"Chasing Harry Winston" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weisberger Lauren)

once they’re in, they’re real

While the rest of America spent the long holiday weekend watching fireworks and attending poolside barbecues, Emmy slumped with her friends on the pavement at the Curaçao airport and tried to figure out when their vacation had gone so terribly awry. She didn’t even feel the sunglasses being stolen off her head. The thieves-two long-haired, pimply teenagers in a crumbling pickup truck-stopped a few hundred yards away, hung out the windows, and waved them at her while shouting gleefully in a language she didn’t recognize. Still unsure, Emmy touched her head to confirm they were gone.

“Why are those kids screaming at us?” Adriana asked, looking puzzled. “Are they trying to sell us those sunglasses?”

Answering felt like an overwhelming task. Emmy’s tongue was thick, unresponsive. It seemed like it should be quite simple to explain that those were her sunglasses, but no amount of effort on her part produced any actual sound.

Apparently Leigh didn’t get it, either. “Tell them you don’t need any sunglasses, that you just bought a pair,” she slurred.

“But I do need a pair,” Emmy croaked. She waved listlessly in the general direction of the boys, who had just thrown the truck into drive and were moving toward the airport exit. “Help us.” She sounded like Rose from the movie Titanic, frozen and nearly unconscious on her raft, adrift in the Atlantic, although thankfully they were neither freezing nor afloat.

“Come on, girls, we need to get ourselves together. This is a vacation-a celebration-not a funeral,” Adriana said, barely enunciating a single word.

The “vacation” was significantly less festive than the last wake Emmy had attended-not to mention that the food wasn’t as good. But she said nothing. After all, they were there to celebrate Leigh’s engagement, and she’d be damned if she was going to ruin it. So what if the whole thing had become a giant nightmare before it even really got started? Your best friend gets engaged only one time (hopefully…and if that friend was Leigh, then definitely), and she was going to show Leigh a good time if it killed her. Which it just might.

She had managed not to dwell on the irony of the whole situation, but sitting drunk and half-drugged at a Caribbean airport while local teenagers robbed her blind had prompted a bit of contemplation. Her ex-boyfriend had planned this trip to celebrate their five-year anniversary, and after said ex-boyfriend had left her for the virgin cheerleader trainer, he had offered her the tickets as some sort of consolation prize. Emmy’s gut had told her to have some dignity and tell him to fuck off, once and for all, but everything was fully paid for and she’d been stressed lately with the new job and, well, it had been worth accepting just for the chance to imply that she would be going with a new boyfriend.

“Seriously, Em, go. It’s all arranged and paid for. It’ll be nice for you,” Duncan had said when he came over to pick up his DVDs and underwear a week after she’d returned from Paris. It had been a perfect trip workwise, but she was still smarting from Paul’s blatant rejection-not to mention her obvious role in driving him away with the talk about having kids. It didn’t help that Duncan looked incredibly fit and happy, probably the best since she’d known him. Fucker.

“What? You and the cheerleader aren’t ready for a trip together yet? Or is premarital traveling banned also?”

He had sighed, suggesting he expected nothing less from Emmy, handed her a folder with the complete itinerary, and pecked her on the cheek. “Go. Get some sun. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“Thank you, Duncan, we’ll do just that.” Emphasis on the we, of course. He hadn’t even blinked.

Bastard.

Emmy hated him for encouraging her to go, but she hated herself more for taking him up on it. She might have ditched the whole idea, but when she floated the idea of a solo trip to the Dutch Antilles to her friends, they had not been pleased.

“Solo? Why would you ever go there alone? Especially considering that you have two best friends sitting right here, one of whom just got engaged. I think it would be downright negligent not to invite us,” Adriana had sniffed.

Not surprisingly, Leigh had been a bit more reserved. “Oh, please, it’s not that big of a deal. And besides, things are just crazy at work right now. I’m editing my first huge author. And I don’t think Russell would be thrilled if I ditched him for the Fourth.”

Emmy nodded. “See? Leigh’s too busy and I’m sure you’ve got, uh…stuff going on, too.” No one had any clear idea what Adriana did all day, but there was an unspoken agreement never to address this. “Besides, it’s only booked for two.”

Post-breakup resolution or not, Emmy had little interest in spending the week scouting for men or tabletop dancing at local nightclubs. Paris and the whole Paul debacle had been a serious blow to her ego; the last thing she wanted was Adriana pushing her to hunt for men day and night.

“Two, three, what’s the difference? Nothing a little phone call can’t fix. And Leigh, darling, I don’t give one goddamn what you have going on at work. As for Russell, he’ll just have to understand that your best friends are happy for you and want to toast you.” Adriana smiled expansively at both girls. “Well, that’s settled. When do we leave?”

Things had rapidly deteriorated since they’d left New York, although by now the details were a little fuzzy. They’d flown on the six A.M. flight from LaGuardia to Miami and somehow, against all judgment, sense, and reason, Adriana had made a convincing case for in-flight Bloody Marys. Bloody Marys before nine in the morning. Which, although Emmy was loath to admit it, had been pretty nice. The second and third had gone down quite easily, and by the time they’d landed at the Curaçao airport, the Miami layover was little more than a hazy dream. The only solid proof that it had actually occurred-the $200 Gucci sunglasses Adriana insisted Emmy needed to buy at the duty-free shop-had just evaporated. Emmy’s suitcase had also vanished, but the tiny pills that Adriana had insisted she and Leigh try were working their magic: suitcase, sunglasses, whatever. She could not care less.

In the brutal late-afternoon sun the girls sat slumped against Adriana’s and Leigh’s suitcases-both of which were miraculously present and intact.

“Where are we again?” Leigh asked, tugging ineffectually at the bandanna she had tied around her hair. “I can’t seem to remember.”

Adriana glanced up. “Jamaica?”

They giggled, both certain that Jamaica wasn’t the right answer but unable to remember what was.

Emmy pulled the folder from her carry-on and began to read. “Aruba. Bonaire. Curaçao. The A-B-C islands of the Netherlands Antilles. Eighty miles off the coast of Venezuela. Population-”

Adriana held her hand up. “I’m bored.”

“It’s all coming back,” Emmy slurred. “We are currently in Curaçao. Our flight from Miami was delayed and we missed our ferry to Bonaire. We’re stuck.”

