by Dee Davis
Italian designer Roberto Cavalli relies on his mature fashion experience to guide his eye in creating his collections of fashion couture. . . . Today, Cavalli’s unique creations adorn the likes of Anthony Hopkins, Sting, Alicia Keys, and many other style-conscious celebrities and couture aficionados.
—www.lifeinitaly.com
∞∞∞
There was an appreciative titter followed by all-out clapping as the man himself, Roberto Cavalli, approached the microphone on the runway at Bungalow 8. He had an air about him that made you feel like anything was possible, and despite my need for haste, I found myself staring down at him with something akin to awe.
In the business for something like thirty years, he’d passed from noted designer into legend. Brigitte Bardot wore his clothes. Along with scores of more modern glitterati. Even me. (Although it’s only a scarf, and I’m not technically glitterati.) Noted for his love of animal prints, Cavalli just has a way of feminizing clothes to make them sensual and seductive. Definitely my kind of designer.
And judging from the still-echoing applause, the party was a success. Cavalli’s wife, Eva, had joined him at the podium. Theirs was the kind of coupling I strove to create. Beautiful, successful, each perfectly accentuating the other.
All of which served as a reminder that I had far more important things to do than stand at the window staring down on Cavalli and his adoring fans. I turned my attention to Mark Grayson’s table and sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done this kind of thing before; it was just that I’d never done it with so many eyes watching.
Or at least it felt that way. In truth most everyone’s attention was attuned to the man on the runway below.
Perfect timing.
I hoped.
Grayson was alone now, tapping away on his BlackBerry, not even Cavalli himself, it seemed, could pull the man away from his messaging.
“Go,” Cybil whispered, one sharp finger nudging my spine. “Before Althea breaks free. I’ll handle Cindy.” A quick look assured me that my nemesis was still deep in conversation with Liz, probably planning my demise.
Squaring my shoulders, I waded between trays of martinis and happy partygoers, a cool and hopefully gracious smile pasted on my Chanel-coated lips. I’ve always believed in the adage that if you visualize something you can make it happen; in fact, in many ways I’ve come to depend on that inner sight to help me achieve success.
All that remained was to convince Grayson that I was exactly what he needed. Tall order, but I was up to the challenge.
I mean, he had everything I look for in a man. Brains, money, looks, and class. His background was a bit scruffy, but if the gossip rags were to be believed he more than compensated for any lack of upbringing with charm.
And besides, who wouldn’t want a man with all that money? He was an irresistible combination. All he needed was the right woman.
I glanced back at Cybil, and she nodded in support. Swallowing to calm the butterflies that had suddenly blossomed in my stomach, I squared my shoulders and mentally prepared for battle. Althea had seen my approach and was heading for Grayson as well. But I was still in the lead, provided I kept moving.
My feet, fortunately, didn’t share my brain’s hesitation, and in three short steps I was standing by the banquette. It’s funny the things you notice in times of stress. There was a bottle of Chivas on the table. About a quarter empty. Several glasses surrounded the bottle, but only one held whiskey. Apparently Grayson wasn’t inclined to share.
His suit was impeccably cut, his French cuffs straight from the boardroom. Leisure and work were obviously one and the same with this man. I mentally ran through the tidbits I’d gleaned over the past twenty-four hours and realized with dismay that I basically knew nothing at all about the man.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to wing it.
I shook myself from my reverie. Althea was closing in fast. It was now or never.
Grayson looked up with a frown. “Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he tried to place me.
“I think maybe you have it backward, Mr. Grayson. I’m here to help you." The words were out and there was no way to pull them back, but the minute they came out of my mouth I knew they were ridiculous.
“I beg your pardon?” His frown deepened as recognition set in. “Wait a minute,” he said, holding up a hand to ward me off. “You’re one of the matchmakers.” The last was clearly not meant as a compliment. So much for a rousing start.
It wasn’t the first time my chosen occupation had been ridiculed, but unfortunately it was the first from a prospective client. But I wouldn’t have lasted a minute if I succumbed that easily. So despite the lukewarm welcome, I stuck out my hand. “Vanessa Carlson.”
“Mark Grayson,” he said, taking my hand. To his credit it was a firm handshake, the kind some men reserved only for members of their own species. He might hate matchmakers but he was an equal opportunity handshaker, and since limp-noodle handshakes were a pet peeve of mine, I had to admit grudging admiration. “I don’t suppose you’re going to go away now?” He asked, his eyes telegraphing arctic blizzard.
“It would go better for me if I could at least have a couple of minutes of your time.”
He waved at the seat opposite him with a not-so-flattering sigh, and I slid into the booth, my mind trying valiantly to come up with an angle that might appeal to the man. In my peripheral vision I saw Althea hovering a few yards away, her fingers digging into some poor woman’s arm with a ferocity that was sure to leave a mark.
“Drink?” Grayson asked, pulling my attention back to the task at hand.
I nodded, grateful when he poured only half a glass. I’d already had more champagne than I needed. And wasn’t there some rule about wine and whiskey? Or was it just simply whiskey is risky-period? Especially in dire business situations.
