by Edward Vilga
“Thank you.” And I mean it wholeheartedly.
“It’s nothing. Remind me, before you go, to tell Phelps at the garage that you’ll be picking it up and to leave you a key. Now let’s discuss your wardrobe. What time is the appointment again? Lunch?”
Andrew rapidly tells me what to wear and drink and which programs on CNN to watch in the next three days to appear knowledgeable, essentially putting me through a ten-minute crash course in How to Fake Success. I’m flashing on the possibility of a Mogul Makeover reality show when Andrew finishes his final presentation tip—brush up on modern art, specifically the ton of it that one of the Cleavage Boys has been buying at various auctions. Then he launches right back into his favorite topic: his perpetually turbulent personal life. “Now, did I tell you what happened with that Forbes reporter when …”
I update Monique on my progress, including Andrew’s suggestions, without naming my source. Somehow, it seems tasteful to keep his name out of the conversation with Monique, even though I’m revealing nothing personal and giving absolutely no hints, much less any details, about his indiscretions. And, of course, even though Monique’s whole schtick is that there are no demands, limits, or commitments regarding our relationship, I still think it best to be discreet regarding Serious and Cleavage, referring to them merely as “friends from my yoga world.”
“I think those are excellent points. The Jag is the right car for you—or the you that you’re trying to sell them on. And I’m sure they’ll love me,” Monique volunteers.
“Excuse me?” This is news.
“You should definitely have an MBA around, and last time I looked, mine says Harvard.”
This is a new development. Now that we’re this far along, I was actually considering asking Hutch to come—although he’d be distracting, rakish catnip to Serious and Diamond—but Monique has thrown me a curveball. She’s made such a point of her independence, and her loyalty to Becker, that I guess I never pictured her involvement extending beyond hooking me up with the space.
Even I can see, however, that way beyond her Harvard MBA, as the right-hand man of Anderson Becker, one of the most successful nightlife impresarios ever, Monique is indisputably the best possible choice for this mission. Who could be better able to persuade two banking guys to part with their money than someone who’s worked side by side with a guy who’s made a fortune doing exactly this—and someone who, on top of it all, is not so bad on the eyes?
“Are you offering to come? That’s great,” I agree.
“Of course. Totally my pleasure.”
“Well, I’m picking up the car at 9, so I could pick you up at 9:30, and, at this time of year, I think we’ll have no trouble making lunch at 1.”
“Sounds like a plan. Later, then.” Monique is about to hang up, but I stop her.
“Wait a sec … I need your address.”
“Oh, right,” she laughs. “You’ve never been here before.”
She gives it to me—heart of the West Village, at Perry and Hudson—telling me to call her when I’m five minutes away, and that she’ll be waiting outside. While I am a little curious to see Monique’s pad, showing it is clearly not something that interests her in the least. We do best, it seems, safely confined in mine.
I realize that, given our last public venture and the Shane disaster, perhaps I’m compounding the folly enormously by not only seeing Monique outside my apartment, but actually taking a road trip with her outside Manhattan. On the other hand, she is the best candidate I can think of to accompany me, and at this point, now that she’s decided she’s going, I bet it would take a crowbar to pry her away from the trip.
More and more, like driving along a badly marked highway at night, moment to moment, each of my decisions seems to make sense. And in my darkest moments, that’s been a source of hope: you truly can make the journey of a thousand miles seeing only ten feet ahead of you. At the very least, the path seems familiar most of the time.
(On the other hand, while sometimes you arrive at your destination safe and sound, unfortunately sometimes you never know for sure if you’re lost until you’re really lost.)
The car ride out to East Hampton is perfectly pleasant. Traffic is with us, and the May weather is a pleasant sixty-two degrees. Monique has brought a wide range of interesting CDs, and we enjoy adult conversation on topics like music, books, and films.
