The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she’d expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn’t until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen. Disenchantment, the first novel he’d published, at age twenty-three, had been one of those impossibly rare books that was both a commercial and literary success, and Jesse’s reputation as a bad-boy genius had only increased with every additional party attended, model dated, and book written. He had disappeared six or seven years ago, after a rumored stint in rehab and spate of brutal reviews, but no one expected him to stay hidden forever. The fact that he was here, in their offices, could mean only one thing.
“Leigh, may I introduce you to Jesse Chapman? You’re familiar with his work, of course. And Jesse, this is Leigh Eisner, my most promising editor, and my favorite, were I forced to choose.”
Jesse stood to face Leigh, and although his eyes remained fixed on hers, she could feel him appraising her. She wondered if he liked girls with stringy ponytails and no makeup. She prayed he did.
“He says that about everyone,” Leigh said graciously, extending her hand to meet Jesse’s.
“Of course he does,” Jesse said smoothly, standing to envelop her right hand between both of his. “And that’s why we all adore him. Please, will you join us?” He waved his hand toward the empty space beside him on the love seat and looked at her.
“Oh, well, actually, I was just—”
“She’d love to,” Henry said.
Leigh resisted the urge to glare at him while she settled into the ancient couch. Bye-bye, blowout, she thought. Bye-bye, Barneys. It would be a miracle if Russell ever spoke to her again after the disaster that tonight would surely be.
Henry cleared his throat. “Jesse and I were just discussing his last novel. I was saying how we all—really, the entire publishing industry—thought the Times’ attack was inexcusable. Embarrassing for them, really, with its obvious agenda. Absolutely no one took it seriously. It was complete and—”
Smiling again, this time with the slightest expression of amusement, Jesse turned to Leigh. “And what did you think, dear? Did you think the review was warranted?”
Leigh was shocked by his assuredness that she had not only read but remembered both the book and this particular review. Which, irritatingly, she did. It had been the cover of the Sunday Book Review six years earlier, and the viciousness of it still resonated. She actually remembered wondering what it must be like for the author to read something like that about his work, had wondered where Jesse Chapman was when he first laid eyes on those brutal ten paragraphs. She would have read the book regardless—she’d studied Jesse’s earlier novels in countless college lit classes—but the sheer meanness of the review had propelled her to buy it in hardcover and devour it that same week.
Leigh spoke, as she often did, without thinking. It was a habit at direct odds with her methodical personality, but she just couldn’t help herself. She could meticulously organize an apartment or schedule a day or create a work plan, but she couldn’t seem to master the concept that not all thoughts need to be spoken. The girls and Russell claimed they found it charming, but it could be downright mortifying sometimes. Like in a meeting with your boss, for instance. Something about Jesse’s gaze—interested yet still aloof—made her forget that she was in Henry’s office, talking to one of the greatest writing talents of the twenty-first century, and she barreled ahead. “The review was petty, to be sure. It was vindictive and unprofessional, a hit job if I’ve ever seen one. That said, I think Rancor was your weakest effort. It didn’t deserve a review like that, but it wasn’t nearly on par with The Moon’s Defeat or, of course, Disenchantment.”
Henry inhaled and instinctively placed his hand over his mouth.
Leigh felt faint; her heart began to race at top speed and she could feel the sweat starting to dampen her palms and feet.
Jesse grinned. “Telling it straight. No bullshit. That’s rare these days, wouldn’t you say?”
Not sure whether this was an actual question, Leigh stared at her hands, which she was wringing with a frightening ferocity.
“A regular charm school here, isn’t it?” Henry laughed. His voice sounded hollow and more than a little nervous. “Well, thank you for sharing your opinion with Mr. Chapman, Leigh. Your solo opinion, of course.” He smiled wanly at Jesse.
Leigh took this as her cue to leave and was positively ecstatic to oblige. “I, uh, I’m so…I meant no offense, of course. I’m a really huge fan and, it’s just that—”
“Please don’t apologize. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
With tremendous effort, Leigh resisted the urge to apologize again and managed to get herself off the couch, past Jesse, and out of Henry’s office without further humiliation, but one look at Henry’s assistant’s face and she knew she was screwed.
“Was it really that bad?” she asked, gripping the girl’s desk.
“Whoa. That was ballsy.”
“Ballsy? I didn’t intend to be ballsy. I was trying to be diplomatic! I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I said that. Ohmigod, eight years of work and it’s all down the drain because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Was it really that bad?” Leigh asked again.
There was a pause. The assistant opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. “It wasn’t good.”
Leigh checked her watch and grudgingly acknowledged to herself that there was no chance of making her appointment or getting back in time for the calls she had scheduled all afternoon with various agents. Back in her office, she began to work the phones. Her first call was to cancel with Gilles and the second was to Barneys. A pleasant-sounding salesclerk in the men’s department agreed to messenger a gift to her office before six. Leigh was baffled when he asked what she’d like; unable to think clearly and not particularly caring, she instructed him to make it in the $200 range and charge her American Express.