“Stop being so negative, girls!” Adriana sang. “We’re getting great color. We’re going to meet hot Dutch men.” Pause. “Are Dutch men hot?”

“Dutch men? I didn’t know there were Dutch men in Jamaica!” Leigh shrieked in a very un-Leigh-like way. Adriana cracked up and the two girls high-fived.

Emmy’s temples throbbed with pain and her skin was on fire. “Pull yourselves together, people. We need to get out of here.”

The trouble had started when the girls deplaned in Curaçao slightly buzzed but fully conscious and made their way to the ferry counter. Emmy politely requested three tickets.

“No,” a fleshy black woman wearing a muumuu and sandals announced with obvious joy. “Cancel.”

“‘Cancel’? What do you mean ‘cancel’?” Emmy did her best to glare, but the fact that her chin barely reached the top of the counter negated the intended effect.

The woman smiled. Unkindly. “No more.”

Another hour passed before they learned there once had been a ferry; there was a ferry no longer; and the only way to traverse those thirty miles now was by flying one of two local airlines, unnervingly named Bonaire Express and Divi Divi Air.

“I would rather die than fly something called ‘Divi Divi,’” Adriana announced as they surveyed the airlines’ side-by-side ticketing counters, each consisting of a single employee and a wheeled card table.

“You might die anyway,” Leigh said. She picked up a handwritten sheet listing the current schedule. “Oh, wait, this should make you feel much better. It says here that the refurbished six-seater planes are very reliable.”

“Refurbished? Six seats? Reliable? That’s the best fucking adjective these people can come up with and we’re entrusting our lives to them?” Emmy was about three minutes from ditching this whole godforsaken idea and getting on the next flight back to New York.

Leigh wasn’t finished. “Hold on, look, here’s a picture.” Stapled to the back of the schedule was a surprisingly high-quality print of an airplane. A very colorful airplane. Almost fluorescent, actually. Leigh passed it to Adriana, who waved her hands in disgust and lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply and handed the cigarette to Leigh, who reached for it instinctively before remembering she was no longer a smoker.

Adriana exhaled. “Don’t show me that. Please! There is no conceivable, imaginable, acceptable excuse why a plane needs to look like a Pucci dress!” She glanced at the picture again, then inhaled and moaned simultaneously. “Oh god, it’s a prop plane. I won’t fly prop planes. I can’t fly prop planes.”

“Oh, you most certainly will,” Leigh sang. “We’re even going to let you decide which one. Divi/Pucci flies at six, and Bonaire Express-that’s the one that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, in case you were confused-has a flight at six-twenty. Which do you prefer?”

Adriana whimpered. Emmy looked at Leigh and rolled her eyes.

Adriana dug through her wallet and handed Leigh her American Express Platinum card. “Book whichever one you think gives us the best chance of surviving. I’m going to find us something to drink.”

Having bought three tickets using an indecipherable combination of guilders, dollars, and traveler’s checks, since the airline didn’t accept credit cards, Emmy and Leigh looked for a place to sit down. Hato Airport, it seemed, didn’t have much in the way of amenities, and seats were no exception. It was a dusty, open-air structure that, against all likelihood, offered not one square inch of shade from the brutal midday sun. Too exhausted to continue looking, the girls returned to the stretch of pavement where they’d sat before, an area that could have been a sidewalk or a tarmac or a parking lot. They had just collapsed atop her suitcase when Adriana, clutching a plastic bag and appearing triumphant, flopped down beside them.

Emmy grabbed the bag from her hands. “I’ve never needed water so bad in my life. Please say you bought more than one?” Inside the bag was only a single glass bottle of electric blue liquid. “You got Gatorade instead of water?”

“Not Gatorade, querida. Blue curaçao. Mmm. Doesn’t that look delicious?” Adriana removed her ankle-wrap ballet flats to reveal a pale pink pedicure and tucked the bottom of her tank top under the band of her bra. Even though she’d seen Adriana’s tight tummy and love handle-free sides a million times, Emmy couldn’t stop staring. Adriana politely pretended not to notice. She nodded toward the bottle. “Local special. We should get started right away if we plan to be obliterated by takeoff.”

Leigh took the bottle from Emmy. “It says here that blue curaçao is a sweet blue liqueur made from the dried peel of bitter oranges and that it’s used to add color to cocktails,” she read from the label.

“Yeah, so?” Adriana asked, massaging a dime-sized drop of Hawaiian Tropic oil onto her already golden shoulders.

“So? So it’s really just food coloring with alcohol in it. We can’t drink this.”

“Really? I can.” Adriana unscrewed the cap and took a long gulp.

Emmy sighed. “No water? I’d kill for some water.”

“Of course there’s no water. I covered the entire airport. The only little shop was boarded up-permanently, it appears-with a sign that says NO. I saw something that might have been a bar at one point but could’ve also been customs, and an area that was designated as a restaurant but looked like downtown Baghdad. There was, however, a folding card table near the Divi Divi gate staffed by a kind gentleman who claimed he was duty-free. He had about ten cartons of something called Richmond Ultra-Lights, a few crushed bars of Toblerone, and a bottle each of Jim Beam and this. I chose this.” She handed Emmy the bottle. “Oh, come on, Em. Relax a little. It’s a vacation!”

Emmy took the bottle, stared at it, and took a swig. It tasted like liquid Splenda with a kick. She drank again.

Adriana smiled, proud as a parent at a sixth-grade talent show. “That’s the spirit! Leigh, sweetheart, take a nip. There you go… Now, girls, I have a little present for you.”

Leigh forced herself to swallow and shuddered. “I know that look. Please tell me you didn’t smuggle in something truly illegal. If this”-she waved her hands expansively-“is the international airport, can you imagine what the prison looks like?”

Undeterred, Adriana pulled a red and white container shaped like a large pill capsule from her jeans pocket. She twisted off the cap and shook out three tablets. One disappeared down her throat. She handed one to each of her friends.

“Mommy’s little helper,” she sang.

“Valium? Since when do you take Valium?”

“When? Since we decided to fly on an aircraft that looks like a Six Flags ride.”

Well, that was all the convincing Emmy needed. She swallowed the little round pill and washed it down with some blue curaçao. She watched Leigh do the same and then everything once again got soft around the edges.

