by Dee Davis
“You already know what you want, don’t you?” Cybil asked, picking up a light pink Valentino with tiny embroidered flowers.
“Sort of, but I need something to compare with to be certain, you know?” I reached over to touch the little flowers. “That would be fabulous with your new shoes.”
“I know,” Cybil said, holding the purse up to her shoulder. “It really is kind of fun.”
“I think you should get it.” The only thing I love more than buying my own bag is watching someone else score a great one. At Cybil’s nod, the saleslady took it, satisfied that at least one of us was going to provide a commission.
We moved on to Lambertson Truex. The Roxbury bag. Kelly green, definitely an “in” color, it had cleaner lines than the Marc Jacobs and was about half the price.
Cybil eyed the bag, then shrugged, indicating exactly nothing. She’d always preferred more feminine looks, flowing with flowers. Me, I was more the tailored little-black-dress type. But then pink is the new black. The saleswoman, finally convinced that I was eventually going to buy something, withdrew from earshot. Cybil’s expression grew serious.
“I didn’t mean to go overboard last night.”
“You drank less than I did.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean with the bet. I shouldn’t have goaded you into it. I woke up this morning feeling really awful about it. I was just caught up in the moment. If you want, I’ll try to talk to Althea. Get her to back off.”
“Althea never backs off of anything. Besides, if I can publicly best her, it’d be wonderful for business.”
“Yeah, but Mark Grayson isn’t the type to jump at the idea of a matchmaker in the first place, and now after the speculation in Page Six . . She trailed off with a shrug.
“Well, first off, not everyone reads Page Six. Especially serious business types like Grayson.”
“No, they just pay someone to do it for them. Trust me, he’ll know about it.”
“Okay, so he’ll have an idea of what might be coming. That doesn’t mean he’ll turn tail and run, or ban me from his presence. It just means he’ll have his guard up. But I’ve dealt with that kind of thing before.”
“Maybe. But word on the street has Mark Grayson eating people for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. To put it mildly, he’s a barracuda.”
“Most men are when first facing the idea of settling down. It’s like taming a wild animal. Everything is in the approach.”
“Well, I hate to question the analogy, but you can’t even control Waldo.”
“I can control him, I just don’t want to inhibit his libido.”
“Talk to me about that when Mrs. M. dumps the kittens on your doorstep.”
My skin turned clammy, my stomach twisting at the conjured image. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Of course she would. She lives to make people miserable. Especially if they hurt her precious Arabella.”
The green purse suddenly lost its appeal, the idea of me as momma to a herd of kittens, or whatever you’d call it, a bit too much to contemplate. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It was time for the main event.
Jimmy Choo.
The bag in question was low slung and, in my humble opinion, incredibly sexy, and from the way Cybil was fingering its silver cousin I could tell she thought so, too. In truth, it was somewhere between fuchsia and raspberry, with pave crystal accents. Have I mentioned I’m a sucker for sparkle? Anyway, just as I suspected, it looked amazing with my trench coat (turquoise, Michael Kors).
“I’m not going to let this go,” Cybil said, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
“The kittens?” I asked, twirling to look at the bag from all sides, knowing damn well that that wasn’t what she was talking about. Tenaciousness is one of Cybil’s more annoying attributes.
“No. Althea and the bet. We were talking about ending the ridiculous thing before it starts.”
“I told you Althea will never back down. And I’m not about to let her stage a coup d’etat. It wasn’t just Page Six, you know. It made the Daily News as well. If I quit now it’ll be the same as if she’d won.”
“But you don’t even know this man.”
“Ah, but Anderson does.” I started to leave it at that, but Cybil deserved full disclosure. “Actually he’s never met him. But Grayson has a lot of money invested with Anderson’s firm. And since he’s the managing partner, I figure he can work something out. At least an opening. In fact, he’s trying to arrange some-thing even as we speak. I’m meeting him for a late lunch in hopes that he’ll have news.”
Cybil sighed. “You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known.”
