The Jane Austen Marriage Manual

by Kim Izzo

  “So, you don’t think less of me?” I asked cautiously. “I mean Scott is a friend of yours.”

  “Think less of you? How can I? Honey, I was you back in the day. I went after my husband exactly as you’re going after Scott. Who am I to judge? Now, does anyone else know your secret?” she asked. She had moved to my powder room to reapply her makeup and with a final stroke of red lipstick Fawn Chamberlain, the millionaire hunter, was back with a vengeance.

  “You’re it,” I admitted reluctantly. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Why would I do that?” she asked innocently. She was smiling again as if we’d never had the conversation, but she kept looking at me as though she had something on her mind. At last, and with a dead serious expression she said, “I want to help you.”

  “Help me?” I said, taken aback.

  “What you need is a mentor.” She tapped my shoulder. “Otherwise you’ll be strutting around like a runner-up in a beauty pageant, sleeping with the judges, hoping they’ll vote for you next time. I can teach you how to win and first prize is a billionaire. Wait until you get a load of the tiara!”

  This was either a really great or a really terrible idea. Then again, I had three days to advance my plan or I would be out on the streets. I decided it was really great. “Then consider me your pupil.”

  She clapped her hands together gleefully. “I love having new projects!” she declared. “I always try to set up my daughter but she flatly refuses and is determined to never marry. I’m starting to think she’s a lesbian.”

  I giggled. I was sure that Fawn’s daughter wasn’t gay, just independent, and besides, she was an heiress. What did she need a rich husband for?

  “Let’s start by hitting the slopes,” Fawn suggested. “Men love an active woman.”

  Big confession: I don’t know how to ski. Like tennis and equestrian events, skiing is a sport with an outfit I admire but will only wear to sip pinot grigio. Fawn was amused by my lack of skiing abilities but didn’t see any point in attempting a lesson on the bunny hill. Apparently the sort of men I needed to meet were strictly black diamond types. So instead of hitting the slopes, we hit the bar.

  As it turned out, Badrutt’s Palace had a rather splendid one called the Davidoff Lounge, so there we sat by a large picture window with an unobstructed view of the lake, skipping the ski portion of après-ski and enjoying a lovely white wine, when three men sat down at the table beside us. They were boisterous, but we didn’t pay an iota of attention to them, which was made easier by the fact that they were speaking Russian, or so Fawn said. Our afternoon would have passed pleasantly, if unremarkably, if it hadn’t been for one of the men lighting a cigar. Fawn was immediately indignant and began to sputter and shift in her chair. I did my best to ignore it but it was impossible. The smell was putrid, as was the thick layer of green smog that drifted to our table, encircled our heads, and crept into our nostrils as if it were on legs. I made a face. Fawn coughed and waved at the smoke. Scott smoked cigars but always outside, and with far more finesse than this lout. We waited, fully expecting him to head for the nearest exit, but he stayed put. “I can’t take it anymore,” I muttered to Fawn. “Let’s move to another table.”

  “Not on your life,” she said sternly and spun around in her chair and tapped the shoulder of the man closest to us.

  “Excuse me,” she said brightly. They all abruptly stopped talking, clearly shocked that someone dared to disturb them. The man she poked turned to face us. I caught my breath. He was extremely handsome. He had large, wide-set eyes the color of a 90-percent-cocoa chocolate bar. I couldn’t even make out the pupils, they were so dark. His hair was nearly as dark and it was long, past his jutting chin, and wavy with a center part. He wore a black leather jacket with a purple shirt underneath; the collar was a floral pattern and it looked custom made. With a pair of charcoal gray jeans and brogues, I assumed he wasn’t much of a skier himself. He looked like a rock star.

  “Can I help you?” he said in a heavy Russian accent and with a note of extreme seriousness.

  Fawn, unaffected by his brooding sex appeal, smiled sweetly and spoke in her most ladylike southern accent. “I hope you can. My friend and I can’t abide that gentleman’s cigar smoke. Would you mind asking him to take it outside?”

  Then she waited, determined not to waver. Fawn was a badass when she wanted to be.

  “Why don’t you move table?” he said rudely.

