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

count him as south america

Emmy removed the tray from her toaster oven and carefully flipped each of the pita chips with her fingertips, alternately delighted at their delicate crispiness and irritated that she couldn’t make a bigger batch in a proper oven. Her friends were coming over for their twice-yearly visit to her apartment, and rather than whip up a feast for them (probably Italian, a good scaloppine with a side of perfectly al dente pasta), she was baking pita chips in a toaster oven that took up her entire “counter space” and mashing chickpeas in a bowl on her lap. Emmy had always comforted herself with the knowledge that she and Duncan would one day have a new place together, a place with a huge Viking stove and a Sub-Zero fridge and cabinets filled with real stainless steel pots, but that dream had vanished when he did.

She could barely believe they’d broken up a full five months ago. Even weirder was how completely they-or, if she was going to be really honest, Duncan-had severed contact. Although Emmy hadn’t told Izzie or the girls, she had called him pretty regularly during the first few months and had even showed up at his apartment, at least until he’d changed the locks. After that humiliation she managed to tone things down, and by midsummer Emmy had pretty much stopped calling, save for one little relapse after the Paris/Paul rejection. Oh, and there was that e-mail. It was embarrassing, but Emmy reassured herself that these things happened. She hadn’t intended to write to him, but she had come home one night right before she left for Florida, slightly buzzed from a work-related wine tasting, and sat down at her computer to surf for a bit before going to sleep. Remembering it was her friend Polly’s thirtieth birthday, she opened her e-mail and typed P in the To field, and sure enough, Duncan’s e-mail address popped into place (she had him saved in her address book under “Pumpkin”). She considered this for just a moment before forging forward and crafting a fake e-mail to Paul, the guy she’d met at the Costes who had flatly rejected her and whose e-mail address she most certainly didn’t have.

Hey baby,

Glad to hear you’re having such a great time in St. Tropez, although I’m missing you here. Work is crazy right now, but I guess that’s to be expected with a new job that requires so much traveling. It’s just so hard to be away from you! Thank you so much for the gorgeous little French negligee you sent. It’s so lacy and pretty and s-e-x-y. I can’t WAIT to model it for you. Only one more week until I join you there…

xoxo E

She hit Send and felt a thrill of excitement when she saw Duncan’s name in her Sent box: If that didn’t elicit a response, nothing would. It had taken two full days for him to respond, and even then, it was disappointing. He’d merely replied, “I think you accidentally sent this to the wrong person,” and had signed off with a smiley face. An emoticon! It was too insulting for words, and she immediately regretted the whole thing. No jealous questions about the identity of Emmy’s secret lover, no reference to her new job, not even a wry acknowledgment about her sexy nightie or (supposed) upcoming trip to the South of France. That was the final straw. It had been nearly two months since that mortifying exchange and Emmy hadn’t contacted him once. More to the point, she was happy to realize she hadn’t so much as thought about him in the two weeks since she’d had hot, random sex with George. Which obviously meant one and only one thing: Much more hot, random sex was required.

Her buzzer rang at exactly eight and Emmy braced herself for Otis’s imminent caw. Sure enough, he shook himself awake and squawked, “Who is it? Come on up! Who is it? Come on up!”

She sighed, slipped on her flip-flops, and headed for the stairs. The mechanism that allowed her to buzz people in was broken and although the building did have an elevator circa 1925, it had taken only one afternoon trapped inside it three years earlier to convince Emmy that the stairs were a much better option. She appreciated that Adriana and Leigh made the effort to come to her place twice a year or so-especially considering they lived in the same building and both had apartments that were significantly more comfortable than hers-but she just ended up feeling self-conscious about the size of her studio and guilty for subjecting everyone to a five-floor climb, after which they had to sit on the floor and endure a whole night of the hideous parrot’s insults.

“Hi!” she called cheerfully, forgetting her reservations when she swung open the building door and saw the girls sitting on her stoop. The air was warm for October, but it was filled with smoke. “Whoa! What do I see here?”

