Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  And for once in my life, my grandmother and I were in total agreement.

  Chapter 20

  In Manhattan you can tell how long a person has lived in the city based solely on the name he uses to refer to certain places. Request the Pan Am Building and you’ll find MetLife. Avenue of the Americas? You’ll get an eye roll and wind up on Sixth Avenue.

  Ask someone where the GE Building is and they’ll most likely direct you to Rockefeller Center. But ask an old-timer and they’ll send you to Lexington and one of my favorite art deco buildings in the city. And just to keep you on your toes—both new and old GE buildings were originally owned by RCA Victor. Go Nipper.

  And go Philip DuBois. If one’s success is mirrored by one’s surroundings, DuBois had scored the equivalent of a coveted Michelin three-star rating in securing an office in the General Electric Building. I was supposed to be meeting him there at eleven o’clock. But unfortunately I was running late.

  As I leapt from the taxi, straightening my pencil skirt and hiking my newly acquired handbag onto my shoulder, I prayed I looked as good as Bethany had assured me I would. Coco Chanel once said that it was best to be as pretty as possible for destiny. And I happened to subscribe to her way of thinking. What better way to prepare for battle than to dress to the nines?

  So Bethany and I had done some serious shopping after my lunch at d&d. And now, thanks to Donna Karan and Christian Louboutin, hopefully I looked the perfect vision of Manhattan business chic. Black on black with my red Lambertson Truex handbag for accent. God bless Saks Fifth Avenue.

  I ran across the sidewalk and pushed through the revolving door into the magnificent lobby of the General Electric Building, slowing as I reached the other side to try and catch my breath.

  “You’re late,” Cassie said, rising from a small chair near the front desk. “I was beginning to worry that something was wrong.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said, straightening my shoulders and pasting on what I hoped was a cool, collected smile.

  “Where’s Ethan?” she asked as we walked through the lobby toward the elevator bank.

  “Already here, I presume. We decided that, under the circumstances, it would be better if we didn’t arrive together.”

  Actually, at first it hadn’t been a mutual decision. I’d wanted Ethan to come with me. I figured I could use the moral support and that it wouldn’t hurt for DuBois to see which side of the fence Ethan was playing on. But Ethan had disagreed, arguing that it would be more professional if we kept our private affairs just that. We’d argued back and forth for most of the night, but finally, with the morning sunlight (and a lovely reminder of just how private said affair really was) I’d come around to his way of thinking.

  “Probably a good idea,” she said as we stepped into the wood-paneled elevator. “Best not to make DuBois feel as if we’ve ganged up on him.”

  “I don’t see how he can feel that way. I mean, after all, he’s got the upper hand. And Monica is going to be there, right?”

  “Yes. I talked to her again last night. And she thinks he’s interested, but wary.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him,” I said as the elevator lurched to a stop. “After all the confusion over Mathias Industries and where they stand with regard to our interview, I’d be ready to dump the whole thing myself.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t share that with DuBois,” Cassie said. “In fact, you really need to be careful what you say in there. Sometimes you can get a little carried away.”

  “You think?” I asked, laughing. It really was a good idea to try and curb my tongue, but the truth of the matter was that it was almost impossible for me to actually do so.

  “Yes,” Cassie said, her mouth quirking upward into a smile, the gesture serving to remove the sting from her pronouncement. “I do.”

  “All right then,” I sighed, following her down the hallway and into DuBois’ offices. “I’ll give it my best.”

  Five minutes, a receptionist, and two assistants later, we were ushered into an austerely appointed conference room. The man of the hour was seated at the head of the table, with Ethan sitting to his left and Monica on his right. Talk about a power play.

  Everyone rose, and we moved forward as I swallowed and strove for a calm I was most certainly not feeling.

  “I’m sorry we kept you waiting,” Cassie said.

  “Not a problem.” Monica smiled. “You’re here now.” She took her seat again. And Ethan followed suit, the corner of his mouth tilting slightly as his gaze met mine.

  “You must be Ms. Sevalas,” DuBois said, coming around the table to offer his hand. In person he seemed even more vibrant than I remembered. Polished and smooth. Very French.

  He had the steely-eyed gaze of a business tycoon and the sensitive hands of an artist, a contradiction in tone underscored by the severe cut of his gray suit and the soft lavender of his tie. Actually, on thinking about it I supposed the contradiction fit. The man was first and foremost a chef. But he’d also built a restaurant empire that spanned the globe.

  “Yes.” I nodded, taking his hand in mine, noting the strength in his grasp. I really hate men who think that they have to offer a woman a limp noodle instead of a real handshake. Fortunately, DuBois wasn’t that kind of man. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And I you,” he said, eyes narrowed as he studied my face. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he reached out to tip my chin upward, face to the light, making me feel a lot like an insect pinned to a corkboard. He shifted his head, then mine, and finally, with a small sigh, he stepped back. “You look just like her. It’s as if I’ve stepped back in time. But then, that is impossible, no?”

  I nodded, shooting a sideways glance at Ethan, who just shrugged and smiled. Maybe we’d just discovered the reason DuBois didn’t do public appearances. The man was certifiable.

