Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (34 page)

And I wasn’t paying the bill. Which was just as well.

Bemelmans is my idea of heaven when it comes to a bar. Small and intimate, with killer drinks, fiery-hot toasted edamame, and folksy art that puts one in mind of a children’s story-book, it’s absolutely perfect. But you could mortgage a Park Avenue apartment and still not have enough to pay the tab— especially on a martini bender. So better that it was Althea’s headache.

I’d save mine for tomorrow.

Althea Sevalas was my friend, mentor, and sometime rival. In truth, I’d absorbed all she had to teach me with the voracity of the young and hungry and then proceeded to go out and apply what I’d learned on my own.

Actually, I’m making it sound easier than it was. I don’t know that I’d ever have taken the leap, so to speak, if it hadn’t been for Franklin Pierpont’s tendency toward dramatic scenes. Franklin is a billionaire geek with absolutely no social skills.

Althea had taken him on in a fit of absolute pity. And when his first match ended in a somewhat less than desirable way, he’d wound up standing on a ledge outside my office window— nineteen floors up. Obviously this sort of behavior is not good for the matchmaking business, and Althea, who suffers from vertigo, tasked me with talking him down.

Suffice it to say, it was not one of my favorite assignments, but after showing half of Manhattan my Perele panties, and losing a Manolo to windowsill gymnastics, I managed to talk sense into the man.

Of course it didn’t hurt matters when it turned out that the policewoman who’d come to our rescue was not only a looker but also the heir to a computer fortune. A definite sign from on high. So when Althea insisted on taking credit for handling the whole fiasco, I saw the writing on the wall, and with a little help from the Pierpont-policewoman merger, I started my own agency.

At first there’d been understandable friction between us. After all, I’d walked away with all Althea’s tricks of the trade, so to speak. But with a little time she’d realized that Manhattan was big enough for both of us and, albeit warily, accepted me back into her circle of friends.

She wasn’t above twisting the knife a bit now and then, though. And having been invited to the wedding of the century was a coup she’d no doubt lord over me for years to come. It was a first and something I had to admit I aspired to achieve. Not that it was likely.

This one was a fluke. Matchmakers simply aren’t considered wedding guest material. Too much a reminder of things best forgotten.

Which explains the reason for celebrating. And though it wasn’t really my triumph, I didn’t have a problem swizzling Bemelmans martinis in Althea’s honor. Of course, I’d brought reinforcements—my friend Cybil Baranski.

“So I heard that even though the gown cost half a million, the bride still looked like overfed farm stock.” Cybil adjusted her Oliver Peoples frames and leaned forward, eyes sparkling in anticipation.

Cybil and I have been friends since Trinity, and believe me, her love of gossip was a well-developed art form even then. Just ask Roberta Marston, the first girl in our class to go all the way. And, of course, being Cybil, she’d found a way to capitalize on her talent for digging dirt, getting paid handsomely by the Murdochs to write a syndicated international column that’s become a glitterati must-read.

The bride in question was Susannah Barker, a long-shot latecomer in the race to secure the hand of multimillionaire Robert Walski. Of course, she had Althea on her team, which meant the odds were upped considerably despite what the rumormongers (excluding Cybil, of course) would have had one believe.

“Honey,” Althea leaned in as well, her nose almost colliding with Cybil’s. Dirty martinis are hell on depth perception. “When you’re wearing a size twelve at your wedding, there’s just not a lot a designer can do.” We all looked down at the newspaper Althea had brought. In this case the picture was beyond words.

Judged against the ordinary world, Susannah would be considered attractive, I suppose. But Manhattan is a sea of size twos. I’ve always believed that the reason restaurants open and close with such velocity here is due at least in part to the fact that while most women deign to visit restaurants out of social necessity, they very seldom actually eat anything.

Anyway, suffice it to say, Susannah holds up her end in the support of Manhattan restaurants. However, her size wasn’t the issue here. Her father’s upstate mills were. And when Walski realized the advantages of merging his assets with hers . . . well, the rest is history.

But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Finding someone whose social background and financial assets are equal to or enhance yours? All this nonsense about true love and opposites attracting is ridiculous at the social strata we’re discussing. Marriage is a merger. It’s as simple as that.