An hour passed, and then another. Emmy opened her eyes first. Her calves were a splotchy salmon color and there were six empty beer cans on the ground. Vaguely she recalled being approached by a man who wore a cooler suspended from his neck. He didn’t have any water, either, but he was selling cans of beer called, suspiciously, Amstel Bright. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, but the beer and the blue curaçao and the Valium combined with hundred-plus-degree heat and no water was probably not the wisest move.

“Adriana, wake up. Leigh? I think it’s time to board.”

Leigh opened an eye without moving a muscle and looked up with surprising clarity. “Where are we?”

“Come on, we need to move. The only thing worse than getting on that plane is sleeping here tonight.”

That seemed to motivate everyone. They managed to hobble, all together, in the right direction.

“Wow, great security here,” Leigh mumbled, as the girls weaved their way toward a chalkboard that read DIVI DIVI, 6:00 P.M. “I just adore airports that don’t inconvenience you with X-ray machines and metal detectors.”

They boarded the six-seater with little drama, earning only one strange look from the pilot when he saw Adriana down the last of the blue curaçao and promptly pass out against the window. The flight wasn’t particularly terrifying, although Emmy applauded with her fellow travelers when the wheels touched down. Naturally, their planned car and driver were nowhere to be found at Bonaire’s Flamingo Airport, and Adriana’s hardback cosmetic case had somehow vanished during the twenty-minute ride, but everyone seemed beyond caring.

“It makes for light traveling, this whole lose-a-bag-per-flight deal,” Adriana said and shrugged.

By the time they climbed out of the taxi at the hotel, they had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, had gotten drunk, sobered up, lost two bags, and flown an airline that sounded like a nursery rhyme from an airport that surely couldn’t have passed even the most lenient FAA inspection. Blessedly, the resort looked every bit as elegant and peaceful as it did in Duncan’s dossier, and Emmy thought she might kiss the check-in guy when he upgraded them to a two-bedroom suite. Leigh had already collapsed, fully dressed, on the bed in the smaller bedroom, and Adriana looked like she was about to do the same, but Emmy was determined to take a bath before passing out.

“Adi, can I borrow something to sleep in?” Emmy called from the oversized marble bathtub. She had already emptied the whole bottle of body wash under the running water and it had foamed up luxuriantly, giving the entire bathroom a eucalyptus scent.

“Take whatever you want; just save the mauve silk teddy and robe for me. It’s my lucky set.”

“Are you hungry?” Emmy called again.

“Starving. Room service?”

Emmy walked into Adriana’s room in a hotel-provided robe and slippers and began to dig through her suitcase. She pulled out a black garter and fishnet stockings and held them up. “Don’t you have just a pair of boxers or something?”

“Emmy, querida, in case you didn’t know, boxers are for boys.” She dragged herself into a sitting position and stuck a hand in her suitcase.

“Here, wear these.”

Emmy took the lavender silk tap pants and matching swatch of fabric and held them up. “Is this honestly what you wear when you’re alone in your apartment and you just want to be comfortable?”

Adriana did her delicate femi-snort. “Hardly. They look like something my grandmother would wear. In fact, I think they’re a present from her. I usually wear these.” She pulled a magenta slip over her head; the silky fabric moved like liquid against her body.

Emmy sighed. “I know I shouldn’t hate you for having a perfect body, but I do. I really, really do.”

“Darling, these, too, can be yours”-Adriana cupped her breasts and pushed them up, causing her nightie to slide up over her hips to reveal a complete Brazilian wax-“for ten grand and a few hours under Dr. Kramer’s magical hands.” She glanced down and gave them each another squeeze. “I’m so glad I had them redone when they legalized silicone. It’s so much more natural, don’t you think?”

Emmy had admired-oh, hell, she’d worshipped-Adriana’s implants since the moment she returned with them after Christmas break sophomore year. Granted, they didn’t seem so perfect when one of them began to leak four months later and Emmy had to rush Adriana to the ER and sit with her through the night as they waited for a plastic surgeon to come rebuild her sagging left breast. But now? Swapping out the saline for silicone had been a good decision-even if it had meant another four full days and nights during which Emmy had to nurse her friend. They were flawless. So curvy and full and beautiful without looking the least bit fake…Well, perhaps they looked a tiny bit fake, but only to those who knew Adriana beforehand and, as Adi herself had said, with a laugh, “Once they’re in, they’re real.” Real, fake, who really cared when they were that goddamn perfect?

Emmy had wondered a thousand times, ten thousand times, what it would be like to possess such breasts. Or, truth be told, any breasts at all. She’d always been mostly satisfied with her own slight frame, growing more pleased with her figure as she got older and realized how rare it was for a woman to stay thin naturally. Yet even though she realized how many women would kill for her metabolism, for her toothpick-thin thighs and itty-bitty bum and jiggle-free upper arms, she yearned to know how it felt to have a woman’s body, with all the softness and curves that men loved so much. When faced with breasts like Adriana’s, Emmy envisioned drawers full of sexy, lacy bras; halter dresses that could be filled out; a world rich with unpadded bikini tops; a total inability to shop in the children’s section because her chest would never fit in a little girl’s shirt. She dreamed of never hearing the “more than a handful” adage ever again, and wearing strapless dresses without stuffing them first, and having a man stare at her cleavage instead of her eyes, just once.

Of course, she’d never have the nerve to do it. Even as she examined Adriana’s chest tonight, she knew she was too much of a wimp to ever go through with it. She also understood that her attractiveness to men stemmed from her delicateness, the natural gracefulness that resulted from having such a small body, the way her physical fragility made them even more aware of their own strength and masculinity, and not from anything as overtly sexual as big, beautiful breasts.

Emmy sighed. She yanked the towel off her head and threw it on the floor. “On second thought, how do you feel about skipping dinner tonight? I can’t move.”

Adriana held her hands to her heart. “Like you even have to ask. Less food now means better bikini bod tomorrow.”

“Well put. ’Night, Adi.”

“Good night, Em. I hope your dreams are filled with gorgeous foreign men. Don’t think we just forgot about that…”

But before she could respond, Emmy was out.

At the pool on their second day of vacation Adriana could feel Leigh watching her as she pulled a cigarette from her beach bag, lit it, and languidly inhaled. It was cruel to smoke in front of someone who missed it so much, she acknowledged this, but, hell, they were on vacation. There was no reason Leigh couldn’t enjoy herself a little and quit again when she got home; after all, Adriana did it all the time.

