Adriana interrupted her with a singsongy laugh. “Must run, querida! Have fun tonight, and happy new year! I’ll talk to you next year!”
The exchange left Emmy feeling strange, a little off-kilter, the way she used to feel in junior high when she watched her friends shoplift lipstick from Kmart: not a hundred percent guilty, but nervous and slightly ashamed. Wasn’t she doing exactly as they’d ordered? She wasn’t trying to make anyone her husband—not so much as a single wedding dream in months!—and still she could sense their disapproval. It seemed so unfair. Even the angel Leigh had been with twelve, maybe fifteen guys before Russell, and no one thought that was particularly noteworthy. And Adriana! Good lord. The girl had slept with men (plural) she’d met in cabs on the way home from parties at the end of the night, having never laid eyes on them before, and she had the nerve to act shocked when Emmy met a nice boy through a work-related function and made a sober, mature decision to have a fling. Pardon me, Adi, she thought to herself with a roll of the eyes, an affair. Having sex with three perfectly polite and handsome men did not a femme fatale make.
Vowing not to let the memory of her friend’s newfound prudishness bother her, Emmy pushed aside her plate and snuggled into Rafi’s muscular embrace.
“Do you want to see a movie tonight?” she crooned, covering his forearm with little kisses. “Or maybe just order something on Pay-Per-View?”
Rafi stroked her hair and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but I’ve got to get back home.” He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Actually, I’d better get moving now.”
“Now?” Emmy shot up, almost knocking his jaw with her shoulder. Weren’t they going to spend the whole afternoon in bed, making love and taking baths and drinking yogurt smoothies? She figured they’d enjoy that at least until nightfall, at which point they could pull on whatever clothes were lying around and drag themselves to some hole-in-the-wall dive with great food that was known only to locals. They’d feast on falafel and hummus and gulp cheap red wine, and then they’d stagger back to the hotel, laughing and holding hands and falling into each other the whole way back. Satiated and exhausted, they’d collapse into the cool sheets and sleep for ten straight hours, only to wake and make love some more before he drove her to the airport and kissed away her tears, vowing to come visit her in New York over the holidays, if not before. Surely she’d meet his parents then, too—normally, it would be much too soon, but considering he’d be coming all the way from Israel and they were only in Philadelphia, it would be downright silly not to meet for a meal, even if it was just a quick lunch somewhere on the—
“Emmy? Sweetheart, I told you yesterday that I’d be driving south today. Don’t you remember?” His voice sounded concerned, but Emmy was convinced she detected the faintest hint of irritation.
Of course she remembered him saying that he’d have to leave, but she certainly hadn’t believed it.
Emmy nuzzled into his neck. “I remember, Rafi, but that was…that was yesterday. You still have to leave?” She hated the sound of her voice, pleading and a little bit pathetic. She’d just finished telling anyone who would listen that she was just in it for casual, unattached fun, and here she was clinging to this near stranger like a barnacle. Please don’t pull a Paul! she thought urgently. Please, please, please.
He moved away ever so slightly and gave her a strange look. “Yeah, I still have to go” were the words he actually uttered, but what Emmy heard was something closer to “The last twenty-four hours were great, but not so great that I’m going to change my plans and stay with you.”
Stung, Emmy tucked the sheet under her arms and rolled, making sure to keep as much skin covered as possible. She felt exposed and vulnerable, yes, but it was more than that: It had happened suddenly, but she was now acutely aware that she would most likely never see Rafi again. So what if his departure only confirmed that they were just having a good time? That was all she wanted, anyway. Rafi was sweet and handsome, but she barely knew him and, were she being completely honest, she couldn’t see them spending the rest of their lives together. So why get upset over him leaving when he said he was going to all along? It was quite simple, so simple that Emmy suspected every woman on the planet instinctively understood the concept even when no man was able to wrap his brain around it: She didn’t necessarily want him to stay, she just wanted him to want to stay. Was that really asking too much? And even though she would never, ever agree to go with him—truth be told, she could use a little alone time, and there was no denying she needed to catch up on work—couldn’t he have had the decency to ask? A simple invitation to join him? Was that really so unreasonable?
He climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
“I’m going to jump in the shower,” he called, the door already closing. “I hope you know you’re welcome to join me if you want.”
Join what? The shower? The trip down south? The rest of his life as his beloved betrothed?
This was exhausting. If she was going to make this kind of emotional investment in someone, he should at least be a proper boyfriend. But for a casual fling? She could drive herself crazy. The doubts were racing through her mind (Just admit you’re not cut out for this lifestyle, You’re a monogamist at heart, Stop acting like an immature party girl, and on and on).
Get it together, Emmy told herself as she resolutely pulled on a pair of dependable cotton bikinis and one of her full-coverage, heavily padded, where-sex-goes-to-die bras. A navy pantsuit and white button-down shirt came next, and just as she heard the shower turn off, Emmy chose her classic loafers over the high-heeled pumps she’d been wearing for the last few weeks. By the time Rafi emerged, fully dressed in clean jeans and a blue shirt, Emmy was perched primly on the bed, flipping through her Filofax while trying to act aloof and preoccupied.
Rafi stood over her, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and kissed her neck. It was an intimate move, suggestive of people who had spent loads of time together, and for a moment Emmy was pleased. Pleased, that is, until Rafi released her hair and, after giving her a rather paternal kiss on the forehead, began to gather his watch and wallet and canvas backpack. He’d collected his things in just a minute and didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Emmy appeared both silent and completely absorbed in her scheduling.
“I know you must have a lot of work to do, sweetheart, so I won’t make this a long, sappy good-bye.” He plucked his sunglasses from the night table and pushed them on top of his head.
“Mmm” was all Emmy managed. Was he really going to just up and leave?
“Come here, give me a hug.” He squeezed her arm to indicate she should stand up; when she obliged, she found herself in the middle of an embrace so lukewarm, so passionless, that it could have been shared with a distant grandfather or a close hairstylist. “Emmy, this was great. Really, really great.”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled again. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
He followed this with another fatherly kiss and the obligatory hug, then headed to the door. “Safe flight tomorrow. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“You, too,” she said automatically, with no feeling, although this did elicit from him a relieved smile, one that seemed to say, Thank god you’re not going to make this any more complicated than need be.
A second later he was gone. It took Emmy only another minute or so to realize he hadn’t bothered to ask for her e-mail address or phone number: She would never, ever see him again…and he clearly couldn’t care less.
the perfect-for-right-now relationship
The therapist’s hands felt sensational working over her knotted shoulders, but even with the mood music and dimmed lighting and lavender aromatherapy oils, Leigh couldn’t calm her mind. The month since she’d slept with Jesse had been torture, and for someone who was accustomed to obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviors, well, that was saying a lot. There had not been a single second—literally, not one—that wasn’t spent hashing and rehashing
what had happened with Jesse, what was going to happen with Russell, or some twisted combination of the two. She’d been prepared to tell Russell everything immediately, but then she had a bit of time to think during her drive home from the Hamptons and had reconsidered. It wouldn’t be fair to Russell or either of their parents to ruin everyone’s Thanksgiving with some dramatic—and most likely relationship-ending—announcement. It had helped matters significantly when she’d received a voice mail from Jesse saying that he was leaving the following day for a holiday trip to Indonesia and wouldn’t return until after the new year. It was almost like he was handing her a free pass on a silver platter, and although her conscience begged to be cleared, she decided she would bear the guilt and pretend that everything was fine until they’d all gotten through those horrible weeks of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s.
