by Dee Davis
“I hardly think that’s a reason for walking out. Even when it’s Stephen doing the walking.” She frowned at the last, and I quickly softened the remark with a smile. “I’m only saying he can be a little irrational sometimes in how he reacts to things.”
There was a dinner party once long ago where he’d refused to sit at his assigned place because the table wasn’t angled in just the right way. Bad karma or something. Unfortunately, the hostess was not amused and Cyhil had had to tap dance around the gossip-enhanced story for months afterward.
Not that she’d minded all that much. She’s too sweet for that. But I’m not sweet and I minded for her—a lot.
“I’m just saying there has to be something more than that.”
She nodded, pushing her glasses up onto her head, tears welling again. “He hates me.”
“Did he say that?” Stephen may not be the best when it comes to interpersonal relations, but he’s never struck me as the malicious sort.
“No. Not in so many words.” She took a large bite of cupcake, defiantly ignoring the glob of frosting that landed on the carpet. Her housekeeper was not going to be amused.
“So what exactly did he say?" I folded my arms, ignoring the cupcake calling my name as I leaned back against the overstuffed sofa cushions.
“At first everything seemed fine. He ki . . . kissed me.” There was a pause as she pulled herself back into control. I’ve always maintained that Stephen must be a hell of a lover. I mean for all the grief he’d caused Cybil, it was just easier to believe there was a payout of some kind.
“And then what?” I bit my lip, trying to hang on to my patience. Right now Cybil needed to hear it all out loud, to process it, and hopefully to realize that it was—in the infamous words of Martha Stewart—a good thing.
“We sat down and ordered champagne. It was a celebration,” she reminded me.
“Right, the painting you sold.”
“I didn’t sell it. It sold itself.” From the garbage heap. “Anyway, we didn’t talk about the painting. We talked about you and the bet. And my part in it. He knew I was having regrets.” She shot me an apologetic grimace, but I waved it away.
“I’m assuming Stephen didn’t approve?”
She blew out a breath and shrugged. “What upset him was the manipulation involved. He just doesn’t believe love can be coerced.”
“Who said anything about love?” I’m usually not defensive about what I do. But somehow criticism from Stephen seemed a bit much.
“All right then, matchmaking. Whether you believe it or not, it’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” I started to launch into exactly why it wasn’t, and then realized that we weren’t drowning in buttercream because of my career choice. “But that’s not the point. We’re trying to figure out what happened between you and Stephen. Why the preoccupation with the bet?”
“He’d seen the rough draft of the column I was writing.” She waved at the computer console in the corner. Mind you, if you didn’t know there was a computer inside, you’d never have guessed the fact. The armoire itself was eighteenth century. English. Solid cherry. Cybil’s six-greats grandmother’s. The transformation to computer console had been Cybil’s idea. And even though it had been done with elegance of good craftsmanship, no one had had the nerve to break the news to her grandmother.
“You’re not listening.” There was a hint of rebuke in her voice, and I forced my thoughts front and center.
“I am. I swear.” I smiled. “You were saying that Stephen read your article.”
“Rough draft,” she nodded, still eyeing me skeptically. “Anyway, I think it pissed him off that I was aiding and abetting your cause, so to speak. And he’d had the whole morning to work himself up about it.”
“All because he thinks love should hold sway?”
“Pretty much.”
“But I’ve been matchmaking as long as he’s known me. And you and I have always lived in each other’s back pockets, so surely that can’t have anything to do with why he walked out.” Despite the ridiculousness of the notion, guilt washed through me. I might have been secretly delighted with the breakup, but I’d never have done anything to precipitate it.
“Of course it wasn’t because of you.” Cybil’s reassurance was immediate and heartfelt, but I had the feeling there was more to it.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Honestly.”
“Cybil...” I gave in to the urge and grabbed a cupcake from the box. Hell, wasn’t sugar supposed to be good for a hangover?
