by Dee Davis
“The Cavalli party.”
“The one at Bungalow 8?” she gasped, envy flitting across her face. “You really do rank.”
I shrugged, figuring it was better not to go into too much explanation. But Belinda was quick on the draw.
“Mark Grayson is going to be there.”
I stopped twirling, the dress deflating right alongside my enthusiasm. “You read Page Six.”
“And the Daily News.” She shrugged, her expression all attorney. “Face it, you’re the talk of the town.” Apparently discretion and martinis do not good bedfellows make.
“Let me get out of this dress and we’ll talk.” I nodded toward a chair and headed back toward the dressing room, the mirrored curtains giving an endless view of me and the dress. My own personal Rockette line.
But I digress.
Belinda and I have been friends for a couple of years now. I met her at a New York City Bar function I attended with Richard, and we’d hit it off. At forty, she was still a looker, with heavy auburn hair and a penchant for designers like Lida Baday and Marc Jacobs. She also had an amazing sense of humor and a solid bank account.
Perfect for my roster and, unlike a lot of the ladies I cultivated, already savvy enough to take on the best of the best. In this case, Stanley Barrow.
Not that it was going to be an easy sell.
One of the downsides to this business is that no matter how many times I explain the type of woman a particular man will mesh best with, he isn’t always able to turn off the preconceived notions in his head. Mainly that the only women worth dating have their breasts insured by Lloyd’s of London. It’s a male fantasy that isn’t easily broken.
And Stanley had two ex-wives as testament to his attachment to the idea.
I slipped out of the dressing room and headed for the cash register, Belinda following in my wake.
“I’m sorry for the change of plans. But I’m sure you can understand the necessity of a new dress.”
“Best to go into battle in full regalia,” she nodded, holding a pair of gold filigree earrings up to one ear. “These are gorgeous.”
The sales assistant nodded. “They’re Kipepeo. Eighteen karat gold on brass.”
The three-inch disks were intricately shaped like perfect snowflakes, delicate and bold all at the same time. “They’re great. You should buy them.”
Belinda flipped them over to examine the price, and then shook her head. “I really shouldn’t. I’ve been trying to save for a condo and with prices the way they are, every little hit helps.”
With prices the way they are now, I am just grateful I already own my apartment. Although if Mrs. M. has anything to do with it, I may soon be living there sans Waldo.
Belinda caressed the curve of the earring longingly. Boy, did I know that feeling. And then with a sigh, she hung them back on the rack and waited as I paid for the dress. Talk about self-restraint.
The salesclerk handed me the bag, and we headed over to a Starbucks on Ninth Avenue. After ordering a couple of venti nonfat caramel macchiatos and waiting for the barista to perform her coffee magic, we settled at a window table to talk.
Last night Belinda and Stanley had had their first date. Usually I’d have debriefed at dawn, but in light of last night’s hijinks (and this morning’s hangover), the whole thing had sort of been relegated to a back burner, thanks to my total and complete panic over the bet.
Now, however, with invitation, gown, and carriage (Paris Limousine Service, 800-225-7131) all arranged, it was time to get down to business with the clients I already had.
Particularly with first dates, I like talking to the woman before the man—they’re always more open, and it gives me insight for dealing with the client.
“So tell me. How did it go?” I waited patiently while she sipped her coffee, fighting the desire to rush the conversation. Much better to let Belinda take the lead.
She is a great lady, really. Married once a long time ago, she divorced and then put herself through law school, winding up as a partner in one of the city’s top firms. She is a no-nonsense barracuda when it comes to business, but when it comes to personal involvement the mistakes of her past have kept her hamstrung. Afraid to take a risk, she’s sequestered herself in her work, ignoring her desire for marriage and family.
Enter me. And more important, Stanley.
“He took me to Chanterelle.” Her voice took on a wistful quality that had no resemblance at all to the hard-ass lawyer she plays by day. Of course, I already knew about the restaurant. I selected it, after all. Setting the stage is almost as important as the actual date.
