. Just say it again: He led her halfway down Prince Street before breaking the news that there would be no Angelina introductions that day. “Tell me you’re kidding. I got up and showered and dressed at ten A.M., for chrissake. Is Maddox at least here with a nanny?” “Sorry, honey. But I am scheduled to do Paul Rudd in twenty minutes, and you’re welcome to come sit in.” Adriana sniffed. “He’s cute, I guess.” “And, if you’re a good girl, I might even let you stay for the early-evening shoot-” “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going out with that finance guy.” “Oh, “Shut up.” “Not kidding.” “When?” “It’s called for seven at Sky Studios. There’ll probably be drinks afterward.” Adriana slowly exhaled and looked at Gilles. “I’m in.” “Given.” He pulled open the door on a Haddad’s trailer and waited for Adriana to step ahead. A teenage girl she didn’t recognize sat patiently in one of four chairs, back to the lit mirror, as a pudgy female stylist wrestled a round brush through the girl’s thick waves. The other three chairs appeared recently vacated, still littered with Mason Pearson brushes, T3 ionic hairdryers, and every Kérastase product sold in North America. “Gilles, they pushed up the call time by a half hour because Tobias needs to get out of here early,” the stylist called out over the drone of the blowdryer. “I’m handling everything here, so why don’t you head to the location for touch-ups?” “On it,” Gilles sang. He hefted a huge leather tote overflowing with supplies onto his shoulder and motioned Adriana toward the door. “To the set we go.” The scene was already under way when they arrived at the loft, and their set passes were scrutinized by no fewer than three PAs. “This place is harder to breach than Chez Cruise,” Adriana whispered when they’d finally made it inside. Gilles smiled but remained alert, carefully sidestepping the tangle of wires and extension cords. “Right before you got here I watched them tell a mailman that he wasn’t allowed to deliver the mail until they were done for the day.” The huge, classic SoHo loft had sixteen-foot ceilings and exposed brick and all sorts of very intimidating modern art sculptures. The crew had set up a king-sized bed with a metal four-poster frame-the kind that looks like a huge hollow box has been attached to the top-in the living room in front of the fireplace. With its chic brown and lime-green duvet and matching low-profile nightstands, it looked like a photo straight from the West Elm catalog. But far more interesting was the nearly nude actress splayed across it. “Quiet on the set!” a deep male voice boomed from somewhere overhead. Gilles held up a hand and grabbed Adriana’s wrist. They both froze in midstep. “Rolling!” another male voice called. A chorus of replies followed from all around the room. “Rolling!” “Rolling!” “We are rolling!” “And…action!” Adriana turned to see that these last words came from a man who sat a bit off to the side. He wore a pair of massive headphones and leaned intently forward in his chair, examining the center screen with complete concentration. Next to him, a young girl diligently took notes on a clipboard. Adriana surmised that this was the director, the god himself, and she was pleased to confirm her suspicions when she stepped a few inches to the left and was able to read the back of the man’s chair. TOBIAS BARON was stitched in all caps on the black fabric. What she hadn’t expected was that he’d be so young: His résumé read like that of someone in his fifties or sixties, but this man didn’t look a day over forty. Gilles and Adriana watched for a twenty-second clip while the actress, wearing an open button-down and a pair of white cotton panties that managed to be ten times sexier than most thongs, read a novel on the bed. She was just casually stroking her stomach and flipping the pages when Adriana realized the girl was Angelina’s body double. “Cut!” Tobias yelled. Within a half-second, Gilles beelined to the actress and began finger-tousling her hair. He didn’t appear to notice that she was propped on her elbows with her head thrown back as if in ecstasy. A few minutes later, with the scene set exactly the same as before, there was another round of “rolling” shouts and a call of “action!” Only this time, just as the chiseled male actor lowered himself on top of the girl, a cell phone chirped. Adriana’s cell phone. Forty heads turned to stare at her as she, completely unflustered, rooted around in her bag, pulled the cell phone out, and switched it off- “And cut!” Tobias screamed. “What is this, people? Amateur hour? Lose the cell phones. Now, let’s take it from Fernando’s entrance. Pick it up right away and…action!” This time the actors completed the scene to the director’s satisfaction and Tobias grudgingly called for a break. Gilles gripped Adriana’s hand so hard that his fingernails dug into her palms. She knew he was about to go berserk-he always was a screamer-but before he could drag her outside for a tongue-lashing, Tobias intercepted them. His headphones were looped around his neck; he frowned and shook his head in anger as the rest of the crew moved far enough away to avoid direct contact while remaining close enough to hear whatever went down. “Who are you?” Tobias demanded, looking directly at Adriana. Gilles began blathering. