Chasing Harry Winston (3 page)

Emmy sniffed. “There was noth—”

“Don’t you dare say there was nothing wrong with him,” Leigh interrupted. “Now, granted, Duncan was very”—Leigh paused here, wanting to say “manipulative” or “devious” or “deceitful,” but she stopped herself just in time—“charming, but he had to have
something
you never told us about. Some sort of classified information that will have perky little Brianna hanging up her pom-poms.”

“Narcissistic personality disorder?” Adriana prompted.

Leigh immediately jumped in for a back-and-forth rally. “Erectile dysfunction?”

“Gambling addiction?”

“Cried more than you did?”

“Violent drunk?”

“Mommy issues?”

“Dig deep, Emmy,” Leigh urged.

“Well, there was something I always thought was a little strange…” Emmy said.

The girls looked at her eagerly.

“Not that it was really a big deal. He didn’t do it during sex or anything,” she said quickly.

“This just got a hell of a lot more interesting,” Adriana said.

“Spill it, Emmy,” Leigh said.

“He, uh…” She coughed and cleared her throat. “We didn’t really talk about it, but he, uh, sometimes wore my panties to work.”

This disclosure was enough to silence the two people who considered themselves professional talkers. They talked their way through shrink appointments, out of traffic tickets, and into fully reserved restaurants, but for many seconds—possibly an entire minute—neither could produce a remotely logical or rational response to this new information.

Adriana recovered first. “
Panties
is a vile word,” she said. She frowned and emptied the caipirinha pitcher into her glass.

Leigh stared at her. “I cannot believe you’re being pedantic right now. One of your best friends just told you that her boyfriend of nearly five years liked wearing her panties, and your biggest issue is with the word?”

“I’m just pointing out its relative grossness. All women hate the word.
Panties
. Just say it—
panties
. It makes my skin crawl.”

“Adriana!
He wore her underwear.
”

“I know, trust me, I heard her. I was commenting—as a side note, mind you—that in the future, I don’t think we should use that word.
Panties.
Ugh. Do you not find it repulsive?”

Leigh paused for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. But that’s not really the take-away here.”

Adriana sipped and looked pointedly at Leigh. “Well, then, what is?”

“The fact that her boyfriend”—Leigh pointed at Emmy, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes and a blank expression—“put on a suit every day and went to the office. That under said suit he was wearing a pair of cute little lace bikinis. Doesn’t
that
freak you out slightly more than the word
panties
?”

It wasn’t until Emmy gasped audibly that Leigh realized she had gone too far.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean for that to sound as awful as—”

Emmy held up a hand, palm out, fingers spread. “Stop, please.”

“That was so insensitive of me. I swear I wasn’t even—”

“It’s just that you have it all wrong. Duncan never really showed any interest in my lace bikinis. Or my hipsters or boy shorts, for that matter.” Emmy smiled wickedly. “But he sure did seem to love my thongs….”

“Hey, whore, I’m ready for you.” Gilles swatted Adriana on the upper arm as he walked past, nearly dislodging the cell phone she had balanced between her chin and her left shoulder. “And move it along. I have better things to do than listen to you have phone sex all day.”

A few of the older ladies looked up from their
Vogue
s and
Town & Country
s, eyes wide with disapproval at this breach in propriety, this complete ignorance of basic common courtesy. Looked up, actually, just in time to see Adriana place her china cup on its saucer and, now having one free hand, raise her right arm over her head and extend her middle finger. She did this without glancing up, still entirely immersed in her conversation.

“Yes,
querido
, yes, yes, yes. It will be perfect. Perfect! See you then.” Her voice lowered, but just a notch. “I can’t wait. Sounds delicious. Mmm. Kiss, kiss.” She tapped a red lacquered nail on the iPhone’s touch screen and dropped it into her wide-mouthed Bottega Veneta satchel.

“Who’s this week’s lucky prey?” Gilles asked as Adriana approached. He turned his swivel chair toward Adriana, who, aware that she had the entire salon’s attention, bent forward the tiniest bit, allowing her silk blouse to fall a few inches from her chest and her bum—not particularly small, but rounded and tight the way men loved—before placing it, just so, on the leather.

