Her mother materialized out of nowhere; her eyes expertly assessed Adriana’s appearance. There was a barely discernible nod of approval before the woman said, “He’s not picking you up?”
“His hotel is on the Upper East Side, and so is the party. He sent a car instead.” No one insisted on chivalry more than Adriana, but even she recognized the absurdity of a man riding eighty blocks downtown just to turn around and drive back again.
Mrs. de Souza did not. “Oh,” she murmured vaguely, implying without a word that she disapproved.
“Don’t wait up.” Adriana cinched on a Burberry trench—her most conservative coat—and kissed her mother’s cheek.
“What time do you think you’ll be home?”
“Mama…”
Mrs. de Souza held up her hands. “You’re right, I apologize. Go, have fun. It’s just that your father and I would like to meet Mr. Baron soon. Isn’t that right, Renato?”
Mr. de Souza glanced up from his O Globo only long enough to nod and tell Adriana that she looked beautiful and to wish her a wonderful time.
Adriana escaped the apartment without any more questions and held her breath as she waited for the elevator. It really was too much already. She was a grown woman, and still she had to endure the same parental questioning and involvement as a teenager.
She stepped out into the elegant marble lobby, so wrapped up in her anger that at first she didn’t notice anyone in the lobby.
“Adi, over here,” a voice called out.
Adriana turned to see Leigh standing in the building’s tiny mailroom off the lobby, sorting through a pile of papers.
“Hi.” Adriana sighed dramatically, sidling up next to her.
Leigh didn’t look up, just tossed a Victoria’s Secret catalog in the trash. “Nothing’ll make you feel like shit faster than that rag,” she said. “Well, not you, obviously, but the rest of us.”
“Oh, please, you’re gorgeous,” Adriana said automatically, although she was pleased—and in full agreement—with Leigh’s assessment.
“Where are you headed tonight?”
Another sigh. “With Toby to some dreadful industry dinner party. Studio execs or producers or some such, in town for a reason I can’t remember.”
“Maybe it won’t be that bad. Where is it?”
“Uptown.”
Leigh crinkled her nose. “Oh. That sucks.”
“What are you up to?” Adriana already knew what the answer was but felt she should ask anyway. Leigh was a lot of really wonderful things, but fun wasn’t one of them.
“Me?” Leigh glanced down at her flannel pajama pants and laughed. “I’ve got a hot date with my TiVo and a pint of Tasti D-Lite. Shocker, I know.”
Adriana shook her head. “And where’s your fiancé? No, wait—let me guess. He’s out somewhere like a normal person, having fun and being sociable, and you refused to go with him?”
“I didn’t refuse, I just opted out. Besides, I have a ton of work to do.”
“Okay, okay, querida, I must be going. If I stay here a moment longer, I’m going to get very upset with you. I’m going to sound like your mother and ask why someone as young and beautiful and charming as yourself insists on hibernating instead of flourishing.”
“Flourishing? Did you just say that?” Leigh glanced at the cover of a Sharper Image catalog and tossed that one out, too.
“Ach!” Adriana threw her hands up in frustration. The girl was impossible. And what a waste of a perfectly good boyfriend. Poor Russell probably just wanted to go out, relax a bit, have a little fun, and his girlfriend didn’t know the meaning of the word. “You should be going to this boring dinner tonight and I should be out with Russell, having fun.”
Leigh rolled her eyes. “Go! Say hi to Toby for me. And behave yourself, will you? No mischief at the dinner party.”
“What, are you worried we’re going to have sex in the bathroom?” Adriana asked with a grin.
“I’m more worried that you’ll have sex in the bathroom with someone other than Toby.”
Adriana pretended to consider this. “Hmm. I hadn’t even thought of that. Very interesting…”
The ride up to Seventy-fourth and Park was interminable. She was too young for formal dinner parties uptown! Too young to bury her beautiful figure under knee-length skirts and trench coats! Too young to be with only one man for the rest of her life! It was all so silly, this rush to find a husband just because she’d soon be thirty. Such pressure! From her parents, but from her friends, too: Why were they so convinced that their path was the correct one? Adriana grew angrier with every passing block; by the time they soared past the MetLife building she had resolved to end this entire farce once and for all. So she’d lose a bet—big deal.