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Baron, you have assurance that such an incident will never-” Tobias interrupted Gilles with an exasperated wave but didn’t divert his attention from Adriana. “Who are He stared at her and Adriana stared back, the two of them locked in a power struggle for nearly thirty seconds without saying a word. Adriana admired his steadfastness; most men got flustered when she remained silent and defiant. She also rather liked his solidness. He was above average height for a man, probably close to six feet, but his fitted T-shirt showed off an upper body that gave him a much bigger look. As far as she could ascertain, both his tan and his thick, dark hair were real. She was close enough to smell him, and she liked that, too: a good mixture of fabric softener and a subtle, masculine cologne. Doing her best to appear unapologetic, she looked directly into his eyes and said, “My name is Adriana de Souza.” “Ah, well, “Pardon me?” And then it occurred to her-maybe this man somehow knew her mother and, as a result, wasn’t surprised by Adriana’s diva-like behavior. It wouldn’t be the first time someone in the entertainment industry had put together Adriana’s famous name and gorgeous looks. “It explains why a young girl like you would have a João Gilberto song as her ring tone. From Rio?” “São Paulo, actually,” Adriana purred. “You do not strike me as Brazilian.” “No? Is it the name or the nose?” He finally smiled. “You don’t have to be Brazilian to know bossa nova when you hear it.” “I’m sorry, I must have missed your name. You are?” Adriana asked, wide-eyed. She knew from many years of experience that if you treated the overconfident ones like dirt, they were yours forever. His smile faded for a moment before expanding to an all-out grin, one that said, “Why so quiet?” Russell asked as he navigated through the parking lot-like conditions on the Merritt, made even worse than usual by his steadfast refusal to work around the Trifecta of Traffic Horrors: They had left the city not only during rush hour, but during rush hour on a Friday-of a summer weekend. Leigh sighed. Only three more days until her coveted No Human Contact Monday. “Just the usual dread.” “They’re really not so bad, honey. I have to say, I don’t totally understand why they get to you so much.” “Well, that’s probably because you’ve met them all of five times in your entire life and, if anything, they know how to make good first impressions. They don’t get to their real heavy-duty undermining until you’ve really started to know and trust them. Then…watch out.” Annoyed that he was defending her parents, she scrolled through the iPod and turned the volume all the way up. John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World to Change” blasted from the speakers. They were in Russell’s new Range Rover, which she loathed. When he’d elicited her opinion a few months earlier on what cars she liked, she’d merely shrugged. “The beauty of living in New York is that you don’t need a car. Why bother?” “Because, darling, I want to take romantic weekend trips with you. The freedom it offers would be wonderful for us. And besides, ESPN will pay for me to garage it in the city. So, any preferences?” “Not really.” “Leigh, come on. We’ll be using it a lot together. You really have no opinion?” “I don’t know…the blue ones, I guess.” She knew she was being impossible, but she really, honestly didn’t care. Russell was going to obsess over cars regardless of what she liked or didn’t, so she really didn’t want to get involved. “The ‘blue ones’? You’re being a bitch.” Relieved that he’d finally pushed back-an all-too-rare event-she’d relented a little. “Henry drives a blue Prius and loves it-says it gets amazing gas mileage. Someone said that the hybrid Escape is good, too-an SUV that doesn’t look like a tank.” “A “I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be. I also like that curvy Nissan… What’s it called? A Mural?” “A Murano. Are you serious?” “Actually, I already told you I couldn’t care less, but you’ve forced the conversation. Get whatever one you like.” A long soliloquy ensued