Читать книгу Chasing Harry Winston - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 7

‘Come to bed, baby. It’s almost one – don’t you think it’s time to call it a night?’ Russell pulled off his T-shirt and turned on his side to face Leigh, resting his head full of black curls on his right hand. He rubbed the sheets with his left hand and patted them a little, a gesture that was meant to be tempting, appealing, but that Leigh always found a little threatening.

‘I just have a few more pages. Is the light bothering you? I can move to the living room.’

He sighed and picked up his book, Strength Training Anatomy. ‘It’s not the light, sweetheart, and you know that. It’s the fact that we haven’t fallen asleep together in weeks. I just miss you.’

Her first thought was that he sounded like a whiny, petulant child; this was, after all, one of the most sought-after manuscripts of the year, and it was crucial that she have it read for the next morning’s acquisitions meeting. It had taken eight impossibly long years of dedicated hard work to finally – finally! – be within striking distance of senior editor (there were, after all, only six at Brook Harris, and she could potentially be the youngest one), and Russell seemed to think that after a year of dating he was entitled to commandeer her entire life. She wasn’t the one who had asked him to stay over tonight, who had just shown up on his doorstep on her way from her weekly poker game, long lashes all a-flutter and all Baby, I just had to see you.

Next thought: she was the most horrid, unappreciative, ungrateful bitch alive for even thinking such things about Russell. She certainly wasn’t this resentful a year ago. When he approached her at the book party Brook Harris was throwing in honor of Bill Parcells (who had just written a memoir of his years as the Cowboys’ coach), she recognized him instantly. Not that she ever watched ESPN – she didn’t – but with his boyish smile and dimples and reputation as one of the most desirable bachelors in Manhattan, she knew enough to be extra charming when he introduced himself. They’d talked for hours that night, first at the party and then over Amstels at Pete’s Tavern. He had been almost shockingly up-front about being sick of the dating scene in New York, how he was over dating models and actresses and was ready to meet, in his words, a ‘real girl,’ implying, of course, that Leigh was a perfect candidate. Naturally, she was honored by the attention: who wouldn’t want Russell Perrin pursuing her? He fulfilled every single little box on every single checklist she’d drafted in the last ten years. He was, by all accounts, exactly the kind of man she hoped to find but never actually thought she would.

Now here she was, almost a year into a relationship with a gorgeous guy who also just happened to be sensitive, kind, caring, and madly in love with her, and all she felt was smothered. It was abundantly obvious to everyone else in Leigh’s life that she had finally met The One; why wasn’t it clearer to her? As if to drive this point home, Russell turned her face to his, looked into her eyes, and said, ‘Leigh, sweetheart. I love you so much.’

‘I love you, too,’ Leigh answered automatically, without a second’s hesitation, although a third-party observer – even a perfect stranger – might have questioned the sincerity behind her declaration. What were you supposed to do when someone you liked and respected very much, someone you wanted to get to know better, announced after two months of otherwise casual dating that he was head over heels in love with you? You did what any confrontation-averse person would do and said ‘I love you, too’ right back. Leigh figured she’d grow into those words eventually, be able to say them with more conviction once they got to know each other better. It upset her that a year later she was still waiting.

She forced herself to look up from the page and assumed a syrupy-sweet voice. ‘I know it’s been really hectic lately, but it’s like clockwork every year: the second the calendar hits June, everything turns chaotic. I promise it won’t last forever.’

Leigh held her breath and waited for him to explode (which so far had never happened), waited for Russell to tell her he wouldn’t tolerate being patronized and that he didn’t appreciate being spoken to like she was the parent and he was the toddler who had just mashed peanut butter into the carpet.

Instead, he smiled. And not a smile filled with resentment or resignation; it was genuine, full of understanding, and impossibly apologetic. ‘I don’t mean to pressure you, baby. I know how much you love your job, and I want you to enjoy it while you can. Take your time and come to bed whenever you’re ready.’

‘While I can?’ Leigh’s head snapped up. ‘Are you really bringing that up again at one in the morning?’

‘No, sweetheart, I’m not bringing that up again. You’ve made it perfectly clear that San Francisco is not in your plans for right now – but I’d really like it if you weren’t so closed-minded about it. It would be an incredible opportunity, you know.’

‘For you,’ Leigh said, sulkily as a child.

‘For both of us.’

‘Russell, we haven’t even been together a year. I think it’s a little early to start talking about moving across the country together.’ The level of annoyance in her voice surprised them both.

‘It’s never too early when you love someone, Leigh,’ he said, his own voice even and steady. This very evenness, which had appealed to her so much in the beginning, could now infuriate her; his refusal to get mad, his complete mastery of his emotions, made her wonder if he ever even heard what she was saying.

‘Let’s not talk about it now, okay?’ she asked.

He sat up and slid to the end of the bed, closer to the corner where Leigh had placed her comfy reading chair and soft white-light reading lamp. The oversized down comforter – the one she’d spent weeks searching for, testing every brand on the market for softness and puffiness – slid to the floor and nearly knocked the bonsai tree off the nightstand. Russell didn’t appear to notice. ‘Why don’t I make you some tea?’ he asked.

Again Leigh felt like she needed to harness every ounce of willpower not to scream. She didn’t want to go to bed. She didn’t want tea. She just wanted him to stop talking.

She took a deep breath, slowly, without being obvious about it. ‘Thanks, but I’m really fine. Just give me a few more minutes, okay?’

He gazed at her with an understanding smile before bounding out of bed and wrapping her in a bear hug. She felt her body stiffen; she couldn’t help it. Russell just hugged harder and sneaked his face into the crook of her neck, wedging it in just above her shoulder and under her chin. His five o’clock shadow scratched her skin and she squirmed.

‘Does it tickle?’ He laughed. ‘My dad’s always said I’d eventually have to shave twice a day, but I never wanted to believe him.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’m going to get some water. Want some?’

‘Sure,’ Leigh said, although she didn’t. She turned her attention back to the manuscript and had worked her way through half a page when Russell called from the kitchen.

‘Where do you keep the honey?’

‘The what?’ she yelled back.

‘The honey. I’m making us tea and I want to make it with warm milk and honey. Do you have any?’

