Miss Match

by Leslie Carroll

  “I . . . need to finish getting dressed,” Kathryn said, looking at the top of her right hand where Walker had so gently caressed her. “Our V.F.A. will be here in twenty minutes.” She disappeared into her bedroom.

  While Kathryn was putting the last-minute touches on her appearance, Walker made himself comfortable on her couch, fiddling with the remote control, unable to decide whether he wanted to watch the Mets or sit through Thunderball on American Movie Classics. He settled for channel-zapping between the two.

  Kathryn emerged in a form-fitting black minidress with a plunging neckline. Her straightened hair was pulled off her face and she was wearing spectacular gold earrings that looked to Walker as though they might have been handcrafted for Helen of Troy. She carried a little black velvet bag on a silken drawstring. Kathryn opened her front-hall closet and withdrew a black velvet devoré scarf, which she draped across her shoulders like an evening shawl.

  “Wow,” Walker breathed. “All I can say is . . . wow.”

  “That’s funny. That’s just what my sister said when she found out I was going to Nebuchadnezzar tonight with Rick Byron, ‘Hollywood’s Reigning Hunk,’ according to the September ninth issue of People.”

  “You look . . . spectacular,” he said, truly taken with the whole package before him. The movie star didn’t know how lucky he was. As far as Walker was concerned, it was Kathryn who was really the catch. “Don’t stay out too late,” he teased.

  “Hey, Bear. We have an agreement. Not only that, it’s thanks to you that I’m going on this date.”

  “Right. Very true.” Walker decided his reaction was simply proprietary. Josh of course, would have immediately labeled it for what it more likely was—jealousy. “Have fun, then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  The wind chimes jangled a sweet response as Kathryn closed the front door behind her.

  Kathryn tipped Carlos a wave and walked out into the night straight into a black Mercedes stretch limo that was waiting for her at the curb. Rick, sitting in a rich Corinthian leather-upholstered back seat the size of Kathryn’s kitchen, shook her hand and politely introduced himself. Kathryn laughed, realizing that his introduction was the proper and polite thing to do, but of course she knew who he was. He looked a little bit thinner than she remembered from seeing him on the silver screen, then reminded herself that the camera adds ten pounds. Although she noticed that no camera really did justice to his remarkable physiognomy. But what was this mania movie stars all seemed to have for highly lacquered—but untouchable—hair that was supposed to look as effortlessly tousled as though they had just emerged from a roll in the hay?

  His attire, though expensive—probably Armani—was nothing to look at: black blazer with a black, maybe charcoal gray cashmere T-shirt, and black trousers, so she concentrated on studying the actor’s face, from the fabled jawline to the blue eyes, which looked somehow bluer on film.

  He offered Kathryn some Roederer Cristal Brut, which she readily accepted. Drinking prohibitively expensive champagne in a limousine with a bona fide film star didn’t happen every Saturday night . . . although, if things went well, who knew? She twirled the delicate glass stem in her manicured hand. “These are lovely,” she said, admiring the crystal champagne flute. “Lalique?”

  “Maybe,” Rick shrugged. “My manager rents my limos. It’s whatever they stock them with. I just know it’s expensive.”

  The champagne had an immediate emboldening effect on Kathryn. In fact, just thinking about her current circumstances was giving her a high. “So, Rick, does your manager arrange your dates for you, too?”

  Rick gave her a playful shot in the arm and smiled. The killer grin she had seen on the cover of G.Q. and Esquire and Vanity Fair. “Low blow, Kathryn. Low blow.”

  “You can call me Kitty.”

  “Kitty.” He tried the word out on his tongue a couple of times. “Can I call you ‘Miss Kitty’? It sort of reminds me of Gunsmoke.” He leaned back against the buttery soft black leather seat, and gave her a long look. “I could see you running a saloon—or a bordello somewhere on the frontiers of civilization. Do you . . . ride?” His eyes slowly roamed from her face down the length of her body, lingering on her full breasts, which were more or less on display in the Little Black Dress. If anyone else had looked at her like that, she would have splashed the champagne in his face or dumped it in his crotch. But when Rick Byron— the Rick Byron—did it, she became intoxicated, even empowered, and considered the look the ultimate compliment. After all, he was used to dating professional bodies; models and actresses who could afford to spend four hours a day with a personal trainer.

