Chasing Harry Winston

by Lauren Weisberger

  Jesse lit a cigarette and slid the pack to her across the table. “Live a little. You’ve been eyeing them all day.”

  “I have?”

  He nodded.

  So she did. Without another second’s consideration and only a fleeting thought of how disappointed Russell would be if he knew, she plucked one from the pack, placed it between her lips, and leaned eagerly into the match Jesse held out. She was surprised that the first inhale burned her lungs and tasted so harsh, but the second and third were much smoother.

  “A whole year down the drain,” she said ruefully before inhaling again.

  Jesse shrugged. “You don’t strike me as someone who overindulges in booze or drugs or food or…anything, really. If smoking a cigarette every now and then is going to make you happy, why not just enjoy it?”

  “If I could only smoke one every now and then, I would,” Leigh said. “The problem is that I have one and ten minutes later I’m working my way through a pack.”

  “Ah, so Ms. Put Together has a weakness after all.” Jesse smiled.

  “Great, I’m happy my addiction struggles amuse you.”

  “I don’t find it so much amusing as endearing.” He paused and appeared to think for a moment. “But yes, I suppose it’s amusing, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jesse motioned toward the manuscript and said, “Any thoughts so far, or is it not standard procedure to discuss it until you’re finished?” He swigged from his water bottle.

  Relieved he’d given her an out when she hadn’t yet thought of one herself, Leigh said vaguely, “I’m only seventy pages in, so I’d rather wait until I’ve finished.” She coughed.

  Jesse peered at her with an intensity Leigh found discomfiting. He seemed to be studying her face for clues, and after nearly a full minute, she could feel herself start to blush. Still, he didn’t say anything.

  “So, I should, uh, probably get checked into the hotel,” Leigh said, dropping her cigarette into the makeshift ashtray Jesse had made from his Poland Spring bottle.

  “Yes.”

  “Should I come back here afterward, or would you rather meet somewhere else? The hotel lobby? A cafe? How does four, four-thirty sound?” The tension was palpable and unnerving; Leigh had to remind herself to stop talking.

  “Come back here, but not until you’ve finished the manuscript.”

  Leigh laughed but quickly saw that Jesse wasn’t kidding. “It’ll take me another five, six hours minimum to read it all the way through. We could get started talking about timing, at least.” When Leigh realized she sounded like she was asking his permission, she mustered up her most authoritative voice and said, “Henry made it very clear that this deadline is nonnegotiable.”

  “Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,” he said, sounding somehow disappointed. “Every deadline is negotiable. Please read the manuscript. Come back whenever you’re finished. As you may imagine, I am not early to bed.”

  She shrugged in a halfhearted attempt to convey casualness and gathered her things. “If you want to be up until all hours, it’s fine with me.”

  He lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t be cross, Leigh. It’s going to take us a little while to find our process. Be patient with it.”

  Leigh snorted and, without thinking, said, “‘Find our process’? ‘Be patient with it’? What, did you learn that at one of your ashrams, post-rehab? Wait, are you still recovering?”

  For a fleeting moment he looked as though he’d been slapped, but he recovered quickly and grinned. “Glad to hear at least you’ve read up on me,” he said with a smoky exhale.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to—”

  “Please, Leigh, run along now.” He waved his cigarette toward the door. “I haven’t had an editor in many years, so forgive me if I’m a bit unwieldy at first, will you?”

  Leigh nodded.

  “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you later. No need to call first; just come whenever. Happy reading.”

  As she navigated her rental down Jesse’s unpaved driveway, Leigh realized that she had no real idea if their first meeting had been a decent jumping-off point or an unmitigated disaster. But she suspected, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, it was probably the latter.

  count him as south america

  Emmy removed the tray from her toaster oven and carefully flipped each of the pita chips with her fingertips, alternately delighted at their delicate crispiness and irritated that she couldn’t make a bigger batch in a proper oven. Her friends were coming over for their twice-yearly visit to her apartment, and rather than whip up a feast for them (probably Italian, a good scaloppine with a side of perfectly al dente pasta), she was baking pita chips in a toaster oven that took up her entire “counter space” and mashing chickpeas in a bowl on her lap. Emmy had always comforted herself with the knowledge that she and Duncan would one day have a new place together, a place with a huge Viking stove and a Sub-Zero fridge and cabinets filled with real stainless steel pots, but that dream had vanished when he did.