  “Excuse me for being so forward.” DuBois waved his hand, dismissing the words as he motioned for me and Cassie to sit down. “I’m afraid you caught me by surprise. Anyway, I believe you have a business proposition, no?”

  “Yes,” Cassie said, taking the chair next to Monica, “and we really appreciate your taking the time to talk to us.”

  I sat down next to Ethan, still trying to make sense of DuBois’ curious behavior.

  “Monsieur McCay was most insistent that I hear what you have to say. And because I have great respect for his grandfather, I agreed. As I understand it, you’re requesting an interview.”

  “Not in the formal sense,” Cassie assured. “It’s more of an appearance, really.”

  “You realize that I don’t usually agree to that kind of thing. I have an aversion, as it were, to making a spectacle of myself.”

  “Monica made that more than clear. But we have absolutely no desire to make anyone a spectacle. And in all honesty, your absence from the public eye is what makes you so valuable as a guest.” Cassie had clearly moved beyond any awkwardness, slip-ping effortlessly into business mode.

  “In the beginning,” DuBois shrugged, “I was not a commodity. Chefs were not considered celebrities. There was no Emeril Lagasse or Wolfgang Puck. Just superb food served in equally splendid restaurants.”

  “Most of them yours,” Cassie said with a nod.

  “Ah, now you flatter me.” There was just the barest hint of a smile, the gesture softening his expression, and I found myself relaxing. “But it has never been about the cooking alone. In truth, I am no better or worse than any marketable chef. I am just smarter than most.”

  “And that’s exactly why we’d like to feature you on What’s Cooking in the City.”

  “But Monica said that the show is a combination of cooking and gossip.” He looked to her for confirmation, and she nodded. “And as I just said, I am not interested in discussing my life with anyone, particularly on television.”

  “We just want to feature your cooking,” I said, finally finding my voice again.

  “But you do wish to talk about the busine
ss as well?”

  “Yes, but not in any way that would be invasive to your personal life,” Cassie said. “We’re envisioning something more along the lines of discussing the clientele who patronize your many restaurants, the plans for Chere and your return to the city, and, of course, any anecdotes you’d like to share. But nothing that would make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “I’ve admired your work for years, and it would be a great honor to have you on the show,” I gushed. “I’ve always been fascinated with food, particularly restaurant dishes and the people who create them.”

  “So you are also a chef?” he asked, his interest purely professional this time.

  “No. Not even close.”

  “She’s really quite good,” Ethan said, just the sound of his voice buoying my courage.

  “I don’t know about that,” I said with a grateful smile, “but I really do love to cook. Especially trying to re-create a fabulous dish I’ve tasted somewhere. It’s sort of like a game, I guess. Trying to figure out what it is that makes a particular recipe so special.”

  “Then I think you are halfway there already,” DuBois said. “It’s almost like chemistry, is it not? The search for the perfect mix of ingredients?”

  “Exactly.” I nodded. This was common ground. “And sometimes the last bit—the most important—is what eludes you. I can’t tell you how much of a thrill it is to finally pin it down. To know that you’ve re-created something using nothing but your wits and sense of taste.”

  “I can see that you are passionate about cooking.”

  “I guess I am. Although I never really thought about it like that before.”

  “Then perhaps you have missed your calling?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think I have the acumen to take on what is admittedly one of the most competitive industries around, especially today. I’m afraid that in making it business, I’d lose the fun of it, you know?”

  Cassie frowned, and I realized I was talking too much. As usual.

  But DuBois smiled. “I think you have hit the proverbial nail on its head. Business is not fun. And I have learned over the course of these many years that the challenge of finding the joy in my cooking becomes more difficult with every restaurant I open.”

  “So maybe cooking with me is a chance to find the joy again. Cooking for cooking’s sake.”

  “Were we discussing a class or perhaps a personal lesson I would tend to agree with you. But a television show is very public, and as I’ve already made clear, I despise the public light.”

  “But why? You’re such a success and there’s so much you have to share with regard to the profession.”

  “I just choose to keep my life private.”

  “Because you have something to hide?”

  Cassie was glowering now, and if my purse hadn’t cost an arm and a leg I’d have stuffed the damn thing into my mouth to stop the verbal onslaught.

  Again, however, DuBois surprised me. This time with laughter. “You are quite the pistol, Ms. Sevalas. Very blunt. But then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I’m sorry.” Clearly I’d been considering stuffing the wrong accessory in my mouth as I’d apparently already stuck my Louboutin-clad foot in it. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Under the circumstances, it’s a fair question.” He shrugged. “But sometimes the past is best left in the past.”

  “You enjoy being an enigma, don’t you?” I said, intrigued by the thought.

  “I think that in most cases the mystery is more enticing than reality.”

  “But if we play it right,” Cassie said, trying to gain control of the careening conversation, “coming on our show could be used to heighten the mystique. And promote the new restaurant, which has got to be a good thing.”

  “If I were interested in promotion, mademoiselle, I’d have said yes to Barbara Walters or Diane Sawyer.”

  “I realize we don’t have as large an audience,” Cassie started.