“Want one?” Adriana asked with a wicked smile, extending her hand in the direction of Leigh’s chaise.

Leigh glared and then leaned forward. “Let me just smell it,” she said, sticking her face in the stream of smoke. She moaned, her raspy voice sounding even deeper than usual. “My god, that’s good. If I found out I had only a year or five or ten left to live, I swear to you, the very first thing I would do is buy a pack of cigarettes.”

Emmy shook her head, causing a few brown locks to come loose from her ponytail. She adjusted her bathing suit-a sporty blue two-piece that looked more like a workout outfit than a bikini-and said, “You two are disgusting with the cigarettes. Hasn’t anyone told you what a vile habit it is? Fucking gross.”

“Good morning, sunshine! You’re a joy this morning, aren’t you?” Leigh said. She drained her remaining orange juice and pulled her straw tote onto the lounge chair. “My god, I can’t wait to get some sun. Do you believe it’s already July and I haven’t been out once this summer?”

Adriana made a show of looking Leigh up and down. “Oh, you would never know,” she said. “That translucent blue color you have going on totally works for you.”

“Laugh if you must,” Leigh sang, appearing genuinely happy for the first time in weeks, “but we’ll see who’s laughing in twenty years when you’ve both had huge chunks of skin cancer gouged out of your faces and massive amounts of Botox for all those wrinkles. I almost can’t wait.”

Adriana and Emmy watched in fascination as Leigh methodically removed two bottles and one tube of sunscreen from her tote. First she applied a thick Clarins cream, SPF 50, to every exposed inch of flesh from toe to shoulder, taking care to pull back her black bikini and work the goop into the border areas around her suit. When she finished that laborious task, she misted herself all over with an aerosol can of Neutrogena, also SPF 50, to “guarantee she didn’t miss anywhere,” as she explained to her captivated audience. With her body successfully coated and sprayed, she went to work on her face, massaging small puddles of some highly coveted imported French facial sunscreen into her cheeks, chin, forehead, earlobes, eyelids, and neck. She pulled her hair into a loose bun, covered it with a straw hat the circumference of an end table, and popped on a pair of oversized wraparound black sunglasses.

“Mmm,” she sighed, stretching her arms over her head, taking care not to displace the hat. “This is wonderful.”

Adriana glanced at Emmy and rolled her eyes. They both smiled. Leigh was particular, there was no denying it, but her ritual comforted them both with its very Leigh-ness.

“Okay, girls, enough small talk. We have a subject that needs discussing,” Adriana announced. She knew Leigh wasn’t up for talking in great length about the engagement-she’d made that abundantly clear the previous beach day with her incessant anxious chatter about the new huge author she’d been assigned (just the kind of nervous chatter the girls now tuned out after so many years of hearing Leigh say “I totally failed that final” and “I’m never going to get this manuscript back on time,” only to watch her score nonstop A-pluses through college and receive promotion after promotion at work) and one-word answers about her upcoming nuptials-so Adriana decided to let her off the hook. For now.

“I don’t know about you, Leigh, but I know I want more details of Emmy’s Paris trip,” Adriana sang, looking pointedly at Emmy. “The City of Love; I’m expecting there’s plenty to tell.”

Emmy groaned and placed her paperback copy of London Is the Best City in America open-faced across her chest. “How many times do I have to say it? There’s nothing to tell.”

“Lies, all lies,” Leigh said. “You mentioned something about a guy named Paul. Which, incidentally, does not sound like a particularly foreign name to me, but perhaps you could shed some light?”

“I don’t know why you keep making me relive this,” Emmy said with an imploring look. “It’s sadistic. I told you the whole story: Paul the half-Argentine, half-Brit, who was well dressed, well traveled, and overall exceedingly charming and attractive, chose his ex-girlfriend’s birthday party over sex with yours truly.”

“I’m sure there’s another explanation. Maybe he just-”

Adriana interrupted what was surely going to be Leigh’s overly tactful, insanely delusional game of “maybe he.” “Please! There’s only one explanation for what went on that night, assuming, as we are, that Paul is both straight and male. Emmy, be honest. Did you really want to have sex with him? Did you lust after him? Really and truly crave his body?”

Emmy laughed uncomfortably. “Wow. I don’t know how to respond. I guess? Yeah, sure. I practically threw myself at him mere hours after meeting him, didn’t I?”

“And by ‘threw yourself,’ you mean ‘nervously and subtly conveyed-or tried to-that you’d entertain the idea of another drink.’ Am I right?”

“Well, maybe.” Emmy sniffed. She was determined not to share the real reason for Paul’s speedy departure. If she admitted to asking Paul if he wanted children one day-a perfectly reasonable question as far as she was concerned-Emmy knew her friends would never, ever let it go.

“So you did not actually come across to him as a carefree, wild party girl who’s up for anything fun?”

“Oh, I don’t know! Probably not, okay? But why do you think that is? Because I’m not a wild party girl who’s up for anything. I’m an unremarkable girl who likes hooking up enough but would rather get to know someone I like than have some dirty fling with a stranger.”

Adriana smiled triumphantly. “And that, my friend, is your problem.”

“That’s not a problem,” Leigh added without opening her eyes.

“It’s the way she is. Not everyone can have meaningless one-night stands.”

Adriana exhaled a long, frustrated sigh. “First of all, girls, ‘one-night stands’ are for sad little people who meet in Atlantic City casinos or Midwestern hotels. ‘Hooking up’ is what drunken sorority girls do after their spring formals. We have affairs. Fabulous, sexy, spontaneous affairs. Understood? Second, I think we’re all losing sight of something here: I am not the one who decided Emmy should be having affairs in every city she visits. She made that little pronouncement all on her own. Of course, if you don’t think you can handle it…”

The waiter, an impishly cute blond guy in a collared shirt and khaki shorts, asked if he could bring them anything. They ordered a round of margaritas and picked up the conversation as though there’d been no interruption.

“No, you’re right,” Emmy conceded. “This was my decision, and I’m going to do it. It’ll be good for me, right? Get me less focused on the whole marriage thing. More relaxed. It’s just that it sounds great in theory, but when it’s midnight and you’re in some strange hotel and staring at this person you barely know and thinking that he’s about to see you naked when you don’t know his last name…I, it’s just…different.”

