Chasing Harry Winston

by Lauren Weisberger

  Leigh yawned audibly on the other end. “Mmm, really? Congratulations. This will make it, what, like the eleven hundredth time they pick up one of your modeling shots? Or do you mean the party pages? In that case, it must be the eleven thousandth time.”

  “You’re being a bitch,” Adriana stated. “If you would just stop talking, I’d tell you that it has nothing to do with headshots or party pictures. I’m going to be a columnist.”

  Leigh stopped giving whispered instructions to her assistant midsentence and was absolutely quiet for a full twenty seconds. “You’re what?” she finally asked.

  “You heard me. I’m going to be a columnist. A regularly featured columnist, in the print edition. It’s going to be called ‘The Brazilian Girl’s Guide to Man Handling,’ and it’s going to give advice on how to deal with men.”

  “You mean seduce them.”

  “Yes, of course I mean seduce them! What else do women want to know? It’s not going to be easy, and I, for one, don’t think they could’ve found a better person for the job.”

  “Me, neither,” Leigh murmured. She sounded not just sincere but impressed, and Adriana couldn’t keep from smiling. “Adriana, honey, I don’t think it’s too soon to say it, and I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life: A star has been born.”

  Emmy sighed deeply as she turned the faucet off with her foot and closed her eyes, allowing her chest and legs to submerge completely. She’d been in the hotel tub for thirty minutes already, alternately dozing and reading under a relaxing stream of hot water that she drained and refreshed every few minutes. She didn’t care that her hands were pruning, or that the sheen of sweat on her forehead had begun to run down the sides of her face, or that she was being quite irresponsible, environmentally speaking. What did any of that matter when she could lie there on New Year’s Day after a long, wonderful night of drinking and lovemaking, and feel this peaceful and relaxed?

  His name was Rafi something or other, and he was a dream. Emmy had been shocked to see how many things had changed in the fifteen years since she’d been to Israel, but thankfully the magnificence of their men wasn’t one of them. If anything, they were even more adorable now, all the young strapping soldiers in uniform and their handsome older brothers who seemed in far better shape at thirty or even forty than their American counterparts. Everywhere she turned, she was met with olive-skinned, dark-haired, beautifully muscled specimens, and among this embarrassment of riches, Rafi was one of the finest.

  They’d met two days earlier, a Thursday, at a Tel Aviv restaurant called Yotvata. It was an institution in Israel, a casual, happy place right on the city’s beachfront promenade that specialized in massive, creative salads and delicious fruit-and-yogurt smoothies. All of the restaurant’s ingredients came directly from its namesake kibbutz on the Jordan-Israel border in the Aravah Valley.

  Emmy hadn’t needed to think twice when Chef Massey requested she submit a list of lesser-known areas and cuisines that might serve as inspiration for the new upscale lunch place he was opening in London. She hadn’t eaten at Yotvata since the last time she’d been in Israel—at age thirteen for her own bat mitzvah, and then two years later for Izzie’s—but she still remembered it as some of the freshest, tastiest food she’d ever had. She outlined the restaurant’s dairy focus and the chef’s insistence on using only those fruits and vegetables grown organically.

  Chef Massey loved it and asked her to accompany him on a scouting trip to Israel, where they would concentrate on expanding all of his current salad menu selections beyond the usual Caesar/Greek/ mixed green in balsamic vinaigrette trifecta, and also explore different kinds of Middle Eastern cuisine. As far as Emmy was concerned, anything that got her out of New York City on New Year’s Eve was fine, and if her destination was Israel, it was a huge bonus. What she hadn’t counted on was Chef Massey bailing on their trip at the last moment, claiming he needed to be with his family when everyone really knew he was meeting his Pakistani model girlfriend in St. Barths. Emmy had feared her own trip was in jeopardy, but he’d sent her anyway.