We briefly discuss the meeting strategy, with Monique outlining a basic game plan, and her informing me she’s “done her homework” and is quite satisfied with the financial specs she carries in a slim Hermès leather binder. We never discuss exactly what Monique’s role is in this venture, and yet somehow that feels right—or it may simply be that I’ve no desire to explain or define all the nuances of my relationships with the Cleavage Gals and Monique. This blending of business and pleasure has already gotten way too complicated. I just hope I can remember their real names in order to introduce all my fuck buddies.
We find the house ten minutes early, so we drive around the block twice. Frankly, there’s not much to see, as high hedges obscure most of these homes from the road. Three minutes before the appointed time—once again, I am consistent in my handful of virtues—we pass through a gated break of hedges and toward the driveway.
Monique, who has spent considerably more time in the Hamptons than I have, is impressed with the address. “It’s not Lily Pond Lane, mind you, but trust me, this is far from shabby.”
That’s an understatement in my book, as we wind our way up to the end of the driveway, where an excessive number of luxury cars seem to be parked for a lunch for three couples. There’s a Rolls, a Bentley, and two Mercedes convertibles. Andrew was right: the Jag fits right in, while a Ford Tempo rental would really have sent the wrong message.
I’m pleased that Monique also set the right tone with her appearance: a ladylike spring dress, crisp and straightforward, but also clingy enough to reveal a tremendously sexy body underneath the businesswoman’s navy silk jacket.
The Cleavage Twins and their husbands have been playing doubles, it seems, and have wound their way around from the tennis court to greet us as we exit the car. Given all the complex romantic entanglements, complete with a country-house setting, I feel like I’ve drifted on to the set of a Noel Coward play. The ladies each give me a peck on the cheek and perform the introductions, with me filling in Monique’s identity.
The husbands seem like okay guys. Although, from the moment that Serious introduces them as “Our Boys,” I can only think of them as, ironically, the “Boyz.” Both Boyz are mostly bald, late forties/early fifties. Neither one is particularly good- or bad-looking. They’re trim, fit, and intensely wired in a slightly neurotic, vaguely accountant-like, but ultimately masculine, way. Maybe it’s just that they both seem pretty confident—which makes sense, given that they’re filthy rich, have super-hot wives, and we’re on their fabulous turf—and while they don’t seem like they should rush out and run for political office, they also don’t seem like chumps whose wives have invited a guest with whom they have an ongoing ménage.
Diamond volunteers a tour of the house, and Monique and I readily accept. It seems the polite thing to do, and besides, I’m always a little curious how the other half—I mean, the other 0.5 percent of the population—lives.
I’m struck by how easy this seems for both Diamond and Serious. They are totally at ease, indicating not the slightest inkling of any awkwardness toward me, and this, in turn, gives me the cue to maintain my own performance. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I really was in fact only their yoga teacher and that they were merely taken with the business merits of this opportunity.
The property is luxurious, and Diamond’s delight in showing off certain details is rather endearing. She’s genuinely excited about all her renovations, things involving Italian tile and marble apparently stolen from under the feet of the Medici (I’m making that up; I wasn’t quite listening.). Diamond has one of tho
se mechanical clothing racks, like at a dry cleaner’s, for her walk-in closet that she’s rather proud of as well. I see a look from Monique that exemplifies pure envy as we pass through Diamond’s temple to her shoes. It’s really just another large walk-in closet with lots of shoes on various pedestals, but something about the room’s design evokes a bizarre, almost hushed reverence—even from a totally uninterested shoe oaf like me.
The entire house is one of those basically all-white affairs that looks great in magazines but is impossible to maintain (without live-in help) if you have children or if you do anything other than pose for magazine shoots of your living room. The art against the beachy, white gallery walls is particularly spectacular. Mr. Diamond Cleavage, to his credit, does seem to have a genuine interest in the paintings he’s purchased, beyond their value to appreciate above the Dow Jones Average. Thanks to Andrew’s coaching about Mr. Diamond Cleavage’s recent purchases, I’m able to interject a few thoughtful sound bites gleaned from the Internet. A few De Koonings, one Rothko, a whimsical Klee, and two Frankenthalers later, and we’ve arrived at the patio, where a table is set for us.