She sighed. “Look, Stephen thought you were a bad influence on me. At least with regard to your views on relationships.” I opened my mouth to retort, but she waved me quiet. “I think the real truth is that he knew you didn’t approve of him. And so he worried that you were going to talk me out of our relationship.”
“What relationship?” The words were out before I could stop them, and I stared down at the cupcake, feeling about an inch tall. “God, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I know you didn’t.” Have I mentioned that Cybil is a saint? “I just meant that he’s the one who walked out on you, not the other way ’round. So it can’t be my fault.” I wasn’t sure how we’d gotten to this—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to take blame for Stephen Hobbs’s inability to commit to a relationship.
“No, of course not. You just asked what we talked about, and that’s where we started. He was mad at me for helping you manipulate Mark Grayson.”
“I don’t think Mark Grayson is the malleable type. But that’s beside the point.” I licked off a bit of frosting and let the chocolate confection melt on my tongue while I studied my best friend. “We’re trying to figure out what happened with Stephen.”
“I know. Believe me, I’ve been over it and over it. But none of it makes any sense.”
“So, what? He just stood up and said, ‘I can’t believe you’re enabling Vanessa’s torrid manipulations, I’m out of here’?”
Cybil almost choked on a cake crumb. I slid to the floor, pounding her on the back, and then both of us dissolved into giggles. Chocolate and misery—it’ll do it every time. After we’d snorted enough to give my mother apoplexy (she doesn’t believe a lady should laugh out loud), we sobered and sat for a moment, staring at the remnants of the cupcakes.
“I don’t think it had anything to do with the bet, Van. I think it was more about the differences between us. I think maybe in his own way Stephen was trying to tell me that you’re right.”
“Say again?” It was as if the pope had just declared a holiday for priests at Scores.
“I said that I think he realized the gulf between us was too big.”
I glanced over at the Bergdorf sack in silent agreement.
Cybil laid her head against the coffee table for a moment, and then sat up, the tears spilling out onto her cheeks. “But you’re both wrong.” The words lacked conviction, and I suddenly felt like I’d shot my best friend.
“Look, maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse.”
“To dump me.”
“Sorry. I’m not helping, am I?” This was shaky ground. And even though we’d been here before, it didn’t make it easier. Whatever their differences, Stephen had connected with Cybil in a way that was difficult to sever. And the fact that he kept coming back also meant that it was harder to accept his defection as fait accompli.
“What else did you talk about? Besides the bet. Did you talk about the painting?”
“Not really. I mean it was the point of the lunch. And we did order the champagne, but beyond that he didn’t say much about it.”
“Did you tell him how the sale came about?”
“Not exactly. I told him the woman had a friend in the building.” Highly unlikely when one considered that Stephen’s studio was far enough uptown that it was almost the Bronx. “She saw the painting in the hallway. Loved it. And asked ar
ound about the artist.”
“So why didn’t she come directly to Stephen?”
“He wasn’t in.” She dipped her finger in the cupcake frosting, twirling it around until it clung to her finger like cotton candy. “I told him she recognized the name and his connection to me. So gave me a call. From there it was a simple matter to arrange the sale.”
An ugly idea occurred to me. “Did the woman actually see the painting?”
“Yes.”
“Outside the studio?” I felt like Jack McCoy going for the jugular.
“No. Not exactly.”
“You asked her to buy the painting.”
She licked the icing off her finger and blew out a breath. “Yes.”
“Did she even like it?”
“Of course she did.” Cybil’s answer was a little too glib.
“Is there any way that Stephen could have figured out the truth?” Talk about manipulation.
“No.” She shook her head to underscore the words. “Absolutely not. Abby would never tell.”
Abby was an old friend. One I’d certainly trust. “I agree with that. But there are other ways for information to leak. You of all people should know that.”