  Fawn bristled for a moment, then turned and pointed to me. “Do you know who this is?” she said as I recoiled into the safety of my wingback chair. “This is Lady Katharine Billington Shaw of Scotland.”

  I was horrified. Fawn grabbed her wineglass and took a swig like she was a biker chugging bourbon. He didn’t answer straightaway; instead, he stared at me as though examining every detail; no emotion showed on his face. I stared back, which, to tell you the truth, was no easy feat. You try staring down a drop-dead handsome stranger who is either mentally undressing you or plotting an assassination attempt. I grabbed my glass of wine and, taking my cue from Fawn, took a massive swig to prove I wasn’t afraid, only instead of exuding biker chick toughness I gagged. Fawn rolled her eyes as the wine dribbled down my chin.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked.

  “Pinot grigio,” I sputtered in feigned defiance. God, how wimpy did pinot grigio sound! I regretted not ordering whiskey.

  He was still staring, and I was seconds from blurting that grade school idiom, “Shake your head, your eyes are stuck,” when he suddenly turned to his companions and barked at them. His comrades, including Puff, quickly removed themselves from the table and took up residence at the bar. Fawn nodded her approval just as a waiter swooped in.

  “Another vodka,” he said to the waiter in a less scary tone. “And the women will have more pinot grigio.”

  Hmmm. Not so wimpy when spoken with a Russian accent and looks to kill.

  “That’s much better,” Fawn said coolly. “But I can’t stay.”

  As she got up to leave I grabbed her arm, or clung to it, was more like it.

  “Don’t leave me,” I pleaded under my breath.

  “This one is flush, I can smell it,” she whispered. “Rule number one, always see where an encounter can lead. You can always say no, but you can’t say yes if they don’t have an opportunity to ask the question.”

  “But what about Scott?” I muttered fitfully.

  “He’s not the only man who can make your dreams come true.” She winked. “Consider it research, at the very least.”

  With that, she disappeared and I was left with the sullen Russian. I smiled awkwardly at him and clutched my wineglass to my chest.

  “Who are you exactly?” he blurted.

  I nearly spilled the wine I was so stunned by his blunt question. He must have noticed for his features softened for the first time into a smile. “My apologies. I’m Russian and sometimes my English isn’t so good or so polite. What I wanted to know was where are you from?”

  “I’m American, if you must know,” I said, trying to affect a regal air and hoping what I was about to say would be a “do” on Fawn’s list of ensnaring a billionaire. “But my estate is in Scotland.”

  He nodded. The waiter was back with our drinks. It was clear from the waiter’s deference that this grumpy Russian was a very important person.

  “Enjoy your drink, Mr. Mihailov,” he said.

  Mr. Mihailov picked up his vodka. I quickly picked up my fresh wineglass in anticipation of some fancy toast, but watched in astonishment as he took a drink without so much as making eye contact. It was anticlimactic but I took his cue and sipped my wine and waited for him to speak again.

  “You like it here?” he said at last.

  “So far,” I answered breezily. “But this is my first day. Ask me tomorrow.” Then out of fear of more awkward silence, I asked, “Where are you from?”

  “I live in Moscow, and London mostly,” he said, checking his BlackBerry. “But I’
m from St. Petersburg. I came here for the polo.”

  Not another one, I thought, but never mind that; according to my rich man calculations, homes in Moscow and London added up to one thing: Russian oligarch. Fawn was a genius.

  “What do you do in Moscow and London?” I asked, feeling more at ease, so much so I was practically batting my eyelashes at the man.

  “I run companies, mining, lumber, some oil.” He listed off his assets like a shopping list. “What do you do in Scotland?”

  “Whatever I want,” I said flirtatiously.

  “And what is it you want?” he asked with a fixed glare.

  This threw me off, so I laughed artificially to give myself some time to think of a witty answer.

  “That depends.” I continued to laugh. “On who is with me.”

  “Do you have sheep?” he asked, blatantly ignoring my flirtatious remark. What a strange question. How odd that both Scott and Mihailov were so interested in what I had on my fake estate. It must be a male thing, like their bizarre fascination with Home Depot. I thought it best to ensure my lies had a certain continuity and that meant no sheep.