Lunch is superb—a perfectly poached salmon, wild rice, and grilled vegetables, all so delicious that the fact that it’s all very healthy too is almost obscured. Fresh berries with a side of sorbet complete the meal.
Conversation is buoyant throughout. Everyone seems to have a very chatty temperament although no one gets anywhere near the topic of the point of the visit. Instead, topics range from the obvious cultural events of New York to a tasteful hint of limousine-liberal politics. No one here evidences the slightest desire to offend anyone else.
The Boyz, though, of course are good at getting the basic résumé facts out of a person. Monique isn’t shy about her Harvard MBA or her triumphs with Becker. Mr. Diamond and Mr. Serious clearly respect Becker’s financial savvy, and while they tacitly admit that they do not frequent any of his hipster establishments, they are keenly aware of their property values and profit potentials. There’s a solid—and I suppose, very helpful—round of Harvard Business School bonding, and as Monique and the Boyz get rather macho in their in-joke financial swagger, I almost feel like retiring with the ladies to needlepoint and crochet. I suppress this left-out feeling, as clearly part of this whole trip is for Monique to bond with them as part of the Old Boys (and now, Hot Ladies) network. Monique, by the way, is doing almost too well here, commenting intelligently on everything from the art to the champagne.
“I love the hazelnut and apple scents,” she comments, as Mr. Serious refills her glass.
“And how extremely long it is in the finish,” Mr. Diamond adds.
“Funny, being extremely long in the finish is also my favorite attribute in a man,” Monique replies, and everyone chuckles at her bawdy PG-13 pun on connoisseurship.
I do wonder when we’re going to get down to business although it occurs to me that perhaps the conversation is taking place under my nose, and I’m just not aware of it. Maybe it’s all subtext, and after a lot of confidence building, they just write a $3.8 million check because we’ve all got the same secret handshake and an Old School tie in the back of a sock drawer. On the other hand, no matter how freely the 1999 Louis Roederer Cristal Brut flows during lunch (and it flows at about $300 a bottle retail, thank you), I can just as easily imagine that there will be endless flow charts and cost-and-profit analyses required by these guys.
Soon enough, and I’m sure that the Cleavages must have orchestrated this all in advance, Serious and Diamond announce that they’ve got tennis lessons at the club and remind their spouses about some dinner they’re all attending that night. My curiosity about the nature of their tennis lessons (versus our “yoga lessons”) is stifled because clearly their departure leaves the Boyz, Monique, and me alone to talk business.
As the Cleavages get up from the table, the Boyz suggest we talk in the living room, also giving us a chance to escort their wives toward the front hall. Somehow, the logistics of departure are such that the Cleavages and I trail behind the Harvard MBA trio.
The Cleavages have been impeccable throughout—frankly, I’ve almost forgotten that we’d been banging furiously, in increasingly obscene ways, scarcely seventy-two hours ago—but as we near the front door, Serious takes my hand and squeezes it, and Diamond brushes hers across my ass. This contact takes mere seconds, and to the casual observer might think it means absolutely nothing other than a naughty bit of contact after a champagne lunch. But Monique, as though she has some kind of radar for illicit, mindless sexcapades, somehow half cocks her head and might just glimpse the import of the moment. I can’t tell. While her smiling at the Boyz’s banter seems entirely continuous, I wonder if she’s grasped anything of significance, anything out of context in the ladies’ fleeting, flirting gestures of wishing me luck. Nothing in her face or manner indicates that she has.
The Boyz kiss their wives good-bye. There are some stock jokes about their wives’ spending patterns and needing to start moonlighting in order to keep them in the style to which they’ve become accustomed. And then, with the Cleavage gals gone, it’s time for business.
Monique has coached me extensively beforehand. “In the end they will invest because this is a sexy proposition. That’s entirely up to you to sell them. I’m there more or less for reassurance that it’s not a crazy investment. But it’s up to you to pitch them with enthusiasm, with passion even, gauging how receptive they are. Just be ready to just shut up and let me take over whenever they decide they want to talk numbers or track record. But remember: this is your sale to win or lose, not mine.”
