“Come on, Izzie, be serious for a second. Would you ever have foreseen this happening?”
There was a pause while Izzie considered her words. “Well, I’m not sure that it’s exactly like that.”
“Like what?”
“We’re talking in circles, Em.”
“Then be straight with me.”
“I’m just saying that this isn’t completely and totally out of left field,” Izzie said softly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s just when you say that everything collapses at the first sign of, uh, another girl, I’m not exactly sure that would be completely accurate. Not that accurate matters, of course. He’s an idiot and a fool regardless, and so not even remotely in your league.”
“Okay, fine, so it wasn’t exactly the first sign. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“That’s true. But a sixth or a seventh?”
“Wow. Don’t hold back now, Izzie. Seriously, tell me what you really think.”
“I know it sounds harsh, Em, but it’s true.”
Together with Leigh and Adriana, Izzie had supported Emmy through more of Duncan’s “mistakes,” “poor judgment calls,” “oversights,” “accidents,” “slip-ups,” and (everyone’s favorite) “relapses” than anyone cared to remember. Emmy knew her sister and friends hated Duncan for putting her through the wringer; their disapproval was palpable and, after the first year, very vocal. But what they didn’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand, was the feeling she got when his eyes found hers at a crowded party. Or when he invited her into the shower and scrubbed her with cucumber-scented sea salt, or got into the cab first so she wouldn’t have to slide across the backseat, or knew to order her tuna rolls with spicy sauce but without crunch. Every relationship comprised such minutiae, of course, but Izzie and the girls simply couldn’t know what it felt like when Duncan turned his fleeting attention toward you and actually focused, even if only for a few moments. It made all the other drama seem like insignificant noise, which is exactly what Duncan always assured her it was: innocent flirtation, nothing more.
What bullshit!
She got angry just thinking about it now. How on earth had she accepted his rationale that passing out on some girl’s couch was understandable—hell, it was downright reasonable—when one drank as much whiskey as he did? What could she possibly have been thinking when she invited Duncan back to her bed without ascertaining an acceptable explanation for the rather disturbing message she’d overheard on his voice mail from “an old family friend”? And let’s not even mention that whole debacle that required an emergency trip to the gynecologist where, thankfully, everything was fine except for her doctor’s opinion that Duncan’s “nothing little bump” was most likely a recent acquisition and not, as Duncan insisted, a flare-up from the old college days.
The sound of Izzie’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“And I’m not just saying this because I’m your sister, which I am, or because I’m obligated to—which I absolutely am—but because I sincerely believe it: Duncan is never going to change and you two would not, could not—not now or ever—be happy together.”
The simplicity of it almost took her breath away. Izzie, younger than Emmy by twenty months and a near physical clone, once again proved to be infinitely calmer, wiser, and more mature. How long had Izzie felt this way? And why, through all the girls’ endless conversations about Izzie’s once-boyfriend-now-husband Kevin or their parents or Duncan, had Izzie never stated so clearly this most basic truth?
“Just because you’ve never heard it before doesn’t mean I haven’t said it. Emmy, we’ve all said it. Been saying it. It’s like you went temporarily insane for five years.”
“You’re a real sweetheart. I bet everyone wishes they had a sister like you.”
“Please. You and I both know that you’re a serial monogamist and you have trouble defining yourself outside a relationship. Sound familiar? Because if you ask me, it sounds an awful lot like Mom.”
“Thank you for that stellar armchair insight. Perhaps you can enlighten me as to how all of this is affecting Otis? I’m sure breakups can be devastating on parrots, too. Come to think of it, I should probably consider getting him some counseling. God, I’ve been so self-centered. The bird is suffering!” Although Izzie was now an ob/gyn resident at University of Miami Hospital, she’d briefly flirted with psychiatry and rarely refrained from analyzing anything—plant, person, or animal—in her path.
“Joke all you want, Em. You’ve always dealt with everything by making fun of it, and I’m not saying that’s the worst approach. I would just urge you to spend a little time alone. Focus on yourself—do what you want, when you want, without having to consider anyone else’s agenda.”
“If you even start on that bullshit about two halves not making a whole or something, I’m going to puke.”
“You know I’m right. Take some time just for you. Re-center your notion of self. Rediscover who you are.”
“In other words, be single.” Easy for her to advise from the arms of her loving husband, Emmy thought.
“Does it really sound so dreadful? You’ve had back-to-back relationships since you were eighteen.” What she didn’t say was obvious: And that hasn’t exactly worked out.
Emmy sighed and glanced at the clock. “I know, I know. I appreciate the advice, Izzie, really I do, but I’ve got to run. Leigh and Adriana are taking me out for the big you’re-better-off-without-him dinner tonight and I have to get ready. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“I’ll call your cell later tonight from the hospital, sometime after midnight when things slow down. Have a few drinks tonight, okay? Go clubbing. Kiss a stranger. Just please don’t meet your next boyfriend.”
“I’ll try,” Emmy promised. Just then, Otis screeched the same word four times in a row.
“What’s he saying?” Izzie asked.
“Panties. He keeps saying panties.”
“Should I even ask?”
“No, you most definitely should not.”
