Cole opens the door and waves in Astra Langdon, who’s holding a flute of Moët & Chandon Rosé Impérial. All of our female clients are offered a glass of pink champagne upon arrival at our offices, and they adore it. I think the bubbly, pink beverage puts them in the right frame of mind to talk romance.
“Ms. Langdon.” I move toward the woman, who’s all bronzed limbs (too early in the year to get a tan by natural means in SoCal, so she must have recently vacationed in a tropical clime) and blond hair extensions, with my hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Ditto, and please call me Astra.” She shakes my hand, and I notice she’s wearing several pricey-looking rings.
“Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture toward one of the comfortably-padded guest chairs facing my desk.
“Sure thing.” She flounces over to the closest chair and plops down rather gracelessly, but she does keep her knees together, which I’m thankful for because she’s wearing a very short Baroque print skirt (Versace!) and one false move while wearing it would result in me getting an eyeful as I take a seat behind my desk. A sleeveless, black, ribbed-knit turtleneck top and knee-high boots in the same color complete Astra’s ensemble, making her look both chic and hip.
“Can I interest you in a passion fruit truffle?” I inquire as Aubrey enters the room with the cocoa-dusted confections arranged beautifully on a crystal plate.
“Ooooo!” My new client perks up when she sees the sweets. “Are those from Monsieur Henri?”
He is the best chocolatier in Beverly Hills, so of course I go to him for the decadent treats.
“His dark chocolate passion fruit truffles are nothing short of sublime,” I tell her.
She helps herself to two of the truffles and wastes no time in taking a bite of one. “Oh my god!” she moans. “You weren’t kidding. I’ve never had this type of truffle before and it’s amazing. Yum!” She grabs another one from the tray before Aubrey can depart with it. “I like your style, Vanessa.” She lifts her champagne flute in a toast to me, then washes down the chocolate with a healthy swig.
She has a few seconds to enjoy her snack while I wait for my assistants to close the door behind them to ensure I’ll have privacy with my client. Once that’s done, I clasp my hands together and lean forward to convey my eagerness in hearing what she’s about to say. “Why don’t you tell me what’s brought you here today, Ms. Lang— I mean, Astra?”
“Mmmm, well . . .” She’s licking the chocolate off her fingers. “I want to propose to my boyfriend in a big, romantic way and I’m not really sure how to go about it. I figured you could hook me up. My friend, Hillary Jaeckel, says you’re the bomb at this stuff.”
“That’s very kind of her.”
Last year, I set up a treasure hunt filled with romantic surprises for Hillary and her husband, Lance, who’s an entertainment lawyer, as a celebration of their three-year anniversary. It was just as much fun for me as it was for them since Hillary gave me carte blanche to do whatever I liked—that way she could enjoy it all for the first time along with Lance.
Picking up a notepad and my trusty Montblanc pen (a white lacquered ballpoint with gold accents given to me by my grandmother), I prepare to take notes. What sets me apart from most romance concierges is that I conduct the majority of my client meetings in person as opposed to using phone or e-mail and I don’t just ask them to fill out a questionnaire in order to assess their needs. I give each client my undivided attention, engage them in a meaningful dialogue about themselves, their partner, and their relationship, and ask what their objectives are. The tidbits I glean from these tête-à-têtes are what I use to customize a special experience for the couple.
“How did you get to be such an expert on romance?” Astra queries before chomping down on her second truffle.
As my credentials are rather impressive, I have no problem sharing them with her.
“After receiving my MBA from UCLA, I went to work for professional matchmaker Jacqueline Dumont. In my time with her, I learned a lot about the business of romance and was part of a team that brought people together and helped them start off on the right foot with what promised to be a long-lasting relationship. I was there to see that first connection and the falling in love stages of so many romances, but I always wondered what came next. How were those couples going to maintain their happily ever after and what could I do to help them? Becoming a romance concierge was a natural evolution for me, and Jacqueline fully supported me striking out on my own, even going so far as to refer couples she’s matched to Straight from the Hart.”