Adriana elbowed Emmy in the side and, grinning, motioned toward Leigh. “Check this out.”

Sure enough, Leigh was stamping out a cigarette as she exhaled a last plume of smoke.

“Leigh! What happened? You were doing so well!” Emmy cried.

“Were being the operative word.”

“What happened?”

“Jesse Chapman happened,” Adriana sang with obvious pleasure.

The girls began the single-file trudge upstairs.

Emmy turned around and looked at her friends. “Why is your relapse Jesse Chapman’s fault?”

Leigh sighed melodramatically. “I always suspected you guys didn’t listen to a word I said.”

“Oh, save the drama,” Adriana said. “We listen to every single Chicken Little work-related melodrama of yours. It’s just lucky for us that Jesse Chapman happens to be a little more interesting than your usual lunatic authors.”

“Wait! Back to the ‘Jesse Chapman happened.’ What does that mean?” Emmy asked. They had finally reached her apartment; Emmy was pleased to see that even though her friends were both panting and breathless, she felt perfectly fine.

“Nothing happened. You make it sound like there’s something scandalous going on, which I assure you, there is not. He’s just a handful.”

Adriana smirked. “I’ll bet he is.”

Emmy motioned for the girls to claim a cushion and began pouring the red wine she had opened before their arrival. “Speaking of sex with strangers…”

Adriana squealed so loud that Otis began his own series of screams and caws and Leigh clamped her hands over her ears.

“Emmy! You didn’t!” Adriana said.

“Oh, but I did.” It felt so good to say those words, to watch the reactions on her friends’ faces. Between their trips to the Hamptons and LA, the entire month of September had vanished without a single chance to tell them face-to-face, but Emmy was glad she’d waited until now.

“Noooo,” Leigh breathed, looking up from her wineglass with a look of utter shock.

“Yeeeeeeeees,” Emmy sang gleefully.

“Fatty! Fatty! Fat girl!” Otis screeched. Adriana banged his cage with the back of her hand, which Otis immediately tried to bite.

“Tell us everything! Who was he? Where? When? How? Was it good? Is he the future father of your children?”

Emmy plopped on the floor and took a long sip of wine, savoring the attention.

“His name is George. He’s a law student at Miami. Obviously, I met him when I was visiting Izzie and Kevin. And it just sort of happened,” Emmy said, staring at her hands.

Adriana gave her a playful shove in the shoulder. “You are totally lying to us. Don’t you think, Leigh?”

“I believe she actually did the deed,” Leigh said thoughtfully, “but something’s not adding up. I don’t think we’re getting the real story.”

“You’re in love, aren’t you?” Leigh asked, leaning forward. “That’s it. You fell head over heels for this guy, and you’re already picturing him as your husband.”

Adriana nodded her agreement. “One hundred percent. Lawyer, friend of your sister’s, probably the nicest guy on earth. Well, I’m happy for you, honey. Not surprised, I have to say, but happy for you. However”-Adriana wagged her forefinger-“I would like us to recognize that I, as one-half of a committed relationship that I promise will be leading to an engagement in the next six months, have officially won our bet.”

“I’m a witness,” Leigh concurred. “And it’s true. I, too, am happy you met the guy of your dreams, Emmy, but you are handing the contest to Adriana.”

Adriana picked up a folder of take-out menus from the coffee table and began thumbing through them. “Let’s order now so it gets here in time for Grey’s. Sushi?”

“Wait just a minute,” Emmy said.

“Wait! Fat girl! Wait! Fat girl!” Otis cawed.

“I don’t know how you live with that repulsive creature,” Adriana said.

Emmy grabbed the folder from Adriana and then snatched the remote control from Leigh. She clicked off the TV and said, “I’d like your undivided attention, please.”

Leigh sighed. “Are you engaged? Please don’t tell me you’re marrying this guy already.”

