A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

“It all seems a little bleak to me,” Cybil shrugged, “but, apparently it works; business does seem to be booming.”

  “Yes. Although I still think we were better as a team.” Althea shot a pointed look in my direction, and I busied myself looking for something in my purse.

  “Vanessa’s doing fine on her own,” Cybil said, jumping to my defense. “And your business isn’t hurting either.” She pointed to the newspaper, the Walski wedding headlining the society page.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Althea sighed. “But think how well we’d be doing if we’d stayed a team.”

  How well she’d be doing is more like it. I owe Althea a lot, don’t get me wrong. But being her minion had definite drawbacks. Most of them financial. And since I have a weakness for Versace and Prada, money is essential. Hell, even if I didn’t have a thing for Italian leather, money would be essential. This is Manhattan.

  “Did you see who’s over there?” I asked, pointing to a table in the corner, more for diversion than from actual interest. “It’s Mark Grayson.”

  Well, actually I suppose there was some degree of interest. A person would have to be brain-dead not to know that Mark Grayson was a cut above the rest when it came to wheeling and dealing.

  “I saw him when we came in.” Cybil tipped her head so that she could see him better. “That’s Tandy Montgomery he’s with.” Cybil was always in the know, but was so used to the fact she sometimes forgot that the rest of us aren’t hardwired for the latest buzz.

  “A new poptart?” Althea asked, apparently as out of the loop as I was.

  “No, she’s the latest winner of that modeling contest. You know, the one on cable.” The last word explained why I hadn’t heard of her. Keeping up with the boob tube’s latest flashes of fame is more work than it is worth. The minute you catch up, their five minutes in the spotlight are over and you have to start all over again. I had better things to do.

  “Well, she’s certainly not the right woman for him,” Althea said, her eyebrows disappearing into her perfectly sculpted hair.

  Mark Grayson was new money, but he’d come by it the old-fashioned way. Hard work. And I wouldn’t have pegged him for the flaunt-the-starlet type. Still, he was a man—and given half a chance the gender tended to gravitate to vacuous, breast-enhanced types. All the better for me, really. I mean, if the right people came together on their own, I’d be out of business.

  “Well, he seems to think so,” Cybil said. All three of us were now staring over at his table. Not the most polite thing to do. Especially in Bemelmans. But copious amounts of gin tend to blur the line a little when it comes to social behavior. And it was sort of interesting, watching him make his moves. Like a sort of sexual science experiment.

  “So what else do you know?” Althea and I both leaned toward Cybil expectantly.

  “About Tandy or Grayson?” Cybil asked.

  “Both,” we said almost in tandem.

  “Well, I don’t know much about her. And I’m pretty certain she’s not a permanent fixture—if you know what I mean.”

  “Does he always pick the same type?” Althea asked.

  “Redheads?” Cybil asked, frowning over at the would-be model. “I don’t think so. I know I’ve seen him with blondes before.” The martinis were clearly clouding her brain.

  “No, I meant the empty-headed-girl-of-the-moment type.”

  “You were expecting him to step out with flat-chested fortysomethings?” I quipped, but they weren’t listening to me, they were too busy watching Wonder Boy and his latest girl toy.

  “No,” Althea said, shaking her head. “Of course not. I was just. . .”

  “Sizing him up?” Cybil grinned, just managing to swallow her laughter. “So what did you decide?”

  “Truth?”

  Cybil nodded

  “He’s not the marrying type.” Althea studied the man, her look calculating. “Of course, with proper persuasion . . .”

  “He certainly seems the ideal candidate for your concept of marriage. Merger is his middle name,” Cybil agreed.

  “Hey, I’m sitting here, too.” I frowned at them both, waving my martini glass at them. Not a good idea as it turned out, since the liquid also went flying. Fortunately no one seemed to notice except our still hovering waiter, who immediately produced a fresh napkin. “And, anyway, I found him first.”

  “Darling, no one found him. He was here before we were. And besides, if anyone can land him, you know it will be me. I simply have more experience.”