“And what’s your deal as far as relationships go?” Astra directs a frown at my naked left hand. “I don’t see a wedding or engagement ring.”
This question might seem like an invasion of my privacy, but I’ve grown accustomed to it as it’s something all my clients ask. They want confirmation that I’ve been successful in love myself before they entrust their precious relationships to me.
“We’re in no rush,” I assure her with a smile, turning the gold-framed photo that sits next to my lamp around and pushing it to the edge of my desk.
Astra scooches forward on her seat to get a better look at the picture, and her jaw drops at what she sees.
“Day-um!” she exclaims, picking up the frame and bringing it so close to her face I think she’s going to kiss it. “This man is smokin’ hot, which is appropriate because he looks like he could be the younger brother of that actor who’s on the Shonda Rhimes show about firemen—you know which guy I’m talking about, right? The tall one with the Frappuccino-colored skin, bangin’ bod, and shaved head.”
I nod, knowing exactly who she’s referring to. “Boris Kodjoe. Ian gets mistaken for him all the time, except I think he’s even more handsome.” Not that I’m biased or anything.
“No argument from me. How long have you and this gorgeous specimen been together?”
“About two years.”
Astra doesn’t acknowledge my response because she’s still studying the picture intently.
“The two of you are sort of like a gender-swapped Meghan and Harry,” she determines.
I chuckle because she’s not wrong. Ian is bi-racial, à la the former Ms. Markle, while I’m a statuesque redhead who tends to freckle like the prince. However, Ian’s the one who’s got some British blood (his “mum” hails from a posh town called Weybridge in Surrey), and it shows in his love of a good cuppa and his predilection for Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suits—the same Savile Row tailors who outfit David Beckham.
“Alas, neither of us has a title,” I quip before trying to steer the conversation back to Astra’s reason for being here. “Now that you know about the man in my life. Why don’t you fill me in on your soon-to-be-intended?”
“All right.” She reluctantly sets the framed photo back down. “Starting with the basics, his name is Xander and I’ve been dating him for five months.”
Five months? That’s not very long. Is there a reason why Astra is in such a rush to get married? Maybe she has a bun in the oven. Not that her flat stomach gives any hint of that. And she is swilling down alcohol, so probably not.
“I see. And is getting married something you and Xander have discussed?”
“No,” she expels the word loudly, with exasperation. “But I’ve put in the time and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be taking the next step. I’m tired of waiting around for him to pop the question, so that’s why I’m going to step up and do it myself.”
“I applaud you for being pro-active. How did you and Xander meet?”
“At a movie premiere. I go to a lot of industry events because of my father, and Xander is also in the biz.”
“So he’s an actor?” I query as I scribble some notes.
She snorts with amusement. “Hell no. I gave up on dating actors years ago. They’re total flakes not to mention serial cheaters. They’re all so in love with themselves they think they owe it to the female population to hop from bed to bed.”
“Sounds like you’ve had some unpleasant experiences.”
“Yeah, and they’ve made me appreciate Xander more. He’s a really solid guy. Loyal, hardworking, looks gorgeous both in, and out . . .” She smirks. “. . . of a suit. All of the qualities a girl wants in a husband. Do I wish he didn’t devote so much of his time and energy to his job? Sure. But I know what it takes for a man to reach the top in the entertainment field, and I support Xander’s ambition.”
“It’s great that the two of you have common goals. Let’s talk about the highlights of your relationship thus far. Are there any special moments or shared experiences you’d like to pay homage to in your proposal?”
“Ummmmm . . .” Astra squinches up her face while she ponders my question. “I can’t really think of any— oh, wait! I know what was a really memorable moment for both of us: the time we had sex in a private elevator at the MGM Grand in Vegas, or maybe it was the Bellagio? Whatever.” She waves a hand dismissively. “It was one of the swankier hotels on the Strip, and we’d been at some big party with lots of celebs. Xander was working while I got to have fun dancing and drinking chocolate martinis.