“But done with the right attitude, it can be very freeing,” Adriana said.

“Or a total disaster,” Leigh added.

“Always the optimist, aren’t you?”

“Look, I hear that Emmy wants to do this, and I totally understand why. I mean, if I’d only been with three guys in my entire life and they’d all been long-term boyfriends, I’d want a little taste of what else is out there. But it’s important she knows that one-night stands-sorry, affairs-aren’t always so glamorous,” Leigh said.

“Speak for yourself. I’ve always been rather pleased,” Adriana smiled. It was true, mostly. She’d been with more men than she could ever possibly count, but she’d enjoyed every one of them.

Leigh pounced. “Oh, really? Then I guess you’re not remembering that surfer guy-what was his name? Pasha?-who high-fived you after sex and then called you ‘dude,’ as in ‘Dude, just chill for a minute,’ when you asked him if he wanted another glass of wine? Or the foot fetishist who wanted to lube up your feet and rub them all over his body? And who could forget the one you met at Izzie’s wedding, taking a phone call from his mother while you were on top? Shall I go on?”

Adriana held up her right hand and summoned her most winning smile. “I think we get the idea. However, dear friend, you’re being a bit misleading. A few bad apples is no reason not to visit the orchard. Those were just unfortunate exceptions. What about the Austrian baron who thought, quite rightly, that diamond shopping at Cartier was good foreplay? Or the time in Costa Rica when the surfer-the other surfer and I-made love on the beach at sunrise? Or when that architect with that amazing rooftop overlooking the Hudson-”

“Just know that it can go either way,” Leigh said, looking straight at Emmy.

“You are such a killjoy!” Adriana shrieked. “I’m going for a swim.” She tried to keep her tone light, but it was all starting to irritate her. What was Leigh so bitter about? The girl had an amazing job at the city’s most prestigious publishing house, an adoring, sought-after sportscaster fiancé who had eyes only for her, and a put-together, sophisticated appearance that was just hot enough for men to like but not so hot that women hated her. Why was she always so miserable?

“I hope that after putting me through the wringer you haven’t forgotten your end of the deal?” Emmy said.

“Of course not,” Adriana replied. “In fact, I think I’ve already met my future husband.”

“Hmm,” Leigh murmured, unfazed, grabbing her frozen margarita from the waiter’s tray. She pressed it directly to her forehead for a moment before licking all the way around the salted rim.

“Is that so?” Emmy asked with what Adriana was irritated to hear sounded a lot like condescension.

“Yes, that’s so,” Adriana replied. “And although neither of you seems remotely interested, I’ll have you know that he just so happens to be Tobias Baron.”

Two heads snapped up to look at her in awe. Well, that got their attention, thank god.

“The Tobias Baron?” Leigh asked.

Yes, this was better. “The one and only.” She nodded. “And actually, his friends call him Toby.”

Leigh’s eyes bulged. “Are you kidding? Spill, girl! We need to hear-”

“Of course!” Adriana smiled. “But first I’m just going to have a quick swim.” She climbed out of her lounge chair like a cat unfolding from an afternoon nap and strolled toward the pool. That’ll teach them to not take me seriously. She tested the water with her toes, then dove in, barely breaking the water with her streamlined body, and immediately began a strong yet graceful forward crawl. Although she was not a big fan of oceans (the salt water was so drying to the hair, never mind all those unpleasant stinging creatures), Adriana swam like a fish. Her mother, terrified of having young Adriana toddle into the estate’s pool, had insisted she learn to swim before she could walk. This was accomplished quite efficiently in a single afternoon. Mrs. de Souza carried a squirming nine-month-old Adriana into five feet of water, pulled off the girl’s water wings, and watched as the child sank. Hearing this story for the first time in her early teens, Adriana was horrified. “You just watched as I drowned?” she asked her mother.

“Please, it wasn’t quite so dramatic-you were only under a moment or two. Then you figured it out and paddled your little head to the surface. A bit of water up the nose is hardly a trauma, now, is it?” Not a Dr. Phil-approved method but effective nonetheless.

She swam ten lengths of the pool and gratefully accepted a rolled beach towel from a muscled attendant, offering him a broad smile as reward. Adriana returned, and Emmy folded over the page she was reading and tossed the book aside.

“Adriana de Souza, how have you not told us this already? We’ve been in Aruba now for-”

“Bonaire!” Leigh and Adriana said simultaneously.

Emmy waved her arms in a silencing gesture. “Whatever. We’ve been in Bonaire for two full days already and you’re just getting around to mentioning this now? What kind of friend does that?”

“It’s not serious,” she said, relishing her friends’ expressions-she just adored withholding information until it would have the maximum effect-“but I think he has potential.”

“Potential? The magazines call him an intellectual George Clooney. Handsome, accomplished, straight, unmarried-”

“Divorced,” Emmy added.

Leigh swatted the air. “A mistake in his early twenties that lasted thirty-six months and produced no kids. As far as divorced men go, he barely even qualifies.”

Adriana whistled. “Well, well, it seems like you’re both rather informed. Does this mean you approve?”

They nodded vigorously.

“So tell us all about him,” Emmy breathed, probably relieved that the focus had shifted away from her.

Adriana lifted her dripping-wet torso slightly off the chair to straighten the cushion, but it was enough to cause an audible groan from a nearby sunbather. “Well, let’s see. No need to give you the biographical information-you girls clearly know that!-but, um, he really is a darling. I met him two weeks ago on the set of The City Dweller.”

Leigh flipped over and unhooked her bikini top across the back. “What were you doing there?”

“Gilles brought me. I was going to meet Angelina and Maddox, but instead I met Toby.” Adriana proceeded to relay her conversation with Toby word for word, adding a few sentences (for color) but omitting none. When finished, she wrapped her lips seductively around her striped straw and took a long pull on her margarita. She couldn’t be positive, but she thought the group of cute guys across the pool was staring at her.

“So do you think he’ll call?” Emmy asked with what appeared to be genuine concern.

A little annoyed that her friend had even considered the idea that he wouldn’t call, no less verbalized it, she snapped, “Of course he’ll call. Why wouldn’t he?”

“Oooh, sounds like someone’s a little sensitive…” Leigh practically sang.

“What? Are you referring to Yani? I’m so over that.” Adriana stretched her legs out and pointed her toes.