Adriana and Leigh cracked up laughing.

“I’ll have you both know that”-Emmy held up a finger-“one, I had completely random, attachment-free sex with someone I will never, ever see again.”

Pleased to see that this had gotten her friends’ attention, she continued. “And two, I liked it.”

This second pronouncement was met with silence, which Adriana finally broke. “You did?”

Emmy nodded. “And when I tell you he was inappropriate, I mean it.”

Emmy hadn’t known herself the full extent of what she’d done until the following morning, when she’d casually mentioned George’s name to her sister.

“Who?” Izzie had asked, scrambling eggs at the stove.

“A guy named George. I went down to the pool last night to call Leigh and he was there. We talked for a little while.” Pause. “He seemed nice enough.”

“George, George…I don’t know a George,” Izzie said.

“Maybe he’s new? Whatever, it’s not important.” Emmy had never withheld anything from Izzie before, but she just couldn’t bring herself to disclose what happened with George in light of her sister’s baby announcement. It just seemed so…so petty, somehow. Silly.

Kevin strolled into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Who are we talking about?”

“Emmy met one of our neighbors last night by the pool. George. But I can’t figure out who he is.”

Kevin turned to Emmy and asked, “Law student?”

Emmy nodded. “Yeah, he said he was at Miami Law School.”

“Tall kid, decent-looking, always wearing mesh shorts?”

“That’s him,” Emmy agreed.

“Jorge! I wonder when he started calling himself George. Kid’s a legend around here.”

Something about the way Kevin kept saying “kid” was unnerving Emmy, and the whole legend bit didn’t sound so great, either.

“What do you mean?” Emmy asked, although she really didn’t want to know.

“Just such an unbelievable player. Literally a different girl every night, sometimes two. That guy has been with more girls at twenty-three than most men will in their lifetimes.”

Emmy froze, her OJ glass suspended in midair halfway between the table and her mouth. “Twenty-three?”

Izzie joined Emmy at the table and bit delicately into a piece of toast. “Yeah, he’s a baby. But the girls do love him.” She looked at Emmy with a strange look. “Why? Did something happen?”

Emmy concentrated hard on not choking and said, “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course not. You know me…”

Kevin drained the last of his coffee and tied his sneakers. “Izzie, honey, as beautiful as Emmy is, I imagine Jorge focuses more on the eighteen-to-twenty-five range.”

Ouch.

Emmy relayed the contents of this conversation to her friends, who were literally crying tears of laughter by the time she finished.

“You. Cannot. Be. Serious!” Leigh gasped. She clutched her stomach and rolled on the floor.

“He was twenty-three, querida? For real?”

“It’s not like I knew that! And I certainly had no idea his hobby was making sweet poolside love to unsuspecting women…”

“Unsuspecting older women,” Adriana added.

“Mock all you’d like,” Emmy said as she tossed a towel over Otis’s cage. “But it was the best sex of my old-lady life.”

Leigh held up her hand. “Wait just a second here. We’re not acknowledging a crucial point here. Am I to assume that Jorge is Cuban?”

Emmy shrugged. “Probably. Actually, I think Kevin mentioned later that his family are well-known anti-Castro activists.”

“So…” Leigh bowed her head and extended her arm.

“So?” Emmy asked, confused.

“So you just had your first foreign man!” Adriana said. “Granted, he was probably born in the States, and even if he wasn’t, the Caribbean doesn’t really count. But I vote-in a gesture of goodwill and encouragement-that he should count.”

“I second that. Count him as South America. But definitely count him.”

Adriana reached over and pinched Emmy’s cheek. “Congratulations, querida. One down-two if we’re counting Duncan for North America-and five to go.”

Emmy felt a frisson in the air at the sound of Duncan’s name and would swear that she saw Adriana and Leigh exchange looks, but she ignored it. Emmy knew they didn’t believe she was really over him, and she was growing tired of trying to convince them. “Yes, well, I am hereby cured of my monogamy addiction. And I appreciate you both being there to encourage me on my way to whoredom.”