“Except maybe for you.” I shot her a smile, knowing that she understood my need to continue with the bet. It probably was foolhardy, but I couldn’t back down, not with Althea. There was too much water under that bridge. And besides, there was potential for a huge payout. I mean, all kidding aside, Althea and I were basically working the same pool of people, and until I proved otherwise, no matter how many successes I had, I would be considered her protégé.
And therefore second-rate. A head-to-head contest was the only way to prove I was truly worth my salt.
And surely that was worth the risk of failure.
“Look, all I have to do to beat Althea is stay one step ahead. Starting with Anderson.”
“If you’re going to beat Althea, you’re going to have to find a way to grab Mark Grayson’s attention and keep it. And then you have to convince him that despite all rumors to the contrary, he really is a marrying man.”
“Piece of cake,” I said, with a smile worthy of an Oscar.
The saleslady cleared her throat, obviously nearing the end of her patience. I turned, my dazzling smile still in place. “I’ll take it.”
In truth, I’d known I would all along. For fortification. A girl needed the right accessories to go into battle, and far be it from me to deny myself the proper accoutrements. And so feeling supremely self-satisfied, I followed the woman to the register. She wrapped the bag in tissue and then after I charged enough for two dinners with Richard on my card (even on sale), the prize was mine.
I waited impatiently while Cybil purchased the Valentino, tempted to pull my purse out and carry it immediately. But I’ve already mentioned the importance of delayed gratification, and carrying the shopping bag, knowing what’s inside waiting for me, is half the fun, really.
I guess you’ve figured out by now that I take purse shopping very seriously.
“Can you come to lunch? We’re meeting at Town.” We walked to the revolving door and then out onto Fifth Avenue.
“I can’t. I’m meeting Stephen.” Cybil’s face closed. A certain sign that she didn’t want any comment from me.
I think I already mentioned Stephen Hobbs and my opinion of him with regard to Cybil. She’s the most amazing woman. Really. Beyond all words. Generous to a fault, she loves deeply and blindly, without any thought at all as to what the consequences might be, more often than not including a trampled heart—hers.
It’s not that Stephen is evil or anything. He’s just not Cybil’s social equal. And before you throw stones, please consider the fact that he’s dumped her not once but twice, on a whim, because he felt as if she was inhibiting his art.
Have I mentioned Stephen is an artist? The penniless, live-off-a-benefactor, no-particular-aspirations kind?
And while an artist can be a wonderful addition to a dinner party, or a very exciting Bar Harbor fling, everyone who’s anyone knows that an artist, no matter how sexy, is simply not the kind of man one considers for a permanent liaison.
Everyone, that is, except Cybil.
I sighed, resisting the urge to comment further. It was an old argument, and I had to believe that in good time Stephen would show his spots—again. And hopefully Cybil would ditch him once and for all.
Until then, it was better that I bite my tongue. Although that wasn’t exactly one of my strong suits.
“He
’s taking you out then?” I asked.
“Actually I’m taking him. A celebration. He sold a painting.”
One.
I tried for positive support. “I didn’t realize he had an exhibition?” I prayed she wouldn’t mention Central Park.
“He doesn’t. Although I’m working on it.” Her voice had taken on a Pollyannaish perkiness that reminded me of our grade school days. “This was actually one he’d decided to throw out. A friend of mine saw it and asked if it was for sale.”
Probably matched the color of her sofa. (I sound really bitchy here, don’t I? It’s just that I really worry about this guy.)
“Anyway, she bought it. So we’re celebrating.”
On Cybil.
I struggled for something supportive to say. Came up with absolutely nothing and so instead gave my oldest friend a hug, and prayed that she’d somehow see the light. Until then, no matter what I thought, I’d have her back. Hell, she’d do the same for me.
I waved good-bye, and a scant fifteen minutes later I was seated in Town, sipping a Bloody Mary while waiting for Anderson and his news.