  Emmy had walked into the restaurant, expecting to endure a late lunch with the Israeli version of a typical American PR girl: well dressed, fast-talking, irritatingly upbeat. Instead she was escorted to a window table where she was joined by a Josh Duhamel clone with green eyes and the sexy swagger common among Israeli men. It took Emmy three seconds to notice that he was not wearing a wedding ring—a mandatory check but indicative of nothing—and another five minutes to establish that he didn’t have a girlfriend.

  “No girlfriend?” Emmy had cooed, aware but not caring that she sounded positively cougar-like. “There must be so many pretty young things running around the kibbutz.”

  Rafi laughed, and Emmy knew she would sleep with him.

  Which she had, that night, and the morning after that, and the evening after that. They’d had sex exactly six times in the past day and a half, so often and enthusiastically that Emmy insisted on seeing Rafi’s driver’s license for herself.

  “My god, you’re not kidding. Nineteen-seventy-eight. I have never in my life met a man over twenty-one with that kind of stamina.”

  He laughed again and kissed her belly. “It is a special skill,” he said in an accent straight out of a movie.

  “I’ll say so,” Emmy said, stretching out like a satisfied puppy atop the fluffy duvet, blissfully unselfconscious despite their nakedness. “Want to order breakfast in bed? I’m on an expense account.”

  He feigned horror and wagged his finger in reprimand. “The Dan Hotel is good for many things…carpets, pillows, a beautiful pool, yes? But it’s a crime to order breakfast from their kitchen when Yotvata is only steps away.”

  “I know, but those steps require me to shower and get dressed and go out in public.” Emmy stuck out her bottom lip and widened her eyes in the most dramatic pout she could manage. “Do you want me to get out of bed?”

  “No, no. Just wait here.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

  Emmy heard the water running and couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he hadn’t invited her to join him. She had just lifted the phone to order room service when Rafi reappeared.

  He held open a fluffy hotel robe and wrapped it around her with a huge hug before leading her to the bathroom.

  “For you, madam,” he said, waving expansively. The tub was filled to capacity with steaming water and vanilla-scented bubbles; a half-dozen lit votives encircled the marble perimeter.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Emmy allowed her robe to drop from her shoulders to the floor and climbed into the tub. She let her feet acclimate and then crouched slowly until she was sitting. When she was finally able to submerge her entire body in the hot water, she closed her eyes and groaned with pleasure. “This feels amazing. Come keep me company.”

  “No, no.” He wagged his finger and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips. “This is only for you. I will be back in half an hour with a feast.” Another kiss, and he was gone.

  And so she lounged. And soaked. And refilled. He took longer than a half-hour, but Emmy didn’t mind. It gave her time to slather on some of the hotel-provided vanilla moisturizer and arrange herself prettily in the chemise she’d purchased the day before at a little lingerie boutique on Sheinken Street. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought anything sexy or even cute, but she couldn’t resist this when she’d spotted it in the window. The softness of its pink jersey material felt amazing when it clung to her body, and the sheer green lace scalloping around the neckline made it comfy, casual, and sexy all in one. Adriana would be so proud, she thought, smiling. She’d welcomed 2008 in the arms of a sexy stranger, and she was feeling pretty damn good about it. By the time Rafi reappeared with bags in hand, she was somehow, miraculously, ready for another round.

  “Come back to bed,” she purred, letting him set down the bags before she pulled him on top of her.

  “Emmy, you need food,” he said but kisse
d her back.

  They had sex again, and even though they were both too exhausted to finish, it still felt wonderful. Rafi wouldn’t let her get out of bed to help unpack the food, so she just fell back into the pillows—the bed was way too plush, almost like a hammock, but who was she to complain?—and watched him carefully spoon different salads, breads, and yogurts onto their plates. He set everything down on the bed and placed a mixed-fruit smoothie and a cup of coffee on the nightstand and handed Emmy silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.

  “Bon appetit,” he said, holding his coffee up to Emmy’s.

  “B’tayavon,” she answered with a grin.

  Rafi’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “We spent two full days together and you didn’t tell me before that you speak ivrit!”