“Afterward, I had this really good buzz going, and I always get frisky when I’m drunk, so I pounced on Xander the minute the doors closed on that elevator. I couldn’t get his pants unzipped fast enough, and he was just as into it as I was. I think the ride to the penthouse took less than three minutes, but I was up against the wall, having a screaming orgasm by the time we got there. Xander and I decided to be exclusive after that, and every time we’re on an elevator together now, I flash back to that night and get really turned on. So?” Astra prompts me with a raised eyebrow.
My eyes feel like they are bugging out of my head, and my pen is frozen in the air a few inches above the paper I’ve been writing on. I don’t think I’ve ever had a client describe their sex life to me in such graphic detail before. But then Astra Langdon is clearly a woman with very few inhibitions.
“So what?” I manage to choke out the words.
“Should I propose to Xander on an elevator since they have special significance to us?”
I clear my throat. “You could, but . . . I think the logistics of that might prove difficult and I’m not sure you could classify that setting as romantic. Keep in mind that if you go that route, you’re going to have to explain to your parents, friends, and future children why you chose to ask Xander to marry you on an elevator, and that’s not really a story for their ears.”
“Good point. What do you suggest then?”
“As that trip to Vegas was a turning point in your relationship, how about we go all in on that theme for the proposal? I can recreate a casino where the two of you can relive the time you spent in Sin City, have an incredible dinner, watch some entertainment, play games of chance. I can even tie your question into the cards at a blackjack table or the pockets on a roulette wheel.”
She squeals with delight. “I love that idea!”
“Wonderful. My team and I will work up a proposal with different package options and we’ll present everything to you at our next meeting. What date did you have in mind for this?”
“The sooner, the better. I really want to lock this thing down so that I can start planning the wedding. Between you and me, I’ve already put down a deposit at the Bel-Air Bay Club so that I could secure the date I wanted in October. I’ve always pictured myself as an autumn bride. Summer weddings are so cliché, and I wouldn’t want to get married too close to the holidays.”
Wow, okay, she’s very confident about her boyfriend not only accepting this proposal, but being okay with a relatively short engagement.
“I’ll sneak a peek at Xander’s calendar to see when he won’t be busy with work. Can I get back to you on the date?”
“No problem.” I jot down that the day is TBD. It may be tricky to find the right venue with availability on short notice, but money always talks in these situations and since Astra hasn’t brought it up, I’m assuming she’s willing to spend whatever it takes. “What about a ring?”
Her whole face lights up. “I’ve already got one picked out for myself! It’s a Cartier, emerald cut, 4-carat diamond on a platinum band with a halo of pavé diamonds. I thought I’d buy it myself, then I can slip it on after Xander says yes and he can reimburse me.”
I wince without meaning to, and she furrows her brow at me. “Is something wrong with that?” she wonders.
“Well, you are the one doing the proposing. So, technically, you should be presenting him with a symbol of your love and commitment. And having him reimburse you for your engagement ring makes it all seem like a transaction.”
“So . . . not romantic?”
I shake my head.
“But Xander doesn’t wear rings. I mean, I think he’ll be okay with a simple wedding band when the time comes. I just can’t imagine him ever wearing a ring with a diamond, though. That’s way too metrosexual for him.”
“Engagement watches for men are very on trend right now, and both Rolex and Bulgari carry timepieces in classic styles for men that would probably be to Xander’s liking. And to make the watch even more special, you could have an engraving done on the back of the face to commemorate the occasion.”
“You think of everything!” Astra declares as she stands up.
I rise to my feet as well. “That’s all part of the service here at Straight from the Hart. Why don’t you take my card?” Grabbing one out of the business card holder on my desk, I hand it to her. “And give me a call once you’re settled on a date for the proposal and we can set up our next appointment then.”
“Perfect! Meanwhile, I’m going to start shopping for a dress for the big night,” she tells me as we exit my office out into the corridor. “Casino décor is generally reds and blacks, right? So I should wear another bold color to stand out against that backdrop. Gotta make sure I look my absolute best in all the proposal photos I’ll be posting on social media. There will be a photographer on hand to capture every single moment, right?”