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s in the cabinet above the microwave.’

He returned moments later with a mug in each hand and a bag of Newman’s Own chocolate chip cookies between his teeth. ‘Take a break, baby. I promise I’ll leave you alone after a midnight snack.’

Midnight? Leigh thought. It’s one-thirty in the morning and I have to be up in five and a half hours. Not to mention that not everyone has the naturally toned body of an elite college athlete and can afford to chew cookies at all hours.

She bit into a cookie and remembered all the years in her early and mid-twenties that she had wanted this scene so badly: the doting boyfriend, the romantic late-night picnic, the comfortable apartment filled with all the things she loved. Back then it had felt almost impossible or, at least, very far away; now she had it all, but the reality didn’t feel anything like the fantasy.

With cookies barely swallowed and tea still unfinished, Russell curled himself around a pillow and promptly fell into an intensely deep and restful sleep. Who slept like that? It never ceased to amaze Leigh. He claimed it came from a childhood surrounded by chaos, from learning to sleep through the clamor of two parents, two sisters, a live-in nanny, and three chatty beagles. Perhaps. But Leigh figured it had more to do with his clear conscience and his clean living and, if she was going to be really honest, with the fact that his life just wasn’t really all that stressful. How hard would it be to sleep like a baby if your daily routine included two hours of exercise (an hour of weights and an hour of cardio) and lacked caffeine, sugar, preservatives, white flour, and trans fats? If you taped a weekly thirty-minute show on a subject (sports) you loved innately just by virtue of being male, and had a team of writers and producers who put it all together for you to read? If you had healthy and productive relationships with both family and friends, all of whom loved and admired you for just being yourself? It was enough to make a person sick, or at the very least resentful, which, if she was being perfectly frank, it often made Leigh.

Tonight it succeeded only in making Leigh desperately want a cigarette. No matter that she’d quit nearly a year ago, right when she and Russell started dating; not a day went by that she didn’t desperately yearn for a nice long drag. Smokers always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. They claimed they loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between their fingers. That was all well and good, but there was nothing quite like actually smoking it: Leigh loved inhaling. To pull with your lips on that filter and feel the smoke drift across your tongue, down your throat, and directly into your lungs was to be transported momentarily to nirvana. She remembered – every day – how it felt after the first inhale, just as the nicotine was hitting her bloodstream. A few seconds of both tranquillity and alertness, together, in exactly the right amounts. Then the slow exhale – forceful enough so that the smoke didn’t merely seep from your mouth but not so energetic that it disrupted the moment – would complete the blissful experience.

Leigh wasn’t an idiot, though, and certainly knew all the nasty drawbacks of her beloved habit. Emphysema. Lung cancer. Heart disease. High blood pressure. Having to endure graphic photos of blackened lungs in magazines and terrifying commercials of gravelly voiced people with tracheotomies. The yellowed teeth and the wrinkles and the smoky hair and the stained top knuckle on her right middle finger. Her mother’s constant harping. Her doctor’s dire predictions. The maddening Just-in-Case-You-Haven’t-Heard voice total strangers used when they sidled up to her outside her office building to enumerate smoking’s many dangers. And then Russell! Mr My Body Is a Temple would never, ever date a smoker, and he’d made that perfectly clear from day one. It was enough to make even the most devoted smoker call uncle, and after eight years of pack-a-day enjoyment, Leigh finally caved. It had required superhuman effort and an ability to endure torturous cravings for weeks on end, but she had persevered. So far she hadn’t managed to rid herself of nicotine entirely – some might say she had succeeded only in transferring her tenacious addiction from cigarettes to nicotine gum – but that was neither here nor there. The gum wasn’t going to kill her in the immediate future, she hoped, and if it did, well, so be it.

She popped an extra piece for good measure and set aside the manuscript. It usually wasn’t too difficult to get engaged by a hot book that multiple publishing houses were clamoring for, but this one felt like drudgery. Would the American public really want to read another eight-hundred-page historical fiction tome about an ex-president from the last century? It was enough already. All she wanted to do was curl up with a good beach read and get lost in something that wasn’t so deadly boring. She would’ve given anything for it to be a No Human Contact Monday Night. Sapped of energy and in no mood to read another word about a campaign that had taken place over a hundred years earlier, Leigh tossed aside the manuscript and pulled her MacBook onto her lap.

Often one of her friends was on IM at two in the morning, but tonight all was quiet. Leigh clicked through her favorite Web sites quickly, efficiently, her eyes scanning the pages for information. On cnn.com, an alligator attack in South Florida. On Yahoo!, a video demonstrating how to make a watermelon basket using only a chef’s knife and a nontoxic marker. On gofugyourself.com a funny bit about Tom Cruise’s bangs and the Flowbee. On neimanmarcus.com an announcement regarding upgraded shipping on all leather accessories. Click, click, click, click. She scanned the most recent bestseller list on Publishers Weekly, clicked to support free mammograms at The Breast Cancer Site, and checked that her direct deposit went through at chase.com. She briefly considered checking the symptoms for obsessive-compulsive disorder at WebMD but resisted. Finally feeling weary if not entirely exhausted, Leigh carefully washed her face using the correct upward circular motions and swapped her sweats for a pair of soft cotton shorts. She watched Russell’s face as she climbed in next to him, inching her way slowly under the comforter, determined not to wake him. He remained motionless. She switched off the light and managed to flip onto her side without disturbing him, but just as her mind started to slow and her limbs began to relax into the cool sheets, she felt his body press against hers. His aroused body. He enveloped her in his arms and pushed his pelvis against her lower back.

‘Hey there,’ he whispered in her ear, his breath still smelling of cookies.

She lay there limp, simultaneously praying he would fall back to sleep and hating herself for wishing that.

‘Leigh, baby, are you awake? I know I am.’ He gave another little push just in case she wasn’t sure what he meant.

‘I’m exhausted, Russ. It’s so late already, and I have to be up early for the meeting tomorrow.’ When did I start to sound like my mother? she wondered.

‘I promise you won’t have to do a thing.’