Town is the creation of Geoffrey Zakarian, one of New York’s finest chefs. The food is modern French, minimalistic, artsy, and divine. The restaurant itself, nestled in the Chambers Hotel on Fifty-sixth, is beautifully appointed. Two stories with cascading crystal and twenty-four-foot ceilings, it’s restful— almost serene. Which makes it the perfect escape for lunch.
I was just debating the wisdom of ordering another drink when Anderson walked in, clad as usual in Armani. Anderson wears a suit better than anyone I’ve ever known. He sort of just inhabits the thing, making it seem a part of his total aura, or something. I’m not describing it well at all. But it’s more than just being good-looking. It’s an intrinsic soul-deep sort of thing.
Definitely no more drinks. I was turning philosophical. Always a bad sign.
“Sorry I’m a bit late.” Anderson rushed forward, sitting down in the chair adjacent mine.
“Not at all.” I smiled as the waiter handed him a menu. “I was early, actually.”
“So did you find a purse?” He eyed the bag with interest, and I produced the Jimmy Choo with a flourish.
“Isn’t it fabulous?”
He took it, held it up to the light, turning it this way and that, then handed it back.
“So?” I asked, impatiently, knowing he was milking the moment. “You like?”
“The color is totally you. And the lines are marvelous.”
I breathed a sigh of total contentment and put the bag back into its tissue.
“Where’s Cybil? I thought you were bringing her along.”
“She already had lunch plans,” I rolled my eyes, “with Stephen.”
“Vanessa,” Anderson chided, “you mustn’t be so judgmental. Just because Stephen isn’t your cup of tea doesn’t mean he isn’t right for Cybil.”
“If you were talking about a normal relationship, I’d have to agree with you. But we’re talking about a man with limited talent and even less ambition. He lives off of Cybil, until he feels boxed in, and then abandons her, leaving her crushed, only to return three months later to repeat the process. That isn’t a healthy relationship—for anyone.”
Anderson reached over to cover my hand. “I know you’re saying all of this because you’re worried about Cybil, but you can’t tell her how to feel. And you can’t change the situation just because you don’t approve.”
“I know.” I sighed, turning my hand to squeeze his. “It’s just that I love her so much, and I don’t want to see her hurt. And unfortunately I can see it coming.”
“Well then maybe it’s a lesson she has to learn.”
Anderson could be very Zenlike at times. Especially when the atmosphere suited it. And Town was wonderfully tranquil.
The waiter came to take our order and then as we settled in to wait, I cut to the chase. “Any progress on the Grayson front?”
“A little anxious, are we?” Anderson laughed.
“No. Just figure we might as well get to the point. Business before pleasure. And I assure you the escargot risotto is definitely all about pleasure.”
“Fine, then we’ll talk before eating.” He leaned forward, took a sip of his Evian, and then smiled. “I’ve got two options.”
“Two is wonderful considering that up until now I’ve had none. Tell me.” I leaned forward, too, lowering my voice as if he were about to impart the wisdom of the ages.
“Well, the first is a sure shot. A Cancer Society benefit at the Pierre. Grayson is going to be there. Apparently his mother had breast cancer.”
“She died?” I don’t know why it hit me the way it did. Maybe because my own mother was growing older (despite the work of her plastic surgeon) or maybe because mortality in general seemed a bit closer than, say, when I was in my twenties.
“Yes, but it was a while ago, I think.”
I nodded, digesting the information. I wasn’t sure that it had value, but then forearmed is forewarned—or is it the other way around?
“Anyway, the point is that I’ve managed to get you seated at the same table. It seems the perfect way to angle an introduction.”
“Will you be there?”
“Yes, Richard and I both, although not at your table. Three seats together at Grayson’s table was a bit more than I could manage. As it is, we’ve displaced someone. But c’est la vie.” He shrugged.
“It’s fabulous. So why the second option?” I frowned, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“The benefit isn’t until week after next. And knowing Althea, I figured you needed something a little more timely.”
