Chasing Harry Winston

by Lauren Weisberger

  Two heads snapped up to look at her in awe. Well, that got their attention, thank god.

  “The Tobias Baron?” Leigh asked.

  Yes, this was better. “The one and only.” She nodded. “And actually, his friends call him Toby.”

  Leigh’s eyes bulged. “Are you kidding? Spill, girl! We need to hear—”

  “Of course!” Adriana smiled. “But first I’m just going to have a quick swim.” She climbed out of her lounge chair like a cat unfolding from an afternoon nap and strolled toward the pool. That’ll teach them to not take me seriously. She tested the water with her toes, then dove in, barely breaking the water with her streamlined body, and immediately began a strong yet graceful forward crawl. Although she was not a big fan of oceans (the salt water was so drying to the hair, never mind all those unpleasant stinging creatures), Adriana swam like a fish. Her mother, terrified of having young Adriana toddle into the estate’s pool, had insisted she learn to swim before she could walk. This was accomplished quite efficiently in a single afternoon. Mrs. de Souza carried a squirming nine-month-old Adriana into five feet of water, pulled off the girl’s water wings, and watched as the child sank. Hearing this story for the first time in her early teens, Adriana was horrified. “You just watched as I drowned?” she asked her mother.

  “Please, it wasn’t quite so dramatic—you were only under a moment or two. Then you figured it out and paddled your little head to the surface. A bit of water up the nose is hardly a trauma, now, is it?” Not a Dr. Phil–approved method but effective nonetheless.

  She swam ten lengths of the pool and gratefully accepted a rolled beach towel from a muscled attendant, offering him a broad smile as reward. Adriana returned, and Emmy folded over the page she was reading and tossed the book aside.

  “Adriana de Souza, how have you not told us this already? We’ve been in Aruba now for—”

  “Bonaire!” Leigh and Adriana said simultaneously.

  Emmy waved her arms in a silencing gesture. “Whatever. We’ve been in Bonaire for two full days already and you’re just getting around to mentioning this now? What kind of friend does that?”

  “It’s not serious,” she said, relishing her friends’ expressions—she just adored withholding information until it would have the maximum effect—“but I think he has potential.”

  “Potential? The magazines call him an intellectual George Clooney. Handsome, accomplished, straight, unmarried—”

  “Divorced,” Emmy added.

  Leigh swatted the air. “A mistake in his early twenties that lasted thirty-six months and produced no kids. As far as divorced men go, he barely even qualifies.”

  Adriana whistled. “Well, well, it seems like you’re both rather informed. Does this mean you approve?”

  They nodded vigorously.

  “So tell us all about him,” Emmy breathed, probably relieved that the focus had shifted away from her.

  Adriana lifted her dripping-wet torso slightly off the chair to straighten the cushion, but it was enough to cause an audible groan from a nearby sunbather. “Well, let’s see. No need to give you the biographical information—you girls clearly know that!—but, um, he really is a darling. I met him two weeks ago on the set of The City Dweller.”

  Leigh flipped over and unhooked her bikini top across the back. “What were you doing there?”

  “Gilles brought me. I was going to meet Angelina and Maddox, but instead I met Toby.” Adriana proceeded to relay her conversation with Toby word for word, adding a few sentences (for color) but omitting none. When finished, she wrapped her lips seductively around her striped straw and took a long pull on her margarita. She couldn’t be positive, but she thought the group of cute guys across the pool was staring at her.

  “So do you think he’ll call?” Emmy asked with what appeared to be genuine concern.

  A little annoyed that her friend had even considered the idea that he wouldn’t call, no less verbalized it, she snapped, “Of course he’ll call. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Oooh, sounds like someone’s a little sensitive…” Leigh practically sang.

  “What? Are you referring to Yani? I’m so over that.” Adriana stretched her legs out and pointed her toes.

  “Was there a development with Yani?” Emmy asked eagerly. “Why am I always the last to know everything?”

