Truth be told, she’d done more than heard: In her many hours spent researching Toby online, she’d run across an article in InStyle that featured a dozen or so interior shots of his bachelor pad. Adriana already knew he preferred a sparse modern look for his four bedrooms and five baths; that his home was Balinese-style with indoor/outdoor showers and gardens, plus separate pavilions for eating, living, and sleeping; that, to top it all off, there was a drop-dead gorgeous infinity pool that looked like it stretched to, well, infinity over the valley below. She had decided sight unseen that with only a few minor adjustments (surely the master bedroom would need a built-in vanity and the immediate installation of proper California Closets), she would be very, very happy living there.
“Well, querida, we’re willing to overlook it this time. But please do show a bit of restraint in the future. I don’t have to tell you that your father has been under a lot of stress lately.”
“I know, Mama.”
“And behave yourself with Mr. Baron,” her mother warned. “Don’t forget everything I’ve taught you.”
“Mama! Of course I won’t forget.”
“If anything, the rules become even more important with wealthy and powerful men. They are the most accustomed to having women fall at their feet, and in turn are the most appreciative when they meet someone who refuses to do so.”
“I know, Mama.”
“Maintain your mystery, Adriana! I realize you go to bed with men far faster now than we did in my day, but that makes it even more important to remain a bit unattainable in other areas. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mama. I understand perfectly.”
“Because you’re not setting a great precedent by flying across the country to see a man,” Mrs. de Souza said.
“Mama! It’s time. He’s been to visit me in New York four times already.” So she might have been exaggerating a touch, but her mother didn’t have to know that.
“And you’re staying at a hotel, I hope?”
“Of course. Even though it would be much less expensive to stay at his house…”
The mere suggestion of this sent her mother into a panic. “Adriana! You know better than that! Of course your father and I would appreciate your showing a bit more financial sensitivity, but this particular area is nonnegotiable.”
“I was kidding, Mama. I have a suite reserved at the Peninsula and I plan to use it.”
“And remember: no spending the night! If you absolutely must be intimate with him, then at least have the good sense to leave afterward.”
“Yes, Mama.” Adriana smiled to herself. Most moms warned their daughters against casual sex for fear of potential disease, disrespect, or reputation. Mrs. de Souza had none of these concerns; she feared only that a false move would irreparably damage the relationship’s power balance and make the end goal—Adriana’s swift betrothal to a proper man—even more difficult to achieve.
“Well, all right, dear, I’m glad we had this chat. He does sound very promising. Certainly far favorable to the men you usually date…”
“I’ll call you when I’m back in New York on Sunday, okay?”
Her mother made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “Let me see here…I’m just checking my book. Ah, yes, we’ll be in Dubai then. The cell should work, but it’s always better if you just ring the apartment phone. Do you have that number?”
“I have it. I’ll call you there. Wish me luck!”
“You don’t need luck, querida. You’re an absolutely stunning girl that any man—Mr. Tobias Baron certainly included—would be delighted to have. Just remember your responsibilities, Adriana.”
They kissed over the phone and hung up. Adriana glanced at the driver to see how much he might have heard, but he was talking quietly into his own Bluetooth headset. There was no denying that her mother was exhausting and, judging from Leigh’s and Emmy’s stories, quite different from most moms, but it was hard to argue with her accomplishments. Mrs. de Souza had turned a phenomenally successful modeling career into a lifetime of luxury and leisure, all provided by a kind, hardworking man who worshipped the ground she walked on. A compound in São Paulo, an oceanfront mansion in Portugal, and gorgeous flats in both New York and Dubai…well, that wasn’t something to sneeze at. The furs and jewels, cars and staff weren’t bad, either, and naturally Mrs. de Souza made very good use of her unlimited and unquestioned spending (a clause she’d insisted upon before the wedding ceremony took place). It might be tiresome enduring the endless “lessons” from her mother, but Adriana did not question the woman’s authority on all things men-related.