Chanterelle is fabulously French and wonderfully TriBeCa and, and more important, it’s over-the-top romantic, which is exactly what Stanley and Belinda needed.
“It was amazing,” she continued, “really it was. It’s just that. . .”
“What?” I tried but couldn’t quite keep the sharpness from my voice. So excuse me for taking rejection personally.
“Well, Stanley was so distracted. It was like he had his mind on a million other things. I mean, at first everything was going really well, and then all of a sudden it’s as if he just disconnected, you know?” She sounded disappointed, which told me two things. First off, she was interested—which was, of course, half the battle. And second, she wasn’t sure exactly what had gone wrong—which hopefully meant it was more to do with Stanley’s reticence to change gears than his actual opinion of Belinda.
“Do you remember what you were talking about when he disconnected?”
She took the lid off her macchiato and stirred it absently with a straw. “Just my work. I was telling him about a case I was working on.”
Well, I, for one, can’t think of anything less stimulating than legalese, but not so with Stanley. His Mean Streets TV series was based on a district attorney’s office and staff. I mean, the man made his money off of legal mumbo jumbo.
“What kind of case, Belinda?” There had to be something more here, the key was figuring it out and nipping it in the bud, so to speak.
“It’s a court battle over an inheritance. Old man dies leaving adult children and a second wife. The prenup is ironclad, but she’s claiming duress and arguing that the estate should pass to her. The children—”
“You hit a hot button. It’s the prenup.” I cut Belinda off with a wave of my hand. “Stanley didn’t have one the first time out. And his ex took him to the cleaners. So second time he had one that he thought would provide protection, but she managed to find a loophole. Not a pretty picture.”
“I didn’t mean to upset him.” She removed the straw, twirling it between her fingers like a tiny plastic baton.
“You wouldn’t have known.” I cursed myself for the slipup. I’d briefed Belinda on Stanley’s background, ex-wives included, but I hadn’t thought to discuss his residual bitterness. Big mistake.
Fortunately this was date number one (I require two for each match; it gives involved parties time to relax and show their true selves instead of a fractured version brought about by first-date jitters), which meant that there was still time for salvage.
“So what happens now?” She sounded so wistful I wanted to hug her.
“Let me talk to him. I’ll explain that you didn’t know, and I’m sure that will be that. Everything was going fine up until then, right?”
“It was great. He’s really funny. And he made me feel like he actually saw me, you know, not just the package I come in.” She’d folded the straw accordion-style and was absently pumping it up and down with her thumb. “And you’ll never believe this, our parents both have summer homes in the Adirondacks on the AuSable. I’ve probably passed him on the river. We both fly-fish,” she added by way of explanation.
Of course, I already knew all of that. It pays to do one’s homework. As I said, commonalities are the things that make for permanent connection.
“Well, it sounds very promising. I’ll talk to Stanley and then get back with you to let you know h
ow he wants to proceed.” The two-date rule was more or less absolute, but occasionally I had to accept defeat and let it slide. Which put the ball squarely in Stanley’s court.
“I see.” Now she sounded dejected. This was the part of the job I really didn’t like. I didn’t go into this business to break hearts, quite the opposite really.
“Don’t worry, it was only the first date. Everything will be fine. You just have to have to be a little patient. All right?”
“Patience has never been one of my strong suits.” As if to underscore the feeling, she flipped the now-mutilated straw onto the tabletop. It wasn’t a pretty picture. I reached over to cover her hand with mine.
“It’ll work out. You just have to have a little faith.”
Her laugh was hollow. “‘Faith’ isn’t exactly a catchword in my industry. We deal in tangible facts. Everything in the detail.”
“So concentrate on the fact that you had fun. Despite his backing off, I’m betting Stanley felt the same way. You belong together,” I said, channeling a Miss America smile. “I know what I’m doing, so relax and let me handle this.”
