His Little Black Book

by Thea Devine

  Bit by bit, they saw how her game plan worked to their advantage. They learned the city. They saw they could do a lot for very little money. And that Brooke was right—they needed to keep occupied and interested, and in fact, everything she had found for them to do was interesting, had a purpose, and made them glad they had made the decision to come to New York with her.

  “And here’s the other thing,” Brooke instructed them. “You have to talk to people everywhere you go. You never know when someone will have a connection you can use.”

  So they talked to people. And on their hourly wage jobs, they made an effort to learn new things. And they went on job interviews. On the weekends they got together and went places and did things, and every two weeks without fail they convened for a meeting of the Mistress Club.

  “I call this meeting of the Mistress Club to order.” Brooke rapped the little brass gavel that she’d bought on the table. They were meeting at O’Reilly’s bar, located in the lower level of a town house just off Fifth Avenue, about four blocks from the Garden, where happy hour provided free hors d’oeuvres.

  The place was crowded with well-dressed men just from work ordering burgers and beer and discussing the matchups for the evening’s game.

  “I love this place,” Brooke said with satisfaction. She had come early to get a table just enough away from the crowd that they could hear themselves speak, but not so tucked away that they couldn’t be seen.

  A meeting of the Mistress Club meant full-armored dressing, head to toe. Brooke had been very specific about that—dressed to the nines, formfitting clothes, the highest high heels, and glam makeup, because you never knew when you might meet someone.

  “We need to find a way to go to those games,” Brooke said, making a note. “And don’t tell me you’re not huge sports fans. You can sit through a game if you’re surrounded by interesting executive suits. Interested executive suits.”

  She tucked away the elegant leather Levenger case in which she made her notes. “Okay. We’re here tonight to celebrate a lot of really good news. First, I got a job! I’m officially employed at the Peninsula Hotel as assistant to the concierge.”

  It was the perfect job for her. The wonder was management hadn’t made her sign a confidentiality agreement—it was that kind of position, and the kind of hotel where discretion was the management philosophy.

  But she knew they had thoroughly checked out her references, which meant they knew everything about her. What had lifted her above the other applicants of similar background and education was the fact that she really did love solving problems, a personal quality that she had stressed during the stressful interview.

  After all, wasn’t this whole Mistress Club idea a way to solve a problem? And hadn’t her lists and plans gotten them this far?

  She turned to MJ. “MJ?”

  “I’m the executive assistant at the very exclusive Brioni’s, as of two days ago,” MJ said. “They hired me from the temp agency after I’d worked there four months. It’s lots of personal contact, phones, fashion shows, meet and greet, travel arrangements, and possibly some travel for me in the future.”

  She threw up her hands. “Okay, so I was the skeptical one. I didn’t believe your ideas would work, and I thought we’d drown in that tidal wave of competition gunning for the same things we want. But, I have to admit, you made it happen. You took three disparate college graduates and turned us into sophisticated city girls, with a game plan that’s really working.

  “I mean, who would have guessed that the fact I’ve been sewing since I was a teenager would make a difference between getting this job or remaining a temp? It’s not your basic résumé point, unless you’re after a career in fashion.

  “But about two weeks ago, there was this very important client with an urgent tailoring problem during a really rushed lunch hour—and the rest is history.

  “So thank you, Brooke, for making us persevere. And mea culpa for ever doubting you. Delia?”

  Delia smiled happily. “Hostess, Time Warner Center. I just heard today. Lunch and dinner, formal dress, meet, greet, and seat. It was the Manolos, by the way.”

  Thank God she’d bought those shoes. She honest to God believed that the moment the manager saw her wearing those elegant Manolos, he saw her as the embodiment of his venue, the person he wanted to represent it at the front door.

  She truly didn’t care about appearances, but oh, she did love beautiful and expensive clothes. Brooke had helped her find job application clothes, dredging the racks at Images for the perfect dresses and suits that the perfect hostess would wear. Multipurpose outfits whose look could be changed by accessories or a little jacket, or some eye-catching, tasteful jewelry.