Somehow Leigh had made it through the last few weeks without having a complete nervous breakdown, but she was even more of a basket case than usual. With Emmy in Israel and Adriana in Brazil, she hadn’t even had the opportunity to share with her friends what she’d done, although were she to be honest with herself, she was also relieved not to have to say it aloud. She’d even endured a particularly painful New Year’s Eve party at one of Russell’s colleague’s apartments—a loft that was almost identical to Russell’s, only this one was in SoHo—but when it came time to head back to work on January 2, she just couldn’t do it. She called in sick that day and the next, an event so rare it warranted a suspicious phone call from Henry.
“Are you really sick, Eisner, or did something happen I should know about?” he had asked. She’d called to leave him a message on his voice mail at six in the morning, but he’d picked up on the second ring. Henry was a lifelong Sunday-night insomniac, so he’d taken to arriving at the office at four or five in the morning on Mondays, claiming those few isolated hours were his only decent work time the entire week. In her distress Leigh had forgotten this.
“What are you talking about?” Leigh asked with passably believable irritation. “Of course I’m actually sick. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you haven’t taken a sick day in all the years you’ve worked here, coupled with the fact that Jesse Chapman—fresh off the plane from Asia—left me three messages yesterday and another two this morning already. Just call me intuitive like that.”
“What did he say?” Leigh asked. She knew in her heart that their professional relationship was essentially over, but she wanted the opportunity to present it to Henry herself, when she was ready.
Leigh could hear Henry sipping something and then chuckling. “He didn’t say a goddamn thing. Claims he was just ‘checking in,’ and ‘touching base’ and ‘saying hello,’ which, coming from Mr. Chapman, may as well be skywriting for ‘something is completely fucked and I’m trying to ascertain whether you know what it is or not.’”
Leigh inhaled, simultaneously impressed with Henry’s perceptiveness and angry at Jesse’s transparency. “Well, I can’t speak for Jesse, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to report. The manuscript is not yet where I want it to be, but it’s no cause for concern,” she said with a steadiness she didn’t feel.
Henry paused for a moment, started to speak, and then changed his mind. “So that’s your story and you’re sticking to it, huh? All right. I don’t buy it, but I’ll accept it—for now. But the moment anything arises that puts our publication date in jeopardy, I want to know about it. I don’t care what time of the day or night, whether it comes by FedEx or fucking carrier pigeon, I want to know. Okay?”
“Of course! Henry, you don’t need to impress upon me how important this is, I promise. I swear I’m handling it. And I hate to cut this short, but it feels like I’m swallowing shards of glass right now.”
“Glass, huh?”
Leigh nodded even though no one could see her. “Yeah, I’m guessing it’s strep, so I probably won’t be in tomorrow, either. But I have my laptop at home, and of course I’m always on my cell.”
“Well, feel better. And I’m glad we had this little chat.”
A shot of pain in her neck brought her back to the massage she’d scheduled right after hanging up with Henry. She flinched.
“Oh, sorry,” the therapist said. “Was that too hard?”
“No, not at all,” Leigh lied. She knew it was acceptable to provide feedback during a massage, that it was silly to pay a boatload of money and not enjoy it or, worse yet, to endure an hour’s worth of pain, but no matter how often she was reassured of these facts, Leigh could not bring herself to say anything. Each time she swore to herself that she’d speak up, and each time she gritted her teeth through kneading that was too strong, music that was too loud, or a room that was too cold. She wondered if she was worried about hurting the masseuse’s feelings. That would be ironic. No hesitation whatsoever in cheating on her fiancé, but better not tell the salaried stranger that you’d prefer a softer touch! Leigh shook her head in disgust.
“I am hurting you, aren’t I?” the girl asked in response to Leigh’s movement.
“Hurting is an understatement, actually. It’s more like getting pummeled by a professional boxer,” Leigh said without thinking.
The girl began to apologize profusely. “Ohmigod, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I can definitely be much gentler.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean it like that. It just, um, it came out wrong. Everything’s great,” Leigh rushed to say. Why couldn’t she control her own mouth?