“Was there a development with Yani?” Emmy asked eagerly. “Why am I always the last to know everything?”

Adriana sighed. “I have no idea why we’re harping on this. I gave him my number after class last week and told him to call me.”

“And?”

“He gave it back.” Adriana tried to sound supremely bored, but her friends knew her too well: It had been haunting her, making her even more certain that the time to find a husband was upon her. Yani’s rejection-something she was sure would never have happened a couple of years ago-confirmed her window was closing.

“Did he say why?”

“No, just that he was sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to use the number.”

“I’m sure it was just because he-”

“Please,” Adriana said with a casual wave and a deliberate smile. “I am so not interested. Yani the yoga instructor isn’t exactly one of the most revered Hollywood directors on earth, now, is he?”

“Hi,” Emmy said, sitting up and grinning hugely in the direction of Adriana’s right shoulder.

“What?” Adriana was momentarily confused until she turned around to see a man standing behind her. A rather attractive man, if she did say so. Why, yes, those Hawaiian-print board shorts sat below his hip bones, encircling an impressively toned abdomen. His sun-streaked hair was wet, and Adriana noticed his strong hands as he pushed it off his face. He could use a shave and he wasn’t as tall as she usually liked, but overall he was rather delectable. And he was smiling. At Emmy.

“Hey there,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything…” An Australian! They were her absolute favorites. Her very first kiss had been with an Australian boy, age eleven, sent to São Paulo for the summer to stay with Adriana’s next-door neighbors, and since then she’d been with enough of his countrymen to consider herself an honorary citizen.

“Of course not,” Adriana purred, instinctively pushing her shoulders back and her chest forward.

“Well, uh, we-my mates, over there?” He pointed to the table across the pool where three guys sat, trying not to look. “We were wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner tonight?” Adriana stared at him in disbelief. It was confirmed: He was talking directly to Emmy. Unbelievable! Could this delicious little treat actually prefer Emmy to her?

“It’s just that we’re here for one of my mates’ stag parties and, well, we’ve been here for three days already and are getting really tired of talking to each other. It’d, uh, be great if you girls would come with us tonight. Nothing crazy, I promise, just a cool little beachside place with good drinks and good music. Our treat. What do you say?”

By now, even Emmy had figured out that the Australian was addressing her, and Adriana, despite being shocked by the whole situation, was impressed by how quickly Emmy recovered. “Why, that’s so nice of you!” she said in her best imitation of a Southern belle. “We’d love to.”

The Australian, appearing pleased, trotted off to the bar in search of a pen. The moment he left, Adriana made a deliberate decision to kick it into high gear. She tried to suppress this ever-increasing panic that men no longer found her attractive and swallowed her critical thoughts of the Aussie-who was, upon further observation, quite short…not to mention that dirty-looking stubble; wasn’t she too old for guys who didn’t bother to take care of themselves?-and instead concentrated on smiling as broadly as she could manage. Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispered to her friends. “Emmy, darling, that boy has your name written all over him. Paris was Amateur Hour. You, my friend, are with the expert now. Consider yourself warned…” And while Emmy blushed and Leigh gave an approving wink, Adriana focused on keeping the tears at bay.

Leigh dug around inside her purse, searching for something, anything, that she could busy herself with until Jesse arrived. She couldn’t just sit there, for chrissake, staring off into space, nor did she want to be that girl, the one who was hunched over herself, frantically thumbing her BlackBerry. There was a hundred-page excerpt of a manuscript that her assistant had handed her as she walked out of the office, but she discarded this idea as well; pulling out a manuscript at Michael’s during the lunch hour was like reading a screenplay at The Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. Just don’t. What she really wanted to do was put on her beloved noise-cancellation headphones and block out the shrill, grating voice of the man sitting behind her, screaming into his cell phone. Were she alone or with friends, she would have simply asked to move tables, but Jesse was due any second and she didn’t want to be seen making a big fuss. The anxiety over the lunch combined with her upstairs neighbor’s late-night clomp to the kitchen had resulted in a very deficient night’s sleep, and she yearned to sneak in an earphone-just one was all she needed!-and let her trusty iPod (filled with only the most relaxing classical and mood music) soothe her jangled nerves. She was just untangling the cords when the maître d’ appeared tableside, Jesse in tow.

“Good to see you again,” she said smoothly, deliberately not standing to greet him but instead holding out her hand.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek. It was instinctive and totally impersonal, but Leigh nonetheless felt a little frisson of excitement. Just nerves, she thought.

Jesse stood next to the chair that had been pulled out for him and surveyed the scene. “Leigh, darling, could I trouble you to switch tables with me?” He stared at the two men in suits sitting behind her, one of whom was still on his cell phone, and Jesse said none-too-quietly, “I can’t fucking stand people uncivilized enough to scream into their cell phones in a restaurant.”

His reprimand went unnoticed by the offender, but Leigh nearly jumped from her seat and into his arms. “I loathe that guy,” she said, gathering her things with great haste, but Jesse was already preoccupied with flagging down the maître d’. It wasn’t until they were seated once again-this time at a perfectly situated table for two in a quiet back corner-that Leigh allowed herself to sneak a glance at Jesse.

He was wearing jeans and a blazer-perhaps the very same one he’d been wearing that day in Henry’s office-and his hair was mussed. He looked well scrubbed but casually rumpled, as though he’d given not a second’s thought to his appearance, and this made Leigh acutely aware of just how much time she had spent preparing.

It had been a while since she’d devoted so much time to her morning routine. She’d been so busy and sleep-deprived lately that her hour-long beauty regimen had been reduced to the basics: a quick rinse; a once-over with the hairdryer, just long enough to get the wet out; a touch of mascara; and lipstick on the go. But this morning had been different. She climbed out of bed without snoozing the alarm, carefully so as not to wake Russell, and from there her body moved through elaborate preparations as though on autopilot.