The town car flew past Bear Stearns, and Adriana couldn’t help but think of Emmy’s Duncan, as she always did when she passed the building where he had once famously (in her mind, at least) claimed to “run shit.” She’d never liked him, but Adriana had to admit that he was a reasonably attractive, overly confident, typical New York banker who pretty much had his pick when it came to girls. Wasn’t it safe to assume that if Duncan had traded Emmy in for someone eight years younger, his friends and colleagues would do the same? Of course it was. And there was always Yani. Over the last few months she’d stepped up her efforts to flirt with him, make him notice her, until it had all ended one devastating morning when she saw him kiss another girl after class. Not one who was prettier or in better shape, mind you, but with a clear and undeniable advantage: She couldn’t have been a day over twenty. And finally there was Toby. Her mother might have said it first, but Adriana didn’t disagree: While there was no shortage of successful, handsome, wealthy men, not that many were straight or single. Of those left, how many would choose to marry a thirtysomething woman over a fresh-faced girl of twenty-two, one who looked up at them with big, adoring eyes and an expression that said, “I revere you and think every syllable you utter is the word of god”? Adriana knew she could fake it for a bit in the beginning, but her days of worshipping men were long gone—if they were worthy of her attention, they could worship her.
Toby was waiting for her outside the building when she arrived. Adriana almost told him he should have worn a pair of slacks with his blazer instead of jeans—Park Avenue and the Hollywood Hills didn’t exactly share the same dress code—but she remembered to channel her inner twenty-two-year-old, leaned in close, and whispered in his ear, “You look so hot tonight. I can’t wait until later.”
His face lit up with unabashed joy. “Really?”
Good lord, it was too easy. Mr. Superstar Director might ooze cockiness and confidence when it came to making movies, but he clearly wasn’t accustomed to this kind of compliment. Adriana did a quick calculation and figured she had probably just knocked a full month off of Ring Quest ’08.
“Really,” she purred.
The doorman greeted them by name and ushered them into the richly upholstered elevator. “Take it to the top,” he said without a trace of irony. Adriana rolled her eyes and Toby laughed. This isn’t so bad, she thought, allowing him to wrap his arms around her from behind as the elevator closed. He’s cuddly and sweet and he loves me. I could get used to this, if I must.
Which lasted precisely ten more seconds, just long enough for the elevator to open directly into the penthouse apartment and for Adriana to lock eyes with the very first person she saw.
“Well, look who it is,” Toby bellowed, releasing Adriana and moving forward to shake the man’s hand. “Sweetheart, I’d like to introduce you to someone. Dean Decker, this is Adriana de Souza. Adriana, Dean.”
Adriana’s mind went into overdrive. How did Dean and Toby know each other? Had she mentioned Toby to Dean on the plane that day? Was she about to be caught or busted by anyone for anything? She quickly concluded that no, as of this moment, she had done nothing wrong, but she was still too shocked to react in any sort of appropriate fashion. Thankfully, Dean appeared much more c
omposed. Amused, even.
“Adriana, is it? Great name. Well, hey, it’s nice to meet you.” He offered his hand.
“You, too,” she managed. She could feel the hair on her arms stand up when her hand touched his. His utter scrumptiousness was impossible to deny, especially since he was sporting the exact same outfit (black blazer, white shirt, and jeans) as Toby. Just moments before Toby had looked reasonably attractive, but now, standing in direct comparison to Dean, he appeared shockingly troll-like. Adriana’s mind flashed to a disturbing image: photos of Toby and Dean side by side on US Weekly’s “Who Wore It Better” page, with a full hundred percent of those polled in Rockefeller Center voting for Dean. She’d never seen a full hundred-percent vote before—not even the time they had pitted Rosie O’Donnell against Petra Nemcova—but in her imaginary layout, the results were crystal clear.
Seeming unaware of both their matching outfits and his stunning defeat, Toby wrapped one arm possessively around Adriana’s shoulders and pulled her closer to Dean, so all their three heads were inches apart. “We’ve just signed Dean for the lead in Around Her,” he announced in a conspiratorial voice.
Adriana’s eyes darted to Dean.