  She could barely believe they’d broken up a full five months ago. Even weirder was how completely they—or, if she was going to be really honest, Duncan—had severed contact. Although Emmy hadn’t told Izzie or the girls, she had called him pretty regularly during the first few months and had even showed up at his apartment, at least until he’d changed the locks. After that humiliation she managed to tone things down, and by midsummer Emmy had pretty much stopped calling, save for one little relapse after the Paris/Paul rejection. Oh, and there was that e-mail. It was embarrassing, but Emmy reassured herself that these things happened. She hadn’t intended to write to him, but she had come home one night right before she left for Florida, slightly buzzed from a work-related wine tasting, and sat down at her computer to surf for a bit before going to sleep. Remembering it was her friend Polly’s thirtieth birthday, she opened her e-mail and typed P in the To field, and sure enough, Duncan’s e-mail address popped into place (she had him saved in her address book under “Pumpkin”). She considered this for just a moment before forging forward and crafting a fake e-mail to Paul, the guy she’d met at the Costes who had flatly rejected her and whose e-mail address she most certainly didn’t have.

  Hey baby,

  Glad to hear you’re having such a great time in St. Tropez, although I’m missing you here. Work is crazy right now, but I guess that’s to be expected with a new job that requires so much traveling. It’s just so hard to be away from you! Thank you so much for the gorgeous little French negligee you sent. It’s so lacy and pretty and s-e-x-y. I can’t WAIT to model it for you. Only one more week until I join you there…

  xoxo E

  She hit Send and felt a thrill of excitement when she saw Duncan’s name in her Sent box: If that didn’t elicit a response, nothing would. It had taken two full days for him to respond, and even then, it was disappointing. He’d merely replied, “I think you accidentally sent this to the wrong person,” and had signed off with a smiley face. An emoticon! It was too insulting for words, and she immediately regretted the whole thing. No jealous questions about the identity of Emmy’s secret lover, no reference to her new job, not even a wry acknowledgment about her sexy nightie or (supposed) upcoming trip to the South of France. That was the final straw. It had been nearly two months since that mortifying exchange and Emmy hadn’t contacted him once. More to the point, she was happy to realize she hadn’t so much as thought about him in the two weeks since she’d had hot, random sex with George. Which obviously meant one and only one thing: Much more hot, random sex was required.

  Her buzzer rang at exactly eight and Emmy braced herself for Otis’s imminent caw. Sure enough, he shook himself awake and squawked, “Who is it? Come on up! Who is it? Come on up!”

  She sighed, slipped on her flip-flops, and headed for the stairs. The mechanism that allowed her to buzz people in was broken and although the building did have an elevator circa 1925, it had taken only one afternoon tr
apped inside it three years earlier to convince Emmy that the stairs were a much better option. She appreciated that Adriana and Leigh made the effort to come to her place twice a year or so—especially considering they lived in the same building and both had apartments that were significantly more comfortable than hers—but she just ended up feeling self-conscious about the size of her studio and guilty for subjecting everyone to a five-floor climb, after which they had to sit on the floor and endure a whole night of the hideous parrot’s insults.

  “Hi!” she called cheerfully, forgetting her reservations when she swung open the building door and saw the girls sitting on her stoop. The air was warm for October, but it was filled with smoke. “Whoa! What do I see here?”

  Adriana elbowed Emmy in the side and, grinning, motioned toward Leigh. “Check this out.”

  Sure enough, Leigh was stamping out a cigarette as she exhaled a last plume of smoke.

  “Leigh! What happened? You were doing so well!” Emmy cried.

  “Were being the operative word.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jesse Chapman happened,” Adriana sang with obvious pleasure.

  The girls began the single-file trudge upstairs.