  Of course she was right, but I’d had three-plus martinis and I hated to be bested at anything. “Experience isn’t everything. There’s technique involved. And you always did say I have amazing instincts.”

  “Instincts, yes. Technique, not so much. Besides, I’m the one who landed Walski as a client.” She sat back, crossing her arms as if she’d trumped me. But I wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

  “Walski practically had ‘marriageable’ tattooed on his forehead. Anyone with half a brain could have hooked him up.”

  “Maybe,” she acquiesced with a shrug, “but not with Susannah Barker.”

  “How about John Pollard? He’d been notoriously single for years. And I managed to snag him almost right out of the gate. And marry him off, happily, I might add, three months later.”

  “Pollard could be Pierce Brosnan’s twin. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t marry him if given the opportunity,” she countered, tossing back the rest of her martini.

  “Yes, but he wasn’t quite as easy to please. And yet,” I paused for effect, “I did it. Which means that I am more than up to the task of convincing Mark Grayson that it’s time for him to take the plunge. And if we’re really rolling out the big guns,” I paused again for effect, “there’s always Franklin Pierpont.” Despite my subsequent defection, Althea knew I’d saved her ass on that one.

  “Maybe you both should give it a go.” Cybil’s seemingly offhanded remark had exactly the effect she’d intended, both our heads turning in unison in her direction.

  “How do you propose we do that? We can hardly share a client,” Althea said.

  “I’m not saying that you should.”

  “But you said . . .” This was getting interesting.

  “I said that you should both try. I frankly don’t think either of you will succeed. But a little competition might be interesting. You’ve got to admit, Althea, that Vanessa has become quite successful. And, Vanessa, you’re always complaining that Althea gets all the attention. So why not prove who’s the best by seeing which of you can snare Mark Grayson. And once there’s a winner, I’ll announce it in my column. That way everyone will see it. The verdict will be final. And one of you will be crowned the ruler of matrimonial Manhattan.”

  The idea had definite appeal. I mean, Althea might be mentor and friend but, let’s face it, she was big-time competition as well, and the idea of proving myself once and for all was almost irresistible. Not to mention the idea of having the fact touted before most of the free world. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that Cybil’s column was an international must-read.

  I glanced over at Althea, who was trying to appear uninterested, but I could see the calculation in her eyes.

  “So the first one to sign him as a client wins?”

  “No way.” Cybil laughed, idly rubbing her finger around the rim of her glass. “That would be too easy. In order to win, you have to dance at the man’s wedding. I mean, marrying him off is the whole point, isn’t it? Signing him as a client is only half the challenge.”

  “I don’t know.” Althea shook her head, her eyes on Grayson, who had paid his check and was now ushering runway girl out of the bar. “Matchmaking isn’t an exact science.”

  “Oh, please.” Cybil sighed. “You just spent half an hour telling me how marriage is nothing more than a business deal. Are you saying now that you’re not up to the task?”

  I popped an olive into my mouth, all the better to keep it shut. This wasn’t a ta
sk to enter into lightly. I mean, this public an endeavor could very well backfire, leaving my newly flourishing business deep in Chapter 11. A matchmaker who fails doesn’t get a lot of repeat business.

  But the olive apparently had not gotten the message. It slid blissfully down my throat and my mouth seemed to open of its own accord. “I’m in.”

  There was silence for a moment, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. Althea wasn’t the type to ignore a gauntlet, and I had just thrown one.

  “Then so am I, darling.” What can I say, I know the woman well.

  Cybil raised her glass. “May the best woman win.”

  We clinked and drank, and something akin to sheer terror settled in my stomach. Or maybe it was the martinis. Either way the contest was on.

  It was me or Althea.

  Winner takes Manhattan.

  Chapter 2

  Michael Coy. The Corcoran Group, 660 Madison Avenue (between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets), 212.605.9389.

  A contented downtown resident, Michael Coy seeks to make your real estate experience just as fulfilling with his results-driven approach and focus on customer service. Add to that his great integrity, trustworthiness, and respect for clients’ time, and you get the makings of the only broker you’ll ever need for your real estate requirements.

  —www.corcoran.com

  ∞∞∞

  You didn’t think I was going to tell you where I lived, did you?

