Chasing Harry Winston

by Lauren Weisberger

  “On it,” Gilles sang. He hefted a huge leather tote overflowing with supplies onto his shoulder and motioned Adriana toward the door. “To the set we go.”

  The scene was already under way when they arrived at the loft, and their set passes were scrutinized by no fewer than three PAs.

  “This place is harder to breach than Chez Cruise,” Adriana whispered when they’d finally made it inside.

  Gilles smiled but remained alert, carefully sidestepping the tangle of wires and extension cords. “Right before you got here I watched them tell a mailman that he wasn’t allowed to deliver the mail until they were done for the day.”

  The huge, classic SoHo loft had sixteen-foot ceilings and exposed brick and all sorts of very intimidating modern art sculptures. The crew had set up a king-sized bed with a metal four-poster frame—the kind that looks like a huge hollow box has been attached to the top—in the living room in front of the fireplace. With its chic brown and lime-green duvet and matching low-profile nightstands, it looked like a photo straight from the West Elm catalog. But far more interesting was the nearly nude actress splayed across it.

  “Quiet on the set!” a deep male voice boomed from somewhere overhead.

  Gilles held up a hand and grabbed Adriana’s wrist. They both froze in midstep.

  “Rolling!” another male voice called. A chorus of replies followed from all around the room.

  “Rolling!”

  “Rolling!”

  “We are rolling!”

  “And…action!” Adriana turned to see that these last words came from a man who sat a bit off to the side. He wore a pair of massive headphones and leaned intently forward in his chair, examining the center screen with complete concentration. Next to him, a young girl diligently took notes on a clipboard. Adriana surmised that this was the director, the god himself, and she was pleased to confirm her suspicions when she stepped a few inches to the left and was able to read the back of the man’s chair. TOBIAS BARON was stitched in all caps on the black fabric. What she hadn’t expected was that he’d be so young: His résumé read like that of someone in his fifties or sixties, but this man didn’t look a day over forty.

  Gilles and Adriana watched for a twenty-second clip while the actress, wearing an open button-down and a pair of white cotton panties that managed to be ten times sexier than most thongs, read a novel on the bed. She was just casually stroking her stomach and flipping the pages when Adriana realized the girl was Angelina’s body double.

  “Cut!” Tobias yelled. Within a half-second, Gilles beelined to the actress and began finger-tousling her hair. He didn’t appear to notice that she was propped on her elbows with her head thrown back as if in ecstasy.

  A few minutes later, with the scene set exactly the same as before, there was another round of “rolling” shouts and a call of “action!” Only this time, just as the chiseled male actor lowered himself on top of the girl, a cell phone chirped. Adriana’s cell phone. Forty heads turned to stare at her as she, completely unflustered, rooted around in her bag, pulled the cell phone out, and switched it off—after checking the caller ID.

  “And cut!” Tobias screamed. “What is this, people? Amateur hour? Lose the cell phones. Now, let’s take it from Fernando’s entrance. Pick it up right away and…action!”

  This time the actors completed the scene to the director’s satisfaction and Tobias grudgingly called for a break. Gilles gripped Adriana’s hand so hard that his fingernails dug into her palms. She knew he was about to go berserk—he always was a screamer—but before he could drag her outside for a tongue-lashing, Tobias intercepted them. His headphones were looped around his neck; he frowned and shook his head in anger as the rest of the crew moved far enough away to avoid direct contact while remaining close enough to hear whatever went down.

  “Who are you?” Tobias demanded, looking directly at Adriana.

  Gilles began blathering. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Baron, you have assurance that such an incident will never—”

  Tobias interrupted Gilles with an exasperated wave but didn’t divert his attention from Adriana. “Who are you?”

  He stared at her and Adriana stared back, the two of them locked in a power struggle for nearly thirty seconds without saying a word. Adriana admired his steadfastness; most men got flustered when she remained silent and defiant. She also rather liked his solidness. He was above average height for a man, probably close to six feet, but his fitted T-shirt showed off an upper body that gave him a much bigger look. As far as she could ascertain, both his tan and his thick, dark hair were real. She was close enough to smell him, and she liked that, too: a good mixture of fabric softener and a subtle, masculine cologne.