He pulled her closer and kissed her neck. She shivered, which he interpreted as delight, and ran his fingers over her goose bumps, which he took as a good sign. When they first started dating, she thought he was the best kisser on earth. She still remembered their first kiss – it had been positively transcendent. He took her home in a cab after the book party and the dive bar, and just before they reached her building, he pulled her toward him for one of the softest, most amazing kisses she’d ever experienced. He used the perfect combination of lips and tongue, the ideal pressure, the exact right amount of passion. And there was no doubt he had plenty of experience on which to draw, having been one of the most well-known and sought-after men she had ever met. Yet in the last few months, it had started to feel like she was kissing a stranger – and not in an exciting way. Instead of soft and warm, his mouth now often felt cold and damp and a little shocking on her skin. His tongue probed too voraciously; his lips always seemed either rigid or fleshy. Tonight, against the back of her neck, they felt like they were made out of papier-mâché before it properly hardened. Pulpy papier-mâché. Refrigerated, pulpy papier-mâché.

‘Russ.’ She sighed and clenched her eyes closed.

He stroked her hair and rubbed her shoulders, trying to relax her. ‘What, baby? Is this so awful?’

She didn’t tell him that each touch felt like a violation. Hadn’t the sex once been fantastic? Back when Russell was a bit elusive and flirty and seductive, and not quite so clingy or so determined to settle down with a more serious girl than all the flighty ones from his twenties? It all seemed like so long ago.

Before she realized what was happening, he worked her shorts down to her knees and pulled her even closer. His upper arms were huge, literally bulging under her chin and inadvertently pressing against her throat. His chest threw off heat like a furnace and the hair on his thighs felt like sandpaper. And for the first time ever while in bed with Russell, she began to feel the familiar heart-attack symptoms begin.

‘Stop it!’ she breathed, her whisper louder than she planned. ‘I can’t do this now.’

His embrace slackened instantly and Leigh was instantly grateful that it was too dark to see his face.

‘Russ, I’m sorry. It’s just that—’

‘No worries, Leigh. Really, I understand.’ His voice sounded calm but distant. He rolled away from her and within minutes his breathing steadied to its deep-sleep rate.

Leigh finally fell asleep just before six, just as the lady above donned her various foot accoutrements and commenced the day’s clomping, but it wasn’t until the next morning’s meeting, at which she felt inarticulate and thick-tongued from exhaustion, that she remembered her final thought before drifting off. It was of dinner with the girls a couple of weeks earlier and their proclamations of change. Emmy was going to expand her experience by having lots of affairs and Adriana had made a resolution to give monogamy the old college try. For the ten days since then Leigh hadn’t been able to think of anything she was willing to contribute. Until now. Wouldn’t it be funny to announce that she was going to work up the nerve to end her flawed relationship even though she was utterly terrified of being alone and convinced she wouldn’t meet anyone who loved her half as much as Russell so obviously did? That she kept waiting and waiting to feel the way about Russell everyone thought she should, but that so far it hadn’t happened? Ha-ha. Hysterical, she thought to herself. They wouldn’t believe it for a second.

She was trying to think of something else – the weather, her upcoming trip, the fact that her parents were discussing the possibility of moving back to the States – but Adriana’s mind refused to focus on anything other than the gorgeous contrast between Yani’s rough, ropelike dreds and the milky texture of his skin. Each time he stretched or straightened that beautiful midsection, her pulse quickened. She watched covertly as a droplet of perspiration traveled from his forehead to his neck and tried to imagine what it tasted like. When he placed his huge hands over her hips, it was all she could do not to groan. A coarse dreadlock brushed against her shoulder; he smelled like moss, overpoweringly green, but it was pleasant, masculine. He placed two fingers in the small of her back and nudged her pelvis forward. ‘Right there,’ he said softly. ‘Just like that.’

His voice got louder, but only slightly. ‘Gently place the left palm on the floor and rotate your body into plank position. Feel the energy flow from your hands to the earth, from the earth to your hands. Don’t forget to breathe. There; hold it right there.’

Adriana tried to block out the sound of his voice and, when that wasn’t possible, to reconfigure his words so that they sounded slightly saner. The class moved like a choreographed dance troupe, a collection of sinewy limbs and tight torsos that made the movements appear almost effortless. She loved yoga and she lusted after Yani, but she had minimal tolerance for the touchy-feely stuff. Correction: the touchy-feely stuff was great, as long as it was Yani touching her. All the lecturing about energy and karma and spirit made him just a little less appealing, and that was a real shame – but nothing she couldn’t overlook. She shifted her body into plank pose, her triceps quivering with effort, and glanced up to locate Yani. He was standing over Leigh with a foot positioned on each side of her extended legs, pressing the spot between her shoulder blades closer to the floor. Leigh met Adriana’s gaze and rolled her eyes.

As usual, the class consisted exclusively of women. Adriana had expertly scanned the room upon entering and, after determining herself the most fit and attractive woman in attendance, laid out her mat and saved a space for Leigh. She felt proud that in this room of beautiful women – all in their twenties or early thirties, all but one at or under their ideal body weight, all groomed to within an inch of their lives despite the early Sunday morning and the physical nature of the activity – she was the most beautiful. This realization no longer surprised or delighted her the way it had when she was younger; rather, it gave her a little added confidence bump that helped smooth along the day. The fact that Yani wouldn’t sleep with her most likely indicated that the problem was his and not hers, a theory she wanted her friends to confirm at a post-yoga breakfast.

‘It just doesn’t make any sense,’ Adriana said, placing her mouth delicately around a spoonful of granola. ‘What do you think is wrong with him?’

Leigh sipped her coffee and smiled at the waitress for more. The diner at the corner of Tenth and University wasn’t the best brunch place around – the servers were always surly, the eggs were sometimes cold, and the coffee ran the gamut from watery to bitter – but it was close to the studio and both girls could be certain that they would never see anyone they knew. There weren’t many places in downtown Manhattan where you could dine sporting yoga pants and sweaty ponytails without raising eyebrows, so they persevered.

‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose you think he’s gay?’

‘Of course not,’ Adriana snapped.

‘And there’s no chance that he’s just not that into you …’

Adriana gave one of her cute mini-snorts. ‘Please.’

‘Well, then it’s got to be one of the usuals. Erectile dysfunction, mid-herpes outbreak, freakishly small member. What else could it be?’

