by Dee Davis
“Or not go, as the case may be,” Anderson said with a laugh.
There was a thunk, a click, and the spare room door swung open, Waldo falling into the room with the dignity only a cat can pull off.
“On second thought, maybe you should just lock the windows.” Richard tipped his head toward the cat. “He does seem to have a knack for escape.”
Waldo ignored all of us, walking over to the window and leaping up to sit lapping at a paw, watching traffic below—or planning his next rendezvous with Arabella.
I would wind up with a lothario for a cat. Sort of apropos, I suppose, considering my occupation.
“So enough with the cat,” Richard said settling back on my white sofa. “Tell me about Page Six."
Anderson sat down next to his partner, his eyes twinkling in anticipation. Nothing made Anderson happier than a little gossip. And Page Six was as good a place as any to try to keep up.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” I rubbed my temples, wondering if I should dose myself with bismuth or just have a Bloody Mary. Hair of the dog and all that. The thought actually made the Pepto sound positively fabulous.
“You haven’t seen the paper.” It was a statement, not a question, but Richard was smiling.
“I wouldn’t even be awake if it weren’t for Mrs. M. and her seductive siren of a cat. Besides, I haven’t been up to anything that would rate Page Six exposure.” Well, except agree to a practically impossible bet on the off chance that I’d score the match of a lifetime. But we’d been discreet. Sort of. I reached for the still folded Post, quickly turning to the gossip column, which in all actuality is usually found on page ten.
I scanned the newsprint, settling on my name highlighted in bold. At least they’d spelled it right. There’s a singer named Vanessa Carlton. She won a Grammy a few years back.
Anyway, I’m forever having people want me to be Carlton instead of Carlson. Of course, her life is probably better so maybe I missed an opportunity.
But I digress.
The paragraph cut right to the chase:
Manhattan glitterati with a desire to find the perfect mate have a new champion in matchmaker Vanessa Carlson. With her fledgling business giving the competition a run for the money, Ms. Carlson, 35, is definitely hot, hot, hot. Spotted last night at Bemelmans Bar in a heated discussion with mentor/rival Althea Sevalas, 52, speculation is running rampant. Sources swear that the discussion centered on downtown playboy Mark Grayson. If either Ms. Carlson or Ms. Sevalas were to score Grayson as a client, there’d be no question as to who ruled Manhattan’s matrimonial mergers. For what it’s worth, this writer’s money is on Ms. Carlson. . . .
“Shit.” I leaned back in the wingchair pushing the paper away as if it were offensive, trying to remember who had been sitting around us. Someone with a big mouth, obviously.
“It’s not that bad. At least it doesn’t mention the martinis,” Anderson said.
I’d had to admit last night’s lapse of good judgment when they’d arrived, if only to assure them that I hadn’t suddenly contracted a fatal illness. Although at the moment I was doing a damn good impression. “But it does mention Mark Grayson.”
“So that part’s true?” Richard’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows shot up.
“Yeah. I told you it was a wild night.”
“Apparently.” I couldn’t tell if Anderson was reprimanding my behavior or just wishing he’d been there for the party. “So spill the rest of the story.”
“You sound like Paul Harvey.” (I know that makes me sound like an old geezer, but my mother used to always listen to him on the radio.)
“Vanessa . . . ,” Richard said, using his best badgering-the-witness voice.
“All right. We were discussing Mark Grayson. Betting on him, actually. Or I guess, more accurately, betting that one of us could marry him off.”
“This is the same Mark Grayson who is rarely seen with the same woman twice?”
“The very one. He was there, at Bemelmans, with Tandy someone or other,” I said by way of explanation—although in actuality it explained nothing. “Look, there were copious amounts of martini involved. Dirty ones at that.”
Richard shuddered. “I don’t see how anyone drinks those things. Give me straight Scotch any day.” Thirty-year-old, oak-cask, private-label Scotch at that.