wherein Russell extolled the many virtues of the Range Rover. He covered its interior, exterior, horsepower, exclusivity, stylishness, and practicality in bad weather (notably leaving out any mention of gas mileage or the difficulty of getting one serviced, but Leigh refrained from pointing that out). He instinctively fell into his on-air personality and droned on and on: baritone voice animated but controlled, gaze steady, posture perfect. It was precisely what made him so charismatic and engaging on-air that could make him so grating when they were alone. She wondered what all those girls who wrote to his Web site and sent seductive pictures of themselves would think if they got to see this Russell: still gorgeous, admittedly, but also smug and not a little boring. He had just finished telling her about some basketball player’s commitment to the troops when they pulled into the driveway. Her parents had grudgingly left the city for Greenwich in the 1980s when Leigh’s grandmother passed away, leaving the family home to her only son. Leigh’s father was still a junior editor and her mother had only just finished law school, so the chance to live rent- and mortgage-free-even if it was, regrettably, off-island-was just too good to pass up. Leigh had lived in the beautiful old home since preschool, played tag in its surrounding woods and hosted birthday parties at its pool, and lost her virginity in the cool, cavelike basement to a boy whose name she remembered but whose face had since blurred; and yet the five-bedroom house hadn’t felt like home in many years. Leigh typed the security code (1-2-3-4, naturally) into the garage-side keypad and motioned for Russell to follow. Part of her was disappointed that her mother hadn’t raced outside to grab Leigh’s hand and stare at her engagement ring and wipe away tears as she kissed her only daughter and future son-in-law, but she was self-aware enough to admit that she would have been irritated and embarrassed had her mother done precisely that. Mrs. Eisner wasn’t exactly the gushing, teary type, and in this way mother and daughter were similar. “Mom? Dad? We’re here!” She led Russell through the front hallway, which had long ago ceased being a mudroom and had been transformed into an elegant foyer, and walked into the kitchen. “Where is everyone?” “Coming!” she heard her mother call from the family room. A moment later she appeared before them, looking casually elegant in one of her trillion Polo collared shirts, khaki capris, and Tod’s driving moccasins. “Leigh! Russell. Congratulations. Oh, I am so thrilled for you both.” She embraced her daughter and leaned up to kiss Russell’s cheek. “Now, come sit down so I can properly examine this sparkler. I can’t believe I had to wait twelve full days to see this!” “I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for you and Mr. Eisner to return, but I very much wanted to propose on our one-year anniversary,” Russell rushed to explain. Her parents had returned late the night before from their annual three-week June pilgrimage to Europe and had insisted that the happy couple join them for a celebratory dinner. “Please,” her mother waved at the air. “We understand. Besides, no one really needs their parents for these things now, do they?” Russell cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable enough that Leigh felt a momentary pang of sympathy. She decided to rescue him. “Mom, how about a glass of wine? Is there some in the fridge?” Mrs. Eisner pointed to the mahogany bar in the corner of the den. “There should be a couple bottles of chardonnay in the wine cooler. Your father likes it, but I find it a tad dry. If you would prefer red, you’ll need to get it from the cellar.” “I think we’d probably rather have red,” Leigh said, mostly for Russell’s benefit. She knew that he hated white wine-chardonnay most of all-but would never express such a preference in front of her parents. “You two visit for a minute,” Russell said with an award-winning (an Emmy, to be precise, bestowed last year for “Outstanding Studio Show-Weekly”) smile. “I’ll go get the wine.” Mrs. Eisner clasped Leigh’s left hand and pulled it directly under the table lamp. “My, my, he certainly did his homework, didn’t he? And of course, so did you. Russell will make such a wonderful husband. You must be so pleased.” Leigh paused for a moment, uncertain of what she meant. It was implied that Leigh had been poised and ready for this moment her entire life, that this ring signified success in a way that valedictorian, Cornell, or becoming a star editor at Brook Harris never could. She loved Russell-really, she did-but it rankled that her own mother considered him Leigh’s greatest achievement to date. “It’s