“Oh, please, do you honestly care? He’s boring to sleep with, much less talk about.”

“Someone’s in a good mood today.” He stood behind her, working through her wavy hair with a wide-toothed comb and talking to her through the mirror. “The usual, I assume?”

“Maybe a little lighter around the face?” She finished the last of her coffee and then threw her head back into his chest. She sighed. “I’m in a rut, Gilles. I’m tired of all the men, of all the different names and faces I have to keep straight. Not to mention the products! My bathroom looks like a Rite Aid. There are so many different cans of shaving cream and bars of soap that I could go into business.”

“Adi, dear”—he knew she hated that nickname, so he used it with relish every chance he got—“you sound ungrateful. Do you realize how many girls would change places with you in a heartbeat? To spend just a single night in that body of yours? Hell, just this morning I had two socialites-in-training jabbering away about how utterly
fab
your life is.”

“Really?” She pouted at herself in the mirror but he could detect a hint of pleasure.

It was true that her name did regularly appear in all the gossip columns that mattered—could she help it if the society photographers flocked to her?—and of course she was on the list for just about every party, product launch, store opening, and benefit that mattered. And yes, if she was being entirely truthful, she would have to admit that she had dated some impressively wealthy, gorgeous, famous men in her time, but it drove her crazy that everyone assumed the trappings of fabulousness were enough to make her happy. Not that they weren’t great—or that she’d be willing to give up a single second of it—but with her advanced age (closing in on thirty), Adriana had begun to suspect there might be something more.

“Really. So buck up, girl. You may flit around the Make-A-Wish benefit like an angel, but at core you’re a dirty slut, and I love you for that. Besides, we did
you
the whole session last time. It’s my turn now.” Hip jutted to the side, he impatiently held his hand out while his assistant, a lanky brunette with Bambi eyes and a fearful expression, rushed to place a foil in his open palm.

Adriana sighed and motioned to the assistant for another cappuccino. “All right. How are
you
doing?”

“How lovely of you to inquire!” Gilles bent down and kissed her cheek. “Let’s see. I’ve decided to focus my husband search on men who are already in committed relationships. Granted, it’s still early, but I’m getting some positive results.”

Adriana sighed. “Aren’t there enough single men out there to keep you busy? Do you really need to play home-wrecker?”

“You know what they say, darling—if you can’t have a happy home, wreck one.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” she asked.

“Why, me, of course. You haven’t seen a man enjoy a blowjob until you’ve watched a guy who hasn’t gotten one in ten years.”

Adriana laughed and immediately looked at her lap. Although she always feigned nonchalance and pretended to be casually cool with Gilles’s comprehensive and explicit descriptions of gay sex, it actually made her a little uncomfortable, an admission that annoyed her. She blamed this bit of old-fashionedness on her parents, who, while generous with their money and exuberant in the many ways they spent it, were not what anyone would call social pioneers. Not that she was exactly conservative when it came to her own love life, granted—she had lost her virginity at thirteen and been to bed with dozens of men since then.

“I think I’m onto something, seriously,” Gilles said as he artfully placed the foils in a face-framing halo, head cocked just so, forehead crinkled in concentration.

Adriana was accustomed to his ever-changing “lifestyle choices” and loved to retell them to the girls. Previous appointments had brought gems such as “When in doubt, wax it,” “Real men use decorators,” and “No weights, no dates,” all rules to which he adhered with surprising dedication. He’d struggled with only one promise, made on his fortieth birthday, when he swore off prostitutes and escorts forever (“Tricks are for kids. From here on in, civilians only”), but a follow-up pledge to swear off Vegas had hoisted him back on the wagon.

Adriana’s phone rang. Peering over her shoulder, Gilles saw first that it was Leigh.

“Tell her if she can’t convince that Adonis boyfriend of hers to put a ring on her finger soon, I’m going to kidnap him and introduce him to the wonders of the homo lifestyle.”

“Mmm, I’m sure she’s terrified.” To the phone: “Did you hear that, Leigh? You have to marry Russell immediately or Gilles is going to seduce him.”