She nodded, although she didn’t look completely convinced. Not that I blamed her. I’m good, make no mistake, but matchmaking is a very inexact science. All of which begged the question as to what in the world I’d been thinking agreeing to take on Mark Grayson. The man was a born bachelor. (Did you know that the term “confirmed bachelor” was a euphemism for gay in the forties and fifties? I had no idea. Nor, I suspect, does my mother, who throws the term around with the abandon of the totally uninformed.)
Anyway, all terminology aside, the honest truth is that I’m in over my head—no question about it.
“I heard that Althea’s wearing Ungaro,” Belinda said, segueing nicely into my panic.
The idea of Althea seducing a man with her wardrobe was almost laughable. Almost. The point here was that she was arming with stronger weapons than mine. But, quite frankly, my bank account couldn’t support anything that pricey. I’d just have to rely on a combo of Wendy Hill, Jimmy Choo, and the new Manolos I’d bought last week. The sum of which surely equaled Ungaro. Especially when adorning my considerably younger body.
“I’ve got Manolos.” It was an “I’ll see yours and up the ante” moment and Althea wasn’t even in the room.
“You’ll do fine.” Belinda smiled. “Just remember Grayson doesn’t like phonies.”
Oh God, I was a born a phony, came from a long line of them. Bullshitting was like a family name. “Do you know Mark Grayson?”
“Casually,” she nodded. “Our firm has handled some of his corporate maneuvering.”
“So spill.”
“Really, I don’t have all that much to share. But during a conference, Grayson asked for some stats we clearly didn’t have. And instead of admitting the fact, a junior associate tried to bluff. Grayson caught him in the lie, and threatened to walk.”
“What happened?” I sipped my coffee feeling a lot like someone had slipped a noose around my neck.
“The associate was fired, and we did everything but throw ourselves prostrate on the floor. The man was pissed. And deservedly so. All I’m saying is whatever you do, stick to the truth. And don’t mince words.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned, pursing her lips as she considered the question. “He’s very self-contained. The kind who expects you to follow his train of thought even when he hasn’t vocalized it. He’s tough in that silent, condemning kind of way. Frankly, he scares the shit out of me. Too intense. You know the type.”
“Oh God, what was I thinking? I must have been out of my mind to have agreed to the bet.” No more martinis—ever.
“No . . . ,” she started, then shook her head and grinned. “Well, maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean you can’t succeed. You just have to play to his weaknesses.”
“Except that I have no idea what they are.” There’d been absolutely no time for anything but the most cursory research. “I Googled him, of course. But even with that, it’s hard to put together a realistic picture. He’s a deal maker. A whiz with property development. If you believe the press he’s single-handedly revitalized something like seven major cities.”
“Twelve, actually,” Belinda interjected. “Three of them in Europe.”
“Right, so the man’s a demigod when it comes to urban real estate. But all work and no play ...” I left the phrase unfinished.
“But Mark Grayson is anything but dull,” Belinda countered. “I’m betting at least half of your Google hits stemmed from mention in the society columns.”
“True enough. But most of it was strictly speculation.”
“Fits with the strong and silent image.” Belinda had started on my straw, the plastic already showing white lines of strain where she’d twisted it.
“But it doesn’t help me.” I’d fallen into quicksand and was sinking fast.
“I think the key is to capture his attention. Intrigue him. Men like him can’t resist a challenge. They thrive on it. Throw down the gauntlet and I’m betting he’ll pick it up.”
“And throw it in my face.” I was being flippant, but the idea actually had some merit. Some men needed to be led to the altar. Some just needed guidance on who to take along for the ride. Some of them had to be tricked into the trip. But with men like Mark Grayson, it was all about seducing them into the game. And letting them think they could win.
I drew in a breath, girding my proverbial loins. “Good advice. Thanks. Maybe you should be the matchmaker.”