  “That’s because I don’t speak ivrit—I went to Hebrew school like every other Jewish American kid and my teacher was this enormously fat woman who taught us lots of food words in addition to the prayers.”

  “What other words do you know?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. I know m’tzi-tzah.”

  Rafi laughed and nearly spit out a mouthful of food. “Your Hebrew school teacher taught you the word for blowjob?”

  “No, that one was all Max Rosenstein.” Emmy sipped her smoothie. “How do you know English so well? And please save the ‘Americans-are-the-only-ones-who-don’t-learn-foreign-languages’ bit, please.”

  “But it’s true,” Rafi protested.

  “Of course it’s true; I’m just sick of hearing it. So? How did you learn to talk like this?”

  He shrugged and looked a little shy. “My mother’s American. She met my father while she was studying abroad and then just stayed. Considering that, I should actually speak much better, but she almost never talked to us in English since my dad couldn’t understand much and she wanted to learn Hebrew.”

  “Incredible,” Emmy said.

  “Not really. You should hear my sister. She lives in Pennsylvania now. English, Hebrew, and a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, all rolled into one…”

  Emmy pulled the covers up around her as Rafi explained the ins and outs of his family, how he was the only one still living in Israel. She tried to pay careful attention, but with each additional word he uttered, she became more and more convinced that she liked him. He wasn’t husband material, of course—she wouldn’t even go there anymore—but he seemed like a pretty decent guy. And with this realization came the old creeping insecurities. Did he like her back? Would they see each other again in the States? Was he going to change his mind about everything and vanish, like Paul had that night in Paris?

  “Very interesting,” Emmy murmured. “It all makes perfect sense, but how did you become the resident PR person? Because I have to say, you don’t exactly fit the mold.”

  “English major.”

  “Enough said.”

  “And you?” Rafi asked, spearing a forkful of shredded goat-cheese salad.

  “Government.”

  He made a face that said “give me a break” and poked her in the side.

  “I don’t know, nothing that interesting,” Emmy said, and she meant it. She hated when people asked her to sum up her life, because there really wasn’t that much to tell. “Born and raised in New Jersey in a perfectly pleasant suburb with good public schools and soccer and the whole deal. My dad died when I was five, so I don’t really even remember him, and after that my mom sort of tuned out. She was always there, but she wasn’t really there, you know? She got remarried a few years ago and moved to Arizona, so we don’t see her that much. My younger sister, now pregnant with her first, is a doctor in Miami. Let’s see, what else? I went to Cornell for undergrad and then decided I wanted to be a chef, so I went to culinary school, then I decided I didn’t want to be a chef at all, so I dropped out. Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Liar.”

  “Well, it certainly seems like you have a cool job,” Rafi said.

  “That’s true. It’s only been six months, but I’m loving it so far.”

  “What’s not to love about traveling all over the world, staying in beautiful hotels, and having affairs with foreign men?”

  “I don’t do that!” Emmy protested.

  “Now you’re the liar.”

  “Not all the hotels are beautiful….”

  Rafi laughed, a good, masculine laugh, and poked her again. “Well, I’m not complaining. I’m honored to be guy number six hundred twelve, or whatever your number is these days.”

  More like just plain old six, Emmy thought. Which, considering Duncan had been her third, was pretty damn respectable: Since the Tour de Whore had begun the previous June, she’d doubled the number that it had taken her nearly thirty years to reach. After a bit of effort she was over the hump, so to speak, but George had been the perfect start. Then there was last week’s Australian guy, currently living in London, who had grown up in Zimbabwe because his parents owned a safari company—he was all rugged and outdoorsy and although not blond or half as cute, could definitely remind someone of Leo in Blood Diamond after a couple of vodka tonics. Emmy was there only for a long weekend and overbooked with work to the breaking point, but what girl on earth could possibly pass up her very own Mick Dundee? Now Rafi was a positively delicious addition to her list. All three had been completely respectful, if not downright reverent, and Emmy couldn’t remember ever feeling sexier or more confident. As long as she was safe, which she was—using both the pill and condoms—and she didn’t have unreasonable expectations for what would follow—generally, absolutely nothing—then there was plenty to enjoy. Which was why it bothered her so much that Leigh and Adriana were suddenly on their high horses about the kind of wild fun they had so enthusiastically encouraged.