  “I have the finest herd of Highland cattle in Scotland,” I boasted, slightly unnerved by how easy lying had become. It was nearly second nature.

  “My cousin has cattle in Wales,” he said.

  “What a coincidence. What kind are they?” I asked, hoping they weren’t Highland cows, too. Thankfully Mihailov shrugged.

  “They are just cows.”

  I was relieved. It would have been complicated had he known one end of a Highland steer from the other.

  “What do you do for fun?” I asked, much more relaxed. “Do you ski?”

  “I buy pretty women pinot grigio and then take them to dinner,” he said, still unsmiling.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I reverted to my foolproof fallback position for these very situations; I drank more wine.

  He was staring again. This time I didn’t stare back. I turned to the window and tried to distract myself by the lake and mountains.

  “It’s beautiful here,” I said, and it was.

  “You are beautiful,” he said. His compliment meant I had to look at him. My, was he gorgeous.

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you allow me to buy you dinner tonight?” he asked with a faint smile.

  “Yes,” I said and smiled broadly. If Scott could be with Tatiana, then I could have a date with someone else, too. And Fawn was right, I had to keep my options open in case I couldn’t pry him away. Day one was over and I had a date with a Russian oligarch. I loved the words so much I kept repeating them in the elevator as I rode up to my room to change. Thankfully I was the only person in the elevator.

  “Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him,” instructed Fawn, lounging comfortably on the bed. I was in the process of dressing for my date, having settled on my Chanel dress and string of pearls. I rolled my eyes.

  “You’re just saying that because of Bernardo,” I said indignantly.

  “Absolutely not,” she countered. “Bernardo didn’t have a dime; that’s what you do with men like that, enjoy them for sex. Wealthy men who are also attractive are far more dangerous because women sleep with them on the first date, mistakenly believing that the man is falling in love and not just satisfying his lust. These women don’t understand that a wealthy man does this all the time. If you want to marry the billionaire, save the sex for later.”

  “That seems like very old-fashioned thinking,” I said cautiously, not wanting to offend Fawn.

  “They are called old-fashioned rules because they withstood the test of time. And for a reason,” she continued. “They work. Appearing aloof and untouchable drives them crazy and makes them want more.”

  “Well, I have no intention of sleeping with Mihailov,” I insisted and slipped on my black velvet slingbacks. “Besides, he scares me.”

  “Precisely why you might,” she said with a tone that implied she didn’t believe me. “Where is he taking you?”

  “Someplace called Chesa Veglia.”

  “Verrry nice.”

  “Why, what is it?”

  “It’s only the finest place to eat and be seen in St. Moritz. There are three restaurants inside; I hope he takes you to the Grill; if he takes you to the Pizzeria he’s not serious about you. Oh, and there are two bars; one is called the Polo Bar, it’s only open during the winter season. You might run across Scott there.”

  I waved away the suggestion.

  “Look at you! Not caring about Scott.”

  “He doesn’t care about me,” I corrected her. “Besides, he’s still with Tatiana. And Mihailov is at least fifteen years younger, so at least if I ever do see him naked his body will be in fine shape.”

  I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth and saw Fawn recoil at the references to youth. “Maybe you can join us later for a nightcap,” I said quickly to change the subject.

  “I’m staying in tonight and watching dirty movies,” Fawn said with a laugh. “I’ll wait up for you.”

  “Like a chaperone?” I teased.

  “Exactly. Only I chaperone from the comfort of my luxury suite.” She laughed. “Stick with me and you’ll land your rich man.”

  I intended to do just that. Picking up my evening bag, I glided across the floor and twirled in front of the mirror.

  “How do I look?” I asked. Fawn gave me a nod of approval.

  “Like a million dollars,” she said proudly.

  “That’s a good thing,” I answered solemnly. “Because that’s what I need to get.”