“No way.” She waved the dilapidated straw. “I can’t even keep a boyfriend.”
“Well, we’re about to change all that.” I smiled, firmly back on solid ground again. “And in the meantime, I appreciate the insight into Grayson.”
“I read people for a living. Part and parcel of being a trial lawyer.” Belinda shrugged. “But Mark Grayson isn’t going to be an easy mark, and I figure you’ll need all the help you can get. And between you and me,” she leaned in close, glancing around her as if she were sharing state secrets, “I think it’s going to take more than Manolos.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Manolos were the crème de la crème of FMPs. One pair of four-inch heels and men practically crawled behind you begging. I had personal experience with the phenomenon. But before I could formulate a pithy retort, my cell phone rang.
Cybil.
Now, I’m all for business before pleasure, but Cybil trumps everything. We’ve been through too much together for it to be any other way. “Hang on.” I shot Belinda a smile and flipped open my phone.
“What’s up?”
For a moment there was only silence, and then a sort of muffled snuffling that was Cybil’s version of holding back tears.
“You okay?” My heart skidded into overdrive, my mind whipping out all kinds of possibilities. Belinda leaned forward, her eyes questioning.
I shook my head. “Cybil? Are you there?
More sniffing. And then after a moment’s silence. “It’s Stephen.” Another pause. “He’s left me.”
Relief flooded through me. That’s not very kind, I know. But I’ve already made it clear what my opinion of Stephen is. So his leaving can only be considered a miracle. Of course, Cybil wouldn’t see it that way.
At least not without a little help.
Chapter 5
Buttercup Bake Shop. 913 Second Amine (between Fifty-first and Fifty-second streets), 212.350.4144.
Buttercup Bake Shop is a place to walk into and feel deliciously overwhelmed by display cases filled with cupcakes in every color of the rainbow. . . . With information moving at the speed of light, the bakery lets you slow down and while away an afternoon sipping your favorite beverage and enjoying some delectable, nostalgic treats that spell comfort and love.
—www.buttercupbakeshop.com
∞∞∞
Comfort was exactly what I was looking for. And I knew the best way to ease a broken heart
was with chocolate. Melt-in-your-mouth amazing buttercream chocolate. And no one in Manhattan does that better than Jennifer Appel with her fabulous cupcakes. Under the circumstances, it was tempting to just go straight for the chocolate layer cake, but I kept my head and bought a dozen cupcakes instead.
No comments. It was an emergency.
Cybil lives in Sutton Place. A fabulous apartment with a garden terrace and a doorman who is better connected than most socialites. The apartment had been her grandmother’s and, when the old girl had moved to the family compound in Southampton, Cybil had taken over the residence. It was the kind of place that people kill for. Literally. Six rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, casement windows, a fireplace, and original molding. Add in the completely renovated bathrooms and cook’s kitchen, and you have the stuff of metropolitan dreams.
Just at the moment, however, none of that meant anything. What mattered was the fact that my best friend was sitting cross-legged on her white Berber carpet, surrounded by tissues and cake crumbs.
“So tell me exactly what happened.” We’d been through the story a couple of times, but Cybil’s tears had interfered with coherent discussion and I was a little hazy on the details. And from the little I had been able to glean, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Not even for Stephen.
And for the record, let me be perfectly clear here, I might not have been lamenting Stephen’s departure, but I certainly wasn’t happy about the pain it was causing my friend. In fact, if I could have gotten my hands on the man, well, suffice it to say, I’d be moving from Page Six to page one in less time than it takes to say “local artist murdered.”
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” She blew loudly into a Kleenex and then sucked in a fortifying breath. Even blotchy and teary-eyed, she looked amazing. Joe’s Jeans, a faded Trinity sweatshirt, and a wonderful pair of red square-framed glasses. “I was a little late.” She shot a glance at the Bergdorf’s bag sitting in the foyer, as if it was to blame for everything.