  It had been a spending spree that she could ill afford, but she couldn’t afford not to if she wanted to look the part.

  “The hair is perfect.” Brooke had approved, eyeing Delia as she swept out in a black chiffon gown. She’d gone a shade blonder, with the length shorter and cut at an angle to emphasize her beautiful facial structure. “The gown’s great. You could wear a shrug over that one night, a beaded jacket the next week, and no one would ever know it’s the same dress. Take that one.”

  They did—plus the beaded jacket, the sequined shrug, the flowing crepe skirt, the bouclé jacket, the sensuous satin blouse, another couple of pairs of decadent stilettos…Delia was in heaven.

  And in her place. She knew it was her place because she loved helping people.

  And she owed it all to Brooke—for taking her out of her drab existence, for excising Frank, and for bringing her to New York, and for creating the game plan that had given them all a new life.

  She lifted her Cosmopolitan and toasted Brooke.

  “Welcome to our new lives.”

  Brooke lifted her glass and smiled happily. “How perfect is this? Did I not tell you everything would start to fall into place? Here’s to us.” They tipped their goblets and sipped. “How damned smart are we?” She felt full to brimming. “We did it. We’re right where we need to be to find the kind of man who’s looking for women like us.”

  And, she thought, MJ and Delia looked so beautiful. MJ, glowing in that emerald green blouse that leavened her business suit. Delia, so fresh and deliciously blonde and endearingly ingenuous.

  How could any employer not have wanted to hire her? How could any man—one of her well-dressed, well-connected patrons-to-be—not fall for her instantly?

  “Hear, hear,” MJ and Delia said simultaneously.

  “We worked hard and we didn’t give up, and if we had come only this far, it still would be something, wouldn’t it? But now we’re on the threshold of something fantastic, and ready to thrust the door open.”

  “So to speak.” MJ grinned.

  “I wanted to meet here again to show you something I noticed at our last get-together. Look over at the bar,” Brooke said.

  They looked subtly, one by one.

  “Nothing unusual there,” MJ said. “The usual well-dressed, well-heeled middle-management crowd.”

  “No, no. It’s what you can’t see. I came in a couple of times in the last two weeks just to eavesdrop. We’re talking bounty hunters here—those women are blatantly out to marry money, and they don’t mind asking those guys right up front.”

  Delia blinked.

  “Exactly,” Brooke said.

  “You mean they—”

  “Ask a guy how much he earns, what kind of car he drives, that kind of thing. And if they don’t like the answer, they just walk away.”

  “Wow,” MJ breathed.

  “Not our competition,” Brooke added emphatically, “but I don’t particularly want to step over their stilettos on our way to where we’re going.”

  “They actually ask?” Delia said in disbelief.

  “Actually ask. Like, hi, how are you, how much money did you make last year? Where’s your apartment? Park Slope? Forget it. That kind of thing. Can you believe it? Trust me, the gentlemen who will want us are not
hanging out at that bar. So we’re out of here. And now that we’re all gainfully employed, we can afford to do something better, something that will maximize our presence. I have a plan.”

  “You always have a plan,” MJ murmured. It was rather awesome sometimes how Brooke’s mind worked in plans.

  Brooke ignored that. “Here’s what we’re going to do—we’re going to choose one of the highest-end restaurants, one with town cars always parked in front, and we’re going to lunch there regularly and often so that the staff and maître d’ get to know us.”

  “Because…?” MJ asked, already counting dollars.

  “Because we’ll become a presence. We’ll become known. And maybe it will lead to something in a more discreet way.”

  “You have the best ideas,” Delia said, her gaze still directed at the bar and the meet-and-greet do-si-do. “Because there’s one redhead up there who just left the guy flat after talking to him for just two minutes.”