Gilles brushed the solution onto a lock of hair using a smooth upstroke followed by a slight wrist flick. He then swirled the ends into the roots and crisply folded the foil over the whole goopy mess with a precise tap of the comb. “What did she say?”

“That he’s all yours.” Gilles opened his mouth, but Adriana shook her head and held up one hand in a “stop” motion. “Splendid! Count me in. Of course I have plans tonight, but I’ve been desperate for a reason to cancel. Besides, if Emmy wants to go out, who are we to stand in her way? What time? Perfect,
querida
, we’ll meet in the lobby at nine. Kiss!”

“What’s wrong with Emmy?” Gilles asked.

“Duncan met a twenty-three-year-old who’s dying to have his babies.”

“Ah, but of course. How’s she doing?”

“I actually don’t think she’s devastated,” Adriana said, licking a puff of foamed milk off her lip. “She just thinks she
should
be. There’s a lot of the ‘I’ll never meet anyone else’ stuff, but not much that really has to do with missing Duncan. She should be fine.”

Gilles sighed. “I dream of getting my hands on that hair. Do you even realize how rare virgin hair is these days? It’s like the Holy Grail of coloring.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along. Want to come tonight? We’re going for dinner and drinks. Nothing major, just the girls.”

“You know how much I love a girls’ night, but I’ve got a date with the maître d’ from last weekend. Hopefully he’ll be leading the way directly to a quiet table in the back of his bedroom.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” Adriana clearly focused on the tall, broad-shouldered man in a checked blue dress shirt and perfectly pressed slacks who had approached the reception desk.

Gilles followed her gaze to the door as he secured the last lock of hair into a foil and waved his hands in a “voilà!” motion. “I’m finished, love.” The Bambi-eyed assistant grasped Adriana’s arm and led her to a dryer seat. Gilles called out from his station loud enough for everyone—and certainly the newcomer—to hear, “Just sit there and concentrate on keeping your legs closed, darling. I know it isn’t easy, but fifteen minutes is all I ask.”

Adriana rolled her eyes dramatically and gave him another finger, this time holding it high enough for the entire salon to see. She relished the shocked looks from the society ladies, all of whom looked like her mother. She saw out of the corner of her eye that the man who had watched her and Gilles wore a small smile of amusement.
I’m too old for this,
she thought as she sneaked another look at the handsome stranger. The man walked past her and turned his smile toward her. With equal parts calculation and natural instinct, Adriana gazed up at him through wide eyes, eyes that said “Who, me?” and placed the tiniest tip of her tongue in the middle of her upper lip. She simply had to stop acting like this, there was really no question; but in the meantime, it was just too much fun.

Moving quietly around her apartment so as not to wake Otis, Emmy realized there wasn’t all that much to straighten. It was a small apartment, even for a studio in Manhattan, and the bathroom was a bit grimy and the light—especially on Saturday afternoons, when you were accustomed to staying at your boyfriend’s place—was virtually nonexistent, but how else could she hope to live on the best tree-lined block of the West Village for under $2,500 a month? She had decorated it as carefully as her graduate school budget would allow, which wasn’t much, but at least she had managed to paint the walls a pale yellow, install a space-saving Murphy bed in the far wall, and place some comfy floor cushions around an extra-fluffy shag carpet she’d found on clearance in a remnant store. It wasn’t big, but it was cozy, and so long as Emmy didn’t think about the kitchens in Izzie’s Miami apartment or Leigh’s new one-bedroom or Adriana’s palatial penthouse pad—especially Adriana’s—she might have even liked it. It just seemed so fundamentally cruel that someone who loved food as much as she did, who would happily spend every free minute at either the farmers’ market or the stove, should not have a kitchen. Where else on earth did $30,000 a year in rent not entitle one to an oven? Here she was forced to make do with a sink, a microwave, and a dorm-sized refrigerator, and the landlord—only after a ridiculous amount of begging and pleading—had bought Emmy a brand-new hotplate. For the first few years she’d fought valiantly to create dishes using her limited facilities, but the struggle to do anything more than reheat had worn her down. Now, like most New Yorkers, the ex–culinary student only ordered in or dined out.