By the time the gift-wrapped box arrived at five-thirty, Leigh was close to tears. She hadn’t heard another word from Henry, who usually couldn’t make it an hour without multiple phone calls or stop-ins. She’d managed to run to the gym briefly—no workout, just a quick shower—but she didn’t realize until she was standing under the blessedly hot water that she’d left her gym bag in the office, the one with her cosmetics, a change of underwear, and, most important, her hairdryer. Although she would have thought it impossible, the mini-dryer attached to the gym wall with what seemed like a two-inch cord actually left her hair looking significantly worse than it had before the shower. Russell and her mother called her cell phone during the walk back to her office, but she screened both of them.
I am a vile human being, Leigh thought as she examined herself in the ladies room closest to her office. It was almost seven and she’d only just ended her final phone call with one of her least favorite agents. Her hair hung in limp, frizzy strands, its flatness accentuated by the dark bags under eyes and the angry redness of a forehead pimple that had neither hair nor foundation to conceal it. She’d forgotten that Russell had once joked that she looked “lesbian chic” in the blazer she was wearing, and although she’d always loved its shrunken fit and its chunky gold chains and the fact that it was Chanel—the only article of haute couture she owned—she had never noticed until this very moment that it made her look like a linebacker. “Don’t worry,” she mumbled, unaware that she was talking to herself. “Russell’s a sports commentator. He works for E
SPN. He dedicates his life to professional sports. Russell loves football players!” And with that, clutching the gorgeously wrapped gift box from Barneys, trying not to worry about the fact that its contents were a complete mystery, she gathered her unkempt self and hustled downstairs to hail a cab.
Russell stood outside Daniel, looking relaxed and fit and happy. Like he’d just returned from a month in the Caribbean, where he’d done nothing but treat his body like a temple. His charcoal gray suit hugged every toned muscle. His skin glowed with the health of someone who runs six miles a day; he was freshly washed and shaven. Even his shoes—a pair of black lace-ups that he’d bought on their last trip to Milan—literally shined. He was groomed to perfection, and Leigh resented him for it. Who on earth managed to work a full day and keep their tie that clean or their shirt that crisp? How was it always possible to match that well, to have coordinated cuff links with trouser socks, shoes with briefcases?
“Hi, gorgeous. I was starting to worry.”
She pecked him on the lips but moved away before he could open his mouth. “Worry? Why? I’m right on time.”
“Well, you know, I just hadn’t heard from you all day. You did get the orchid, right? I know the purple ones are your favorite.”
“I did. It was beautiful. Thank you so much.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—it was the higher-pitched, polite tone she used with her doorman or dry cleaner.
Russell placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the front doors. They were immediately greeted by a tuxedoed man nearing the end of middle age who appeared to recognize Russell. They conferred momentarily in whispers, the maître d’ leaning in toward Russell, the two men clapping each other on the shoulders. A moment later, he motioned for a young girl in a tight but conservative pantsuit to show them to their table.
“Football fan?” Leigh asked, more to appear interested than because she actually was.
“What? Oh, the maître d’? Yeah, he must have recognized me from the show. What else could explain this table, right?”
Only then did Leigh notice that they had easily the best table in the whole restaurant. They were facing the entire gorgeous room from their perch under one of the dramatic archways. The lighting was so soft and perfect that Leigh thought she might even look good under it, and the heavy brocade and acres of rich red velvet felt soothing after such a hellish day. The tables were adequately spaced to keep people from sitting on top of one another, the background music was unobtrusive, and there didn’t appear to be a single person talking on a cell phone. From strictly an anxiety standpoint, this place was heaven on earth—a particularly good thing tonight, considering Russell would be even less thrilled than he usually was if she made a fuss over the table selection.
She relaxed even more after a glass of pinot grigio and some delicately caramelized sea scallops, but Leigh still couldn’t completely switch gears from work to romantic dinner à deux. She nodded her way through Russell’s description of a companywide memo he was thinking of authoring, his suggestion that they try to make it to his college buddy’s Martha’s Vineyard home sometime that summer, and his recap of a joke one of the show’s makeup artists had told him that morning. It wasn’t until the waiter delivered two flutes of champagne and something called a coconut dacquoise that Leigh felt alert. There, resting casually next to the plate of poached pineapples and surrounded by berries, was a black velvet box. She was surprised and a little disconcerted that her first feeling upon spying the jewelry box was one of relief: Its long, rectangular shape indicated that it wasn’t—thank god—a ring. Of course she’d probably want to marry Russell someday—there wasn’t a friend or family member who’d ever met him and not immediately referenced his superior husband potential, kindness, handsome looks, successful career, charisma, and obvious adoration of Leigh—but she definitely wasn’t ready to marry him now. There didn’t seem to be any harm at all in waiting another year, or maybe two. Marriage was, well, marriage, and she wanted to be absolutely sure.
“What’s this?” she asked with genuine excitement, already envisioning an initial pendant of some sort, or perhaps a pretty gold bracelet.