The girls clinked their wineglasses. Emmy phoned in their usual sushi order (three miso soups, two sushi entrées, one sashimi entrée, and a vat of extra-spicy sauce for dipping) and Leigh worked on setting the DVR to begin recording Grey’s so they wouldn’t have to waste time on commercials. A half-hour later, after Emmy had run the stairs again to let in the delivery guy and returned to find Adriana dangling Otis’s cage out her five-story window, the girls were happily chopsticking everything in sight and working their way through wine bottle number two of Emmy’s favorite gewürztraminer.

“How’s Russell?” Emmy asked Leigh, hoping to draw her out a little. They’d known each other long enough that Emmy accepted her friend’s fierce privacy, but she never stopped trying.

“What?” Leigh asked, clearly distracted. “Russell? Oh, he’s fine. Great. He’s interviewing Tony Romo this week, so he’s been really preoccupied.”

Adriana dunked a piece of yellowtail sushi into the soy sauce and popped it into her mouth. “Emmy said you guys were close to setting a date for the wedding, right?”

Leigh nodded. “April.”

“April? Really? That’s so soon!” Emmy was surprised. Considering they’d only known each other a year before getting engaged, she figured they’d wait until at least the following summer, but she was pleased to see that Leigh finally seemed to be getting into it.

“Yeah, it definitely wasn’t my first choice, but it’ll be fine.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know; I’ve always really liked the idea of a fall wedding, I guess. Plus, it seems a little soon. And Jesse’s book is scheduled to publish right around then, so it’s going to be crazy. But my parents are insisting that it’s the only free weekend in the next two years at the club because someone canceled, and it works for Russell’s family travel-wise, so we’re going with it. Doesn’t really matter.” She shrugged.

“Spoken like a glowing bride,” Adriana said.

Leigh shrugged again. “Why should I get all stressed out about a date? We’re going to get married at some point, so does it really matter when it happens?”

“Gee, Leigh, you’re making me swoon with the romance of it all,” Emmy said. She’d intended it to lighten the awkwardness, but the comment had come out all wrong. She quickly moved to change the subject. “So how’s everything going with Mr. Chapman? Have you met his wife yet?”

Leigh put down her chopsticks and folded her legs under herself, as though preparing to give a long talk. “You know, I haven’t met her. I don’t even know for sure that she exists-I’ve never read about her in a single newspaper or magazine-and I’d never believe it if he hadn’t mentioned one time at lunch that he’s married. It’s strange, though, because he doesn’t really even reference her-like, I don’t even know her name.”

“Has he hit on you yet?” Emmy asked. She wondered when Leigh was going to wake up and see what was going on here. It was obvious that she’d developed some sort of crush on this guy-who, by the way, sounded like a first-class asshole-and Emmy figured the situation could be nothing but bad news. Besides, it was irritating that Leigh had found such an amazing guy in Russell and didn’t seem to appreciate him nearly as much as she should.

Leigh looked up. “Hit on me? Emmy, he’s my author. Of course not.”

“And you’re engaged,” Emmy added.

“Obviously! I thought that went without saying.”

Adriana poured everyone another glass of wine and said, “Girls, girls, settle down. I’m sure Mr. Jesse Chapman has his lecherous hands all over Leigh. After all, he’s not exactly known for his chastity, and Leigh here is a beautiful woman. But that’s certainly not her fault. Now, can we please talk about me? I have something to show you both.”

She buried a hand inside her quilted Chanel hobo and pulled out a velvet box. “Check these out. They’re from Toby. Or should I say, from Harry Winston.”

Both girls leaned over to see the beautiful earrings.

“They’re stunning,” Leigh declared, touching them reverently with her left hand.