“I know. But I don’t think that’s what this was about. If he’d known about Abby, he’d have confronted me with it. Wouldn’t he?” She interrupted herself on a sob. “I really thought we were going to make it this time.”
“Honey, it’ll be okay, I swear it.” I reached for her hand, feeling a lot like crying myself. Of course there was no way I could be certain it would be okay. Hearts could be fickle. Especially the really sensitive ones—like Cybil’s. But overall, the organ was amazingly resilient.
“I don’t see how,” she sniffled, taking another bite of cupcake. “Everyone is going to think I’m such a fool.”
Everyone was going to be doing handstands in their Cesare Paciottis, but that little fact was best kept under wraps.
“If anyone is the fool, it’s Stephen.” In more ways than I could possibly innumerate.
“But he dumped me." If she hadn’t been my best friend, I swear I would have slapped her.
“My point exactly. The man’s obviously not thinking clearly. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him. So what exactly did he say when he ended it?”
“After he’d said his piece about you and manipulation, we made small talk about shopping and the celebration. And then everything just sort of trailed off into silence. You know, the uncomfortable kind that you can’t seem to cut through.” Been there, done that. And wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, and you just know that when it does it’ll be covered in dog poop. “He just kept shaking his head, and staring at the fois gras.” He probably didn’t know what it was. But then again, far be it from me to pass judgment on anyone.
“And then what?”
“The wine steward arrived with the champagne. And before he could pop the cork, Stephen just stood up and said it wasn’t going to work. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the sommelier.” She absently picked up a couple of crumbs and popped them into her mouth. “And then he walked out.” Her eyes welled with tears, as she tried valiantly to swallow a sob.
“Maybe this is for the best?” I knew it wasn’t going to be a popular sentiment, but it had to be said.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Cybil scowled at me, dropping the last bit of cupcake back into the box.
“I know. But it doesn’t make it any less true.” I waited a minute, trying to find the right words. “You said it earlier. You and Stephen aren’t on the same page when it comes to life experiences.”
“I didn’t say that. I said that I thought Stephen might think that.”
“Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Point taken. But what I’m trying to say is that maybe you were right. Maybe his reticence to stay in the relationship is based on the fact that the two of you are from different worlds. And despite the fact that you’re willing to ignore the differences, it’s a little harder from his side of things. Maybe he just couldn’t deal with that anymore.”
“Great. My pedigree ruined my relationship.”
“No. It wasn’t you at all. It wasn’t even Stephen, really. It was the two of you together.” I reached for another cupcake and forced myself to stop midway. I wasn’t the one who’d lost a boyfriend. “I’m not saying this right. What I mean is that I truly believe that Stephen cared about you. But in the end, he just wasn’t ready for a real relationship.”
“With me,” Cybil said, the words tinged with self-deprecation.
“With anyone," I quickly assured her. “Stephen’s a free spirit. And I think sometimes people like that are better off on their own. I mean, the phrase ‘happy artist’ is probably listed in the dictionary under ‘oxymoron.’ The point, Cybil, is that this isn’t your fault. It isn’t even Stephen’s. It’s just the reality of your stations in life.”
“You sound like Jane Austen.”
We’d read her books in high school. Well, actually, Cybil read them. I sort of got the gist vicariously, if you know what I mean. I’ve never been a big reader.
“I sound like a realist. Look, I know you care about Stephen. And I know this hurts like hell. I’m just trying to say that maybe there’s a silver lining out there somewhere.”
“Well, I wish it would hurry up and get here.”
I fished in my bag for the invitation. Who said fairy godmothers had to be old and have wings? “It may be closer than you think.” I held it out with a flourish.
“My God, this is for the Cavalli party.” Even through the tears I could see excitement sparkling in her eyes. “How in the world . . .”
“Let’s just say I have friends in all the right places. Anyway, the point is that you can be my ‘plus one.’ ”
She started to smile but the reflex died before it could fully blossom. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
Cybil had enough couture to fill a boutique at Bergdorf’s, but I didn’t even hesitate as I held out my bag. “Of course you do. This will look amazing on you.”