  Adriana sighed. “I have no idea why we’re harping on this. I gave him my number after class last week and told him to call me.”

  “And?”

  “He gave it back.” Adriana tried to sound supremely bored, but her friends knew her too well: It had been haunting her, making her even more certain that the time to find a husband was upon her. Yani’s rejection—something she was sure would never have happened a couple of years ago—confirmed her window was closing.

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, just that he was sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to use the number.”

  “I’m sure it was just because he—”

  “Please,” Adriana said with a casual wave and a deliberate smile. “I am so not interested. Yani the yoga instructor isn’t exactly one of the most revered Hollywood directors on earth, now, is he?”

  “Hi,” Emmy said, sitting up and grinning hugely in the direction of Adriana’s right shoulder.

  “What?” Adriana was momentarily confused until she turned around to see a man standing behind her. A rather attractive man, if she did say so. Why, yes, those Hawaiian-print board shorts sat below his hip bones, encircling an impressively toned abdomen. His sun-streaked hair was wet, and Adriana noticed his strong hands as he pushed it off his face. He could use a shave and he wasn’t as tall as she usually liked, but overall he was rather delectable. And he was smiling. At Emmy.

  “Hey there,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything….” An Australian! They were her absolute favorites. Her very first kiss had been with an Australian boy, age eleven, sent to São Paulo for the summer to stay with Adriana’s next-door neighbors, and since then she’d been with enough of his countrymen to consider herself an honorary citizen.

  “Of course not,” Adriana purred, instinctively pushing her shoulders back and her chest forward.

  “Well, uh, we—my mates, over there?” He pointed to the table across the pool where three guys sat, trying not to look. “We were wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner tonight?” Adriana stared at him in disbelief. It was confirmed: He was talking directly to Emmy. Unbelievable! Could this delicious little treat actually prefer Emmy to her?

  “It’s just that we’re here for one of my mates’ stag parties and, well, we’ve been here for three days already and are getting really tired of talking to each other. It’d, uh, be great if you girls would come with us tonight. Nothing crazy, I promise, just a cool little beachside place with good drinks and good music. Our treat. What do you say?”

  By now, even Emmy had figured out that the Australian was addressing her, and Adriana, despite being shocked by the whole situation, was impressed by how quickly Emmy recovered. “Why, that’s so nice of you!” she said in her best imitation of a Southern belle. “We’d love to.”

  The Australian, appearing pleased, trotted off to the bar in search of a pen. The moment he left, Adriana made a deliberate decision to kick it into high gear. She tried to suppress this ever-increasing panic that men no longer found her attractive and swallowed her critical thoughts of the Aussie—who was, upon further observation, quite short…not to mention that dirty-looking stubble; wasn’t she too old for guys who didn’t bother to take care of themselves?—and instead concentrated on smiling as broadly as she could manage. Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispered to her friends. “Emmy, darling, that boy has your name written all over him. Paris was Amateur Hour. You, my friend, are with the expert now. Consider yourself warned….” And while Emmy blushed and Leigh gave an approving wink, Adriana focused on keeping the tears at bay.

  Leigh dug around inside her purse, searching for something, a
nything, that she could busy herself with until Jesse arrived. She couldn’t just sit there, for chrissake, staring off into space, nor did she want to be that girl, the one who was hunched over herself, frantically thumbing her BlackBerry. There was a hundred-page excerpt of a manuscript that her assistant had handed her as she walked out of the office, but she discarded this idea as well; pulling out a manuscript at Michael’s during the lunch hour was like reading a screenplay at The Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. Just don’t. What she really wanted to do was put on her beloved noise-cancellation headphones and block out the shrill, grating voice of the man sitting behind her, screaming into his cell phone. Were she alone or with friends, she would have simply asked to move tables, but Jesse was due any second and she didn’t want to be seen making a big fuss. The anxiety over the lunch combined with her upstairs neighbor’s late-night clomp to the kitchen had resulted in a very deficient night’s sleep, and she yearned to sneak in an earphone—just one was all she needed!—and let her trusty iPod (filled with only the most relaxing classical and mood music) soothe her jangled nerves. She was just untangling the cords when the maître d’ appeared tableside, Jesse in tow.