Adriana considered these options, but none of them felt quite right. Yani seemed peaceful, accepting, completely self-assured in that strong, silent way. No man had ever not responded to her. And it’s not that she wasn’t trying – it had been years since she’d needed to make an effort like this, and that time the boy’s reluctance had been tied to his upcoming wedding – but it sometimes seemed like Yani didn’t even see her. The more she swung her hair or thrust out her perfect breasts, the less he noticed.

‘What else? Why, isn’t it obvious? He’s a total bed-wetter and he’s terrified of being found out.’ Emmy seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and for the briefest moment Adriana was irritated to have the attention shifted away from her.

‘Hey! We didn’t know if you’d make it. Here, give me your stuff,’ Leigh said, holding out her arms.

‘What, don’t you want me to sit next to you? I promise I’ll sit really close, maybe rub my shoulder against yours. It’ll be fun.’

Leigh sighed.

Adriana patted the seat next to her; she knew Leigh had ‘space issues’ and she tried to be understanding, but it was annoying always having to be the one who got crammed inside booths and crowded in banquettes. ‘How does Russell deal with the fact that you can’t stand being near anyone?’

‘It’s not that I “can’t stand being near anyone.” I just like a little buffer zone. What’s wrong with a little personal space?’ Leigh asked.

‘Yeah, but seriously: does he get it? Accept it? Or does he hate it?’

Leigh sighed again. ‘He hates it. I feel bad. He comes from a huge, happy family of mouth-kissers! I’m an only child with parents as affectionate as ceramic statues. I’m working on it, but I can’t help that all that closeness and touching seriously freaks me out.’

Adriana raised her hand in defeat. ‘Fair enough. As long as you recognize the issue.’

Leigh nodded. ‘Definitely aware. Constantly, neurotically, miserably aware. And working on it, I promise.’

Emmy collapsed onto the bench beside Adriana; the padded vinyl heaved a bit with the extra ninety-five pounds and then settled. ‘How was yoga? Still no love from the Y-man?’

‘Not yet. But he will succumb,’ Adriana said.

Leigh nodded. ‘They always do. For you, at least.’

Emmy clapped her hand on the table. ‘Girls, girls! Have we forgotten so soon? Adriana is no longer seeking casual encounters. Of course, she’s welcome to become Yani’s girlfriend, but according to the rules, she cannot be his one-night stand.’

‘Ah, yes. The rules. Agreed to after one too many cocktails and, at least as of today, not settled yet. I think that still makes Yani fair game.’ Adriana made a point to smile cutely, not sexily, focusing on deepening the dimples that appeared when she was acting her most girlish.

Emmy blew her a kiss. ‘Honey, save those dimples for your future boyfriend. They’re worthless at this table. And besides, I have news.’

‘Duncan news?’ Leigh asked automatically, forgetting for a second that they’d now been broken up for nearly three weeks.

‘No, not Duncan news – although I did run into his sister, who told me that he and the virgin cheerleader are going in on a Hamptons share with three other couples for July and August.’

‘Mmm, sounds great. They can pay twenty grand for a small bedroom and shared bathroom and bumper-to-bumper traffic, all so they can spend the summer not having sex. Sounds dreamy. Do I have to bring up summer of ’03 again?’

Adriana shuddered. Just the thought of that summer was enough to make her feel on edge. It had been her idea – what could be so bad about a mansion in the Hamptons with a pool, a tennis court, and forty to fifty single, professional twentysomethings? – and she’d campaigned Emmy and Leigh vociferously for weeks until they finally agreed. All three had been so miserable with the 24/7 noise and partying and drinking-till-you-puke theme that they’d spent each weekend of their half-share huddled at the far end of the pool together, clinging to one another for sanity’s sake. ‘Please, no! Don’t go there. Even all these years later, it’s still traumatic.’

‘Yeah, well, Duncan and the trainer can go hang themselves for all I care. I had a long talk with Chef Massey this week and he’s still interested in having me do some work abroad. He’s planning to open two new restaurants this year alone and needs people on-site to oversee the progress, help with hiring, stuff like that. And of course, menu ideas whenever possible. I start a week from Monday.’

‘Congratulations!’ Leigh said.

Adriana squeezed Leigh’s hand and tried her hardest to appear pleased. She wasn’t unhappy for Emmy – after all, the girl had had a shitty go of it lately – but, selfishly speaking, it was hard sometimes hearing about her friends’ career successes. She knew they envied her free time and would kill to have the funds and time to enjoy life a little more, but it no longer made her feel good to hear it. And of course it was not like she wanted either of their jobs; that was for sure. Emmy’s tirades about egomaniacal chefs and impossible restaurant personalities were scary enough to turn anyone off a career in the food-service industry, and Leigh’s hours were insane. She complained constantly of lunatic authors and oppressive reading schedules, and Adriana wondered if she wasn’t just a little bit envious of those who actually got to write the books instead of edit them. But if Adriana was going to be completely honest with herself, she knew that both girls found a certain satisfaction in their jobs that she would never know from her daily schedule, however rigorous, of grooming, lunching, exercising, and socializing. It’s not that she hadn’t tried working – she’d given it a fair shot. Right after graduation she’d signed on for the buyer training program at Saks but quit as soon as she realized that she’d have to start with makeup and accessories and it would take years to work her way up to premier designer apparel. There was a brief stint at an advertising agency that she’d almost enjoyed, at least until her boss asked her to go outside in the snow to buy him a cup of coffee. She had even worked a few weeks for one of the famous Chelsea galleries, before realizing how naïve she’d been to think she could meet eligible straight men in the art world. Right after that job Adriana realized it just didn’t make much sense to work forty hours a week and neglect so many other aspects of her life for a couple thousand dollars here or there. So while she knew from experience that she’d never trade the freedom of her situation for the drudgery of a nine-to-five, of course, there were times when she wished she was good at something besides bedding men. The exception being the current case with Yani.

‘… so I’ll be traveling one to two weeks out of every four. And he’s going to start looking for a new GM for Willow so I can focus even more on the new restaurants. I’ll get to do a bit of everything: scouting, hiring, menu consultation, and then, once they open, stay on for a few weeks to make sure everything runs smoothly. How awesome is that?’ Emmy beamed.