She took the sack and opened it, the Wendy Hill looking resplendent inside. “It’s gorgeous.” She paused as she contemplated the dress. “Mark Grayson is going to be there, isn’t he?”
I nodded.
“This is your battle gear.” She closed the bag and held it out to me. “I can’t take it. You need it.”
I pushed her hand back. “Not as much as you need to feel beautiful tonight. I’ve got lots of other dresses. Besides, I’m not trying to attract Mark Grayson. At least not in that way. What I look like is irrelevant.” That, of course, was a blatant lie and we both knew it. But Cybil did need the dress more.
“I’ve got the perfect shoes.” She hopped up, crumbs raining down on the carpet, already heading for her closet, her heartbreak not forgotten but at least numbed for the moment with the prospect of a new dress and a hot party.
Priorities and all that.
Chapter 6
Bungalow 8. 515 West Twenty-seventh Street (between Tenth and Eleventh avenues), 212.629.3333.
The name and decor are meant to invoke memories of the Beverly Hills Hotel and old Hollywood; thus the palm trees, concierge, and inevitable NO VACANCY sign glaring into the night at this far-West Chelsea spot. We would advise being utterly fabulous before attempting to cross the threshold or you’ll be doing the walk of shame. Trust us.
—www.hipguide.com
∞∞∞
Bungalow 8 has topped the Manhattan club scene for several years in a row now. And in a town famous for overnight failure, this is not a feat to be taken lightly. But then Amy Sacco, the brains behind LOT61 and Bette, knows her stuff. And the tightly guarded door only makes it more alluring. Maybe it’s the NO VACANCY sign in the window.
Anyway, as we pulled up, I could see the usual assortment of cleavage-baring wannabes staggered amid Gap-clad gawkers and the occasional B-list celebrity. Even
though tonight’s soiree was strictly invitation only, hopes of crossing the velvet frontier still apparently ran high.
Fat chance.
Plastering on my best ice princess smile, I stepped out of the town car. Cybil followed suit, looking stunning in the Wendy Hill. Frankly, it looked better on her. I’d chosen an Alberta Ferretti. It was two seasons old, granted. But it was also formfitting and red. And did I mention backless?
If I had to call it, I’d say the two of us looked pretty damn good, especially when you considered the fact that we’d been gorging on cupcakes not three hours earlier. We paused on the sidewalk, playing for the paparazzi.
Cybil usually drew a decent amount of attention. Between her position with the Murdochs and her old family money, she warranted at least a photo or two. And me, well, I had buzz. The kind that can turn on you in an instant, granted, but at least for the moment I was hot.
After a couple of minutes of smiling at no one in particular, I grabbed Cybil’s hand and we moved past the crowd, as the beefy guy at the door smiled in recognition and waved us inside. I could hear the whispers rise as the Victoria’s Secret wannabes tried to figure out exactly who we were and why we were able to achieve what they had not—entrance into one of Manhattan’s coveted hot spots.
It was all over in seconds, but I confess it gives me a thrill every time. That’s probably not the chic thing to say, but it’s true nevertheless. Limelight is a double-edged sword, there’s no doubt about it, but it’s a kick, too. It has to be, right? Otherwise no one would want it, and television shows like Extra would be out of business.
Inside the club you could actually feel the vibrations from the music. On a normal night Bungalow 8 holds about a hundred people, and the strict door policy keeps it to that, maintaining the intimate feel of the place. Tonight, however, the place was overflowing, a short runway jutting out amid the potted palms, Cavalli-dressed mannequins emerging from behind glittering curtains in an endless stream of amazing couture.
Trays of the club’s infamous watermelon martinis wended their way through the crowd, the excellent waitstaff making certain that no one was left without libation. I passed on the martini with a shiver of memory and chose champagne instead.