  But as I headed toward the elevator I was hit smack on the head by a brick of self-doubt. Where did this Kate come from? My whole life I had never been more mercenary than taking the last cupcake off the dessert tray, and here was the so-called new and improved Kate, off on a date whose purpose was to attract a man solely for his money. I didn’t really know who this Kate was that got on the elevator and strutted across the lobby, and I wasn’t entirely sure I liked her any more than Marianne did.

  23.

  Russian Doll

  Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for …

  —Northanger Abbey

  Chesa Veglia was definitely old, circa 1658, which made it the oldest building in St. Moritz. As Mihailov and I settled into our dining chairs in the Grill, I saw that Fawn was right; it was a scene. There was a heady mix of ages, tables of young studs on the make, dozens of pretty young things and the gray-haired men who loved them. The common denominator wasn’t a passion for skiing; it was the patina of wealth, the clothes and accessories, the entitled tilting of heads, the flagrant consumption of rare vintage wine. In all my years as an acting beauty editor I’d never seen so much glossy hair; the room was a sea of expertly coiffed brown, auburn, and blond manes that swayed and bobbed like flying carpets, all accompanied by flawless complexions that only money could buy. We might have been in the midst of a worldwide recession but clearly the rich were alive and well and hiding out in Switzerland, maybe to keep watch on those fabled Swiss bank accounts. I spotted a few quasicelebrities, too; a former tennis champ and his Spanish girlfriend leaned in tightly toward each other and whispered, and a faded French film actress who, judging by her swollen figure and sun-damaged skin, had given up any possibility of returning to the big screen.

  The room was pleasant enough, although the same couldn’t be said about Mihailov’s company. The old saying, Handsome is as handsome does, was never truer than on this night. He turned out to be one of those men who insist on ordering for his date. I hated that. I was more than capable of choosing on my own. Not bothering to ask what sort of wine I wanted, even though he’d bought me a pinot grigio that afternoon, he scanned the wine list and ordered a bottle of cabernet. He took the same control over the food. Lucky for him I liked lamb.

  I struggled to think of something to say, any icebreaker would do, although I had a feeling I would need a very long, very sharp ice pick to t
haw him. I decided to begin the conversation with a question, one that was easy to answer, a no-brainer.

  “What is your first name?” I asked in what I thought was a friendly manner.

  “Vlad,” he barked. Make that ice prick.

  “Nice to meet you, Vlad,” I said, hoping the conversation would improve. “That’s a very traditional Russian name, isn’t it?”

  “Do you always talk so much?” he asked flatly as the sommelier arrived with the wine. As he had at Davidoff’s, Vlad began to drink without a toast of any kind. Disheartened, I followed suit. He was a surly man and I began to question why he wanted me there at all. He had neglected to say anything nice or to compliment me. Scott probably said nice things to Tatiana all the time, I was sure of it. I sighed quietly and allowed my mind to wander to Scott. He was the reason I got on that plane—I should be focusing on him, not wasting time with Vlad. I contemplated faking a migraine when all of a sudden he smiled like a normal human being.

  “Do I scare you?” he asked and winked like a naughty schoolboy.

  “Not at all,” I lied.

  “What are you thinking?” he said in a tone that made me doubt he really wanted to know and I was definitely keeping visions of Scott to myself.

  “I’m contemplating the use of mime,” I said coolly. “Since I talk too much and I don’t know sign language, I can’t think of any other way to communicate. And while I despise miming, particularly when it’s pronounced ‘meem,’ it will have to substitute for lively banter.”

  He stared at me so intensely that I shifted in my seat, when, without warning, he burst out laughing. I was stunned, but there it was; a raucous laugh at my mime joke. Maybe miming was funny.

  “I would like to see you mime.” He grinned. “Naked.”

  Nude miming had never been on my agenda. Tonight was no exception. Maybe if Scott had said it I would have found it sexy. Instead, coming from Vlad, the word reduced all his good looks down to Binky-size proportions. He was clearly just after sex and I, equally clear, was not. We were at an impasse. Marrying well was going to be much tougher than I thought. Even a handsome rich man could turn me off with a few choice words. After rejecting Binky I accepted that I could only be with a man I felt was physically attractive; now it seemed I needed a good personality, too. I was doomed. Fawn’s fear that I was a middle-aged slut was completely unfounded.