Adriana hadn’t heard a word. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

Leigh glared at her. ‘Emmy was just saying that Chef Massey’s offer is still on the table. And Emmy’s going to take it.’

‘The salary isn’t quite what I hoped for, but I’ll be traveling so much that I’ll barely have any living expenses. And – are you ready for this? – my first trip is to Paris. For “training.” How amazing is that?’

Adriana tried not to resent the ebullient look on Emmy’s face. It’s just Paris, she thought to herself. It’s not like everyone hasn’t been there a thousand times. It took every ounce of willpower not to roll her eyes when Leigh breathed, ‘So amazing.’

Emmy accidentally sipped from Adriana’s coffee cup and it was all Adriana could do not to stab her hand with a fork. Why on earth was she so upset? Was she really such a jealous, petty person that she couldn’t be happy for her own best friend’s success? She forced herself to smile and utter some sort of congratulations in the only way she knew how. ‘Well, you know what that means, don’t you, querida? Looks like your first affair will be with a Frenchman.’

‘Yes, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking about that.’

‘Backing out already?’ Adriana said coyly. She cradled her coffee cup and pressed her lips to the edge.

Emmy cleared her throat and pretended to smooth her eyebrow with an extended middle finger. ‘Backing out? Hardly. I was going to clarify a few rules, is all.’

‘You’re all about rules today, aren’t you?’ Adriana sniped.

‘Hey, don’t take it out on me that you’re losing your touch. It’s not my fault Yani couldn’t be less interested,’ Emmy said.

‘Come on, guys.’ Leigh sighed. No matter how many years passed or how much responsibility each assumed, they still managed to bicker like bitchy teenagers on a regular basis. In some way, though, each found it comforting; it reminded them how close they really were: acquaintances were always on their best behavior, but sisters loved each other enough to say anything.

‘Can I help it if I’m eager to get started? As neither of you has been shy about pointing out, I’m way, way behind,’ said Emmy.

Adriana reminded herself to play nicely. She clasped her hands together and said, ‘Okay, let’s do it. How many men are you thinking of this year?’

Leigh, desperate not to remind the girls that she hadn’t agreed to any changes, anxiously chimed in. ‘I think three sounds fair, don’t you guys?’

Adriana made a noise as though she were choking on her coffee. ‘Three? Please! That’s a good month, not a good year.’

‘For once, I’m going to agree,’ Emmy said. ‘With all the traveling I’m going to be doing, I don’t think three is realistic.’

‘So, what, are you going to screw a guy in every country you visit?’ Leigh laughed. ‘Like, “Here’s my passport and here’s my hotel key, come on in”?’

‘I was actually thinking more like a guy on every continent.’

‘Shut up!’ Leigh and Adriana said in tandem.

‘What? Is that sooo impossible to imagine?’

‘Yes.’ Leigh nodded.

‘Ridiculous,’ Adriana agreed.

‘Well, I’ve decided. One man for every continent I visit. Foreign, sexy men. The less American, the better. And no strings attached. No relationships, no emotional entanglements – just pure, unadulterated sex.’

Adriana whistled. ‘Querida! You’re making me blush!’

‘What about Antarctica?’ Leigh asked. ‘I don’t think Adi has managed to sleep with a guy from Antarctica.’

‘I thought of that. Antarctica does seem a little unrealistic. Which is why I think Alaska can count for Antarctica.’ Emmy pulled a crumpled paper from her messenger bag and smoothed it flat on the table.

‘Is that a chart? Please don’t tell me you made a chart.’ Adriana laughed.

‘I made a chart.’

Leigh looked toward the ceiling. ‘She made a chart.’

‘I’ve got it all figured out. Obviously, I already have North America, so that leaves six more. And, technically speaking, Mark – Otis’s daddy – was born in Moscow, so he really could count for Europe.’

‘I call bullshit on that,’ Leigh said. ‘It has to be within this year.’ The waitress frowned when she laid down their check.

‘Seconded,’ Adriana said. ‘We’ll give you America – North only – but Mark is a no-go. Why would you even want him to count for Europe? You’re going to Paris in a few weeks!’

Emmy nodded. ‘Fair enough. One down, six to go.’

‘What if you meet a Japanese guy in Greece, or an Australian in Thailand?’ Adriana asked, looking perplexed. ‘Do they count as Asia and Australia, or does the sex have to take place on the actual continent?’

Emmy’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Let’s give the girl a break,’ Leigh said, looking to Adriana. ‘I think nationality or location should count. My god, it’s amazing enough that she’s even going to attempt this.’

‘I’m fine with that,’ Adriana agreed. ‘And in a demonstration of goodwill, I think you should have a free pass as well.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that you should get to skip one continent. Otherwise, I think you’re just setting yourself up for failure.’

‘Which one?’ Emmy asked, appearing slightly relieved.

‘What if Swiss guys counted as a wild card?’ Leigh asked. ‘It’s a neutral country. I think if you sleep with a Swiss guy he can count for anywhere.’

The girls laughed and laughed, the kind of laughter that happens all too rarely after college.

Adriana pulled a blue tin tub from the front pocket of her yoga bag and rubbed a bit of clear salve on her lips, aware that both her friends and nearly every patron at every surrounding table appeared transfixed by her little ritual. It made her feel a little bit better. She’d had trouble ridding herself of the thoughts that had been plaguing her lately, namely that her looks wouldn’t last forever. She had known this intellectually, of course – the way a teenager knows death is inevitable – but she was completely unable to comprehend the reality. Her mother had been reminding her of this very fact since the day Adriana had, at the age of fourteen, agreed to two dates with two different boys on the same night. When asked which one she would choose to see that night, Adriana gazed at her still-beautiful mother with uncomprehending eyes.

‘Why would I break plans with either one, Mama?’ Adriana had asked. ‘There’s time enough for both of them.’

Her mother had smiled and cupped Adriana’s cheek in a cool, open palm. ‘Enjoy it now, querida. It will not be like this always.’

Of course she was right, but Adriana hadn’t counted on ‘always’ coming so soon. It was time to utilize her beauty for something more important than attracting a steady stream of lovers. Her pledge to find a boyfriend was a step in the right direction, but it wasn’t far-reaching enough.