She had debated endlessly what to wear for her first official meeting with Jesse. His whole aura was informal, that much was sure, but she wanted to appear professional. Her father had never failed to remind her that older male authors would forever see her as a woman before an editor, and that if she stood any chance of gaining their respect, she should deemphasize her femininity. Or at the very least, not play it up. Leigh had always followed this prescription carefully, but today-when it should have counted most-she just couldn’t bear the usual black pantsuit. Or the charcoal gray one. Or navy. Nor did her usual cotton bikinis seem sufficient; instead, she climbed into a stretchy hot pink thong and a matching mesh bra that supported little and concealed nothing. Why not? she thought. They were more cute than sexy, and what was wrong with changing it up a little? Over this she tied her favorite Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, a knee-length number with three-quarter sleeves, a low neckline, and a bright yellow, white, and black abstract pattern. She blew her hair dry and applied her makeup barefoot before adding a pair of strappy sandals, going for the three-inchers instead of her more practical work kitten heels. Russell had whistled sleepily when she kissed his forehead good-bye, but the moment she stepped on the subway, she started to wonder if she was overdressed and by the time she was seated at the restaurant, she was convinced she looked more like a high-paid escort than a stylish yet serious professional.

To his credit or his obliviousness-Leigh wasn’t quite sure which-Jesse kept his eyes locked firmly on her face as he said, “Where did my mousy editor go? I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble on my behalf.”

Leigh watched as he settled into the chair opposite hers and immediately regretted her outfit choice. She was prepared for Jesse’s sexist comments-Henry had warned her of those-and judging from his literary-rock-star status, she assumed he’d be a pompous jerk, but despite all that, she wasn’t ready for such a blatant insult. If she didn’t set the precedent right now, their entire working relationship would be doomed. He might be a famous writer, but he was her famous writer now, and she had to make damn sure he understood that.

“For you?” Leigh made a show of looking herself over and laughed gaily. “Jesse, how sweet of you to notice, but it’s actually for a party later.” She paused, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “Am I to infer now that you went to all that trouble for me?”

His hands immediately went to his hair and brushed it back off his face. “Yeah, I do look like shit, don’t I?” he said a bit sheepishly. “I missed the earlier train and then the schedule was all fucked up. It was a bit of a nightmare.”

“The train? I thought you lived in the city?”

“I do, but I can’t concentrate here, so I’ve been writing in the Hamptons.”

“Oh, that’s-”

He interrupted with a rueful laugh. “Really fucking original, I know. Bought the place last November, just as it was starting to get cold. I was always appropriately anti-Hamptons, you won’t be shocked to hear, but this was different: It was gray, isolated, the perfect place to lock down with a computer and not much else. Didn’t see another soul for days at a stretch and then-poof!-the sun comes out for a split second in May, and the whole of the Upper East Side arrives en masse.”

“So why’d you stay? It’s hell on earth there in July,” Leigh said.

“Sheer laziness.”

“Oh, please. I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe it. I’m all set up. I just can’t bring myself to leave. Besides, they’re doing construction on the apartment above mine in the city and the noise is intolerable.”

“Mmm,” Leigh said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

Jesse shook his head and sat back in his seat with an exhale. “How do you endure so many hours with self-obsessed shits like myself?”

Leigh laughed despite herself. “Just a part of the job description,” she said.

“Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re curious what-”

“Jesse,” she said sweetly, stopping him midsentence. “We’re going to have plenty of time for work, so I thought it might be nice if we just got acquainted and saved the editorial discussion for next time.”

He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

“Quite. If that’s all right with you.”

He cocked his head. “You are a strange one, aren’t you? An editor who doesn’t want to talk about my book. Well, well, well. What do you want to talk about, Ms. Eisner?”

Leigh was pleased. Her trip to Curaçao with the girls hadn’t felt like much of an engagement celebration, but it had given her plenty of time to think through her strategy with Jesse. She knew she needed to set the tone with him early and firmly. Dictating both the pacing and the content of their conversations was the only way to do this. He had come to this lunch expecting that his new editor at his new publishing house would be salivating to hear about his new book and so she had feigned indifference.

By the time they’d finished their entrées (the hanger steak salad for him and the herb-roasted striped bass for her), they’d talked about everything but writing. Leigh learned that Jesse grew up in Seattle but thought it was depressing and he spent his twenties working odd jobs around Southeast Asia but thought that was depressing, too. He told her how shocked he’d been when Disenchantment first hit the bestseller list and how surreal it was to make millions from what he thought of as little more than a travel diary and how crazy the party scene in New York City is when you’re young, accomplished, and suddenly very, very rich. It had been a little over an hour, but Leigh felt like they were beginning to forge a connection that was unusual for them both-not romantic, of course, but somehow intimate. In passing and without the least bit of emphasis or interest, Jesse mentioned his wife.

“You have a wife?” Leigh asked.

He nodded.

“As in, you’re married?”

“That is generally how people define it, yes. Are you surprised?”

“No. Well, yes. Not surprised that you would be married, just…uh…surprised that…well, that I didn’t read it in the papers.”

Jesse grinned and she thought how much better-looking he was when he smiled. Younger, somehow, and not quite as damaged. He glanced at her left hand and raised his eyebrows. “I see you, too, plan to join our married ranks.”

She didn’t know why, but she was suddenly flustered. Flustered and quite uncomfortable.

“Dessert?” she asked, picking up the menu and pretending to peruse it.

Jesse ordered espressos for both of them. Without asking. Which, naturally, Leigh found equally irritating and appealing. She would have preferred herbal mint tea had she been permitted to choose, but it was oddly nice not to make the decision.

“So tell me, Ms. Eisner. What was the last great book you edited? Before mine, of course.”

“Well, I needn’t remind you, Mr. Chapman, that your book’s greatness remains to be seen. We’re all very curious.”

“As am I, about the woman who will be editing me.”

“What, exactly, would you like to know?”

“Who are your other authors? Your favorites? Which of their books have pleased you?”

A bit flustered, Leigh said, “I think you probably know the answer to your own questions.”

“Meaning?”

Leigh paused for a moment and considered the ramifications of complete honesty. She certainly didn’t feel any moral compulsion to tell the whole truth; it just felt silly at this point to keep up the charade, so she looked him in the eye and said, “Meaning that I have no doubt you’ve done your homework, and you know full well that you will be my most-selling author to date-and admittedly, by a great deal-and you also must know that my boss, my colleagues, and probably the entire publishing community think I’m much too inexperienced to handle your book.”

Jesse downed his espresso. “And what do you think, dear Leigh?” he asked, a half-smile playing at his mouth.

“I think that you’re sick of all the bullshit. I don’t know why you vanished the last six years, but I suspect it was something more than too much partying, or whatever else the gossip hounds claim. I think you’re looking for a fresh start and an editor who has nothing to lose. Someone young and hungry and willing to take a few risks.” She paused. “How am I doing?”