  Doing her best to appear unapologetic, she looked directly into his eyes and said, “My name is Adriana de Souza.”

  “Ah, well, that certainly explains it.”

  “Pardon me?” And then it occurred to her—maybe this man somehow knew her mother and, as a result, wasn’t surprised by Adriana’s diva-like behavior. It wouldn’t be the first time someone in the entertainment industry had put together Adriana’s famous name and gorgeous looks.

  “It explains why a young girl like you would have a João Gilberto song as her ring tone. From Rio?”

  “São Paulo, actually,” Adriana purred. “You do not strike me as Brazilian.”

  “No? Is it the name or the nose?” He finally smiled. “You don’t have to be Brazilian to know bossa nova when you hear it.”

  “I’m sorry, I must have missed your name. You are?” Adriana asked, wide-eyed. She knew from many years of experience that if you treated the overconfident ones like dirt, they were yours forever.

  His smile faded for a moment before expanding to an all-out grin, one that said, Hey, an adversary. I like that. And although he didn’t ask for her number then and there, Adriana was one hundred percent certain that she’d be hearing from Tobias Baron.

  “Why so quiet?” Russell asked as he navigated through the parking lot–like conditions on the Merritt, made even worse than usual by his steadfast refusal to work around the Trifecta of Traffic Horrors: They had left the city not only during rush hour, but during rush hour on a Friday—of a summer weekend.

  Leigh sighed. Only three more days until her coveted No Human Contact Monday. “Just the usual dread.”

  “They’re really not so bad, honey. I have to say, I don’t totally understand why they get to you so much.”

  “Well, that’s probably because you’ve met them all of five times in your entire life and, if anything, they know how to make good first impressions. They don’t get to their real heavy-duty undermining until you’ve really started to know and trust them. Then…watch out.” Annoyed that he was defending her parents, she scrolled through the iPod and turned the volume all the way up. John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World to Change” blasted from the speakers.

  They were in Russell’s new Range Rover, which she loathed. When he’d elicited her opinion a few months earlier on what cars she liked, she’d merely shrugged.

  “The beauty of living in New York is that you don’t need a car. Why bother?”

  “Because, darling, I want to take romantic weekend trips with you. The freedom it offers would be wonderful for us. And besides, ESPN will pay for me to garage it in the city. So, any preferences?”

  “Not really.”

  “Leigh, come on. We’ll be using it a lot together. You really have no opinion?”

  “I don’t know…the blue ones, I guess.” She knew she was being impossible, but she really, honestly didn’t care. Russell was going to obsess over cars regardless of what she liked or didn’t, so she really didn’t want to get involved.

  “The ‘blue ones’? You’re being a bitch.”

  Relieved that he’d finally pushed back—an all-too-rare event—she’d relented a little. “Henry drives a blue Prius and loves it—says it gets amazing gas mileage. Someone said that the hybrid Escape is good, too—an SUV that doesn’t look
like a tank.”

  “A hybrid?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be. I also like that curvy Nissan…. What’s it called? A Mural?”

  “A Murano. Are you serious?”

  “Actually, I already told you I couldn’t care less, but you’ve forced the conversation. Get whatever one you like.”

  A long soliloquy ensued wherein Russell extolled the many virtues of the Range Rover. He covered its interior, exterior, horsepower, exclusivity, stylishness, and practicality in bad weather (notably leaving out any mention of gas mileage or the difficulty of getting one serviced, but Leigh refrained from pointing that out). He instinctively fell into his on-air personality and droned on and on: baritone voice animated but controlled, gaze steady, posture perfect. It was precisely what made him so charismatic and engaging on-air that could make him so grating when they were alone. She wondered what all those girls who wrote to his Web site and sent seductive pictures of themselves would think if they got to see this Russell: still gorgeous, admittedly, but also smug and not a little boring.