With great flourish, Adriana held her left hand up and sighed dramatically. ‘Do you see this hand, girls?’ Both nodded. ‘By this time next year, there will be a diamond on it. An extraordinarily large diamond. I hereby declare that I will be engaged to the perfect man within twelve months.’

‘Adriana!’ Emmy shrieked. ‘You’re just trying to outdo me.’

Leigh choked on a piece of cantaloupe. ‘Engaged? To whom? Are you seeing someone?’

‘No, not currently. But Emmy’s commitment to making a change has inspired me. Plus, it’s time to face facts, girls. We are not getting any younger, and I think we can all acknowledge that there are only a limited number of rich, handsome, successful men between the ages of thirty and forty. If we don’t claim ours now’ – she cupped both hands around her firm breasts and pushed them upward – ‘then we may as well forget it.’

‘Well, thank god you figured it out,’ Emmy said with amusement. ‘I’ll just point to one of the dozens – no, hundreds – of successful, handsome, single men in their thirties I know and just make him mine. Yes, that’s the plan.’

Adriana smiled and tapped Emmy’s hand patronizingly. ‘Don’t forget rich, querida. Now, I’m not saying that’s what we all should be doing. Clearly, you need to play a bit first, and I think your little upcoming foray into promiscuity is just what the doctor ordered. But being that I’ve, well, forayed there already—’

‘If by forayed you mean “completely conquered,” then I guess I’d agree,’ Leigh added.

‘Laugh if you must,’ Adriana said, feeling slightly irritated that, as usual, she wasn’t being taken seriously. ‘But there’s nothing funny about a five-plus-carat round stone in a micropave setting from Harry Winston. Nothing funny at all.’

‘Yeah, but it’s pretty funny now,’ Emmy said while Leigh dissolved into laughter. ‘Adriana engaged? It’s impossible to imagine.’

‘No more impossible to imagine than the serial monogamist putting out for every foreign stranger who crosses her path,’ Adriana shot back.

Leigh wiped away a tear, taking care not to pull the delicate skin beneath her eye, skin that was probably already doomed anyway from her smoking days. She wasn’t sure if it was the endorphins from a particularly strenuous yoga class or the semi-dread of having dinner with Russell’s parents later that night, or just the desire to share in her friends’ fun, but before she could stop it – almost before she even knew it was happening – Leigh started to talk without any forethought or awareness.

‘In honor of your acts of bravery,’ she was saying, the words feeling as though they emerged entirely of their own volition, ‘I, too, would like to propose a goal. By the end of this year, I will …’ Her words faded. She’d begun speaking without knowing what to say, assuming something would come, but she had nothing to offer. She found her job mostly rewarding, if a tad boring at times; she was perfectly comfortable with the number of men she’d slept with so far; she’d already snagged herself a boyfriend fitting all of Adriana’s criteria – not just any man but a famous one, a man half of the country and the entire female population of Manhattan clamored to date; and she had finally saved enough to buy her own apartment. She was doing exactly what was expected of her. What was she supposed to change?

‘Get knocked up?’ Emmy offered helpfully.

‘Have plastic surgery?’ Adriana countered.

‘Make your first million?’

‘Have a threesome?’

‘Get hooked on booze or drugs?’

‘Learn to love the subway?’ asked Adriana with a wicked smile.

Leigh shuddered. ‘God, no. Not that.’ She grinned.

Emmy patted her hand. ‘We know, honey. The dirt, the noise, the unpredictable schedule …’

‘All those people!’ Adriana added. After twelve years of friendship, she felt like she knew Leigh better than she knew herself. If there was one thing that drove the poor girl mad – even more than mess or loud, repetitive sounds or surprise – it was crowds. The girl was an anxious wreck these days, and Adriana and Emmy discussed it every chance they got.

Emmy broke the moment of silence. ‘Take it as a good sign that you don’t have an area of your life that requires massive restructuring. I mean, how many people can really say that?’

Adriana nibbled a leftover piece of toast. ‘Seriously, querida, all you have to do is appreciate your perfect life.’ She held up her coffee mug. ‘To changes.’

Emmy reached for her nearly empty glass of grapefruit juice and turned to Leigh. ‘And to recognizing perfection when it’s present.’

Leigh rolled her eyes and forced a smile. ‘To gorgeous foreigners and boulder-sized diamonds,’ she said.

Two glasses met hers and made a wonderful clinking sound. ‘Cheers!’ they all called in unison. ‘Cheers to that.’

If all of her irritatingly verbose colleagues didn’t shut the hell up in the next seven minutes, there was no way Leigh could make it from West Midtown to the Upper East Side by one. Didn’t these people ever get sick of hearing themselves talk? Didn’t they get hungry? Her stomach rumbled audibly as if to remind the room that it was lunch hour, but no one seemed to notice. They were discussing the upcoming publication of The Life and Leadership of Pope John Paul II with an intensity worthy of a presidential debate.

‘Summer is a tough time for a religious biography – we knew that going in,’ one of the associate editors commented with some trepidation, still unaccustomed to speaking at meetings.

Someone from the sales team, a sweet-faced woman who looked far younger than her thirty-some years and whose name Leigh could never remember, addressed the table. ‘Of course summer isn’t ideal for anything other than beach reads, but the season alone doesn’t account for these disappointing numbers. Orders from everyone – B&N, Borders, the independents – are all significantly lower than forecasted. Perhaps if we could generate a little more buzz …’

‘Buzz?’ Patrick, the queeny head of publicity, sneered. ‘Just how do you propose generating ‘buzz’ for a book about the pope? Give us something even remotely appealing and maybe we could work something out. But Britney Spears could tattoo the entire contents of this book on her bare breasts and people still wouldn’t talk about it.’

Jason, the only other editor who had been promoted as quickly as Leigh and whose existence at Brook Harris was the only thing that kept her sane, sighed and looked at his watch. Leigh caught his eye and nodded. She couldn’t wait any longer.

‘Please excuse me,’ Leigh interrupted. ‘But I have a lunch appointment I can’t miss. A business lunch, of course,’ she added quickly, although of course no one cared. She quietly gathered her papers and shoved everything into the monogrammed leather folder that accompanied her everywhere and tiptoed out of the conference room.