For the very first time since Leigh had moved into her building, Adriana beat Leigh to the lobby. She did so out of necessity: Adriana had returned from a relaxing day at the salon—date with the hot stranger arranged for the following weekend—to discover that her parents had all but taken over her apartment. Technically speaking it was their apartment, but considering they only stopped by for a few weeks a year, she felt justified in thinking of it as exclusively her home, where they were guests. Impossible, dreaded guests. If they didn’t like the authentic African zebra skins she had selected to replace their boring Oriental rugs or the way she’d arranged for all the lights, shades, and electronic equipment to work by remote control, well, that wasn’t her problem. And no one, not even her parents, could claim they actually preferred their hand-chiseled, specially imported Italian marble shower and hot tub to the ultramodern rainfall shower, sauna, and steam room she’d replaced them with in the master bath. No sane person, at least. Which is precisely why Adriana had to dress and flee as quickly as possible: In four short hours, her sleek sanctuary had become a strife-ridden ring of hell.
Not that she didn’t love them, of course. Her papa was getting older and, at this point in his life, much more mellow than he’d been when Adriana was growing up. He seemed content to let his wife call the shots, and rarely insisted on anything beyond his nightly Cuban and the tradition that each and every one of his children—three from his first wife, three from his second, and Adriana with his current, and hopefully last, wife—reunite at the Rio de Janeiro compound for the weeks before and after Christmas. The opposite had proven true for her mother. Although Mrs. de Souza had been relaxed and accepting of Adriana’s teen years and all her sex-and-drug experimentation, her liberal attitude did not extend to unmarried twenty-nine-year-old daughters—especially those whose predilection for sex and drugs could no longer be called “experimental.” It wasn’t that she didn’t understand good livin
g; she was Brazilian, after all. Eating (low-fat, low-cal), drinking (bottle after bottle of expensive white wine), loving (when one can’t conceivably feign yet another headache)—these were the very essences of life. To be conducted, of course, under the proper circumstances: as a carefree young girl and then not again until after one had found and claimed an appropriate husband. She had traveled and modeled and partied through her own teen years—the Gisele of her generation, people still said. But Camilla de Souza had always cautioned Adriana that men were (slightly) less fleeting than looks. By the time she was twenty-three, she had secured a (fabulously) wealthy older husband and produced a beautiful baby girl. This was how it should be.
The thought of listening to her mother’s spiel for another two weeks made Adriana feel woozy. She stretched out on the slightly sagging lobby sofa and thought through her strategy. Stay occupied during the day, come home late or not at all, and convince them at every possible opportunity that her energies—not to mention her substantial trust fund—were going toward securing a proper husband. If she was careful, they would never know about the grungy British rocker who lived in an East Village walk-up or the sexy surgeon with a practice in Manhattan and a wife and kids in Greenwich. If she was meticulous, they might not even catch on to the gorgeous Israeli who claimed he pushed papers at the Israeli embassy but who, Adriana was certain, worked for Mossad.
Leigh’s raspy voice—one of the few naturally sexy things about the girl, Adriana was always telling her, not that she ever listened—interrupted her thoughts. “Wow,” Leigh breathed, staring at Adriana with widened eyes. I love that dress.”
“Thank you, querida. My parents came to town, so I had to tell them I was going on a date with an Argentinean businessman. Mama was so happy to hear it that she lent me one of her Valentinos.” Adriana ran her palms down the length of her short black dress and twirled around. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
The dress was indeed beautiful—the silk seemed able to think, knowing where to cling to a curve and where to drape gracefully over one—but then again, Adriana could have looked lovely in a red-checked tablecloth.
“Fabulous,” Leigh said.
“Come, let’s leave before they come downstairs and see I’m with you and not some South American polo player.”
“I thought he was supposed to be a businessman?”
“Whatever.”
The cab crept across Thirteenth Street at a glacial pace, mired in the downtown Saturday-night traffic that made a few blocks feel as long as a commute from New Jersey. It would have taken the girls only ten minutes to walk from their building on University to the West Village, but neither even considered hoofing it. Adriana, especially, looked as though she would risk injury and possible paralysis if she so much as thought about walking more than a couple of carefully negotiated meters in her Christian Louboutins.
By the time they pulled up in front of the Waverly Inn, Emmy had texted each of them a half-dozen times.
“Where have you been?” Emmy hiss-whispered as the girls squeezed through the minuscule front door. She was leaning against the hostess desk and waving in their general direction. “They won’t even let me sit at the bar without you.”
“Mario, such a bad boy!” Adriana crooned, kissing a handsome man of indeterminate ethnicity on both cheeks. “Emmy is a friend of mine, and my dinner guest tonight. Emmy, meet Mario, the man behind the legend.”
Introductions and kisses—air, cheek, and hand—were exchanged before the girls were escorted to the back room and seated at a table for three. The restaurant wasn’t as jam-packed as it normally was since many of its usual revelers were in the Hamptons for Memorial Day weekend, but there was still plenty of opportunity for fantastic people-watching.
“‘The man behind the legend’?” Emmy asked, rolling her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Men need to be stroked, querida. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to teach this to both of you. They sometimes require a gentle touch. Learn when to use a firm grip and when to cover it in velvet and they are yours forever.”