“Trust me, after the first one, you can’t taste a thing.”
“So can we move off of the cocktail lesson and onto the impossible dream?” Anderson asked, crossing over to the table to pour a cup of coffee. I’d thought the caffeine would cut through the morning-after queasies, but instead the smell had only exacerbated the matter.
“It’s not impossible. I’m good at what I do, remember?” I frowned at them both.
“No one is saying you aren’t.” Richard’s tone was soothing now. “But you have to admit that Grayson isn’t exactly the lifetime commitment type.”
“Everyone is the type if you find the right match.”
“Spoken like a true professional,” Anderson said, waving his spoon for emphasis. “But Richard’s right. This one is going to he tough.”
“I know.” I let loose a sigh emanating from soul level.
“Have you ever even met the man?” Richard scolded.
“No,” I shook my head, feeling like a three-year-old on timeout. “But I’ve read about him. And I know the type.”
“Seems to me if you’re going to win this bet, you’ll need a little more than the gossip rags’ bletherings to go on.”
“Well, I’ve heard more than that, obviously. I mean I do know a few people in this town.” The drummers in my head had upped the volume, making it hard to think.
“Of course you do. But that’s not the same as knowing the man.”
“Obviously, I’ll have to meet him. It’d be hard to convince him to hire me if I don’t.” I blew out a breath and fought against a wave of total panic. I should never have agreed to Cybil’s insane proposal. Blame it on gin and greed.
“So do you have a plan?” Richard sat back, sipping his coffee, his expression carefully neutral.
“Actually . . . ,” I paused dramatically, scrambling for an answer, then sighed. “No. Not yet.”
“Well, I’d bet my practice that Althea not only has a plan, she’s already putting the wheels into motion.”
Unfortunately, Richard was right. Althea probably sat up all night scheming. I already mentioned she had no problems with alcohol. Four martinis probably hadn’t even left her with a headache.
“So what am I going to do?” I know I sound really incompetent here. And I’m not, I swear, but in the heat of the martini moment, I hadn’t considered the fact that I’d never even met the man. I mean I’ve really only been out on my own a couple of years. And quite frankly, in addition to Franklin Pierpont, my first few clients had come from Althea, or rather from her roster. And the rest I’d gotten through referral and word of mouth. I’d never really done a lot of hunting, per se.
The men came to me—most of the time.
The business itself is really very straightforward. $15,000 to sign on and $1,000 a year for one date a month—if it took that long, which it hardly ever does. (I really am good at what I do.)
Fees include home consultations and wardrobe advice, as well as a background check and, more important, access to my extensive database of women. All of whom have been vetted carefully and then trained in the nuances of fashion, society, and wifely deportment—for lack of a better term—the idea being that they offer ideal qualities that when matched with the right man will lead to wedded bliss.
I don’t offer guarantees, but my success rate is rather impressive.
In truth, I’ve been matchmaking in one way or the other since I turned twelve and realized that men belonged with women and vice versa. I was about sixteen when I realized that the rest of the world was too bogged down in the idea of true love and soul mates to actually see the simple beauty of the perfect match, but
with a little nudging, I managed more often than not to get the right prep school buddies paired off.
It wasn’t until I met Althea that I realized I could make money doing it. And believe me I jumped when she’d offered to hire me as an assistant for her new matchmaking venture. Despite Althea’s impeccable contacts and our concerted efforts, business was slow at first. For several reasons. First, the old-fashioned idea of a matchmaker (think Fiddler on the Roof) was an anachronism, and second, dot-com dating services were all in their fledgling states, offering seductive and inexpensive ways for couples to meet.
But the ugly side of the Internet soon reared its head, and those who had signed on with hope, signed off in revulsion. Enter the modern-day matchmaker. A necessary evil in our mobile and disenfranchised society.