  “Yeah,” he reiterated huskily. “Definitely a bordello.”

  The chauffeur opened the door for them when they reached Nebuchadnezzar. The V.F.A. slipped his arm proprietarily over Kathryn’s shoulder and escorted her into the trendy nightspot.

  “Evening Mr. Rick. Va bene?” asked an impeccably tailored and groomed dark-haired man at an ebony lectern near the coat check. He bestowed two air kisses in the direction of the actor’s cheeks.

  “Very well, thanks, Fabrizio,” the celebrity replied. “I’d like you to meet Miss Kitty Lamb, a very special friend of mine.”

  Kathryn received a set of air kisses from the European gentleman. “Bellissima,” he said softly, approvingly. Then he turned toward the actor. “Chantal will show you to your table.” He gestured in the direction of a statuesque black woman who had the same type of delicate, chiseled features as the East African model, Iman. Kathryn instantly felt inferior to the waitstaff.

  Chantal seated them at a cozy leather banquette in the far corner of the room, where like pashas they could survey the other patrons. A bottle of Cristal appeared on the table before Chantal’s swaying hips were halfway back to the front of the restaurant.

  “Fabrizio must make good tips. He’s quite a sartorial specimen for a maître d’,” Kathryn observed, tongue slightly in cheek.

  “He’s the owner,” Rick corrected.

  “Oops,” Kathryn said, as the actor filled her champagne flute. “He looks so young. And so good. I mean, he could be a movie star, too.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” the actor said, clinking his glass with Kathryn’s. “Steven Seagal started out as a personal trainer and martial arts instructor. Bottoms up.”

  “Cheers,” Kathryn replied, and clinked glasses again. She was trying not to be nervous, but she felt like any minute she was in danger of putting her foot in her mouth. Maybe she had done so already. “Is Fabrizio Italian?” she asked, finding it easier to discuss the owner than figuring out the right thing to say to her date. She would feel like a goof if she praised his most recent role, or something. Maybe he hated the picture. Then again, she had never known an actor who could resist a compliment.

  “He’s Monégasque—Fabrizio. His family is distantly related to the Grimaldis. Prince Albert comes in here all the time.”

  “Oh,” said Kathryn, duly impressed.

  “Oh, there’s Gwyneth and Jake Paltrow,” the actor said, gesturing to a sister and brother pairing of Hollywood royalty. “He’s a terrific filmmaker,” Rick said, nodding his head confidently. “And his sister’s not a bad little actress.”

  “I’d say she comes by it pretty honestly. Blythe’s just about the best there is.”

  “You know Gwyneth’s mother?” The star actually seemed impressed by something Kathryn had contributed to the conversation.

  “Brush with greatness,” she confessed. “I did three months of summer stock at the Williamstown Theatre Festival with her—but that was a lifetime ago. I taught Gwyneth how to do needlepoint, so that she wouldn’t get bored hanging around backstage.”

  “Should I wave them over?”

  “NO! Sorry—I have to admit I already feel way out of my league here. I feel like you’re going slumming this evening with Alice in Wonderland on mushrooms. The air in here is so rarefied.”

  A drop-dead gorgeous movie star wearin
g tight black jeans walked past their table. “Antonio,” Rick called. The man turned around and gave the V.F.A. a handshake. “How’s it going, amigo?” Antonio queried, looking at Kathryn the whole time. She felt like she’d died and gone to stud heaven.

  “Antonio, this is Kitty Lamb,” her date said, noticing that the handsome Latin actor had been checking her out. “Kitty, Antonio Banderas. Hey, give Melanie a kiss for me.”

  Antonio nodded, and then gave Kathryn her own nod. “Very nice to meet you,” he acknowledged, then headed off to the men’s room.

  Dinner lived up to its reputation for a restaurant acclaimed as much for its glittering clientele as for its food. Kathryn supposed such powerful movers and shakers wouldn’t tolerate anything substandard, especially the food, which is why they all flocked to Nebuchadnezzar in the first place. Kathryn’s demi canard de barbarie à l’orange sanguine—half a duckling with a glacé made from blood oranges—was truly terrific. The service, too, was discreet and the staff seemed to know what their regular customers liked to order. Kathryn spied cocktails and bottles of wine and champagne being brought to tables before they were ordered.