  “Well, that’s not us,” Brooke said. “I’ll find the place, and I promise it won’t cost the earth. And maybe it will reap some results. And there’s one more thing I’m thinking, relevant to men and money. Now that we’re in place, I don’t see anything wrong with sampling. I don’t mean bar guy, and I don’t mean neighbor guy. And I don’t mean random guy, either. But if someone approaches you through the connections you make at work, and he’s the kind of man we’re looking to attract, I say try him on.”

  “Oh!” Delia, sighing as if she were imagining it. “Oooh…” As if she could just feel it.

  “I’ve been thinking along those lines, too,” MJ said. “It’s been way too long.”

  “Better a long abstinence than being shortchanged,” Brooke said trenchantly. “And don’t forget the mandates. Don’t waste your time on anything that doesn’t get you something in return. And don’t sleep around without a purpose. Our purpose is to find that delicious man of means who is going to reward us for becoming his onsite round-the-clock fuck.”

  “I can do that,” MJ murmured. “This is sounding better and better.”

  “Okay then, strategy.”

  There she goes, MJ thought. Brooke always made a list, and there was always a strategy. But strategy had gotten them this far, and MJ fully believed in it now.

  Brooke opened her elegant leather folder again. “Don’t be tempted the first couple of weeks on the job. It doesn’t look good. But—if someone you’ve met approaches you outside the workplace, anything goes. Your discretion.”

  “No,” MJ said, “I think I’m going to defer to you totally. You can take over my life anytime you want. Especially now that we have permission to fuck.”

  “Abstinence does make the dream a little sweeter, doesn’t it? You won’t settle for just any old shmuck who won’t bust his balls for you, and show his appreciation on top of that. In fact,” Brooke said, “I’ll drink to that. To the lover who’ll bust his balls for me…and you”—she tilted her goblet toward MJ first, then Delia—“and you.” She looked around the bar, which was now empty except for a couple of guys in polo shirts and fleece jackets. “And one thing’s for sure: That guy is not here.”

  Two weeks later, they met to celebrate their first paychecks and to audition the Park Avenue Café for their meetings.

  MJ was already seated when Brooke and Delia arrived. This was Monday, Delia’s day off, but she had dressed in full Mistress Club style: hair, heels, sexy suit, jewelry. MJ was in a dark pantsuit with an ivory silk shirt and beautiful gold jewelry, her hair a shining red, her eyes sexy with makeup.

  “This place is wonderful,” Delia sighed as the waiter seated her.

  “Perfect Midtown location. The best clientele,” Brooke said, ticking off the points on her fingers. “How are you all?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good.”

  “Excellent,” Brooke said, taking out her little brass gavel and rapping it on the table. “I call the Mistress Club to order.”

  “Wait till we order,” Delia begged. “I’ve barely eaten all day.”

  “All right,” Brooke said, signaling the waiter, who immediately brought water and fresh hot bread. “Check out the menu. Look at the prices. Not too bad.”

  They mulled over their choices for a few minutes and ordered.

  Brooke said brightly, “So, here we are. Look around. Isn’t this infinitely preferable to a bar or deli?”

  They looked. It was still early so the tables weren’t filled, but this was a well-known business lunch restaurant, and there were more than a few women in Armani suits in deep conversation at nearby tables.

  “So,” Brooke went on, “who has something to report?”

  Delia raised her hand. “Everything’s going great. I love my job. I just love it. So many nice people…”

  “Nice men?”

  “Lots of nice men,” Delia said dreamily. “I’m giving it some time, just like you said. Not rushing into anything. Making sure they come back many times. I don’t want to do anything that will rock the boat.”

  “Good. Exactly what we talked about. MJ?”

  “I tip my hat to you, Brooke. This job couldn’t be more perfect. Brioni’s is Black Card heaven. And those men couldn’t be nicer, or happier that I was hired. And I agree, we can’t look like we’re on the prowl. We have to make the job—and helping them—the most important thing, so we get repeat customers who ask for us.”