  Emmy turned around and looked at her friends. “Why is your relapse Jesse Chapman’s fault?”

  Leigh sighed melodramatically. “I always suspected you guys didn’t listen to a word I said.”

  “Oh, save the drama,” Adriana said. “We listen to every single Chicken Little work-related melodrama of yours. It’s just lucky for us that Jesse Chapman happens to be a little more interesting than your usual lunatic authors.”

  “Wait! Back to the ‘Jesse Chapman happened.’ What does that mean?” Emmy asked. They had finally reached her apartment; Emmy was pleased to see that even though her friends were both panting and breathless, she felt perfectly fine.

  “Nothing happened. You make it sound like there’s something scandalous going on, which I assure you, there is not. He’s just a handful.”

  Adriana smirked. “I’ll bet he is.”

  Emmy motioned for the girls to claim a cushion and began pouring the red wine she had opened before their arrival. “Speaking of sex with strangers…”

  Adriana squealed so loud that Otis began his own series of screams and caws and Leigh clamped her hands over her ears.

  “Emmy! You didn’t!” Adriana said.

  “Oh, but I did.” It felt so good to say those words, to watch the reactions on her friends’ faces. Between their trips to the Hamptons and LA, the entire month of September had vanished without a single chance to tell them face-to-face, but Emmy was glad she’d waited until now.

  “Noooo,” Leigh breathed, looking up from her wineglass with a look of utter shock.

  “Yeeeeeeeees,” Emmy sang gleefully.

  “Fatty! Fatty! Fat girl!” Otis screeched. Adriana banged his cage with the back of her hand, which Otis immediately tried to bite.

  “Tell us everything! Who was he? Where? When? How? Was it good? Is he the future father of your children?”

  Emmy plopped on the floor and took a long sip of wine, savoring the attention.

  “His name is George. He’s a law student at Miami. Obviously, I met him when I was visiting Izzie and Kevin. And it just sort of happened,” Emmy said, staring at her hands.

  Adriana gave her a playful shove in the shoulder. “You are totally lying to us. Don’t you think, Leigh?”

  “I believe she actually did the deed,” Leigh said thoughtfully, “but something’s not adding up. I don’t think we’re getting the real story.”

  “You’re in love, aren’t you?” Leigh asked, leaning forward. “That’s it. You fell head over heels for this guy, and you’re already picturing him as your husband.”

  Adriana nodded her agreement. “One hundred percent. Lawyer, friend of your sister’s, probably the nicest guy on earth. Well, I’m happy for you, honey. Not surprised, I have to say, but happy for you. However”—Adriana wagged her forefinger—“I would like us to recognize that I, as one-half of a committed relationship that I promise will be leading to an engagement in the next six months, have officially won our bet.”

  “I’m a witness,” Leigh concurred. “And it’s true. I, too, am happy you met the guy of your dreams, Emmy, but you are handing the contest to Adriana.”

  Adriana picked up a folder of take-out menus from the coffee table and began thumbing through them. “Let’s order now so it gets here in time for Grey’s. Sushi?”

  “Wait just a minute,” Emmy said.

  “Wait! Fat girl! Wait! Fat girl!” Otis cawed.

  “I don’t know how you live with that repulsive creature,” Adriana said.

  Emmy grabbed the folder from Adriana and then snatched the remote control from Leigh. She clicked off the TV and said, “I’d like your undivided attention, please.”

  Leigh sighed. “Are you engaged? Please don’t tell me you’re marrying this guy already.”

  Adriana and Leigh cracked up laughing.

  “I’ll have you both know that”—Emmy held up a finger—“one, I had completely random, attachment-free sex with someone I will never, ever see again.”

  Pleased to see that this had gotten her friends’ attention, she continued. “And two, I liked it.”

  This second pronouncement was met with silence, which Adriana finally broke. “You did?”

  Emmy nodded. “And when I tell you he was inappropriate, I mean it.”

  Emmy hadn’t known herself the full extent of what she’d done until the following morning, when she’d casually mentioned George’s name to her sister.