“Of course. We can also have a videographer there if you like.”
“I definitely like and I’ll want to talk to both of them about lighting. Good lighting is crucial for me, and I need to be shot from the right side. Never the left! I hate how my nose looks from that angle. Ugh, I should probably have it done again, but then there’s all that bruising and swelling afterward when you can’t leave the house for weeks and—”
Astra seems to be obsessing about the wrong things in regards to this proposal, which should be all about having a beautiful, intimate evening with her future husband, not a photo op. Hmmmm, come to think of it, she never did say she loved Xander or wax rhapsodic about how she couldn’t wait to spend the rest of her life with him. Maybe she’s just not the gushing type, or despite her bravado, she’s really nervous about all of this and who can blame her? She’s taking a big leap of faith, and there are no guarantees her proposal will go the way she’s hoping it will. Fortunately for her, she’s got an ace up her sleeve, and that’s me. I will make this casino night so fun and fabulous that her workaholic boyfriend will be completely dazzled and say yes to any question she asks him.
CHAPTER 4
I wave to the gardeners who are tending to the park-like grounds that flank the long driveway leading up to my grandmother’s Beverly Hills mansion. In our family we jokingly call this palatial, Georgian-style abode “the house that Cassandra built” as it was the very large paychecks she received from playing cosmetics queen Cassandra Copeland on the nighttime soap Made-Up back in the ‘80s that funded construction of this lavish dwelling, which has herringbone oak floors, marble fireplaces aplenty, a chef’s kitchen my grandmother rarely steps foot in, a wine cellar she’s very familiar with, and an in-home movie theater just to name a few of its spectacular features, none of which impressed me much as a child. I did love the all-glass vestibule branching off from the living room that opens into a heavenly-smelling courtyard with citrus
trees growing amongst large clay pots of royal purple bougainvillea because it was the perfect spot for daydreaming, something I did quite a bit of in my youth. I inherited my grandmother’s fanciful imagination, not my mother’s more practical nature.
Made-Up was chapter two of Vivian Hart’s career when she was in her forties and considered to be past her prime by film directors. For a woman who’d based her career on portraying guileless ingénues, taking on the role of ball-busting lady boss Cassandra was a bold move, but my grandmother pulled it off with aplomb, becoming a cultural icon and taking home two Emmys during the eight-year run of the show.
Truth be told, Viv (that’s what my mother and I have always called our family matriarch as she is not a fan of labels that age her) has just as much of steel-willed Cassandra in her as she does those starry-eyed romantics who first brought her fame and fortune. Thankfully, she never tried to poison a business rival or seduce her stepson, capture the dalliance on video, then blackmail him with it in real life. Nevertheless, my grandmother has always been a very passionate and determined woman. She does what she wants when she wants, and she never lets anyone stand in her way. That’s why she hopped on the first bus out of Lanesboro, Minnesota (population 1,063) the day after she turned sixteen, intent on going to Hollywood and making it big as an actress.
Naturally, that didn’t happen right away. She spent two years taking acting lessons and working with a dialect coach so that she could get rid of her Minnesota accent all while schlepping diner food at The Apple Pan on West Pico, the restaurant that would go on to become the inspiration for The Peach Pit on Beverly Hills, 92010. Viv had been auditioning for months and hadn’t scored so much as a walk-on when fate intervened and she found herself serving up slices of The Apple Pan’s famous banana cream pie to Shirley MacLaine and her manager. Shirley took one look at my grandmother and declared her the perfect choice to play her younger sister in the Billy Wilder-directed comedy she was about to start shooting. The studio agreed as there was a striking resemblance between the Oscar-nominated actress and my flame-haired grandmother and a few weeks later she was standing on a soundstage at MGM. When she made her film debut the following year, my grandmother was no longer small-town, working class girl Vera Hartvigsen, but studio-polished and poised-for-stardom Vivian Hart.
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