  He had just finished telling her about some basketball player’s commitment to the troops when they pulled into the driveway. Her parents had grudgingly left the city for Greenwich in the 1980s when Leigh’s grandmother passed away, leaving the family home to her only son. Leigh’s father was still a junior editor and her mother had only just finished law school, so the chance to live rent- and mortgage-free—even if it was, regrettably, off-island—was just too good to pass up. Leigh had lived in the beautiful old home since preschool, played tag in its surrounding woods and hosted birthday parties at its pool, and lost her virginity in the cool, cavelike basement to a boy whose name she remembered but whose face had since blurred; and yet the five-bedroom house hadn’t felt like home in many years.

  Leigh typed the security code (1-2-3-4, naturally) into the garage-side keypad and motioned for Russell to follow. Part of her was disappointed that her mother hadn’t raced outside to grab Leigh’s hand and stare at her engagement ring and wipe away tears as she kissed her only daughter and future son-in-law, but she was self-aware enough to admit that she would have been irritated and embarrassed had her mother done precisely that. Mrs. Eisner wasn’t exactly the gushing, teary type, and in this way mother and daughter were similar.

  “Mom? Dad? We’re here!” She led Russell through the front hallway, which had long ago ceased being a mudroom and had been transformed into an elegant foyer, and walked into the kitchen. “Where is everyone?”

  “Coming!” she heard her mother call from the family room. A moment later she appeared before them, looking casually elegant in one of her trillion Polo collared shirts, khaki capris, and Tod’s driving moccasins.

  “Leigh! Russell. Congratulations. Oh, I am so thrilled for you both.” She embraced her daughter and leaned up to kiss Russell’s cheek. “Now, come sit down so I can properly examine this sparkler. I can’t believe I had to wait twelve full days to see this!”

  Passive-aggressive comment number one, Leigh thought. We’re off and running.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for you and Mr. Eisner to return, but I very much wanted to propose on our one-year anniversary,” Russell rushed to explain.

  Her parents had returned late the night before from their annual three-week June pilgrimage to Europe and had insisted that the happy couple join them for a celebratory dinner.

  “Please,” her mother waved at the air. “We understand. Besides, no one really needs their parents for these things now, do they?”

  Number two. And in record time.

  Russell cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable enough that Leigh felt a momentary pang of sympathy. She decided to rescue him. “Mom, how about a glass of wine? Is there some in the fridge?”

  Mrs. Eisner pointed to the mahogany bar in the corner of the den. “There should be a couple bottles of chardonnay in the wine cooler. Your father likes it, but I find it a tad dry. If you would prefer red, you’ll need to get it from the cellar.”

  “I think we’d probably rather have red,” Leigh said, mostly for Russell’s benefit. She knew that he hated white wine—chardonnay most of all—but would never express such a preference in front of her parents.

  “You two visit for a minute,” Russell said with an award-winning (an Emmy, to be precise, bestowed last year for “Outstanding Studio Show—Weekly”) smile. “I’ll go get the wine.”

  Mrs. Eisner clasped Leigh’s left hand and pulled it directly under the table lamp. “My, my, he certainly did his homework, didn’t he? And of course, so did you. Russell will make such a wonderful husband. You must be so pleased.”

  Leigh paused for a moment, uncertain of what she meant. It was implied that Leigh had been poised and ready for this moment her entire life, that this ring signified success in a way that valedictorian, Cornell, or becoming a star editor at Brook Harris never could. She loved Russell—really, she did—but it rankled that her own mother considered him Leigh’s greatest achievement to date.

  “It’s all so exciting,” Leigh offered with an extra-large smile.

  Her mother sighed. “Well, I should hope so! It’s so nice to see you happy for once. You’ve worked so hard for so long now…. Suffice it to say that this didn’t come a moment too soon.”

  “Mother, do you realize that you just—” But before she could say managed to imply that, one, I’m always negative, and two, my age is so advanced you worried I might never snag a husband, Russell came back with Mr. Eisner in tow.