“Like yesterday,” I said, nodding my agreement, then sat back as the waiter set our salads in front of us.
“Right. So on to number two.” He stopped to take a bite, murmured appreciatively over the greens, and then continued. “I did a little sleuthing—actually bribery was involved, but we won’t go there. Anyway, I found out that Grayson is going to be at Bungalow 8 tonight.”
“You’re not talking about the Cavalli party, are you? The one for the new line?” I slumped in my seat, disappointment robbing me of my appetite.
“Yes. That’s it. But why the long face?”
“Because I wasn’t invited. Oh, believe me, I tried. Pulled every single string I’d ever unraveled. Even had Cybil try to wangle an invitation. No go.” Anderson opened his mouth to respond, but I was on a roll. “Wait. It gets worse. Althea is going. She told me last night. If I hadn’t been looped, I’d have killed myself right then, but I was busy trying to think of a way to snag a meeting with Grayson. And all the while she’d already beat me to the punch.” I buried my head in my hands, feeling thoroughly defeated.
“If you’ll just let me get a word in edgewise?”
I looked up at Anderson with a sigh. “Unless you’ve got an invitation in your pocket, there’s nothing you can do. Althea’s won.”
“Oh, come on. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”
I was, but it had just been a roller-coaster day. First Waldo, then Jimmy Choo, then Stephen, then the benefit at the Pierre, and then Althea and Roberto Cavalli. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” I squared my shoulders. “We’ll think of something.”
“Like an invitation?” He laid the perfect white square complete with gold engraved letters by my plate, and my breath caught as if I were Cinder-fucking-ella.
“You’re kidding.” I knew my eyes were shining, and I looked around for the pumpkin carriage.
“Nope.” Anderson’s smile was so full of self-satisfaction they could have added it to the menu. “It’s the real deal. And you don’t even have to be home by midnight.”
I picked up the invitation, grinning like a fool. I was back in the game almost before I was out of it. All I needed now was the right dress.
And honey, that’s a problem I know just how to handle.
Chapter 4
Girlshop. 819 Washington Street
(between Little West Twelfth and Gansevoort), 212.255.4985.
Wrapped up in a swathe of 1970s pineapple wallpaper, the virtual online store Girlshop has crossed the chasm into the brick and mortar world—smack-dab in the middle of New York’s Meatpacking District. . . . Known for its collection of trendsetting emerging designers, Girlshop is a must-see destination for New York women.
—www.stylemaven.com
∞∞∞
Girlshop started out online—a fabulous way to score great clothes from new and up-and-coming designers. But Laura Eisman realized in a flash that what worked in cyber-space could only be better in brick and mortar. Enter a renovated art gallery in the Meatpacking District and a snazzy retro feel that makes a girl feel positively glamorous. Add to that the fact that, compared to Madison and Fifth avenues, it won’t empty your checking account, and you’ve got shopper’s nirvana.
Usually I keep a find like Girlshop to myself. I mean, the fewer people who know, the more merchandise for me, right? But sometimes in the name of multitasking you have to bend the rules a little. I needed a dress and I needed to have a morning-after-first-date meeting with Belinda Waxman. Which meant I had to allow for a little overlap. Time management at its best.
Fortunately she was running a little late and I’d already managed to reject a gold Cigana slip dress, a multicolored confection from Zola, and a white Sean Combs ruched-waist halter dress that made me think of Marilyn Monroe, until I saw it on me. Believe me, in certain dresses ample wins the day, and that word has never been used to describe the upper half of my anatomy. Not even with Victoria’s Secret doing the lifting and separating.
On the plus side, the black lace Wendy Hill I was currently wearing looked pretty damn good in my humble estimation. I lifted a finger to my chin and twirled first right and then left, eyeing myself from the front and then behind.
“Perfect,” Belinda pronounced, appearing more or less out of thin air. Her low-slung voice always made me think of velvet and whiskey, the kind of woman who sang torch songs in a smoky jazz club in the forties. “So what’s the occasion?”