Emmy couldn’t help but notice the juxtaposition of Leigh’s sparkly engagement ring and Adriana’s sapphire earrings. While her friends seemed enamored with the baubles, Emmy wondered if they even realized how lucky they were to have the loving men behind the jewelry. She would happily forsake all the diamonds in the world if she could just find the one person who was meant for her. Or, really, keep the one who was meant for her. If everything had gone the way they’d always discussed, she and Duncan would have been planning their wedding right now.

“Toby remembered how much I admired them from an old picture of Salma Hayek at the Oscars. These are the exact ones she wore.”

Emmy whistled. “He’s a keeper, Adi. I hate that Leigh knows him and I don’t. When do I get to meet him?”

“He’s on location in Toronto for the next few weeks, but he wants to throw a big dinner party for my birthday next month. I told him thir-that age is no cause for celebration, but he insists. Where’s a good place?”

The girls chatted straight through the entire Grey’s episode, an Entourage rerun, and bits and pieces of Dateline’s To Catch a Predator. They were just about to get sucked into Notting Hill on the Oxygen Network when Emmy announced that she was exhausted and had to be up early the next day, and as much as she appreciated everyone coming over, it might be time to wrap things up. Leigh and Adriana looked surprised but not overly concerned, and after a few minutes of gathering their things and hugging good-bye, Emmy was blessedly alone.

She just wasn’t in the mood for the usual chitchat tonight. She was cranky, and a little bit sad for no good reason. That’s a total lie, Emmy told herself as she bobby-pinned her bangs back and haphazardly washed her face. Izzie had called a couple hours earlier with the news that she and Kevin would be having a baby boy. When Emmy gushed with excitement (genuine) and asked if they were still thinking of the name Ezra, Izzie laughed and said Kevin seemed stuck on Dylan for some reason. Dylan with a D. D like Duncan. Duncan, who-if you could ever get him talking about having children-insisted that his would be only boys, and only boys named after him. She’d been so good for so long, had resisted every single previous temptation, but tonight she felt her willpower slackening. The combination of Izzie’s baby announcement and that look she’d seen Leigh and Adriana exchange at the mention of Duncan’s name, and Emmy couldn’t stop thinking about him. She realized he could have eloped with the trainer or, worse, gotten her pregnant, and Emmy would have no idea. How had this happened? How had she ended up single at almost thirty and Adriana and Leigh-neither of whom particularly seemed to care-were both going to get married any minute now? It was so unfair. Duncan may not have been a famous director or a superstar TV anchor, but he’d been good to her, most of the time. Emmy wasn’t an idiot; she knew he liked to flirt, and she heard him all those times he swore he wasn’t ready to settle down, but who could have ever foreseen this?

She inched closer to the computer.

Her mind willed her not to open the laptop, screamed, No! No! No! You’ll regret this. Bad Idea! Bad Idea! and for a moment it sounded so realistic she wondered if Otis was actually shrieking the words, but she could only hold out for so long. Four seconds later, her fingers were flying across the keyboard. Ten seconds after that, she was face-to-face with Brianna’s MySpace page.

And seventeen high-definition inches’ worth of pictures of Duncan and the trainer. On vacation. In bathing suits. Looking absolutely outstanding.

Emmy rapidly glanced through the pictures of the happy couple sunning on a white sand beach, lounging in what looked like a private patio pool, and smiling over heaps of devoured crab claws and empty cocktail glasses. There weren’t any captions, though, which was maddening. Where were they? When? Was it a honeymoon? She skimmed the e-mails down the right-hand side, perky little missives from Brianna’s friends, chock-full of emoticons and ellipses and too many exclamation points to count. One of the insipid messages included a link to the Kodak Gallery Web site, and Emmy sensed her torture was only beginning.