  But, since I’m not going to share that little tidbit, I thought I’d give you then next best thing. My broker. I mean, in New York finding the right apartment ranks just behind making certain you’re dressed in this year’s fashions. It’s all about location— and closet space. And fortunately, thanks to Michael, I had both.

  However, just at the moment I wasn’t certain I cared. Not only was I entertaining the mother of all hangovers (I really should have known better), I was playing the role of apologetic mother for Waldo.

  Seems he’d been doing his Colin-love-’em-and-leave-’em-Farrell impression again. Let me clarify before you head off in the wrong direction. Waldo is my cat. Actually Waldo is nobody’s anything. It’s more like I’m his person. And just at the moment, that was not a particularly enviable position.

  You see, Waldo has had the hots for Arabella for months now, and apparently his lust led to a Houdini-like breakout that landed him inside my next-door neighbor’s apartment. (She said she’s got hair strands to prove it.) And anyway, push come to shove—which is absurdly appropriate in this situation—Waldo did his manly thing, and Arabella—a purebred Burmese—is now pregnant.

  And since Waldo’s heritage is more uptown than Upper East Side, it’s not a good thing.

  At least from Edna Melderson’s point of view. Arabella actually seemed fine with it. And Waldo was positively strutting. But Mrs. M. was threatening board action, and believe me, that’s a hell of a lot worse than being hauled in front of the headmaster for freezing Debbie Robertson’s bra. (How were we to know it would stick to her skin and cause permanent damage?)

  So instead of meeting Cybil at Bergdorf’s for their handbag sale, I was standing in my apartment with an angry blue hair, and my second best friend, Anderson Wright.

  Anderson runs one of the largest investment firms on Wall Street—which he thinks is irony at its very best. Testosterone land ruled by a queen.

  I’d called him as soon as I got the message about Arabella. I wasn’t the type to face danger on my own, I needed someone on point, and since Anderson was my neighbor on the other side, he was perfect for the job.

  The fact that he’d brought his partner, Richard, was all that much better. The two men were not easily cowed and therefore the kind you wanted in your corner. And in this case, I needed the backup. If you check in the dictionary under “intimidating,” you’ll find Edna’s picture. Hailing from Massachusetts, she has blood so blue you can actually see it running through her veins.

  She’s probably somewhere in her sixties, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. Never married, she has that perpetually sour expression of a woman who really needs to get laid. Add to that an assortment of clinical procedures, and she’s sort of stuck in a perpetual grimace, poppy red lipstick only accentuating the fact.

  Her blue-tinted hair is always pulled back into a chignon. Although the word is probably too elegant for the actual effect. And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her in anything except a vintage Chanel suit (she probably sleeps in them). Only, of course, hers weren’t vintage when she bought them.

  I don’t think we’ve ever said more than hello and good-bye to each other in the three years I’ve lived in the building, her usual greeting a slight inclination of her head. As if she’s granting me a favor just to go that far.

  Anderson and Richard haven’t had much more luck, although Richard actually carried Chanel bags into her apartment once (she gave him a tip). According to him, the apartment is a shrine to the fifties, complete with mahogany console TV and the scent of Chanel N° 5 mixed with cat litter.

  The latter I have to admit I’ve been guilty of myself, although I keep the litter box in a closet. (We’ve already established that Waldo can get into or out of anything, so a folding closet door is no problem at all.)

  Anyway, the woman is formidable at best. Quite frightening at worst. And as an original co-op member, she wields a lot of power in the building. All in all not someone you want for an enemy. And thanks to my randy cat, that’s precisely where I’d landed.

  This is exactly what I meant when I said that it was best for like to marry like. Look at the mess Waldo’s made, and he’s just a cat. A loud one at that. I’d shut him up in the bedroom when Arabella and Mrs. M. arrived, but kitty senses are keen and he was more than aware his lady love was in the next room.

  “What I want to know,” Mrs. M. sniffed, “is what you intend to do about this?”

  Since it was somewhat after the fact, it didn’t seem to me that there was really a lot I could do. I shot a look at Anderson, pleading for an out.