The waiter arrived with our drinks and a fresh assortment of nibbles.

The only really bad thing about overdoing martinis is that they’re worse than cannabis when it comes to the munchies. At least I can delude myself into believing that wasabi-dipped edamame aren’t going to break the calorie bank.

I stared down into the smoky depth of my gin, swirled it a few times for effect, then looked across the table at Althea, cutting to the chase. “Did they acknowledge your part in the nuptials?”

“No. But everyone knew anyway. I mean it’s not a state secret what I do.” She tilted her head in a practiced way, the light hitting her tightened and tucked face in just the right places. Althea couldn’t be considered young by anyone’s standards. But she was well preserved. Thanks in part to good genes. And mostly to her plastic surgeon on the corner of Park and Seventy-third.

I used to think plastic surgery was only for the aged or repulsive. I think most people in their twenties would agree with that. But I’m not in my twenties any longer. And suffice it to say, I am on good terms with Althea’s doctor. So far only for a little Botox lift; I mean, I haven’t hit forty. But the little wrinkles at the corners of my eyes aren’t exactly getting smaller. You know?

“I think it says a lot that they invited you at all,” Cybil said, picking up a peanut and then dropping it guiltily back in the silver bowl. “I mean, no one really wants to admit that they need help finding true love.”

“Well, in point of fact,” I said, waving my martini at her, “we’re not really interested in love—true or otherwise. It’s all about combining assets—two parts making a more productive whole.”

“You make it sound like a corporate merger.” Cybil wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“And you, my friend, are entirely too sentimental.” I frowned at her over the rim of my glass. It was an old argument. Cybil, for all her sophistication, was a hopeless romantic. Which meant that when it came to men, she invariably chose losers. Case in point, her current lover, Stephen Hobbs. But I won’t go there.

“I’m not sentimental. I just believe marriage should be about more than just bank accounts.”

“Well, of course it’s more than that.” Althea reached over to pat Cybil’s hand. “There’s the sex.”

I almost choked on an olive. Althea was overly proper by nature. You know, the type who never curses and uses words like “bedroom frivolity” to talk about doing it. Obviously, the martinis were loosening her inhibition.

“And how exactly do you think an arranged marriage guarantees good sex?” Cybil either hadn’t noticed Althea’s slipup or just wasn’t interested. She’d leaned forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. Or maybe just so that there’d only be one Althea.

I mean, we
were
on martini number four.

“Because—like attracts like,” Althea intoned, as if the words held the key to all wisdom.

“Um, I think you mean opposites,” Cybil said, still squinting.

“No, I mean like. Two people of the same background, the same financial circumstances, and the same ideology will invariably be happier than two people who simply respond to chemical combustion.”

“Maybe in a merger. But in the bedroom, I’ll take combustion.” Cybil sat back, sipping her martini.

“In the short run, possibly,” I said, picking up on Althea’s theme. I did say she was my mentor. “But when the combustion fizzles—and it will—you need the bedrock to maintain the marriage. And besides, pleasure isn’t limited to the perfect partner.”

“That’s why there are affairs.” Althea nodded in agreement.

“Actually, I was thinking of vibrators. But that’ll work.” I smiled at her through my gin-induced haze.

“You two are entirely too cynical to be in your line of work,” Cybil said, her glasses shining in the candlelight. “I mean, Vanessa, you even call your business Happily Ever After. How in the world can one have that without love?”

“I think,” I started to lean forward, propping my chin on my hand, “that the two terms are mutually excusive, actually. Love generally does not lead to happily ever after—happily short-term maybe—but not ever after. Unlucky in love is the norm, not the exception. And for the record, my business is called HEA.”

“That’s just semantics.” Cybil waved her hand, and the waiter hustled over, quite possibly for fear that she’d topple over. She shook her head at him and he moved back discreetly. “You’re a matchmaker, for God’s sake. That means you arrange for people to find true love.”

“Only in fairy-tale land, darling,” Althea said, sipping her martini. “This is Manhattan.”

“So you’re saying that no one in Manhattan marries for love?” Not only is Cybil a practicing romantic, she’s stubborn as all hell.