Adriana gazed out the window as they exited the 405 on Wilshire and weaved their way through Westwood and then Synagogue Alley. It had been a couple years since Adriana had last been in LA, but she was pretty sure the driver had just missed the turnoff to her hotel.
“Sir? Excuse me, I think we just passed the Peninsula. Wasn’t that Santa Monica Boulevard?”
He coughed and looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Mr. Baron has redirected us to another location, ma’am.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, I’m afraid I have to override him. I would like to go to my hotel first, please.” As eager as she was to see Toby’s palatial spread, i.e., her future home, she desperately needed to attend to her humidity-limpened hair and sallow travel complexion. And then there was dealing with the whole “ma’am” incident.
Much to her chagrin, and then her shock, the driver ignored her and kept driving. Was she being kidnapped? Was the driver some pervert who lost his mind the second a pretty girl got in the backseat? Should she call Toby? Her mother? The police?
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that—”
“Can you please not call me ‘ma’am’?” Adriana snapped, all thoughts of imminent death gone.
The driver looked appropriately embarrassed. “Of course. Miss. I was just saying that I think you’ll be pleased with where we’re headed.”
“Are we going to Madonna’s Kabbalah center?” she asked hopefully.
“No, ma’am. Uh, miss.”
“Tom’s Scientology center?”
“I’m afraid not.” He eased the car into a left turn, a beautiful, magical, welcome left turn…onto Rodeo Drive.
“Paris’s penitentiary?” It was easy to joke now that they were somewhere so delightful.
The driver sidled up to a curb that stated NO STANDING, turned off the car, and retrieved Adriana. He offered her his arm and said, “If you’ll follow me…”
He led her past a Bebe store (on Rodeo!) and she panicked for a moment until she saw the sign. Adriana had to remind herself to breathe. She wanted to sing and cry and scream all at the same time. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, she thought, forcing herself to take little sips of air. It couldn’t be. Could it? A quick scan of the boutique’s stunning window displays confirmed it was true: They had just entered the hallowed halls of the Oscar Adorner Extraordinaire, the guru himself: Harry Winston.
“Oh, my,” she gasped audibly, forgetting momentarily that both the driver and a haughty-looking saleswoman were watching her intently.
“Yes, it can be overwhelming,” the saleswoman said, nodding her head in faux understanding. “Is this your first time?”
Adriana collected herself. She’d be damned if she was going to let this woman patronize her. She flashed her most brilliant smile and reached out to touch the woman’s arm. “First time?” Adriana asked with an amused little laugh. “How I wish. I was just a bit taken aback, since I thought we were headed to Bulgari.”
“Ah,” the woman murmured, clearly not believing a word. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do here today, now, won’t you?”
Ordinarily it would take every ounce of willpower in Adriana’s reserve to refrain from saying something nasty, but something about all the surrounding sparkle seemed to take the fight right out of her. Instead, she smiled. “Actually, I’m not quite sure what I’m here for….”
The woman was probably in her late f
orties, and even Adriana had to admit that she looked pretty good for her age. Her navy suit was feminine, flattering, and professional, and her makeup was expertly applied. She extended a hand toward a little seating area and motioned to Adriana to take a seat.
The driver discreetly slipped away as Adriana settled herself onto an antique velvet divan. It was overstuffed and inviting in all its plushness, but she could only manage to perch carefully on one end if she didn’t want to collapse backward. A plump woman in an old-fashioned maid’s uniform set down a tray of tea and cookies.
“Thank you, Ama,” the saleswoman said without a glance.
“Gracias, Ama,” Adriana added. “Me gustan sus aretes. ¿Son de aquí?” I like your earrings. Are they from here?
The maid blushed, unaccustomed to being addressed by clients. “Sí, señora, son de aquí. El señor Winston me los dió como regalo de boda hace casi veinte años.” Yes, miss, they are. Mr. Winston gave them to me as a wedding present nearly twenty years ago.
“Muy lindos.” Adriana nodded approvingly as Ama blushed again and disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain.