“It’s true.” Dean nodded and grinned.
Adriana felt herself reeling with surprise. “Really?” she squeaked. Pull it together! Adriana reprimanded herself. She took a deep breath and then put on a smile, the real dazzler she usually reserved for special occasions (meeting a current lover’s wife, asking Papa for a new car, etc.).
“How wonderful! Congratulations to you both.” There. That was more like it.
A tall, striking woman in a timeless Chanel suit approached them.
“Welcome to our little fete,” she trilled, air-kissing the general area around the group. “We’re just delighted all you California boys could make it.”
“Catherine,” Toby said, clasping her hands and kissing both cheeks.
Adriana wanted to puke. Puh-lease! The only thing worse than Europeans being Europeans was Americans being Europeans!
“I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend, Adriana de Souza.” At the sound of the g-word, Adriana stole a glance at Dean, who was already looking at her with eyebrows raised and an amused look on his face. “And also Dean Decker. Adriana, Dean, this lovely lady is your hostess for the evening.”
Adriana turned to the woman, who, upon closer inspection, was older than she’d originally thought, probably closer to sixty. She forced out the usual platitudes about such a beautiful apartment, so glad to be there, love your necklace, blah, blah, blah, but the woman only stared at her. After allowing Adriana to ramble on in this manner for a bit, Catherine cupped Adriana’s chin and slowly, with great gentleness, as though she were handling fine china, turned her face back and forth.
“My, my, you are lovely,” Catherine said, gazing at Adriana. “Excellent cheekbones and pretty, wide eyes. But your skin!” The woman groaned. “The complexion of an angel.”
Well, this was more like it. Adriana found herself flashing her second award-winning smile that night. “Thank you! How nice of you to say.” She tried for an embarrassed, or at least humbled, expression, but wasn’t sure of the outcome.
“Catherine…,” Toby said in a warning voice.
“Sorry, I know—no work at a party. I promise not to bother her tonight, although all bets are off for Monday.”
The woman looked up as two more guests appeared in the foyer. “The bar is through there, in the living room.” She gestured to a set of imposing French doors. “Please excuse me for just a moment.”
“I think I’m going to make a beeline for the booze,” Dean announced as Catherine floated to greet her new guests. “See you two later?”
“Later, man,” Toby said, trying to sound cool but just sounding old.
Adriana barely knew where to begin. Did she grill Toby first about Dean or Catherine?
“You’ll have to be careful, or you might just find yourself in the pages of Marie Claire,” Toby said, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a roving waiter’s tray and thrusting one toward Adriana.
“Catherine works at Marie Claire?” Adriana demanded.
“Catherine used to work at Marie Claire. She was the booking editor for decades and is credited with discovering loads of now-famous models. So that’s quite a compliment she paid you. Not that I didn’t know it already…” He leaned in close enough that Adriana could smell the champagne on his breath.
“Interesting,” Adriana said. “Very, very interesting.” She’d have to ask her mother about Catherine; if the woman really was the booking guru at Marie Claire, then Mrs. de Souza would certainly have known her.
“Come, darling. Let me show you off.”
When it came time for dinner, Adriana located her place card, only to find that she was seated between a female editor from Marie Claire and Dean. Catherine had—as all good hostesses do and all their guests hate them for—split all the couples and scattered them around the table to encourage fresh conversation among strangers. Not ideal, but not a total disaster, either. She could’ve been seated between Dean and Toby; that would not have been fun. Adriana assessed the scene, devised a game plan, and took her seat. She nodded at Dean and then, as planned, quickly turned to her left. Adriana leaned in close to the woman, so close they nearly touched foreheads, and said, “Do you realize how lucky you are? You’re seated next to the most gorgeous man in the room.”
The woman, whom Toby had introduced earlier as Mackenzie Michaels, the woman to know at Marie Claire, stared blankly at Adriana for a moment, undecided in her reaction. Adriana merely nodded, as if to say, Well, it’s true, and Mackenzie stole a furtive glance to her left. Adriana watched as her eyes widened and she inhaled. Sitting on Mackenzie’s other side was a guy even more gorgeous than Dean. He was wearing a fitted, funky pinstriped Thom Browne–esque suit with no tie. His hair was clipped tight around the back and sides, but the slightly longer top was just the right amount of spiky: cool, but not trying too hard. But best of all was how he just seemed to gleam. His skin looked freshly scrubbed and shaved and tan from the actual sun and not the salon; his fingernails were cut short and straight with a subtle shine that managed not to look the least bit effeminate; even his tassel-toed leather loafers glinted in the light.