I took a sip. “Thank you.” We both knew I was thanking him for a hell of a lot more than the drink. Principally for not embarrassing me in front of the elite crowd gathered in the VIP lounge.
“I wouldn’t jump the gun, Ms. Carlson,” Grayson said, draining his glass and pouring more. “The only thing keeping me from having you evicted from my booth is the fact that I have a couple of things I want to say.”
“I’m assuming it’s with regard to the bet.”
“Yes.” The monosyllabic word seemed to echo through the room. It was almost as if the crowd paused. But, of course, that was ridiculous. Grayson wasn’t that powerful.
I waited, watching him over the rim of my glass, knowing full well he was waiting for me to apologize. But I wasn’t going to do it. The truth was, I wasn’t the slightest bit sorry. I might wish that it hadn’t gone quite so public. But I stood by the idea that he, like all men, was in fact the marriageable type. He simply had to be presented with the right woman.
Silence stretched for what seemed like hours but was in fact only a few seconds. And then an amazing thing happened. Mark Grayson smiled. It was like he’d morphed into a completely different person, the laugh lines around his eyes immediately making him look younger and more carefree.
“I’m betting you’re pretty good at poker.”
“I’m not much of a gambler. I prefer sure shots.” The minute the words were out of my mouth I realized my mistake, and so did Grayson.
“That would explain why you bet your friend you could get me married off.” All hints of the smile were swallowed by a scowl.
“Actually, the bet was that one of us, both professionals, mind you, could find the right woman for you.”
“And marry us off,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Well, that’s the usual conclusion when a man finds the right woman.”
If possible, the frown deepened. “And what if the man doesn’t want a woman?”
“You’re gay?” I knew the answer to the question, of course, but it seemed the right tone for a comeback.
“Of course not.”
One point fo
r me.
“So ultimately, you’re going to want to settle down. I mean, if nothing else, don’t you want an heir?”
He paused mid-drink, his eyes narrowing as he considered the question. “I can’t say I ever thought about it.”
“Well, unless you want to raise a child from your wheelchair, it’s time to start. Besides there’s more to a marriage than just progeny.”
“Right,” he said, his tone impatient. “This is when you start talking about true love.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m talking about a merger of assets.”
“Fancy words for the same thing.”
“Not at all. Love can certainly play a part in it all. But it doesn’t have to. I’m talking about an honest merger. Two people with assets that are better when combined than solo.”
“So by assets you’re talking about money.” Almost despite himself curiosity replaced animosity.
“Certainly that’s one part of the equation. I think that any large inequity in financial strength can cause serious problems in any merger. In fact, if it’s too lopsided, it becomes a takeover. And in matrimony, takeovers rarely succeed.”
“Surely, you’re discounting arranged marriages where someone trades social station for capital.”
“Quite the contrary,” I said, surprised to find I was actually enjoying myself. “In the situation you’re referencing, there is still an exchange of assets. They may not be the same, but the two have equal stature. And certainly the combination of assets makes both sides better off than they were before the merger.”
“Point taken. But without love, how can such an arrangement survive?”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic.”
“I’m not.” Maybe I just imagined it, but it seemed he emphasized the statement just a little too much. “I’m just making a point. Love isn’t a myth.”
“No, it’s not. But its importance for marriage is highly overrated. I think that even in marriages where there was love as an instigator, you’ll find that the longevity of the union is based on commonalities and equal or at least complementary assets.”
“And if love isn’t an instigator?”
“Then desire is.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not that kind of desire,” I said, swallowing the last of my whiskey. He promptly refilled it, and I took the action as a sign that I was making at least a little progress. “I’m talking about desire for a lasting relationship. The need for a combination that creates a better whole.”
“That sounds more like a sound bite than reality.” He leaned forward, his mind clearly trying to find ways to dismiss what I was saying.
“All right. Let me make it clearer. Two people, each at the top of their respective games. Each of them has strengths, and each of them has weaknesses. Because they’re basically winners, their virtues outweigh their faults. However, they still have weak spots. But if either of them were to find a partner whose strengths covered their weaknesses—a person whose value system and upbringing created additional common ground—then the couple would be stronger than either of them were on their own.”
“All right. Let’s assume I buy that.” Which, of course, clearly meant that he did not. “Why does a person like you need to become involved in what is, for all practical purposes, something anyone with a Dun and Bradstreet could accomplish on their own?”
“Because most people work from the misguided belief that they’re searching for true love. And in most cases,” I glanced over at Cybil, and immediately felt guilty, “they never find it. But the myth is so damn persistent they can’t seem to get past it. In other words, they’re looking in all the wrong places.”
“And you steer them to the right ones?”
“Exactly.” I smiled at him as if he were a prize pupil. Unfortunately, I don’t think he appreciated the gesture. “Look, for whatever reason, I have the ability to recognize when two people are suited for each other. And my job is to facilitate their meeting.”
“Sounds archaic.”