“How do you speak such fluent Spanish?” the saleswoman asked, more out of politeness than any genuine curiosity.
“Portuguese is my first language, but we all learn Spanish as well. Sister languages,” Adriana explained with patience, even though she could barely contain her excitement.
“Ah, how interesting.”
No, it’s not, Adriana thought, wondering if she was about to set some sort of time record for having a man propose to her. Toby couldn’t actually be about to propose…could he? No, it was ridiculous; they’d only just met at the beginning of the summer. Far more likely was that he’d started feeling a bit anxious about her imaginary “secret lover” and had decided—correctly, of course—that a little bauble might swing the pendulum in his favor.
“It’s unusually cool today, isn’t it?” the woman was saying.
“Hmm.” Enough with the chitchat already! Adriana wanted to scream. I. Want. My. Present!
“Well, dear, you’re probably wondering why you’re here,” she said.
Understatement of the century, Adriana thought.
“Mr. Baron has asked me to present you with”—as if on cue, a sixtyish gentleman in a three-piece suit with a jeweler’s loupe around his neck appeared and presented the saleswoman with a small velvet-lined tray, which she held out to Adriana—“these.”
Splayed perfectly on the black velvet lay a pair of the most beautiful earrings Adriana had ever seen. More than beautiful, actually—absolutely stunning.
The saleswoman gingerly touched one of them with a manicured fingernail and said, “Lovely, aren’t they?”
Adriana exhaled for the first time in over a minute. “They’re exquisite. Sapphire drops, just like the ones Salma Hayek wore to the Oscars,” she breathed.
The woman’s head snapped up and she stared at Adriana. “My, my, you do know your jewelry, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Adriana said, laughing, “but I do know your jewelry.” It was a wonder—no, it was downright astonishing—that Toby had remembered her admiring Salma’s Oscar earrings in an old magazine. That alone was incredible enough, but the fact that he then saved the photo and found an identical pair, two months after the fact, was almost incomprehensible.
“Well, actually, these are the exact ones Ms. Hayek wore to the Oscars. They were lent to her and we’ve received many requests for them since then. However”—she paused for dramatic effect—“they now belong to you.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Adriana breathed, momentarily forgetting herself once again and fumbling to try them on.
Fifteen minutes later, with the celeb-worthy sapphire drop earrings firmly in place and a bottle of Evian in hand, Adriana leapt into the backseat of the Town Car. She was pleased with herself, not just for her new acquisition but for what it represented: a steady, committed boyfriend who adored her and showered her with love and affection (and Harry Winston). She finally understood why all the other girls so yearned for this kind of stability. Who needed hundreds of men and all the headaches that came with them when you could find just one who had everything? Sure, Dean the TV actor was delicious, there was no denying it, but how delicious would he be when he hadn’t worked in five years and was living in some actor dorm in West Hollywood? There was no denying that she had very much enjoyed the surgeon from Greenwich and the Israeli spy and the Dartmouth fraternity boy. She had savored each and every one of them and, truth be told, countless others. But that was before, back when she was a mere child, not a grown woman with a grown woman’s desires. Adriana fingered the dangly blue gems and smiled to herself. This was going to be the perfect weekend, she was sure of it.
“You don’t get paid enough to make house calls,” Russell murmured as he stroked Leigh’s back gently, with just his fingertips.
“You’re telling me,” she said, praying he wouldn’t stop. She snuggled in closer against his wide, warm, nearly hairless chest and buried her head in his underarm. She had always loved their cuddling, and even now it encouraged her; she might not want to have sex with Russell, but at least she wasn’t repulsed by his touch. Leigh remembered Emmy going through that with Mark, the boyfriend before Duncan. She claimed the sex had never been great, not even in the beginning, but things grew steadily worse—mostly in Emmy’s mind, she admitted—until she recoiled in disgust every time he tried to touch her. The story had always haunted Leigh, someone who understood perfectly what it felt like to shrink away from a boyfriend’s kiss, but that was precisely why she found these snuggle sessions so reassuring. She wouldn’t want to lie naked in bed with Russell, spoon with him and enjoy his touch, if there was something wrong…would she? No, it was a clear indication that everything was as it should be. What woman didn’t have shifts in sexual desire at times? According to the article in Harper’s Bazaar she’d read at the nail salon the week before, a woman’s libido was a tenuous thing, affected by stress, sleeping patterns, hormones, and about a million other factors she couldn’t control. With a little time and a lot of patience—something Russell had exhibited in spades until very recently—Bazaar swore that most women would return to normal. She would simply wait it out.