  “Leigh,” her father said in a voice so steady and quiet it was almost a whisper. “Leigh, Leigh, Leigh.” His hair was now completely gray, although, as with many men, it made him look not so much older as more distinguished. Same with the deep lines etched in his forehead and around his mouth and eyes—they conveyed a feeling of wisdom and experience, not the air of a problem that should be dealt with at the plastic surgeon’s next available appointment. Even his sweater—a three-decades-old navy cardigan with leather elbow patches and toggle buttons—seemed somehow more intelligent than the sweaters most men wore these days.

  He stood in the doorway next to the piano and gazed at her in a way that always made her feel scrutinized, like he was deciding whether or not he liked her new haircut or approved of her outfit. Growing up, it was her mother who made the most immediate rules regarding their daughter—whether eyeliner was permitted, what was appropriate attire for a school dance, how late she could stay out on a school night—but it was only her father who could make her feel brilliant or idiotic, gorgeous or hideously ugly, charmed or wretched, with the most casual look or comment. Of course, while such comments could appear casual, they never were. Every word he uttered was considered, weighed, and chosen with deliberateness, and woe to the person who failed to select her words with such precision. Although Leigh couldn’t recall a single occasion when her father had raised his voice, she remembered the countless times he had dissected her arguments or opinions with a quiet ruthlessness that intimidated her to this day.

  “He’s an editor,” her mother would soothe when Leigh got upset as a child. “Words are his life. He’s careful with them. He loves them, loves the language. Don’t take it personally, darling.” And Leigh would nod and say she understood and make a greater effort at watching what she said, while trying not to take any of it personally.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said almost shyly. She had seen both Emmy and Adriana call their fathers “Daddy,” but it seemed impossible to imagine calling her own father something so saccharine. Even though he’d retired six years earlier, Charles Eisner would be an imposing editor-in-chief until the day he died. He’d ruled with a firm hand during the twelve years as head of Paramour Publishing—none of the “handholding warm fuzzy shit,” in his words, of today’s big publishing houses—and he’d remained consistently aloof and detached at home, as much as he could manage. Fall lineups, production schedules, assistant editors, pressures from corporate, even authors themselves were pe
rfectly predictable after the first few years, which is why Leigh always thought it drove him particularly crazy that children were not. To this day Leigh tried to remain as steady and evenhanded around her father as possible, taking particular care not to blurt out whatever she was thinking.

  “I’ve already congratulated my future son-in-law,” he said, moving across the room toward Leigh. “Come here, dear. Allow me this pleasure.”

  After a brief embrace and a kiss on the forehead, neither particularly warm nor affectionate, Mr. Eisner ushered everyone into the dining room and began issuing quiet directives.

  “Russell, would you please decant the wine? Use the stemless glasses from the bar, if you will. Carol, the salad needs to be tossed with the vinaigrette. Everything else is finished, but I didn’t want that to get soggy while we waited. Leigh, dear, you may just be seated and relax. After all, tonight is your special night.”

  She told herself it was paranoid and neurotic to interpret this as anything other than a compliment, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it felt like a small attack. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be the official relaxer.”

  They discussed her parents’ trip over the arugula and goat cheese salad and told about their own engagement during the filet with asparagus and rosemary potatoes. Russell entertained the table with anecdotes of ring-shopping and planning the proposal, and Leigh’s parents smiled and laughed far more than was usual for either of them, and everything was quite civilized, almost even enjoyable, until Leigh’s cell phone rang in the middle of dessert.

  She pulled her bag up from under the table and removed her phone.

  “Leigh!” her mother chided. “We’re eating.”

  “Yes, Mother, I know, but it’s Henry. Excuse me for a minute.” She took her phone and headed toward the living room but, realizing that everyone would be able to hear her, she ducked out back to the deck and heard her father say, “No publisher I ever worked with would call one of his editors at nine o’clock on a Friday night unless something was very, very wrong,” right before she pulled the door closed behind her.