by Dee Davis
Now that I think of it, it’s amazing I’m not a size 2X.
But the most wonderful memories I have of Imelda center around Saturday mornings. My parents slept late, and I didn’t. So most Saturday mornings I could be found in the kitchen, warm and cozy, eating whatever Imelda had conjured from flour, eggs, butter, and usually lots of sugar. It was heaven.
And addictive.
I’m still a sucker for pancakes, and the Madison Restaurant serves up some of the best in Manhattan.
“I’ve never understood why you don’t eat syrup,” Anderson said, his own stack of pancakes swimming in the stuff.
“Because they’re perfect as is,” I replied around a mouthful of pancakes.
“You mean drowning in butter.” Cybil nodded toward the little pile of empty butter cups beside my plate. Not that Cybil was behaving any better, mind you. She was already halfway through her French toast complete with butter and syrup.
“I like them this way, okay?” I defended my pancakes with a wave of my fork.
“I like them that way, too,” Richard said, making me feel infinitely better for no particular reason at all. Richard had opted out of breakfast altogether, choosing coffee and pie instead.
I’d ordered hot tea in hopes of countering the risky whiskey I’d consumed at Bungalow 8 (not to mention the champagne).
“Based on your SOS, I’m assuming things didn’t go well at the party?” Anderson shot a look at Cybil for confirmation and then reached across the table to pat my hand. “I’m sorry.”
I sighed, grateful that no one had mentioned the “incident” until the food had arrived and I’d managed a forkful or two of comfort. “It didn’t start out badly at all. In fact, I honestly thought he was responding to what I had to say. But then Althea showed up and in less time than it takes to download something to your iPod, we were dismissed.”
And that was a kind word. Left sitting at the losers’ table was more the ticket.
“So maybe it was Althea,” Richard said, as always my knight.
“No. It’s not fair to blame Althea. She hardly got a sentence out. I think the reality is that what I mistook for a spark of interest was actually more like a cat toying with a mouse, with me playing the part of the mouse.”
“It can’t have been as bad as all that. He asked you to have a drink,” Cybil said, dipping a bite of French toast in syrup.
“Only because he wanted to tell me to fuck off.”
“Did he say that?” Anderson’s frown made me smile.
“No. Not using those exact words, anyway. He was actually very polite. Even let me run on about my theory of marriage.”
“Like attracts like,” Richard and Anderson said in unison. “Right.” I shrugged. They might not like the idea, but they’d seen firsthand that it worked. “Anyway, I think he was letting me go on to see if I’d hang myself.”
“Which you didn’t.” Cybil nodded with satisfaction.
“Yes, but it still didn’t do me any good. The man made it perfectly clear that hell would freeze over before he let either of us find him a match. No more martinis for me.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Richard’s lips twitched with laughter, but to his credit he held it in.
“Oh God, can you imagine how much fun the papers are going to have with this?”
“Not me,” Cybil promised, crossing her heart. “In fact, I’m not really feeling up to writing anything at all.”
“Poor darling,” Anderson said. “Vanessa told us about Stephen.”
“He’ll come back.” Richard nodded to underscore the thought. “He always does.”
“I don’t know.” Cybil shook her head. “Something about this time felt final.”
“Well, then you’ll find someone new. Someone utterly fantastic.” Anderson pushed back his plate of pancakes. I’ve always marveled at his ability to leave half of his food untouched. I simply can’t ignore food if it’s in front of me. Especially pancakes.
“In theory that sounds wonderful,” Cybil said. “But it isn’t so easy to meet men in this city.”
“Tell me about it.” Anderson shot a loving look at Richard, and I almost wished I had someone like that in my life. But one look at Cybil wallowing in breakup misery and I was reminded of why I didn’t. Richard and Anderson were the exception, not the rule.
“Maybe I can find someone for you.” I actually wasn’t at all certain it was a good idea to mix business with friendship, and Cybil seemed to have no problem finding men. It was just keeping them that had proved difficult. Although that sounds harsher than I meant it.
What I’m trying to say is that Stephen wasn’t the first guy Cybil had dated that wasn’t, in my humble estimation, worthy of my friend.
“No thanks.” Cybil’s response was emphatic.
“Not even if I found someone fabulous?” I forked another mouthful of pancakes, rationalizing that since I didn’t add syrup, they were actually not all that fattening.
“Well, if he’s fabulous . . .” Cybil shrugged, her expression telegraphing just how impossible she considered that to be.
“Nothing like climbing back up on the horse,” Richard said, eliciting a glare from Anderson.
“I think Cybil needs a little time to adjust to what’s happened.” Anderson waved his coffee cup at the waitress, then waited as she refilled it. “It’s not always better to jump right back into things.”
“No. I think Richard is right.” I was wracking my brains trying to come up with Mr. Perfect Antidote to a Bad Breakup. “The best thing Cybil can do is to get back into the game, preferably with someone amazing.”
“Cybil can speak for herself,” Cybil said with a grimace.
“Sorry,” I said with a grin. “Occupational hazard.”
“I know you mean well.” Her smile encompassed us all. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to miss Prince Charming, but I think right now all I need is a little time and my friends.”
Richard and Anderson reached simultaneously for her hands, and I marveled at how lucky I was to have friends like these. We sat for a moment in self-satisfied carbo-enhanced happiness, and then Anderson brought things full circle stop back to me and my not-so-successful evening.
“So what did Althea have to say?”
What didn’t she say would be a better question. I’d felt like a kid caught with a water balloon on the apartment building stairwell. (Okay, so I think biographically. But I only hit Mr. Demateo. And nobody liked him. He was a cantankerous old fart with a tendency to pinch in inappropriate places.)