I spin out my whole concept, sharing everything that excites me about it and will make it a huge success. I’ve come up with a name and a concept for the place that I love and so does Monique: Diwali. Monique was thrilled by the vaguely yoga connection, believing it will get us even more press since my Grand Central spread. Diwali is a festival of lights that spans many Eastern cultures, and that’s basically all about good winning out over evil. Since it comes in October or November, depending on the yearly lunar calendar, it’s also great since that would coincide with our theoretical opening.
I like the name, too, because it doesn’t sound like other places. Most of these joints go for either something that makes them sound hipster ironic (like Happy Ending), vaguely Euro (like Pastis or Cielo), or masquerading as a gentlemen’s club (One Oak). Diwali is memorable and multi-culti in a good way. Plus I think it would allow tremendous potential for us to play with the lighting—everything from candles to oil lamps to lasers—and maybe some Kama Sutra murals. It could be sexy and exotic without being heavy-handed or arbitrary. And even if we did offend someone by naming a nightclub after a religious festival, we’d get a ton of invaluable press from it.
I compare and contrast tons of other places—some of which they’ve been to, and most of which they’ve only glimpsed in Grand Central or on Page Six—and I feel that my enthusiasm is indeed spilling over to the Cleavage Boyz. I try to remain sensitive to my audience’s interest level. Monique nods, subtly encouraging me to keep going, so I start getting into more details: the menu, the entertainers, the way the dividers will slide away to open up the floor, even my vision for the ceilings, the mirrors, and the linens. I’m far from exhausted—and they seem totally into it—but Monique soon indicates that it’s time to move into the practical side of things, and I feel that, too. Leave them wanting more.
Monique, now fully inhabiting her role as sexpot MBA, is stunning. Conveying total fiscal responsibility, she outlines the entire investment possibility with clarity, coolheadedness, and charm. The Boyz ask many pointed questions regarding rate of return, deadlines, and real-estate values, and when they start getting into details of the limited liability corporation’s structure, I feel like excusing myself to grab another bottle of Cristal. However, realizing that might not be exactly confidence inspiring, I pretend to listen.
I wish I’d had Monique on my s
ide when I tried this before. Oh, I got the money from my investor in the end, but it was more in spite of myself. I immediately resolve to get an MBA in my spare time or at least to occasionally glance at the financial section of the Times.
Suddenly, after we’ve talked for about an hour, there’s a pause in which it seems the Boyz have exhausted all their questions, and Monique, and I to a lesser extent, have answered everything adequately.
Picking up my cue from Monique, I do the quick recap of my pitch—hitting the keynotes of “Vision” and “Excitement”—that she felt should follow her turn at bat. Not overselling, mind you, but just reiterating a little passion, a little sizzle, now that their calm, rational banker’s brains have been sated and they can officially relax. There are far safer ways for them to make money; this will only work if they feel this adds some spark, some excitement to their lives (and portfolios).
I finish—again, leave them wanting more—and there’s a moment of stillness in the room. It makes me nervous, but Monique warned me to let this moment happen. Let them fill it with “Yes,” or “Not for us” or “We’ll have to think about it.”
The Boyz look at each other—clearly, like their wives at the Harvard Club, they’ve done this before—and communicate agreement. “Sure. Sounds good. We’re in. Have the papers sent to Dick’s office and we can have a check for you midweek.”
I’m amazed. Monique beams, and we all do pumped handshakes with hands on the shoulder, like affable ex-presidents greeting each other. I am quite thankful that the next bottle of Cristal is swiftly opened without my having to ask for it. One tasteful glass and then Monique indicates that we really need to be heading back to the city.
There are no protests from the Boyz. If you speak the language—namely, you arrive in the right car with the right date/investment advisor—everything here really does run like clockwork. In fact, in just under two-and-a-half hours, you can walk away $3.8 million richer.