Mackenzie turned back to Adriana and groaned. “You’re right. He’s a fucking god,” she whispered.
Adriana surveyed Mackenzie’s hands and, finding no rings, said, “Go for it, querida. Make him yours.”
Mackenzie laughed, a sort of snort that wasn’t nearly as delicate or as feminine as Adriana’s. “Yeah, right. I’d have a better chance of going home with Matt Damon tonight.”
“Is he here?” Adriana asked, forgetting her promise to herself not to look in Dean’s direction. She scanned the table, carefully going over the faces of all twelve guests.
“No, he’s not here,” Mackenzie said with a laugh. “I was just making a point: There’s no way in hell that gorgeous guy would go for me.”
Again, Adriana assessed her new friend. Average height. Better-than-average face, with a cute button nose and a nice smile. Decent enough figure, she guessed, although it was impossible to tell what was happening under that babydoll dress. How she loathed babydoll dresses! Every woman on earth, herself included, looked either morbidly obese or eight months pregnant in babydoll dresses, and yet they were all the rage. Adriana suspected Mackenzie might even be hiding a pretty decent rack under that muumuu…a crime if there ever was one. Thankfully, the woman was somewhat saved by her flawless grooming. She sported a sleek blowout, what looked like professionally applied makeup, and a shoes-and-bag combo that most of womankind would kill for. Her appearance, combined with her success as one of the most sought-after magazine editors in New York, as Adriana would later learn, should have propelled Mackenzie into the stratosphere of confident women; her insecurity made absolutely no sense.
Before Adriana could do a thing to stop her, Macke
nzie turned to the hot guy, tapped his arm insistently, and cleared her throat. She didn’t seem to notice that she was interrupting his conversation with the woman to his left, nor did she catch the surprised and slightly irritated look on his face. He swiveled around and peered at Mackenzie.
“Hello,” he said in a neutral voice, but Adriana could tell what he really meant was “Yes? Can I help you with something?”
Mackenzie plastered on a huge fake smile and extended her hand, a rather awkward gesture considering how tightly everyone was packed in around the table. She ended up looking slightly spastic, a fact that wasn’t lost on the guy. “Hi there. I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Mackenzie Michaels, features editor at Marie Claire. Probably not your typical reading, since it’s a women’s magazine—but actually, come to think of it, we do have quite a few male readers. And surprisingly, they’re not all gay, which is—”
“Mackenzie, querida? Would you happen to have a little breath mint, or perhaps a stick of chewing gum?” Adriana asked, gripping the woman’s arm. It wasn’t brilliant, but it was the best she could possibly do with this woman she barely knew. Besides, she didn’t really care what was said, just so long as Mackenzie stopped talking. It was painful to see, like sitting in the front row as a comedian floundered or the best man flubbed his toast. It made her uncomfortable, and for this reason alone Adriana stepped in.
She looked at the hot guy and it occurred to her, for just a moment, that he was a delectable prospect. If Mackenzie was going to sabotage herself…But no! She had been lucky enough to find her future husband, and she wouldn’t allow this dime-a-dozen playboy to tempt her. This mission was strictly one of necessity, not pleasure.
“Allo!” She turned up the Brazilian accent a few notches. “I am Adriana. Do you mind if I borrow my friend for just a moment?”
Mackenzie opened her mouth to interject, but Adriana took the liberty of pinching her forearm.
The hot guy smiled, nodded, and turned back to his original conversation.
Adriana could feel the iciness radiating from Mackenzie’s whole body, but she was even more acutely aware of Dean’s presence on her right. He’d watched the whole thing, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that he was smiling. Then there was Toby, who, from the other end of the table, was using her name in conversation loudly enough that she could hear every word. She should be curled up on a dark banquette with a caipirinha and a boy, and instead she was enduring one social awkwardness after another.
Chasing Harry Winston Page 22