The massage had seemed like a good idea that morning—if ever she’d needed to relax, it was now, and one of her authors had sent her a gift certificate for Christmas, so she didn’t have to feel guilty about spending the money—but so far it had only served to provide a solitary, quiet chunk of time during which Leigh could do nothing but think.
She and Russell had plans to discuss the wedding over dinner that night, and Leigh could think of nothing she dreaded more.
“Your whole neck is knotted up pretty tight. Are you feeling a lot of stress lately?” the girl asked, working a muscle with her flattened palm in the same painful circular motion.
“Mmm,” Leigh murmured noncommittally, praying the girl would intuit her disinterest in chatting.
“Yeah, I can tell. People always wonder how we know where they’re carrying their tension, and I’m always like, ‘C’mon, guys, that’s what we’re trained for,’ you know? Sure, anyone can rub your back and make it feel good, but it definitely takes a professional to locate those specific pressure points and smooth them out. So, what is it?” she asked. Her voice was low and not particularly grating, but the speed with which she talked made her sound anxious herself.
“What’s what?” Leigh asked, annoyed that she was being forced to participate in this exchange.
“What’s all your stress related to?”
For someone who had stopped seeing a shrink because she found it too revealing, Leigh was not thrilled with this line of questioning. Or any questioning, on anything, from anyone. And yet she was entirely unable to utter a few simple words, something along the lines of “I have a bit of a headache; would you mind if I just lie here quietly?” Instead, Leigh made up some inane story about tough deadlines at work and the pressure of planning the perfect Greenwich wedding. The girl clucked sympathetically. Leigh wondered what sort of reaction she might elicit were she to describe the real source of her tension, i.e., the fact that she had slept with one of her authors (and by “slept with,” she really meant “had the best sex of her life in every imaginable position and variation over the course of ten mind-blowing hours”) while still acting the part of loving and excited partner to her sweet, supportive, and totally clueless fiancé.
By the time the massage ended, Leigh felt slightly more anxious and significantly less relaxed. She pulled on her clothes—not even bothering to shower off the scented oils—and mentally tried to prepare herself to deal with the mess she had creat
ed. All she really wanted to do was return to her childhood home, curl up under the blankets, and lose herself in some TiVo. She wanted it so bad she could feel it, and she was just about to drive Russell’s car to her parents’ when another image flashed into her mind. It, too, had a soft comforter and her favorite novels, but it included a panorama of both parents arriving home and attacking her with questions. Why are you here in the middle of the week? Where’s Russell? How’s work going? When are we going to choose the menu for the reception? What’s happening with Jesse’s book? Where are you going to register? Why do you look so miserable? Why? Where? When? Tell us, Leigh, tell us! Her dull headache now had that special ice-pick quality to it, and she suddenly felt particularly gross with a layer of clammy leftover massage oil between her skin and her clothes.
She paid quickly and managed to stand her ground when asked to fill out a survey on her experience with the spa.
“You sure?” the receptionist asked, snapping her gum in quick, irritating bursts. “You get a fifteen-percent-off coupon for your next treatment.”
“Thanks, but I’m in a rush,” Leigh lied, almost smiling to herself (almost) when she calculated that probably half of what she said these days was completely untrue. She scrawled an unrecognizable signature on the gift certificate, handed over a twenty-five-percent tip in cash out of guilt for not being chattier with the therapist, and ducked out the front door before one more gum crack could drive her to murderous action.
Even with a heavy load of rush-hour traffic, the cab ride from the Upper East Side spa to TriBeCa felt like it took only thirty seconds. The cabbie was just dropping her off in front of Russell’s building when her phone rang.
“Hey,” Russell said when she clicked it open. He sounded different somehow, more distant, but Leigh told herself she was just imagining that.
“Hi! I’m just pulling up to your building right now. Are you home?” Her own voice sounded forced and faux-cheery, but Russell didn’t seem to notice.
Chasing Harry Winston Page 27