“Not once you’ve reached a certain social status.” Althea shook her head. “It simply wouldn’t last.”

Cybil opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. “There are socially prominent married people who are in love, Cybil, but it’s just a perk. An added bonus. Not a necessity. And certainly not the norm.”

“So you’re saying that in order to have a successful marriage, love doesn’t have to be part of the equation?”

“Exactly.” I nodded to emphasize the point. “In fact I’d go so far as to say that more often than not love is a detriment to the process, not an asset.”

“And your clients
know
you think this?” Cybil asked, her expression mutinous.

“Know it? Darling, they demand it.” This from Althea, who was almost two-thirds of the way into her martini. The woman might be repressed sexually, but she can drink like a fish.

“Well, maybe not demand it.” I believed what I was saying wholeheartedly, but in all honesty most of my clients needed a little convincing. “But they usually come ’round to my way of thinking.”

“It all seems a little bleak to me,” Cybil shrugged, “but, apparently it works; business does seem to be booming.”

“Yes. Although I still think we were better as a team.” Althea shot a pointed look in my direction, and I busied myself looking for something in my purse.

“Vanessa’s doing fine on her own,” Cybil said, jumping to my defense. “And your business isn’t hurting either.” She pointed to the newspaper, the Walski wedding headlining the society page.

“I suppose you’re right.” Althea sighed. “But think how well we’d be doing if we’d stayed a team.”

How well
she’d
be doing is more like it. I owe Althea a lot, don’t get me wrong. But being her minion had definite drawbacks. Most of them financial. And since I have a weakness for Versace and Prada, money is essential. Hell, even if I didn’t have a thing for Italian leather, money would be essential. This is Manhattan.

“Did you see who’s over there?” I asked, pointing to a table in the corner, more for diversion than from actual interest. “It’s Mark Grayson.”

Well, actually I suppose there was some degree of interest. A person would have to be brain-dead not to know that Mark Grayson was a cut above the rest when it came to wheeling and dealing.

“I saw him when we came in.” Cybil tipped her head so that she could see him better. “That’s Tandy Montgomery he’s with.” Cybil was always in the know, but was so used to the fact she sometimes forgot that the rest of us aren’t hardwired for the latest buzz.

“A new poptart?” Althea asked, apparently as out of the loop as I was.

“No, she’s the latest winner of that modeling contest. You know, the one on cable.” The last word explained why I hadn’t heard of her. Keeping up with the boob tube’s latest flashes of fame is more work than it is worth. The minute you catch up, their five minutes in the spotlight are over and you have to start all over again. I had better things to do.

“Well, she’s certainly not the right woman for
him
,” Althea said, her eyebrows disappearing into her perfectly sculpted hair.

Mark Grayson was new money, but he’d come by it the old-fashioned way. Hard work. And I wouldn’t have pegged him for the flaunt-the-starlet type. Still, he was a man—and given half a chance the gender tended to gravitate to vacuous, breast-enhanced types. All the better for me, really. I mean, if the right people came together on their own, I’d be out of business.

“Well,
he
seems to think so,” Cybil said. All three of us were now staring over at his table. Not the most polite thing to do. Especially in Bemelmans. But copious amounts of gin tend to blur the line a little when it comes to social behavior. And it was sort of interesting, watching him make his moves. Like a sort of sexual science experiment.

“So what else do you know?” Althea and I both leaned toward Cybil expectantly.

“About Tandy or Grayson?” Cybil asked.

“Both,” we said almost in tandem.

“Well, I don’t know much about her. And I’m pretty certain she’s not a permanent fixture—if you know what I mean.”

“Does he always pick the same type?” Althea asked.

“Redheads?” Cybil asked, frowning over at the would-be model. “I don’t think so. I know I’ve seen him with blondes before.” The martinis were clearly clouding her brain.

“No, I meant the empty-headed-girl-of-the-moment type.”

“You were expecting him to step out with flat-chested fortysomethings?” I quipped, but they weren’t listening to me, they were too busy watching Wonder Boy and his latest girl toy.

“No,” Althea said, shaking her head. “Of course not. I was just. . .”