  “Good to see you again,” she said smoothly, deliberately not standing to greet him but instead holding out her hand.

  He leaned over to kiss her cheek. It was instinctive and totally impersonal, but Leigh nonetheless felt a little frisson of excitement. Just nerves, she thought.

  Jesse stood next to the chair that had been pulled out for him and surveyed the scene. “Leigh, darling, could I trouble you to switch tables with me?” He stared at the two men in suits sitting behind her, one of whom was still on his cell phone, and Jesse said none-too-quietly, “I can’t fucking stand people uncivilized enough to scream into their cell phones in a restaurant.”

  His reprimand went unnoticed by the offender, but Leigh nearly jumped from her seat and into his arms. “I loathe that guy,” she said, gathering her things with great haste, but Jesse was already preoccupied with flagging down the maître d’. It wasn’t until they were seated once again—this time at a perfectly situated table for two in a quiet back corner—that Leigh allowed herself to sneak a glance at Jesse.

  He was wearing jeans and a blazer—perhaps the very same one he’d been wearing that day in Henry’s office—and his hair was mussed. He looked well scrubbed but casually rumpled, as though he’d given not a second’s thought to his appearance, and this made Leigh acutely aware of just how much time she had spent preparing.

  It had been a while since she’d devoted so much time to her morning routine. She’d been so busy and sleep-deprived lately that her hour-long beauty regimen had been reduced to the basics: a quick rinse; a once-over with the hairdryer, just long enough to get the wet out; a touch of mascara; and lipstick on the go. But this morning had been different. She climbed out of bed without snoozing the alarm, carefully so as not to wake Russell, and from there her body moved through elaborate preparations as though on autopilot.

  She had debated endlessly what to wear for her first official meeting with Jesse. His whole aura was informal, that much was sure, but she wanted to appear professional. Her father had never failed to remind her that older male authors would forever see her as a woman before an editor, and that if she stood any chance of gaining their respect, she should deemphasize her femininity. Or at the very least, not play it up. Leigh had always followed this prescription carefully, but today—when it should have counted most—she just couldn’t bear the usual black pantsuit. Or the charcoal gray one. Or navy. Nor did her usual cotton bikinis seem sufficient; instead, she climbed into a stretchy hot pink thong and a matching mesh bra that supported little and concealed nothing. Why not? she thought. They were more cute than sexy, and what was wrong with changing it up a little? Over this she tied her favorite Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, a knee-length number with three-quarter sleeves, a low neckline, and a bright yellow, white, and black abstract pattern. She blew her hair dry and applied her makeup barefoot before adding a pair of strappy sandals, going for the three-inchers instead of her more practical work kitten heels. Russell had whistled sleepily when she kissed his forehead good-bye, but the moment she stepped on the subway, she started to wonder if she was overdressed and by the time she was seated at the restaurant, she was convinced she looked more like a high-paid escort than a stylish yet serious professional.

  To his credit or his obliviousness—Leigh wasn’t quite sure which—Jesse kept his eyes locked firmly on her face as he said, “Where did my mousy editor go? I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble on my behalf.”

  Leigh watched as he settled into the chair opposite hers and immediately regretted her outfit choice. She was prepared for Jesse’s sexist comments—Henry had warned her of those—and judging from his literary-rock-star status, she assumed he’d be a pompous jerk, but despite all that, she wasn’t ready for such a blatant insult. If she didn’t set the precedent right now, their entire working relationship would be doomed. He might be a famous writer, but he was her famous writer now, and she had to make damn sure he understood that.

  “For you?” Leigh made a show of looking herself over and laughed gaily. “Jesse, how sweet of you to notice, but it’s actually for a party later.” She paused, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “Am I to infer now that you went to all that trouble for me?”