“Open it and see,” he said softly.
Leigh fingered the plush velvet and grinned. “You shouldn’t have!”
“Open it!”
“I just know I’m going to love it.”
“Leigh, open the box. You may be surprised.”
The look in his eyes gave her pause, as did the way his hand tensed around his champagne glass. She snapped open the lid and, just like they do in every bad rom com she’d ever seen, she gasped. There, nestled in the very middle of the necklace-sized box, was a ring. An engagement ring. A very huge, very beautiful engagement ring.
“Leigh?” His voice shook. Gently, he took the box from her and plucked the ring out. In one swift movement, he took her left hand in his own and slid the ring onto the proper finger. It fit perfectly. “Leigh, honey? I’ve loved you since the moment I met you, one year ago today. I think we’ve both known from the very first night that this was something special—something forever. Will you marry me?”
Emmy’s first meeting the next day with a local culinary staffing company wasn’t until two o’clock—one of the many benefits of the hospitality industry—but she was really starting to feel the jet lag. When she’d arrived at the hotel that morning at ten, she had ordered a light room-service breakfast of coffee, croissant, and berries (after a quick conversion from euros to dollars, she realized the cost was $31, not including tip) and then bathed using the three-ounce bubble bath she found in the minibar ($50). Following a quick nap and few hours spent confirming the next day’s appointments, she’d had a Niçoise salad and a Coke in the restaurant’s outdoor garden ($38). None of it felt particularly extravagant, though, when compared to dinner, a simple steak-frites she had eaten alone in the hotel’s lobby lounge two hours earlier. Steak, fries, and a single glass of red wine. (“House wine? What do you mean by ‘house wine’?” the waiter had asked with a barely suppressed sneer. “Ah,” he said after a moment of intense thought. “You mean ‘inexpensive,’ yes? I will bring it to you, madam.”) The bill had come to a whopping $96, and the wine tasted like Manischewitz. He hadn’t even called her mademoiselle!
Occupying a prime sliver of real estate on chic Rue du Faubourg in the 1st arrondissement—just steps from the Ritz and Hermès—the Hotel Costes was legendary for its celeb-heavy clientele and ultra-chic late-night lounge scene. When the travel department asked if she had any hotel preferences, Emmy couldn’t work up the nerve even to suggest the Costes. It wasn’t until the agent had given her a choice between there and a gorgeous riverfront hotel on the Left Bank that she practically shrieked with excitement. What better place to get started on Tour de Whore ’07?
Emmy had spent a full week anticipating her stay at the Costes. One hour after arrival she was awed by its coolness; two hours later she was intimidated; three hours after that she was ready to check out. The Costes might be the best place in town to be seen, but it seemed impossible that anyone actually stayed there. Either she had gotten really, really old or the Costes had a major attitude problem. The hallways were so dark that she’d taken to running her hands along the corridor walls to keep from walking into them. The music from the lounge reverberated through the rooms, and the noisy bustle of models sipping skim lattes and various nationalities of modelizers slurping Bordeaux in the central courtyard bounced off every window. Her charming claw-foot tub had no curtain, so the floor flooded when she turned on the handheld showerhead. There was no electrical outlet in the bathroom (probably because everyone brought their own stylist), so Emmy had been forced to dry her hair, sans mirror, at the desk. So far she’d been patronized, ignored, and mocked by the hotel staff. And yet, irritatingly enough, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she should feel honored to stay there.
So she sat as unobtrusively as she could manage in the lounge, reading e-mails on her laptop and savor
ing an espresso (a flawless one, she grudgingly conceded). Her sister wrote that she and Kevin were planning to come to New York for the Fourth of July, and asked if she’d be in town. She had just written back to say that they could have her studio and she’d stay at Adriana’s when her new company-provided international cell phone rang.
“This is Emmy Solomon,” she said as professionally as possible.
“Emmy? Is that you?”
“Leigh? How did you get this number?”
“I called your office here and said it was an emergency. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Sweetie, is everything okay? It’s two in the morning there.”
“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just wanted you to hear it from me before the word got out over e-mail. I’m engaged!”
“Engaged? Oh my god! Leigh, congratulations! I had no idea you guys were even thinking about it. This is so exciting! Tell me everything.” Emmy saw a uniformed staffer shoot her a nasty look, but she glared right back.
“I, uh, guess I wasn’t really expecting it, either,” Leigh said. “It just sort of came out of nowhere.”
“Well, how did he do it?”
Leigh described what was supposed to be a simple anniversary dinner, how haggish she’d looked and felt, and what each of them had ordered at Daniel in measured, factual detail. By the time she got to the dessert-time proposal, Emmy had started interrupting in a desperate attempt to get to the good stuff.
“I don’t care how you looked—what does the ring look like? And let me remind you that now is not the time for modesty.”
“It’s huge.”
“How huge?”
“Very huge.”
“Leigh!”
“Just under four.”
Chasing Harry Winston Page 8