  Brooke made a triumphant fist. “Yes! You’ve come a long way, you nonbeliever.”

  “Huh,” MJ said. “I should say so. Because being celibate is not my normal MO, I’ll tell you.”

  “And I’m having the best time learning the secrets of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell set,” Brooke said. “This is a dream job.”

  Oh, there were some restrictions—a dark suit was mandatory, plain pumps, discreet hair and makeup—but there was something about those constraints that was innately challenging and erotic.

  And even better, she could leave the job at the door when she went home at night.

  “And the best part is I have access to the concierge’s go-to book, the one that tells you where to get anything anyone could ever want if price were no object. So in line with that, guess what? I was offered one ticket for tonight’s Rangers game. I can’t go, but I want one of you to attend. Either of you free?”

  MJ looked at Delia, both of them clearly dreading the idea of three long hours in a crowd of screaming fans.

  “Seat’s in the reds,” Brooke said, waggling the ticket in front of them. “That’s corporate territory, my dears. You might want to check it out.”

  “One ticket?”

  “Just one. I’m telling you, this is a fertile garden and one of us has to weed it.”

  Delia snatched the ticket. “I will. I’ll do it for all of us.”

  “There you go,” MJ said.

  “Well, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go,” Delia said brightly. “And Brooke’s always urging us to try new experiences.”

  “So you’ll give us a full report next time,” MJ said.

  “I am totally there,” Delia said. “This might be the best night out since we got here. And you all could be very sorry that you turned it down.”

  She had spoken with more bravado than she felt, because she was terrified of going into the Garden alone. Even after being fortified by an excellent lunch and a couple of Cosmopolitans after.

  There were so many men, a lot of teenagers, fewer women, and no one dressed as she was, in a form-fitting Prada suit and superhigh Jimmy Choo heels.

  Okay. I can do this.

  She followed the crowd to the first door and handed her ticket to the ticket taker, who directed her to the escalators to her right. She went up two levels to the entrance marked with the seat numbers. Someone at the door pointed the way to her section, and someone at the head of the aisle directed her to her seat.

  It was overwhelming. She had no idea how stunning a sports venue was—all those people; and the ice: clean, white, striped, l
ogo’d, brightly lit; and some huge noisy machine wafting over it in concentric circles.

  It was also cold. She hadn’t expected that. And her seat was so close to the ice, to the action. The other seats in the arena banked upward in tiered sections, with the corporate boxes ringing the rink, floating above the crowd.

  The noise was deafening, and the lights glared. She could see the TV booth hanging at mid-ice and the radio commentators down in the red seats across from where she sat.

  This was definitely a men’s club. They were all around her, they all knew each other, they were all well dressed and well heeled—executives entertaining clients, she surmised, well oiled and well funded.

  There was nobody with half her style and elegance; the preferred mode of dress for women seemed to be team jerseys and jeans. She looked and felt way out of place.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Hello. You look a little lost. Can I help?”

  He was in the row behind her, a tall, nice-looking man dressed in Paul Stuart, probably in his late forties, with a kind of buzzed look in his eyes like he’d had a martini or two. Married, most likely, executive type probably.

  This place was like Oz—nothing was real, and she’d be back in Kansas by midnight. So if he was trolling for companionship, well, anything was possible tonight.

  “Maybe I am,” she murmured. He was someone to flirt with, at least, to add interest to an otherwise boring evening. “I’m really new to this. A friend gave me the ticket; it’s my first game.”

  “A hockey virgin. Well, that’s a first for me, too. I’m Bill, by the way.” He held out his hand.

  “Delia.”

  “My pleasure.” He held her eyes for a moment. “Really my pleasure. Look. I’ll be frank. I was looking for some interesting company tonight. I have one of those obscenely expensive boxes up there and no one to share all the goodies with. So I’m wondering if you’d join me for a drink?”

  “Join you? Or join with you?”