  “Well, I’m sure Vanessa will be happy to pay for any vet bills you incur during Arabella’s, um,” Anderson swallowed a smile, “confinement.”

  This wasn’t a small offer, either, as Mrs. M. favored a veterinarian who made house calls and specialized in feline acupuncture and holistic medicine. (I’m serious, check out housecallsforyourpet.com.)

  “I assumed she’d do that much, but what I’m looking for,” she shot an Elmira Gulch-worthy frown in the direction of the extra room, “is some kind of guarantee that that animal won’t do this again.”

  Waldo’s yowl echoed through the room, and I swear Richard crossed his legs. We all knew what the woman was alluding to, but I just couldn’t see taking Waldo’s manhood. It seemed a cruel punishment just for fulfilling a basic need. And besides, it takes two to tango. I shot my best venomous look in Mrs. M.’s direction.

  “Of course, I’d be more than happy to pay for Arabella to be spayed.” Hit hard, when they’re not expecting it. I’d learned that from my father. Let her cat be the one to suffer the indignation of losing gonads.

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” She stroked Arabella with bony fingers, her eyes narrowing until there was nothing but eyeliner visible. My thoughts switched from Elmira Gulch to that woman in Sunset Boulevard.

  “Well, I’m sure as hell not going to cas—” Anderson pinched the underside of my arm, but it was too late. Mrs. M. had followed the gist.

  “My Arabella is a grand champion. And as such she is more valuable if she can be bred.”

  “Just because Waldo isn’t a show cat. . . I managed before Anderson pinched me again. I wriggled out of reach, certain that I was going to have marks.

  “Your cat,” Mrs. M.’s mouth pursed as she practically spit out the word, “is a mongrel. And as such, a menace. While there may be nothing I can do about Arabella’s present situation, I will not tolerate it happening again. To that end, you will either solve the problem, or that
animal,” she waved a bejeweled hand in the direction of the spare room, “will be evicted. Am I making myself clear?”

  I clenched my fists, my vision going red. I really hated being ordered to do anything. Fortunately Richard was well aware of this fact.

  “So,” he said, standing up with finality, “Vanessa will look into options for preventing another liaison and report back to you. Certainly there are all kinds of variables to be taken into consideration, before anything rash occurs. And should it come to that, we’d of course need to be certain that both parties were as represented. Authentication would be crucial, wouldn’t you say?” Did I mention that Richard is an attorney?

  Mrs. M. fingered the Judith Ripka brooch at her throat, her expression now guarded. “I’m sure we can reach some kind of agreement.” The about-face would have been comical, except that we were discussing the fate of my cat’s testicles. I glanced over at Richard with a frown, but he only shook his head slightly, his benevolent gaze still on Mrs. M.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Richard dismissed her. “And as Anderson suggested, feel free to have the vet’s bills sent to Vanessa. It’s the least she can do.”

  With a sigh worthy of high melodrama, Mrs. M. waltzed (and that’s an accurate description, really) out the door, leaving the three of us standing in a cloud of Chanel N° 5.

  “Well, at least she didn’t stuff poor Waldo in a basket.” Anderson had obviously seen the resemblance to the Wicked Witch as well.

  “But I don’t understand why she backed off,” I said, still flummoxed. “I mean, not to knock you, Richard, but she’s pretty formidable. I’d have taken her over you in a bet any day.”

  Richard smiled. “Ah, but you see I came with ammunition. When you called I did a little checking. It seems there was a suit filed by the CFA several years back after Arabella won Best-in-Show at the National Capital. Apparently there was some question as to the authenticity of her pedigree.”

  An imposter. Kind of raised my estimation of Waldo’s paramour.

  “Additionally, I talked with the Beckers in 1IC, and apparently their cat, also an unneutered male, has been known to find refuge in Miss Arabella’s paws.” He flashed his ladies-and-gentlemen-of-the-jury smile. “So I suspect that the last thing that Edna Melderson wants is a microscope on her poor Arabella’s sexual habits and lineage. My advice? Put up window screens and you should be good to go.”