In ages past, families stayed together, three or four generations sometimes, and it was the elder clansmen who were responsible for finding the right spouse for younger members of the family. Of course, the idea had its drawbacks should said child have his or her own ideas (Romeo and Juliet as an example), but overall the system worked because it recognized one intrinsic fact.
Like attracts like.
As I said at Bemelmans, it’s really that simple. To build a long-lasting marriage it’s important that core values be similar. As well as environmental factors, like where someone grew up, what their financial situation was, where they went to school, etc., etc. . . .
Although there are exceptions, most successful marriages are based on constants. Things that contribute to our psyche that only someone else with like experiences can understand. It’s not foolproof, of course, but I find that it’s pretty much a sure thing.
Why most people seem to miss this little tidbit I have no idea, but I guess I should be grateful as their ignorance is the reason Althea and I now sport rather sizable bank accounts.
Anyway, eight years after hiring on with Althea, I was ready to step out on my own (armed, as I said, with a few of her most recent clients), and HEA was born. However, all the experience in the world wasn’t enough to guarantee that Mark Grayson would even listen to my proposal, let alone agree to let me represent him.
“So what do you think?” Richard and Anderson were both looking at me expectantly, and I realized that I’d obviously missed something crucial.
“Sorry—was off in a haze. What do I think about what?”
“Anderson trying to wangle an introduction?”
“You know Mark Grayson?” Hope sprang back with a rebound worthy of Michael Jordan.
“Not personally, no.” Anderson shook his head. “But he has accounts with the firm. Large accounts. And as such, it wouldn’t be out of place for me to make certain he’s given certain perks.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know, actually. I’m still formulating the plan. But something along the lines of an invitation or tickets or something that would place him in a particular place at a particular time where you would happen to be as well. I need to think on it a bit.”
“Not too long. As you pointed out, Althea will have already formed her plan of attack.”
“No worries, I’ll come up with something.” His smile was comforting, and even if he couldn’t produce the miracle I needed, it was nice to have such good friends.
“Well, considering Richard has already saved my ass, or rather Waldo’s privates, today, I’d say you’re two for two. I owe you both.”
“You can take us to dinner.”
That might sound like nothing in light of what they’d both done and intended to do for me. But Richard has a thing about only eating at the right restaurants. King’s Carriage House, Cipriani, or Brasserie 8½. Which meant this month’s handbag allowance was probably history. Still, it was more than worth it.
And besides, Bergdorf’s was having a sale.
Chapter 3
Bergdorf Goodman. 754 Fifth Avenue (between Fifty-seventh and Fifty-eighth streets), 212.753.7300.
An old-school department store for the ladies who lunch and the husbands who support them. All the top luxury designers are here, each with their own little branded area. But what’s more, Bergdorf has an incomparable fine jewelry selection, an antiques gallery, gourmet foods, personalized stationery, and a name that means you’ve made it.
—newyork.citysearch.com
∞∞∞
I adore shopping in general and Bergdorf’s in particular. Everything in life is about presentation, and Bergdorf’s has it down to a science. The mansard-style building itself is fabulous. Simple and elegant with a Parisian flair, it is the perfect foil for the merchandise it carries.
Inside the store each nook and cranny is accentuated by the sophistication of the architecture, starting with the Swarovski crystal waterfall in the front foyer and continuing on through the vaulted spaces on each floor. Even more miraculous is the view of the Plaza and Central Park out the upper-floor windows.
I read somewhere that Andrew Goodman had actually kept an apartment in the building. Now that’s my idea of perfect real estate. Great building, great view, and designers like Rebecca Taylor and Yves Saint Laurent only an elevator ride away.
Now, of course, there are women who would swear that they’d never shop at any department store. Not even Bergdorf’s. I mean, most of the designers’ boutiques are practically next door. But me, I like comparison shopping, and at Bergdorf’s it’s all there like a fashionista smorgasbord—all you can eat, as long as you can afford it, and sampling is totally free.
Case in point.
Handbags.