“So what’s he like?” Russell asked. “Is he really as crazy as everyone makes him out to be?”
Leigh wondered when Russell had Googled Jesse. “What do you mean? He seems like…I don’t know, like an author. They’re all nuts.”
Russell rolled over on his back and slung his arm over his eyes to block out the early-morning sun that streamed in around the sides of the window shade. “Yeah, but he sold five million copies and won the Pulitzer and then vanished. For six years. Was it really a drug problem? Or did he just lose it?”
“I have no idea. We’ve only had one lunch; he hasn’t exactly confided in me.” Leigh tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but it wasn’t easy. “Look, I’m not dying to go out there, either.”
Which was true enough. There were definitely things Leigh would rather do with two days out of the office than drive to the Hamptons right before Labor Day weekend.
“I know, sweetheart. Just don’t let him push you around, okay? He may think he’s some hotshot, but you’re still his editor. You call the shots, right?”
“Right,” she said automatically, although she was really thinking how much it rankled her when Russell sounded so much like her father. Mr. Eisner had said those exact words to her the night before in what was probably intended to be a helpful pregame pep talk, but which to Leigh had sounded like a condescending lecture from the consummate professional to the flailing amateur.
Russell kissed her forehead, pulled on a pair of boxers, and strode to the bathroom. After turning the shower to its hottest setting, he headed to the kitchen, closing the bathroom door behind him. There he’d wait for the bathroom to get all hot and steamy—just the way he liked it—while he made his daily power breakfast: soy protein shake,
fat-free yogurt, and three scrambled egg whites. This ritual irritated Leigh beyond description. What about all that wasted water? she asked him over and over again, but he merely reminded her that water was included in the monthly maintenance fee she paid, so it didn’t particularly matter. It was just one of the things about him she found utterly maddening. She completely understood the need for him to wear a full face of TV makeup once a week when he recorded the show, but she loathed watching him remove it. He used her makeup remover and pads and swabbed so delicately under his eyes and around his nose, and although she couldn’t quite pinpoint why, she found it revolting. Not quite as revolting as when he forgot to remove it and she ended up with pillowcases smeared with man foundation, but still—the whole thing was just gross.
She chided herself for being so rigid and intolerant and took a deep, relaxing breath. It was only nine o’clock on a sunny Thursday morning and already she felt like she’d been awake for forty-eight hours and lived through a world war. Exhausted yet still simmering with low-level anxiety, Leigh hauled herself from bed and ducked into the steam-drenched bathroom.
She managed to throw on a pair of white jeans and pack everything else before Russell finished his own shower, so she blew him a kiss through the bathroom door and quickly left. She rolled her small suitcase to Hertz on East Thirteenth Street and, after accepting all the insurance offered—better safe than sorry!—Leigh grabbed a large iced latte from Joe, popped two pieces of Nicorette, and slid into the driver’s seat of her red Ford Focus. The trip took less time than she’d planned; in a little over two hours she pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant called Estia’s. It was shaped like a little clapboard cottage, just as Jesse had described it; she went inside to use the bathroom and gulp another cup of coffee before calling him.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Jesse? It’s Leigh. I’m at Estia’s.”
“Already? I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”
She felt her blood pressure rise even higher. “Well, I’m not sure why, considering we spoke just yesterday and I told you that I’d be arriving between twelve and twelve-thirty.”
Chasing Harry Winston Page 18