“Very well.”

“Thank you.” She felt almost high with adrenaline, anxious and on edge, but in a good way.

“And at the risk of sounding like a patronizing asshole,” he said, “I am quite certain I made the right decision.”

“You have,” she nodded.

Jesse motioned to the waiter for their check and handed it directly to Leigh when it arrived. “This is on Brook Harris, I assume?”

“Of course.” She placed her brand-new American Express Corporate Card in the little folder and sat back. “So, Jesse,” she said, pulling her red leather planner from her bag, “when are we going to see each other again? I’m free for lunch Tuesday and Friday of next week, although Tuesday’s probably better. Of course, you’re welcome to come into the office and meet-”

“Next week isn’t good for me.”

“Oh. Okay, then. The week after that. How about you-”

“No, that won’t work, either.”

Her company had just spent three million dollars to purchase what was little more than a name and a promise, and he didn’t think it enough of a priority to make himself available for a proper editorial conversation? “You didn’t even let me finish,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a barely suppressed smile. “It’s just that I’ve no plans to come to the city again for the next few weeks. This morning’s train debacle guaranteed that. Now, we can either wait until I do return, or if you’re inclined, I’d be happy to host you in the Hamptons.”

“Well, I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you,” she said coolly.

“He’ll tell you to come,” Jesse said.

“Pardon me?”

“Henry. He’ll tell you to come. Don’t worry, Leigh, it’s not so very far away, and I promise to take good care of you. There’s even a Starbucks.”

The waiter returned her card and receipt. She carefully placed each in its own compartment in her wallet and gathered her things.

“I haven’t upset you, have I?” Jesse asked.

Leigh got the distinct feeling that he couldn’t care less.

“Of course not. I’m just late for another appointment. I’ll call you later today or tomorrow and set up our next meeting.”

He grinned and stepped aside so she could walk ahead of him. “Sounds good to me. And Leigh? Try not to panic, okay? We’re going to work just fine together.”

It was raining when they stepped outside, and as Leigh fumbled in her gigantic tote for an umbrella, Jesse began jogging toward Sixth Avenue. “Talk later,” he called without turning around.

Leigh seethed. He really was a conceited, pompous prick. He hadn’t even bothered to ask if she needed a cab or offered to walk her back to the office-he hadn’t even thanked her for lunch! She didn’t know how she was going to coddle a man with such a mammoth-sized ego. She could be diplomatic and lead with the carrot, but the gentle, wide-eyed, I’m-so-impressed-with-your-brilliance-Mr. Bestseller approach just wasn’t her. Not now, not ever, and certainly not for someone as obnoxious as Jesse Chapman. Hell, Adriana could probably do a better job with him, never having edited-or possibly even read-a single book in her entire life. This thought plagued her for the eight-block walk back to the office, a walk made even more miserable by her now-soaking-wet three-inch heels. By the time she stepped into her building, she was ready to call the entire thing off-a fact that she didn’t exactly hide from Henry.

“Eisner, get in here,” he called to her as she walked by his door. There was no way to get from the elevator to her office without passing Henry’s, a maddening design he’d no doubt orchestrated deliberately.

Leigh would have liked a few minutes to compose herself and, truth be told, maybe tone down her outfit by adding a cardigan or a pair of flip-flops, but she knew Henry had cleared his entire afternoon in anticipation of her return.

“Hello,” she said brightly and arranged herself as modestly as possible on his love seat.

“Well?” he asked. Henry looked her up and down but, blessedly, remained expressionless.

“Well, he certainly is a handful,” she said before realizing how positively asinine that sounded.

“A handful?”

“He’s arrogant-just like you warned-but I’m sure it’s nothing we won’t be able to work through. When I tried to set up our next meeting, he blatantly refused to come back to Manhattan.”

Henry looked up. “Doesn’t he live in the West Village?”

“Yes, but he claims he can’t concentrate here, so he bought a place in the Hamptons. He just assumed that I’d go there…” Leigh trailed off with a laugh.

“Of course you will,” Henry snapped, something he didn’t do often.

“I will?” Leigh asked, surprised more at Henry’s vehemence than anything else.

“Yes. I’ll reassign your other projects if necessary. From now until his pub date, you’ll make this your only priority. If that means meeting at the Bronx Zoo because he’s inspired by baby lion cubs, so be it. So long as that manuscript is in by deadline and it’s publishable, I don’t care if you spend the next six months in Tanzania. Just make it happen.”

“I understand, Henry. I really do. You can count on me. And reassigning my authors isn’t necessary,” Leigh said, thinking of the memoirist with chronic fatigue, the novelist whose book was out for endorsements, and the stand-up comedian turned writer who called with new jokes no fewer than three times a week.

Henry’s phone rang and a moment later his assistant announced over the intercom that it was his wife. “Think about what I said, Leigh,” he said, his hand over the mouthpiece.

She nodded and scurried out of his office, barely even noticing the searing pain she felt in both heels. Her own assistant, clutching a fistful of messages and memos, pounced on Leigh the moment she collapsed into her desk chair.

“This contract needs to be signed immediately so I can FedEx it before close of business, and Pablo from the art department said he needed any cover notes for the Mathison memoir as soon as humanly possible. Oh, and-”

“Annette, can we hold off on this stuff for a minute? I need to make a call. Will you close the door on your way out? I’ll only be a moment.” Leigh tried to keep her voice calm and even, but she felt like screaming.

Annette, bless her heart, merely nodded and quietly pulled the door closed behind her. Not sure she would ever again have the strength to make the call if she didn’t do it that second, Leigh picked up the receiver and dialed.

“Well, that was fast,” Jesse answered. It sounded like a taunt. “What can I do for you, Ms. Eisner?”

“I’ve checked my schedule, and I’ll see you in the Hamptons.”

He demonstrated enough restraint not to gloat, but Leigh could feel him grinning. “I appreciate that, Leigh. I’ll be out of town for the next couple weeks doing research. Would the second weekend in August work?”

Leigh didn’t bother looking at her planner or the calendar she kept open on her computer screen. What did it matter? Henry had made it clear enough: If it worked for Jesse, it worked for her.

She took a deep breath and bit down on her thumb hard enough to leave a tooth mark. “I’ll be there,” she said.