  Of course, another one of the biggest selling points about the chic watering hole was that it was dark. Couples were nuzzling in other dimly lit corners—in fact the restaurant seemed to have been designed to have more than four corners. Kathryn felt a little bit like she was in the back row of a darkened cinema. She was light-headed from all the Cristal, but it was a delicious, tingly sensation. There certainly was a vast difference between the finest champagne and the merely drinkable stuff. She feared she’d been spoiled for life.

  Her date was murmuring in her ear, regaling her with insider Hollywood gossip—who was gay, about to get divorced, go bankrupt, dropping first names as though he expected her to know each reference as personally as he did.

  “So, you’re a drama teacher?” he asked, finally getting around to discussing more mundane topics, like what she was doing with her life.

  “Yeah, I teach up at Briarcliff, in Riverdale. Lots of private school brats whose parents are politicians and Broadway producers. You probably wouldn’t have heard of it. Although it is one of New York’s best prep schools.” Wait a minute, Kathryn scolded herself. I shouldn’t apologize for what I do.

  “Hey! Why are you beating yourself up there, Miss Kitty? My mom was a Social Studies teacher back in Canton. I can’t think of a nobler profession. Even though she was the toughest grader in the school and all my friends hated her guts.”

  “Thanks.” Kathryn pretended to go for the cell phone in her little black velvet bag. “Would you mind telling that to my father? The noble profession part, I mean.”

  “I’ll go you one better,” Rick countered. “I’d love to come up one afternoon and talk to your kids. Just a real informal thing, not a big all-school assembly or anything. Just shoot the breeze with one of your classes. They’re acting students, right?”

  “My God . . . that would be super!” Kathryn answered, barely containing her glee. What a coup. That would be a pretty feather in her cap, sure as shootin’ put her in better with Barton, who seemed to have it in for her lately. Maybe she could even wangle a raise for scoring that maneuver. Maybe Barton would think there was more where that came from. Did they grant tenure at Briarcliff? “Yeah . . . Rick . . . that would truly be terrific. I’d—they’d love it.”

  A very pretty young man sidled up to their table while they were in the middle of dessert. He had dyed blond hair and wore earrings in each ear. “Did you know that if Cameron Diaz married James Cameron, she’d be Cameron Cameron?” He laughed at his own joke. “Hi, Rick, do you think you’ll be dropping by Lox, Cock, and Bagel later?”

  Kathryn had heard the name before, and was trying to place it when her date identified the establishment for her. “It’s an after-hours gay club on West Street where they serve a free Sunday brunch to the Saturday night crowd. They have the best house band in the city, though, which is why the straights all love to go dancing there.” He ran his hand through Kathryn’s kinky coppery corkscrew mane—which hadn’t remained tame for more than five minutes in the wet weather. It was a reminder to the inquisitive blond club-hopper that the film star played on Kathryn’s team. “It’s up to Miss Kitty,” he said mildly. “Nice to see you again, Hermès.”

  Hermès swished away from their banquette and Rick rolled his eyes. “Do you feel like going dancing later?”

  “Can we play it by ear?” Kathryn asked him.

  Rick brought his lips to Kathryn’s ear and nuzzled her. Then, masked by her cascading hair, he stuck his tongue in her ear, and she almost jumped out of her skin. It was an amazingly erotic, and entirely unexpected, gesture. “That’s a very good idea,” he whispered, his breath suddenly cool, drying the wetness in her ear. “By the way, you smell wonderful .” He gave her “goddess” earring a tiny push that sent it swinging like a little golden pendulum; then he turned her face toward his, tipping her chin to him, and kissed her full and warm on the mouth. His hands journeyed from her long, thick hair across her shoulders, caressing her back, and down to her gently rounded hips.

  Kathryn responded entirely, aware for the briefest of moments of a flash going off somewhere in their vicinity. At the very least, she’d have something to tell her grandchildren—if she ever found a husband. No wonder there were so many offscreen and backstage romances among costars. With just one kiss, she could readily believe herself instantly in love with her date. He certainly made her feel like the only woman who mattered to him in the entire solar system.