She had just swung by her office to grab her purse when her phone rang and she saw her publisher’s extension on her caller ID. Leigh had just decided to screen him when she heard her assistant’s voice call out, ‘Henry, line one. He says it’s urgent.’

‘He always says it’s urgent,’ Leigh muttered to herself. She took a calming breath and picked up the receiver.

‘Henry! Are you calling to apologize for missing the sales meeting?’ she joked. ‘I’m willing to overlook it this time, but don’t let it happen again.’

‘Ha-ha, I’m cracking up on the inside, I promise,’ he said. ‘I’m not keeping you from a lunchtime manicure or a quick jaunt to Barneys, am I?’

Leigh forced a laugh. It was positively eerie how well he knew her. Although technically it was a blowout and a quick jaunt to Barneys. She couldn’t particularly afford either one right now, but her flakiness in both the personal hygiene and gift departments today had mandated that she splurge. ‘Of course not. What can I do for you?’

‘There’s someone in my office I’d like you to meet. Come on over here for a minute.’

Goddammit! The man had a gift for intuitively sensing the most inconvenient moments of her day and then asking for something. It was uncanny and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, if he bugged her office.

She took another calming breath and glanced at the clock. Her appointment was in fifteen minutes and the salon was a ten-minute walk away. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she said with enough cheer to fell a sequoia.

She speed-walked through the cubicles and winding hallways that separated her office from Henry’s. He obviously wanted her to meet a potential author or someone new they’d just signed, since he was a big believer in demonstrating how Brook Harris was run like a family and insisted on personally introducing all the editors to all the new authors. It was one of the qualities that had most impressed her when she’d first started out – and one of the main reasons so many authors signed with Brook Harris and stayed for their entire careers – but today it was really fucking annoying. Anyone less than Tom Wolfe and she wasn’t interested. She ran calculations as she rounded the corner and passed the elevator bank. Her congrats-on-joining-the-family-we’re-so-happy-to-have-you or some similar we’d-be-thrilled-and-honored-to-have-you-join-the-family speech would take only a couple of minutes. Another minute or two to feign interest in the new/potential author’s current work, plus one more to congratulate him on the success of his previous publication, and there was a chance she’d be out in under five. At least she’d better be.

She’d been up so late the night before trying to finish her notes on the last chapter of her newest memoir acquistion that she had slept straight through her alarm and had to race, unshowered, to make the sales meeting on time. It wasn’t until Leigh found a toweringly tall pale purple orchid on her desk with a note that read, ‘I love you and can’t wait to see you tonight. Happy First Year!’ that she even remembered that Russell had made reservations at Daniel to celebrate their one-year anniversary. Typical. It was the single day in her entire career – possibly her entire life – that she’d overslept and left the house looking like a homeless person, and it was the only time it mattered. Thankfully Gilles had agreed to fit her in for a last-minute blowout (‘You can have Adriana’s appointment at one if she doesn’t mind,’ he’d offered. ‘She doesn’t mind!’ Leigh had screamed into the phone. ‘I take full responsibility!’) and she planned to swing by Barneys and pick up a bottle of cologne or a tie or a dopp kit – really, whatever was closest to the register and came prewrapped – on her way back to the office. There was absolutely no time for dawdling.

‘You can go right on in,’ Henry’s perky new assistant drawled. Her spiky, pink-streaked hair didn’t fit with the Southern accent – or the conservative corporate culture – but she seemed able to spell and didn’t appear overtly hostile, so it was overlooked.

Leigh nodded her thanks and barreled through the open door. ‘Hello!’ she sang to Henry. She guessed the man sitting opposite him, facing away from her, was in his early forties. Despite the early summer weather, he wore a light blue shirt and an olive corduroy blazer with patches over the elbows. His dirty-blond hair – light brown, really, now that she looked more carefully – was the perfect amount of shaggy, just grazing the top of his collar and falling slightly over the tops of his ears. Before he even turned to look at her, she knew, intuited, that he would be attractive. Perhaps even gorgeous. Which was partly why she was so taken aback when their eyes finally met.

The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she’d expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn’t until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen. Disenchantment, the first novel he’d published, at age twenty-three, had been one of those impossibly rare books that was both a commercial and literary success, and Jesse’s reputation as a bad-boy genius had only increased with every additional party attended, model dated, and book written. He had disappeared six or seven years ago, after a rumored stint in rehab and spate of brutal reviews, but no one expected him to stay hidden forever. The fact that he was here, in their offices, could mean only one thing.

‘Leigh, may I introduce you to Jesse Chapman? You’re familiar with his work, of course. And Jesse, this is Leigh Eisner, my most promising editor, and my favorite, were I forced to choose.’

Jesse stood to face Leigh, and although his eyes remained fixed on hers, she could feel him appraising her. She wondered if he liked girls with stringy ponytails and no makeup. She prayed he did.

‘He says that about everyone,’ Leigh said graciously, extending her hand to meet Jesse’s.

‘Of course he does,’ Jesse said smoothly, standing to envelop her right hand between both of his. ‘And that’s why we all adore him. Please, will you join us?’ He waved his hand toward the empty space beside him on the love seat and looked at her.

‘Oh, well, actually, I was just—’

‘She’d love to,’ Henry said.

Leigh resisted the urge to glare at him while she settled into the ancient couch. Bye-bye, blowout, she thought. Bye-bye, Barneys. It would be a miracle if Russell ever spoke to her again after the disaster that tonight would surely be.

Henry cleared his throat. ‘Jesse and I were just discussing his last novel. I was saying how we all – really, the entire publishing industry – thought the Times’ attack was inexcusable. Embarrassing for them, really, with its obvious agenda. Absolutely no one took it seriously. It was complete and—’

Smiling again, this time with the slightest expression of amusement, Jesse turned to Leigh. ‘And what did you think, dear? Did you think the review was warranted?’