  His hands immediately went to his hair and brushed it back off his face. “Yeah, I do look like shit, don’t I?” he said a bit sheepishly. “I missed the earlier train and then the schedule was all fucked up. It was a bit of a nightmare.”

  “The train? I thought you lived in the city?”

  “I do, but I can’t concentrate here, so I’ve been writing in the Hamptons.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  He interrupted with a rueful laugh. “Really fucking original, I know. Bought the place last November, just as it was starting to get cold. I was always appropriately anti-Hamptons, you won’t be shocked to hear, but this was different: It was gray, isolated, the perfect place to lock down with a computer and not much else. Didn’t see another soul for days at a stretch and then—poof!—the sun comes out for a split second in May, and the whole of the Upper East Side arrives en masse.”

  “So why’d you stay? It’s hell on earth there in July,” Leigh said.

  “Sheer laziness.”

  “Oh, please. I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Believe it. I’m all set up. I just can’t bring myself to leave. Besides, they’re doing construction on the apartment above mine in the city and the noise is intolerable.”

  “Mmm,” Leigh said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

  Jesse shook his head and sat back in his seat with an exhale. “How do you endure so many hours with self-obsessed shits like myself?”

  Leigh laughed despite herself. “Just a part of the job description,” she said.

  “Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re curious what—”

  “Jesse,” she said sweetly, stopping him midsentence. “We’re going to have plenty of time for work, so I thought it might be nice if we just got acquainted and saved the editorial discussion for next time.”

  He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  “Quite. If that’s all right with you.”

  He cocked his head. “You are a strange one, aren’t you? An editor who doesn’t want to talk about my book. Well, well, well. What do you want to talk about, Ms. Eisner?”

  Leigh was pleased. Her trip to Curaçao with the girls hadn’t felt like much of an engagement celebration, but it had given her plenty of time to think through her strategy with Jesse. She knew she needed to set the tone with him early and firmly. Dictating both the pacing and the content of their conversations was the only way to do this. He had come to this lunch expecting that his new editor at his new publishing house would be salivating to hear about his new book and so she had feigned indifference.

  By the time they’d fin
ished their entrées (the hanger steak salad for him and the herb-roasted striped bass for her), they’d talked about everything but writing. Leigh learned that Jesse grew up in Seattle but thought it was depressing and he spent his twenties working odd jobs around Southeast Asia but thought that was depressing, too. He told her how shocked he’d been when Disenchantment first hit the bestseller list and how surreal it was to make millions from what he thought of as little more than a travel diary and how crazy the party scene in New York City is when you’re young, accomplished, and suddenly very, very rich. It had been a little over an hour, but Leigh felt like they were beginning to forge a connection that was unusual for them both—not romantic, of course, but somehow intimate. In passing and without the least bit of emphasis or interest, Jesse mentioned his wife.

  “You have a wife?” Leigh asked.

  He nodded.

  “As in, you’re married?”

  “That is generally how people define it, yes. Are you surprised?”

  “No. Well, yes. Not surprised that you would be married, just…uh…surprised that…well, that I didn’t read it in the papers.”

  Jesse grinned and she thought how much better-looking he was when he smiled. Younger, somehow, and not quite as damaged. He glanced at her left hand and raised his eyebrows. “I see you, too, plan to join our married ranks.”

  She didn’t know why, but she was suddenly flustered. Flustered and quite uncomfortable.

  “Dessert?” she asked, picking up the menu and pretending to peruse it.

  Jesse ordered espressos for both of them. Without asking. Which, naturally, Leigh found equally irritating and appealing. She would have preferred herbal mint tea had she been permitted to choose, but it was oddly nice not to make the decision.

  “So tell me, Ms. Eisner. What was the last great book you edited? Before mine, of course.”

  “Well, I needn’t remind you, Mr. Chapman, that your book’s greatness remains to be seen. We’re all very curious.”