“Oh, god, no,” she moaned aloud, stretching backward in her chair and staring at the computer warily, as though it might explode. She knew she shouldn’t click on it, but there was no turning back. She sat up straight with her shoulders down and her chest jutted out, took a deep breath, and moved the cursor to the link. She was just about to click when, thank god, she remembered the dreaded guest book. Had she clicked the link, Kodak Gallery would’ve automatically remembered her from last time and saved her name in Brianna’s guest book, right along with a helpful date and time stamp. Nightmare! Relieved that she had averted disaster, Emmy quickly went to the general home page, logged herself out, and logged in under the pseudonym and fake e-mail she used for such e-stalking activities. When she opened the link this time, the album greeting read, “Welcome, Lucy! Click here to see pictures from Brianna and Duncan’s Mexican Adventure.”

Mexican Adventure? Please! They’re lying on a fucking beach, not climbing Kilimanjaro. With another deep breath, which was not the least bit calming, Emmy clicked.

Before the screen went into slide-show mode, Emmy saw that there were dozens, possibly hundreds, of thumbnail shots. She knew this was a very bad idea, that it was stupid from an intellectual standpoint and toxic from a sanity one, but by now it was out of her control. Frames one through six passed by in a flash; it wasn’t until the seventh that Emmy collected herself enough to adjust the speed. The slower pace satisfied her for another half-dozen shots, but her compulsion to study, to examine, every square inch of every single photograph consumed her, and within seconds she had turned off the automatic slide show altogether. Now she could do this properly, at her own pace.

Unfortunately, the first frame that remained frozen on the screen was one that must have been taken by Duncan. It featured Brianna frolicking in knee-deep surf, leaning forward to splash the viewer and simultaneously looking up, a movement that caused her back to arch almost pornographically. Emmy moved closer to the screen. Could her ass really stand up like that, all on its own? And those breasts! Even though the girl was leaning forward in a string bikini and appeared to have solid C cups, they were barely hanging at all! Emmy peered at them for a full minute and arrived at the regretful decision that no, they weren’t fake, they were just really young. Besides, twenty-two-year-old virgins don’t get fake boobs, do they?

Click.

Duncan filled the screen. He was lying on a pool float, a tan, newly muscled arm draped over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He was wearing an unfamiliar pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts (Emmy had pleaded with him to trade in his old-man bathing suit with the alligators stitched into it, to no avail) and, wait…was that a six-pack? She squinted. It was! Formerly doughy, pale, I-sit-at-a-desk-all-day Duncan had morphed into a goddamn beach Adonis right before her very eyes. Emmy pressed her eyes closed and rubbed them, but Duncan still looked fit-downright hot-when she opened them again.

Click.

The happy couple again…on a dive boat! Together they sat on a wooden bench, hands on each other’s knees, looking sporty and adorable in wetsuits unzipped to their waists. They were surrounded by the debris of a recent dive, racks of tanks and regulators, discarded masks and fins, and, off to the side, a Mexican man in a white shorts uniform preparing to serve them fresh fruit and juice. Emmy had begged Duncan-literally pleaded, she now remembered with growing rage-to try scuba diving with her one year in the Bahamas over Christmas. He’d flatly refused, reminding her that he sure as hell wasn’t going to spend his precious vacation time in a pursuit as active and challenging as scuba diving. He wouldn’t even go snorkeling, that bastard, because he “wasn’t into the whole floating-prey thing.”

Click.

Brianna sitting atop the covers on a four-poster bed, reading a magazine, wearing very skimpy and nonvirginal boy shorts and a barely-there tank top. Click. The two of them in workout clothes and iPods, all sweaty and rosy-cheeked post-run. Click. Duncan making a silly kissing face at the camera, even though Duncan didn’t make silly kissing faces ever, while wearing the Cornell T-shirt Emmy had bought for him at her fifth-year college reunion. Click. Dressed up for a candlelit dinner on the sand, where they appeared to feast on whole grilled fish, lots of fresh vegetables, and white wine. Click. Click. Click. Emmy finished clicking through the entire album, briefly surveyed her level of nausea, and hunkered down to start again from the beginning.

It was going to be a very long night.