  “But it’s a targeted one,” I interrupted. “People who love good food. And that’s something straight news shows simply can’t give you.”

  “I think she makes a good point, Philip,” Monica said. “You’d be opening yourself to an audience of people who already love you.

  “Or at least my food.” He shrugged. “I’ll admit that is part of the appeal of appearing on your show rather than someone else’s.”

  “I’m sensing a but. . . ,” Cassie said, shooting an appeal in Monica’s direction.

  DuBois shrugged. “As I’ve said, publicity of any kind is not something I invite.”

  “But Monica and Cassie are right,” Ethan said, speaking for the first time. “You could use a push with the New York market. And this would be an ideal way to reach the right audience.”

  DuBois shrugged.

  “Wait.” I held up my hand, cutting him off before he could speak. “Before you say no. You need to understand the whole story. I don’t know how much Monica told you. But the honest truth is that the network offered me a shot at prime time. Which is pretty much the creme de la creme in my business. But in order to secure that slot, I had to come up with an amazing idea for a show. And since you’re pretty much the king of the culinary world, and the chef I’ve always admired most, I suggested cooking with you. And not surprisingly, the network brass jumped at the idea. So much so that now they’ll only give me the slot if I can, in fact, produce you. Which means that you’d be doing me an enormous favor by appearing.” Cassie was trying, not so subtly now, to get me to shush, but I waved her silent. In for a penny and all that.

  “I know that you hate public appearances,” I continued, “and there’s nothing I can do to change the fact that coming on What’s Cooking in the City is exactly that. But we’ve already established that this isn’t meant to be an interview. I’m not out to get the skinny on your life. I just want you on the show. To enjoy some time together cooking. Maybe I’ll even learn a thing or two.”

  I sucked in breath, feeling as if I were drowning, but I couldn’t stop now. “I realize you don’t know me. But you know Ethan. And you said you respect him. And he knows me, which has to count for something. So just promise you’ll at least think about it. Please?”

  “Does she always say just what she thinks?” DuBois asked.

  “With alarming regularity,” Ethan said, but he was smiling.

  “I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I just want this so badly.”

  “And when you want something you should go for it with everything you’ve got.” DuBois nodded in agreement.

  “Maybe not quite so vocally,” I admitted.

  “Because of our connection,” he said, standing to signal the end of our meeting, “I’ll consider your request.”

  I had no idea what he meant by “connection.” Cooking, I supposed. Not that it really mattered. As long as he did the show he could be mad as the proverbial hatter.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” I said as he came around the table to offer his hand.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he said, his dark eyes reflecting something I couldn’t quite put a name to.

  I nodded, grateful to be finally—blessedly—out of words. Minutes later Cassie and I, along with Ethan, found ourselves in the same paneled elevator heading down.

  “I’m sorry. I did exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. I ran off at the mouth. But I was nervous. He’s sort of overwhelming in person.”

  “Actually, I thought he was a little odd,” Cassie said, sounding as bemused as I felt. “But you did all right.”

  “She did more than all right,” Ethan said, his fingers closing warmly around mine. “You were amazing.”

  “I think that might be overstating it. But it does actually seem possible that he might say yes.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Cassie laughed, “I thought you were at your motormouth worst, but you’re right, DuBois seemed to like it.”

  “But he was still hesitating. I cou
ld feel it.”

  “Maybe there really is some dark awful secret in his past,” Cassie said as the elevator doors slid open and we stepped back into the opulent lobby.

  “If there is, we’ll never know what it is.” I shook my head. “The man’s definitely not a ‘spill your guts’ kind of person.”

  “As opposed to you?” Cassie quipped.

  “She speaks with her heart,” Ethan said, still holding my hand. “I think that’s a good thing.”

  “I do, too, actually.” Cassie smiled. “And she always seems to manage to talk her way through whatever.”

  “So what do you really think?” I asked them both. “Will DuBois say yes?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Cassie said. “I’d have laid odds he was going to say no when you interrupted with your heartfelt plea.”

  “But now,” Ethan finished for her, “thanks in no small part to your unbridled enthusiasm, I think there’s a very good chance the man will agree to be on the show.”

  So let it be a lesson to all you naysayers out there: Motormouths occasionally do win the day. Or at least manage to drive it into submission.

  .

  Chapter 21

  I have a thing about elegant hotels. I think it started on my first trip to Europe. The one with Harriet. When we were in Vienna we stayed at the Hotel Sacher. It was amazing. Particularly the Blaue Bar (and yes, I was allowed a taste of champagne, which was probably responsible for the reprehensible life I live today). Anyway, with blue damask covering walls decorated with portraits of people in velvets and pearls, the bar—and the hotel—captivated me.

  What can I say? I’m a five-star kind of girl.

  And in my book, The Pierre, across from Central Park, definitely ranks right up there with the Sacher. It’s the perfect place for an engagement party.

  Vanessa and Mark’s, to be exact.

  Ethan and I were arriving fashionably late, which meant that the party was already in full swing. Unfortunately, the press hadn’t gotten the message and were still loitering in full force. The engagement was big news for any number of reasons, not the least of which involved my aunt and a certain bet.