“Which is precisely why it works. It’s basic to our nature to want to procreate. From there comes the chemical combustion we mistakenly refer to as love. To base an entire relationship on that combustion is a huge mistake. Enter the matchmaker. A neutral entity who can see beyond pheromones to make sure that a marriage is based on commonalities rather than chemical attraction.”
“What if the pheromones happen to be present in an otherwise sound merger. Are you saying you’d reject it?”
“Absolutely not. It’s sort of like a bonus round.”
“Love is icing on the cake?”
“Well, we’re talking about lust, not love. And after a certain amount of time that’s going to fade. Part and parcel of the animal, I’m afraid.”
“And love?” he insisted, his gaze intent, and in some indefinable way unsettling.
“Well, in most cases, I believe that love—the kind that lasts—grows from mutual respect, from shared experience. It comes out of the seeds planted when two people share the same background, the same values.”
“And sex?” He meant the question to throw me off, but I’d played this game before.
“Is a natural by-product of the merger but shouldn’t be considered part of the equation.”
“Even if I accepted your so-called rationale,” he paused, picking up his glass, contemplating the contents, “I still don’t see what it has to do with me. Other than that I’m obviously good fodder for the columns.”
“Well, first off, we never intended for it to go this public.”
“That’s hard to believe, considering the venue you chose for announcing the bet.”
“Bemelmans isn’t exactly a public forum. And it was a private discussion.”
“Held at the top of your very inebriated lungs. I was there. Remember?”
“You couldn’t have heard us.” I swallowed, trying to hide my mortification.
Grayson just sat there, his expression unreadable.
“Look, there were martinis involved,” I offered as explanation. “Lots and lots of martinis. But the idea of helping you to find the right match was an honest one. The gin only fueled the fire.”
“But you had absolutely no reason to believe I’d want your particular brand of help. It so happens that I’m perfectly comfortable being single. To be honest, I’ve never even considered marriage. I travel all the time. I live, eat, and breathe business. I’m difficult on a good day and impossible on a bad one. I’m simply not matrimonial material.”
A gauntlet if ever there was one.
“All the more reason to let a neutral party find your match.”
“I just said that there isn’t one.”
“No. You just gave me a laundry list of excuses you’ve used to avoid the idea of intimacy.”
“With good reason.”
“Mr. Grayson, I’m very good at what I do. And I wouldn’t be pushing you if I didn’t believe that somewhere behind that austere exterior you have a beating heart that would be better served if presented with the right woman.”
“Bullshit.” The expletive startled me. Obviously I’d hit a nerve. Two points for the matchmaker. “You’re interested in me because if you can find me a match, you win not only a bet, but potentially the apparently coveted position of Manhattan’s top matchmaker.”
“I’m not saying that doesn’t play into it. But it’s not like I just picked you at random.” Actually that’s pretty much exactly what happened, but there was absolutely no sense in revealing that fact. “I honestly believe that the right marriage would improve your bottom line on more levels than you can possibly imagine.”
“My bottom line is fine.” This time he almost growled at me. I was definitely hitting a hot spot.
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be better.” I waited for the idea to sink in, knowing that bigger and better was Mr. Grayson’s middle name.
“And better is exactly what I can deliver.” Althea’s husky voice
had never been less welcome. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the fact that Vanessa learned everything she knows from me.”
“What I’m aware of, Ms. Sevalas, is that the two of you have managed to turn the media spotlight squarely on my personal life. And since I’ve spent years taking measures to avoid exactly that, I can only say that were I inclined toward marriage, which I am not, I most certainly would not allow either of you the opportunity to meddle in matters that are clearly none of your business.”
With a glare he stood up, and without so much as a by-your-leave, walked away from the banquette, leaving me and Althea, and a half-empty bottle of Chivas.
Chapter 8
Madison Restaurant. 965 First Avenue (corner of Fifty-third Street), 212.421.0948.
The lines go out the door on weekends because everything is good. Pancakes, French toast, omelets, potatoes ... all just what you’d expect from a great neighborhood diner. . . . Madison is a great place to go late at night with friends or on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
—www.menupages.com
∞∞∞
In my case, it was late night, and thank God for friends. Grayson’s dismissal at Bungalow 8 had thoroughly soured the evening. And to add insult to injury Althea had made it clear that I had not only ruined it for myself, I’d ruined it for her as well. And so feeling totally chastised I’d grabbed Cybil, retreated to higher ground, and called in the cavalry—Anderson and Richard. It wasn’t so much that I thought they could do anything, more that misery loves company.
And pancakes.
If the Atkins diet ever became mandatory, I’d have to kill myself. Carbs may be a dieter’s worst nightmare, but they are my best friend. Particularly those very special carbs associated with breakfast. It’s sad, I know, but eating stacks of pancakes, waffles, or biscuits and gravy makes me feel secure.
My mother wasn’t the culinary type, and my father hated takeout, so we had a cook. Imelda. She was amazing. One of those ample-chested, happy people who always knew when a kid needed a hug and a cookie. Or two. Or three.