Leigh was shocked by his assuredness that she had not only read but remembered both the book and this particular review. Which, irritatingly, she did. It had been the cover of the Sunday Book Review six years earlier, and the viciousness of it still resonated. She actually remembered wondering what it must be like for the author to read something like that about his work, had wondered where Jesse Chapman was when he first laid eyes on those brutal ten paragraphs. She would have read the book regardless – she’d studied Jesse’s earlier novels in countless college lit classes – but the sheer meanness of the review had propelled her to buy it in hardcover and devour it that same week.

Leigh spoke, as she often did, without thinking. It was a habit at direct odds with her methodical personality, but she just couldn’t help herself. She could meticulously organize an apartment or schedule a day or create a work plan, but she couldn’t seem to master the concept that not all thoughts need to be spoken. The girls and Russell claimed they found it charming, but it could be downright mortifying sometimes. Like in a meeting with your boss, for instance. Something about Jesse’s gaze – interested yet still aloof – made her forget that she was in Henry’s office, talking to one of the greatest writing talents of the twenty-first century, and she barreled ahead. ‘The review was petty, to be sure. It was vindictive and unprofessional, a hit job if I’ve ever seen one. That said, I think Rancor was your weakest effort. It didn’t deserve a review like that, but it wasn’t nearly on par with The Moon’s Defeat or, of course, Disenchantment.’

Henry inhaled and instinctively placed his hand over his mouth.

Leigh felt faint; her heart began to race at top speed and she could feel the sweat starting to dampen her palms and feet.

Jesse grinned. ‘Telling it straight. No bullshit. That’s rare these days, wouldn’t you say?’

Not sure whether this was an actual question, Leigh stared at her hands, which she was wringing with a frightening ferocity.

‘A regular charm school here, isn’t it?’ Henry laughed. His voice sounded hollow and more than a little nervous. ‘Well, thank you for sharing your opinion with Mr Chapman, Leigh. Your solo opinion, of course.’ He smiled wanly at Jesse.

Leigh took this as her cue to leave and was positively ecstatic to oblige. ‘I, uh, I’m so … I meant no offense, of course. I’m a really huge fan and, it’s just that—’

‘Please don’t apologize. It was a pleasure meeting you.’

With tremendous effort, Leigh resisted the urge to apologize again and managed to get herself off the couch, past Jesse, and out of Henry’s office without further humiliation, but one look at Henry’s assistant’s face and she knew she was screwed.

‘Was it really that bad?’ she asked, gripping the girl’s desk.

‘Whoa. That was ballsy.’

‘Ballsy? I didn’t intend to be ballsy. I was trying to be diplomatic! I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I said that. Ohmigod, eight years of work and it’s all down the drain because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Was it really that bad?’ Leigh asked again.

There was a pause. The assistant opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. ‘It wasn’t good.’

Leigh checked her watch and grudgingly acknowledged to herself that there was no chance of making her appointment or getting back in time for the calls she had scheduled all afternoon with various agents. Back in her office, she began to work the phones. Her first call was to cancel with Gilles and the second was to Barneys. A pleasant-sounding salesclerk in the men’s department agreed to messenger a gift to her office before six. Leigh was baffled when he asked what she’d like; unable to think clearly and not particularly caring, she instructed him to make it in the $200 range and charge her American Express.

By the time the gift-wrapped box arrived at five-thirty, Leigh was close to tears. She hadn’t heard another word from Henry, who usually couldn’t make it an hour without multiple phone calls or stop-ins. She’d managed to run to the gym briefly – no workout, just a quick shower – but she didn’t realize until she was standing under the blessedly hot water that she’d left her gym bag in the office, the one with her cosmetics, a change of underwear, and, most important, her hairdryer. Although she would have thought it impossible, the mini-dryer attached to the gym wall with what seemed like a two-inch cord actually left her hair looking significantly worse than it had before the shower. Russell and her mother called her cell phone during the walk back to her office, but she screened both of them.

I am a vile human being, Leigh thought as she examined herself in the ladies room closest to her office. It was almost seven and she’d only just ended her final phone call with one of her least favorite agents. Her hair hung in limp, frizzy strands, its flatness accentuated by the dark bags under eyes and the angry redness of a forehead pimple that had neither hair nor foundation to conceal it. She’d forgotten that Russell had once joked that she looked ‘lesbian chic’ in the blazer she was wearing, and although she’d always loved its shrunken fit and its chunky gold chains and the fact that it was Chanel – the only article of haute couture she owned – she had never noticed until this very moment that it made her look like a linebacker. ‘Don’t worry,’ she mumbled, unaware that she was talking to herself. ‘Russell’s a sports commentator. He works for ESPN. He dedicates his life to professional sports. Russell loves football players!’ And with that, clutching the gorgeously wrapped gift box from Barneys, trying not to worry about the fact that its contents were a complete mystery, she gathered her unkempt self and hustled downstairs to hail a cab.

Russell stood outside Daniel, looking relaxed and fit and happy. Like he’d just returned from a month in the Caribbean, where he’d done nothing but treat his body like a temple. His charcoal gray suit hugged every toned muscle. His skin glowed with the health of someone who runs six miles a day; he was freshly washed and shaven. Even his shoes – a pair of black lace-ups that he’d bought on their last trip to Milan – literally shined. He was groomed to perfection, and Leigh resented him for it. Who on earth managed to work a full day and keep their tie that clean or their shirt that crisp? How was it always possible to match that well, to have coordinated cuff links with trouser socks, shoes with briefcases?

‘Hi, gorgeous. I was starting to worry.’

She pecked him on the lips but moved away before he could open his mouth. ‘Worry? Why? I’m right on time.’

‘Well, you know, I just hadn’t heard from you all day. You did get the orchid, right? I know the purple ones are your favorite.’

‘I did. It was beautiful. Thank you so much.’ Her voice sounded strange to her own ears – it was the higher-pitched, polite tone she used with her doorman or dry cleaner.

Russell placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the front doors. They were immediately greeted by a tuxedoed man nearing the end of middle age who appeared to recognize Russell. They conferred momentarily in whispers, the maître d’ leaning in toward Russell, the two men clapping each other on the shoulders. A moment later, he motioned for a young girl in a tight but conservative pantsuit to show them to their table.

‘Football fan?’ Leigh asked, more to appear interested than because she actually was.

‘What? Oh, the maître d’? Yeah, he must have recognized me from the show. What else could explain this table, right?’