Leigh popped some Nicorette. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” She turned to Emmy. “Is she even speaking English?”
Emmy shrugged. She was used to the secrets Adriana tried to impart year after year. They were like pretty little fairy tales: fun to hear but seemingly useless in real life.
Adriana ordered a round of vodka gimlets for the table by grasping the waiter’s hand between her own and saying, “We’ll have three of my favorites, Nicholas.” She sat back to survey the crowd. According to Adriana, it was still a little early—it wouldn’t start really buzzing until midnight or so, once all the first-timers and celeb-seekers left and the regulars could commence the night’s real drinking and socializing—but so far the crowd of thirtysomething media-and-entertainment types appeared happy and attractive.
“Okay, girls, why don’t we just get it out of the way so we can all enjoy our meals?” Emmy asked the moment Nicholas delivered their drinks.
Adriana returned her attention to her tablemates. “Get what out of the way?”
Emmy raised her glass. “The toast one of you will inevitably make that’s intended to remind me how much better off I am without Duncan. Something about how single is fabulous. Or how I’m young and beautiful and men will be beating down my door. Come on, let’s just do it and move on.”
“I don’t think there’s anything so great about being single,” Leigh said.
“And while you most certainly are beautiful, querida, I wouldn’t say almost thirty is all that young.” Adriana smiled.
“I’m sure you’ll eventually meet someone wonderful, but men don’t seem to beat down anyone’s doors these days,” Leigh added.
“At least not the unmarried ones,” Adriana said.
“Are there any left who aren’t married?” Leigh asked.
“The gay ones aren’t.”
“At least not yet. But probably soon. And then there won’t be anyone at all.”
Emmy sighed. “Thanks, guys. You always know just what to say. Your unending support means the world to me.”
Leigh broke off a chunk of bread and swirled it around the olive oil. “What does Izzie have to say about everything?”
“She’s trying not to show it, but I know she’s absolutely thrilled. She and Duncan never exactly loved each other. Plus she’s obsessed with the idea that I—quote—’have trouble defining myself outside a relationship,’ end quote. In other words, her usual psychobabble bullshit.”
Adriana and Leigh exchanged knowing looks.
“What?” Emmy asked.
Leigh stared at her plate and Adriana arched her perfect eyebrows, but neither said a word.
“Oh, come on! Do not tell me you agree with Izzie. She has no idea what she’s talking about.”
Leigh reached across the table and patted Emmy’s hand. “Yes, dear, of course. She’s got a doting husband, loads of outdoor hobbies, and an MD. Did I forget anything? Oh, yes, she matched with her first choice for residency and is in the running for chief resident—a year earlier than expected. You’re absolutely right…she sounds tremendously ill-equipped to give a little sisterly advice.”
“We’re getting off track,” Adriana interjected. “Not to be the tactful one here, but I think Leigh was just trying to say that Izzie might have a point.”
“A point?”
Adriana nodded. “It has been a rather long time since you’ve been on your own.”
“Yeah, like always?” Leigh added. “Not that that’s necessarily bad. But it does happen to be true.”
“Wow. Anything else you two are just dying to tell me?” Emmy clasped her menu to her chest. “Don’t hold back now.”
“Well…” Adriana glanced at Leigh.
“Just say it.” Leigh nodded.
“I wasn’t really serious,” Emmy said, her eyes wide. “There is something?”
“Emmy, querida, it’s like the big white rhino i
n the room.”
“Elephant.”
Adriana waved her hand. “Whatever. The big white elephant. You are almost thirty years old—”
“Thank you for mentioning that yet again.”
“—and you have only been with three men. Three! This is not to be believed, and yet it’s true.”
The girls quieted while Nicholas placed their shared appetizers on the table: an order of tuna tartare with avocado and a heaping plate of oysters. He appeared ready to take their order, but Emmy placed both hands atop her menu and glared. Defeated, he shuffled away.
“You two are incredible. You sit here for twenty minutes telling me that I can’t be alone, and then you switch tacks—with no fair warning—and say that I haven’t dated enough people. Do you hear yourselves?”
Leigh squeezed a lemon wedge over the oysters and delicately removed one from its shell. “Not dated—slept with.”
“Oh, come on! What’s the difference?”
Adriana gasped. “That, my darling friend, is exactly the problem. What’s the difference? Between dating and random sex? My goodness, we have much work to do.”
Emmy looked to Leigh for help but Leigh nodded in agreement. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I have to agree with Adriana. You’re a serial monogamist and as a result have only ever been with three people in any significant capacity. I think what Adi’s saying”—she was able to sneak in a single use of the hated nickname here because Adriana was distracted on multiple fronts by food, drink, and sex conversation—“is that you should be single for a little while. And being single means dating different people, figuring out who and what work best for you, and, most of all, having a little fun.”
“So what you’re really saying—let’s just be straight here—is that I should be whoring around more,” Emmy said.
Leigh smiled like a proud parent. “Yes.”
“And you?” Emmy turned to Adriana, who clasped her hands together and leaned forward.
Chasing Harry Winston Page 4