  “Who?” Izzie had asked, scrambling eggs at the stove.

  “A guy named George. I went down to the pool last night to call Leigh and he was there. We talked for a little while.” Pause. “He seemed nice enough.”

  “George, George…I don’t know a George,” Izzie said.

  “Maybe he’s new? Whatever, it’s not important.” Emmy had never withheld anything from Izzie before, but she just couldn’t bring herself to disclose what happened with George in light of her sister’s baby announcement. It just seemed so…so petty, somehow. Silly.

  Kevin strolled into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Emmy met one of our neighbors last night by the pool. George. But I can’t figure out who he is.”

  Kevin turned to Emmy and asked, “Law student?”

  Emmy nodded. “Yeah, he said he was at Miami Law School.”

  “Tall kid, decent-looking, always wearing mesh shorts?”

  “That’s him,” Emmy agreed.

  “Jorge! I wonder when he started calling himself George. Kid’s a legend around here.”

  Something about the way Kevin kept saying “kid” was unnerving Emmy, and the whole legend bit didn’t sound so great, either.

  “What do you mean?” Emmy asked, although she really didn’t want to know.

  “Just such an unbelievable player. Literally a different girl every night, sometimes two. That guy has been with more girls at twenty-three than most men will in their lifetimes.”

  Emmy froze, her OJ glass suspended in midair halfway between the table and her mouth. “Twenty-three?”

  Izzie joined Emmy at the table and bit delicately into a piece of toast. “Yeah, he’s a baby. But the girls do love him.” She looked at Emmy with a strange look. “Why? Did something happen?”

  Emmy concentrated hard on not choking and said, “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course not. You know me….”

  Kevin drained the last of his coffee and tied his sneakers. “Izzie, honey, as beautiful as Emmy is, I imagine Jorge focuses more on the eighteen-to-twenty-five range.”

  Ouch.

  Emmy relayed the contents of this conversation to her friends, who were literally crying tears of laughter by the time she finished.

  “You. Cannot. Be. Serious!” Leigh gasped. She clutched her stomach and rolled on the
floor.

  “He was twenty-three, querida? For real?”

  “It’s not like I knew that! And I certainly had no idea his hobby was making sweet poolside love to unsuspecting women….”

  “Unsuspecting older women,” Adriana added.

  “Mock all you’d like,” Emmy said as she tossed a towel over Otis’s cage. “But it was the best sex of my old-lady life.”

  Leigh held up her hand. “Wait just a second here. We’re not acknowledging a crucial point here. Am I to assume that Jorge is Cuban?”

  Emmy shrugged. “Probably. Actually, I think Kevin mentioned later that his family are well-known anti-Castro activists.”

  “So…” Leigh bowed her head and extended her arm.

  “So?” Emmy asked, confused.

  “So you just had your first foreign man!” Adriana said. “Granted, he was probably born in the States, and even if he wasn’t, the Caribbean doesn’t really count. But I vote—in a gesture of goodwill and encouragement—that he should count.”

  “I second that. Count him as South America. But definitely count him.”

  Adriana reached over and pinched Emmy’s cheek. “Congratulations, querida. One down—two if we’re counting Duncan for North America—and five to go.”

  Emmy felt a frisson in the air at the sound of Duncan’s name and would swear that she saw Adriana and Leigh exchange looks, but she ignored it. Emmy knew they didn’t believe she was really over him, and she was growing tired of trying to convince them. “Yes, well, I am hereby cured of my monogamy addiction. And I appreciate you both being there to encourage me on my way to whoredom.”

  The girls clinked their wineglasses. Emmy phoned in their usual sushi order (three miso soups, two sushi entrées, one sashimi entrée, and a vat of extra-spicy sauce for dipping) and Leigh worked on setting the DVR to begin recording Grey’s so they wouldn’t have to waste time on commercials. A half-hour later, after Emmy had run the stairs again to let in the delivery guy and returned to find Adriana dangling Otis’s cage out her five-story window, the girls were happily chopsticking everything in sight and working their way through wine bottle number two of Emmy’s favorite gewürztraminer.