  When she’d told them about the Australian, both had laughed and applauded her adventuresome conquest. Leigh had officially declared her risk of One-Hit Wonderdom over. Adriana pressed for the usual size/position/fetish details and looked downright envious when Emmy provided them with relish. Tour de Whore was officially declared up and running. Emmy had expected the same enthusiasm, or maybe even more, about Rafi, especially when she’d answered Adriana’s call the day before, but her friend had sounded more subdued.

  “Hey, happy new year!” Emmy had said into her cell phone. “How is it being home?”

  Adriana sighed. “São Paulo’s great, and it’s nice to see everyone, but I think a full week between Christmas and New Year’s is a bit too ambitious.”

  “But I’m assuming your father’s happy?”

  “He’s in heaven. It’s the only time all year he gets all his children in one place, so what can you do? It’s a command performance, but as long as we all understand that and show up and smile, it’s not unbearable.”

  Emmy laughed to herself at Adriana’s idea of unbearable: tropical weather, a massive family compound staffed with more servants than the average hotel, and a full week of doing nothing but eating, drinking, and visiting old friends. She decided to change the subject entirely before she said something unkind. “So, guess what? I may have gotten to know—in the biblical sense—a very hot Israeli guy last night. And we’re spending the evening together tonight.”

  Adriana whistled. “Wow, querida. That was fast. Like lightning.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t leap into bed with a soldier!”

  “Of course I would. But wasn’t Croc Dundee just last weekend? Or am I confused? My god, Emmy, I never thought I’d have trouble keeping your men straight.”

  Was that annoyance Emmy was hearing in Adi’s voice? Judgment? Dare she even think it might be envy?

  “Rafi is cute and smart and a total sweetheart. It was so much fun.”

  “Let’s not forget Jewish,” Adriana said, and Emmy could almost see her wagging her forefinger. “We know what that means…husband material!”

  Emmy sighed dramatically. “You and Leigh were yelling and screaming just six months ago
that I have to stop husband-hunting, that I absolutely must expand my sexual repertoire. Then, when I do exactly that, all you can talk about is getting married!”

  “All right, querida, calm down. Of course I want you to have your fun. Let’s talk about something else—like me.”

  Emmy laughed as she scrolled through the channels on the muted hotel television. “Fair enough. How’s Mr. Baron? Dreamy as always?”

  “He’s good. Back in Toronto filming. But I have news.”

  “Don’t tell me that—”

  “No, we’re not engaged. However…” She paused for effect and Emmy wanted to strangle her. “Marie Claire is going to publish my columns!”

  “Your columns?” Emmy knew she wasn’t exactly being supportive, but this was the first she was hearing about this.

  “Yes, can you believe it? I met one of the editors at some dinner Toby dragged me to in November, and I taught her the rules of man-catching—which, I might add, worked so beautifully that she’s still dating the man she met that night—and she wants to publish my advice!”

  Emmy could barely mask her shock. Adriana a columnist? Adriana getting paid by someone else for work completed? It was almost too much to comprehend. “Adi, congratulations! You’ll be able to impart your wisdom to a whole new generation of young women. Incredible.”

  “God knows they need it. American women…good lord…but I’m going to try. Listen, I have to get ready for lunch. Papa invited the entire neighborhood over for New Year’s Eve. Where are you going with the Israeli boy tonight?”

  “Some restaurant in Tel Aviv, and then, if I have anything to say about it, directly back to my hotel room.”

  Adriana sighed. “It’s like listening to a new Emmy. It warms my heart, querida, it really does. Just be careful, okay? No need to sleep with every guy you meet.”

  “Did you really just say that? What the hell did you mean by that? Do I even need to remind you—”