The riot of color filling the beautiful display cases was enough to make a girl swoon. Add to that the fact that they were all on sale, and it was possible to induce permanent coma, except that would mean missing out on the entire event.
Cybil was standing in front of a case full of Judith Leiber bags. Not something I’d ever want to carry, mind you, but they’re great fun to look at. I love the really kitschy ones like the frog or the Barbie bag.
“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour.” Cybil’s smile negated the rebuke. That and the shopping bag in her hand.
“It looks like you found something to do.” I nodded toward the sack.
“Shoes. I found the most amazing shoes.” She opened the bag with a flourish, producing a Manolo box, patently ignoring the saleswoman’s glare as she set it on the counter and opened it. “Aren’t they wonderful?”
I have to admit I don’t get the same rush from shoes that I do from purses. But I’ve also never been accused of having bad taste. And these were truly great shoes. A pink thong with a kitten heel and tiny daisies decorating the straps, this shoe was the epitome of fun and flirty. A guaranteed come-on to any male within a five-block radius.
“They’re great.” I held one up to the light, turning it in admiration. The saleswoman’s glare faded at the sight of the shoe and soon she, too, was oohing and ahhing.
The great uniter. Manolo shoes.
“I thought so, too.” Cybil nodded in agreement. “I couldn’t resist.”
The truth was she didn’t have to. A fact that should have made me envious. But Cybil wore her old money well, and it never actually bothered me. Maybe because I wasn’t exactly destitute myself. Or maybe just because I’d known her forever and her wealth was as much a part of her as the fact that she secretly adored Lyle Lovett’s music and had an almost spiritual connection with Junior’s Cheesecake.
“I love them. But we’re here for purses, remember?” At that the saleswoman positively beamed.
“Anything in particular?” she asked.
Actually, I had my eye on a Jimmy Choo bag. A cute fuchsia number in patent leather. It screamed me. And would look fabulous with my new trench. But I was a big believer in delayed gratification.
“I guess I’ll start with Marc Jacobs. Maybe the Guinevere tote in red?” The secret to good service in places like Bergdorf’s is to let them know you know the merchandise. If you can knowledgeably discuss the new colle
ctions, it immediately sets you apart from the throng of tourists who wouldn’t know a Falchi from a Fiore.
We followed the woman to the Jacobs counter.
Red was actually last year’s color, but the purse was still fun—and what woman didn’t feel better wearing red? It was a beautiful bag, a little larger than I usually carried maybe, but worth considering.
I put the purse over my arm and turned right and left, admiring it in the mirror. Cybil stood just behind me mouthing, “It’s too big,” but I ignored her, concentrating instead on the soft feel of the leather and the length of the strap.
“I thought maybe you’d be a no-show considering the number of martinis we had last night,” Cybil said.
“You know me better than that. I’d never let a hangover keep me from a Bergdorf’s sale. Besides, I had an early morning wake-up call. Mrs. M.”
“Waldo?” Cybil asked, pulling a face.
“My cat the lothario.” I held the bag next to my coat, admiring the combination, and filled Cybil in on the morning’s encounter and Waldo’s narrow escape from the scalpel. I love my cat, but I also love my apartment. And if snip snip had meant I got to have both, well. . .
Cybil nodded as if I’d voiced my thoughts, but then we’d been on the same wavelength so long, sometimes words really weren’t necessary. Her glasses today were Corinne McCormack, a wonderful new designer who, like Cybil, believes that a woman’s glasses are as important as her shoes, or more important, her handbag.
Definitely my kind of girl. Almost makes me wish my eyesight was less than 20/20.
“It was really Richard who secured the battle,” I continued. “Or maybe more importantly Arabella, the little tramp.” We giggled over cat sex as I took a last look at the red bag, then shook my head, returning it to the saleswoman. Next up was Dolce &. Gabbana. A mustard yellow tote with a wonderful leopard-print lining. But it was slightly bigger than the Marc Jacobs, and didn’t look right with my coat.