  The kiss seemed to go on and on. It was easy to see why her date was considered Hollywood’s Reigning Hunk. He sure could put his mouth where his money was. Or something like that. Wow. When Rick finally pulled away to come up for air, he rearranged Kathryn’s dress, the left shoulder of which had slipped perilously low. “We can go dancing at Lox, Cock, and Bagel . . .” he murmured, once more nuzzling the nape of her neck, “. . . or we can go back to my hotel room.”

  Chapter 12

  He’s not quite as tall as he looks on film, Kathryn thought when she finally got a real chance to stand beside the star as they walked into the plush lobby of the Plaza Hotel. Her mind had been so overwhelmed when she first arrived at Nebuchadnezzar, she hadn’t realized that he was under six feet—although just about everyone was taller than Kathryn.

  Heads swiveled when the actor poked his head into the smoky bar off the Oak Room. They were immediately ushered to a table by a fawning maître d’, who practically tripped over his flat feet to call a captain to alert a waiter that the V.F.A. and his date wished to order two Irish coffees. The actor had proposed a nightcap before they went upstairs. Kathryn needed her courage bolstered anyway—she could scarcely believe what she was contemplating doing—although, she reasoned, wouldn’t just about any woman, presented with such an opportunity, embrace it with—at the very least—open arms?

  Irish whiskey co-mingled with champagne in Kathryn’s bloodstream. She downed her tumbler of ice water, and asked her date if he minded if she drank his as well. When he excused himself to visit the men’s room, Kathryn sneaked into her purse for a couple of Excedrin, convincing herself that it was the cigarette and cigar smoke that was causing her headache, rather than the overabundance of champagne followed by the alcoholic nightcap. And when the film star re-joined her, he ordered a bottle of Cristal brought up to his room.

  “I have a suite here when I’m in New York,” he told her. “It’s cheaper than having an apartment in the long run.”

  “So how much time do you find yourself spending in Gotham City?” Kathryn asked, enunciating each word. She realized she had begun to slur a bit.

  “I prefer New York to L.A.,” he replied. “So I try to get involved with projects here as often as I can. My next picture is going into preproduction now, and it’s going to be shot here—I convinced Miramax not to go to Toronto—so I should be here for at least the next three months or so.”


  “Sounds great,” Kathryn enthused. “What is it?”

  “Ahh . . . well . . .” Rick fingered an amulet that hung around his neck. “It’s bad luck to talk about a project before it starts filming,” he said. “I’ve had really bad karma with that kind of stuff in the past.” He noticed her interest in his necklace. “This is from my grandmother,” he said. “To keep away the evil eye. She’s Greek— believes in that sort of thing—and who’s to say it’s b.s.?”

  He looked over at Kathryn and saw that she looked a little disappointed at his reluctance to talk about the film. He hadn’t meant her to think he was treating her as though she were some nosy journalist from Entertainment Tonight. “Oh, it’s not you, Miss Kitty,” the actor said, scruffing the back of her neck. “It’s the karma thing.” He waved to the captain, who brought over a heavy brown leather portfolio. Rick scribbled his name in huge letters, and scrawled in a room number. No ego problems there, Kathryn thought, as she observed the size of his signature. The captain would probably take the autograph home for his wife—or sell it on e-Bay.

  She felt herself getting increasingly anxious during the ride up in the private elevator to an exclusive floor. The movie star opened the door with a passkey that resembled a credit card. Kathryn took in the sight before her. Versailles meets sleep-away camp. The elegance of the baroque décor, in shades of gold, crimson, and cream, was undercut by overgarments and underclothes tossed everywhere. Clearly, the man was accustomed to having either a mother or a maid or a manager pick up after him. Left to his own devices, he seemed to let everything fall where it may. On the floor lay an open cardboard pizza box, a congealed wedge or two with the odd crust sitting inside, decorated with a carelessly tossed pair of navy cotton men’s briefs. Kathryn had to admit to herself that the atmosphere was a little bit of a turn-off, and she wondered what she had expected instead. Perhaps his lack of domestic discipline reflected the kind of spontaneous, kinetic personality that made his performances so offbeat and appealing. She refused to believe that he might just be a slob.