all so exciting,” Leigh offered with an extra-large smile. Her mother sighed. “Well, I should hope so! It’s so nice to see you happy for once. You’ve worked so hard for so long now… Suffice it to say that this didn’t come a moment too soon.” “Mother, do you realize that you just-” But before she could say “Leigh,” her father said in a voice so steady and quiet it was almost a whisper. “Leigh, Leigh, Leigh.” His hair was now completely gray, although, as with many men, it made him look not so much older as more distinguished. Same with the deep lines etched in his forehead and around his mouth and eyes-they conveyed a feeling of wisdom and experience, not the air of a problem that should be dealt with at the plastic surgeon’s next available appointment. Even his sweater-a three-decades-old navy cardigan with leather elbow patches and toggle buttons-seemed somehow more intelligent than the sweaters most men wore these days. He stood in the doorway next to the piano and gazed at her in a way that always made her feel scrutinized, like he was deciding whether or not he liked her new haircut or approved of her outfit. Growing up, it was her mother who made the most immediate rules regarding their daughter-whether eyeliner was permitted, what was appropriate attire for a school dance, how late she could stay out on a school night-but it was only her father who could make her feel brilliant or idiotic, gorgeous or hideously ugly, charmed or wretched, with the most casual look or comment. Of course, while such comments could appear casual, they never were. Every word he uttered was considered, weighed, and chosen with deliberateness, and woe to the person who failed to select her words with such precision. Although Leigh couldn’t recall a single occasion when her father had raised his voice, she remembered the countless times he had dissected her arguments or opinions with a quiet ruthlessness that intimidated her to this day. “He’s an editor,” her mother would soothe when Leigh got upset as a child. “Words are his life. He’s careful with them. He loves them, loves the language. Don’t take it personally, darling.” And Leigh would nod and say she understood and make a greater effort at watching what she said, while trying not to take any of it personally. “Hi, Dad,” she said almost shyly. She had seen both Emmy and Adriana call their fathers “Daddy,” but it seemed impossible to imagine calling her own father something so saccharine. Even though he’d retired six years earlier, Charles Eisner would be an imposing editor-in-chief until the day he died. He’d ruled with a firm hand during the twelve years as head of Paramour Publishing-none of the “handholding warm fuzzy shit,” in his words, of today’s big publishing houses-and he’d remained consistently aloof and detached at home, as much as he could manage. Fall lineups, production schedules, assistant editors, pressures from corporate, even authors themselves were perfectly predictable after the first few years, which is why Leigh always thought it drove him particularly crazy that children were not. To this day Leigh tried to remain as steady and evenhanded around her father as possible, taking particular care not to blurt out whatever she was thinking. “I’ve already congratulated my future son-in-law,” he said, moving across the room toward Leigh. “Come here, dear. Allow me this pleasure.” After a brief embrace and a kiss on the forehead, neither particularly warm nor affectionate, Mr. Eisner ushered everyone into the dining room and began issuing quiet directives. “Russell, would you please decant the wine? Use the stemless glasses from the bar, if you will. Carol, the salad needs to be tossed with the vinaigrette. Everything else is finished, but I didn’t want that to get soggy while we waited. Leigh, dear, you may just be seated and relax. After all, tonight is your special night.” She told herself it was paranoid and neurotic to interpret this as anything other than a compliment, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it felt like a small attack. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be the official relaxer.” They discussed her parents’ trip over the arugula and goat cheese salad and told about their own engagement during the filet with asparagus and rosemary potatoes. Russell entertained the table with anecdotes of ring-shopping and planning the proposal, and Leigh’s parents smiled and laughed far more than was usual for either of them, and everything was quite civilized, almost even enjoyable, until Leigh’s cell phone rang in the middle of dessert. She pulled her bag up from under the table and removed her phone. “Leigh!” her mother chided. “We’re “Yes, Mother, I know, but it’s Henry. Excuse me for a minute.” She took her phone and headed toward the living room but, realizing that everyone would be able to hear her, she ducked out back to the deck and heard her father say, “No publisher I ever worked with would call one of his editors at nine o’clock on a Friday night unless something was very, very wrong,” right before she pulled the door closed behind her. “Hello?” she answered, convinced her father was right and that Henry was calling to fire her. It had been ten days since the whole Jesse Chapman debacle, and although Leigh had apologized numerous times, Henry still seemed distant and distracted. “Leigh? Henry. Sorry for the late call, but it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.” “It’s no problem. I’m at my parents’ and we just finished dinner, so it’s a perfect time. Is everything okay?” Henry sighed. Leigh took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. “Yes?” It sounded more like a squeak than a word. “Are you sitting down? You’re not going to believe this. God knows I barely do.” “Henry,” she said quietly. “Please.” “I just hung up with Jesse Chapman…” “…and he has decided that he would like us to publish his next novel.” “Henry, that’s wonderful! I couldn’t be more thrilled. And of course you know I’ll personally apologize to him again when-” He interrupted. “I’m not finished, Leigh. He wants us to publish him, but he has a condition: He wants Leigh was just about to say “you’re kidding” when Henry spoke again. “And this is not a joke.” Leigh tried to swallow but her mouth felt like cotton. The combination of excitement, relief, and terror was too much to endure. “Henry, please.” “Please what? Are you listening? Did you hear me? Number one “No.” “Leigh, pull it together. I don’t know how else to say this. He wants you and only you. He said that once he really made it, no one would be straight with him anymore. Everyone just coddled and indulged him and told him he was brilliant, but no one-not his editor or publisher or agent-would ever give it to him straight. And apparently he loved that you weren’t afraid to be honest with him. I think his exact words were ‘That girl has zero bullshit tolerance and so do I. I want to work with her.’” “‘Zero bullshit tolerance’? Henry, my entire job description is based on telling authors only what they want to hear. Hell, my whole life is. Sometimes I slip up, but-” “Slip up?” “Okay, so that’s a slight understatement. So I’ve been known to talk without thinking, occasionally. But I don’t think I’m capable of honesty on demand. It just sort of comes out when I’m least expecting it.” “Well, I certainly know that, but our friend Jesse does not. Nor will he.” He paused. “Leigh, I have to say I was every bit as shocked as you are, probably more, but I want you to listen very carefully. You have what it takes. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I weren’t absolutely certain that you could handle it. And not just handle it-make it work. You certainly don’t need me to tell you how significant this will be to your career. Take some time this weekend, think this over, and come to my office when you get in Monday, okay? I’m behind you on this one, Leigh. It’s going to be great.” Her family was discussing the wisdom of an engagement party when she returned to the table and quietly announced that she would be editing Jesse Chapman’s new book. “Oh, he has a new book coming out?” her mother asked while pouring herself more coffee. “How lovely. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Russell was slightly more clued in, but not much. He was supportive, of course, and always seemed proud to tell his friends and colleagues about her job, and he knew that Leigh had most likely offended Jesse Chapman that day in Henry’s office, but authors like Jesse Chapman weren’t at the top of his personal reading list. It didn’t really matter, though. The only person who understood the significance of the situation had heard her loud and clear: Her father looked as though someone had used his gut as a punching bag. “Jesse Chapman? Leigh just nodded, unable to trust herself to keep from gloating if she opened her mouth. He recovered quickly and held aloft his wineglass for a toast, but Leigh could see the doubt and disbelief in his eyes. She knew he was thinking that there must be some mistake, that his daughter, so inexperienced when compared to his own illustrious career, would be editing an author bigger than any he had ever worked with. Leigh almost felt sympathetic-almost-when she saw that for the very first time in her life, her father the wordsmith, the great guru, the judge and jury extraordinaire, was speechless. |
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