But we were talking about Althea. And her certainty that everything that had happened was entirely my fault.
“Vanessa?” Richard prompted.
“Sorry.” I tried for upbeat, but failed miserably. “Just reliving the humiliation.”
“With Grayson?”
“Actually with Althea. After Grayson dressed us down, you’d think I’d have been immune, but. .
“That bad?” Richard asked.
“Worse,” I sighed. “She insinuated that if I’d let her go first, things would have gone more smoothly.”
“Yeah, for her.” Cybil added sugar to a fresh cup of coffee.
“Well, she does have a point. I did sort of cut her off at the pass.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” Richard chimed cheerfully.
“Well this was neither, really. And in all honesty, Althea does have more experience in dealing with difficult clients.”
“Vanessa, there’s no need to be modest.” Anderson frowned. “You know as well as I do that you passed Althea a long time ago. That’s why you went out on your own.”
“I used to believe that. But now I’m not so certain. I mean, how lame is it to risk one’s entire reputation?”
“Well,” Cybil said, “it’s not like you were alone in this. I certainly played my part in the whole affair, and Althea was right there with you.”
“Okay, so we’re all stupid. Now what?”
“We regroup and figure out what the next move should be.” Richard leaned forward, his lawyer’s brain already working on the problem.
“Retreat” I said. “I think the next move should be retreat. I mean, the man made it pretty damn clear what he thought of matchmaking.”
“Matchmaking per se?” Anderson asked. “I’m thinking he was a lot more upset about the publicity. And that’s something that will fade.”
“Not after tonight.”
“Well, we all have contacts.” He was looking directly at Cybil, who nodded her agreement. “Between us we ought to be able to squelch the comments. Or at least water them down. And certainly Althea will be doing what she can for damage control.”
“But no matter how you spin it, it’s still a big fat public fiasco.” I propped my elbows on the table, resting my head on my hands. Have I mentioned that I don’t do failure well?
“You said that before Althea came up, you thought he was interested, right?” Richard asked, his wheels still turning.
“Yes. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. He was listening. And arguing. And I thought maybe there was a spark of interest there.”
“Then you need to play off of that.”
“How? By storming the castle? Because I’m fairly certain he’s not going to be throwing open the doors for me, you know?”
“Actually, you don’t know anything except that he wasn’t ready for you and Althea in one dose. And honestly, Van, I don’t think that’s all that surprising. The two of you together can be a bit—”
“Overwhelming?” I laughed. “Maybe you’re right, but believe me, Mark Grayson is perfectly capable of holding his own even with the two of us.”
“Still, considering the situation, I can see that he might have reacted out of self-preservation more than any real animosity toward the two of you. My point being that it ain’t over till it’s over.”
“And what exactly do you propose I do to get back in the game?” Honestly, at that moment, if I never saw Mark Grayson again it would be just fine with me. I’m not into self-flagellation, believe me.
“I don’t know. You’ll think of something. If for no other reason than because I’m quite certain that Althea is somewhere scheming right now.”
If Anderson was trying to hit my buttons, he was doing a damn good job. I wasn’t about to let Althea one-up me. “Okay, so I’m not out of it. But I do seem to be sort of down for the count. As I said, Grayson didn’t exactly leave the door open.”
“Well, there’s got to be a crack. You just have to figure out what it is.”
I reached for the bill, but Anderson was faster. “Our treat.” Richard nodded.
“But I’m the one who called you out in the middle of the night.”
“Please,” Richard said. “By Manhattan standards it’s still early.” He was right, at least for most of Manhattan. But the staff at the Madison seemed ready for us to leave. And to be honest, the carb rush from the pancakes was starting to wear off. I stifled a yawn, and Richard laughed.
“So much for the late-night party girl.”
“Too many nights in a row,” Cybil said.
“Two if I’m counting right,” Anderson teased, joining Richard’s laughter. “It’s hell getting old.”
“Hey, watch who you’re calling old,” I warned, smothering another yawn. “It’s just been a long night.” Coming out of a very long day.
Richard headed for the cashier to pay the bill as we all stood up and gathered our things. “You staying with Cybil?” Anderson asked.
I opened my mouth to agree, but Cybil beat me to the punch. “It’s not necessary. I’m fine. Or at least closer to it than I was eight hours ago. What you need right now is a good night’s sleep, in your own bed.”
“I’m not sure that’s—” I started, but Cybil interrupted.
“I’m okay. Really. If I have trouble sleeping, there’s always the rest of the cupcakes to keep me company.”
“Chocolate isn’t going to help you sleep.”
“No, but I’ll be very happily wide-awake. Seriously, I’ll be fine.”
We’ve already established that accepting defeat gracefully isn’t one of my strong points, but sometimes a person just has to give in. And to be honest I was so tired I was almost dragging on the sidewalk.
Anderson stepped off the curb to hail a cab as I gave Cybil a hug. “I’ll call you in the morning?”
“Not too early,” she returned with a smile. “But I’ll count on it.”
Tears pressed against the back of my eyes. For Cybil, for me. Hell, for all mankind. (Okay, that was the remnants of Chivas talking. Did I mention that before I left Bungalow 8, Cybil and I had drowned our sorrows?)
I sniffled and waved at Cybil, then slid into the taxi between Richard and Anderson. We were quiet for most of the drive back, each lost in our thoughts. It was a comfortable silence. The kind that only comes when you’ve known someone forever.
Or when there’s nothing left to say.
The truth was that I hadn’t the slightest idea how to wiggle my way back into Mark Grayson’s good graces. In point of fact, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d ever been there to begin with. But I was certain that I’d seen a spark of interest. Grayson might not have thought he wanted a wife, but he was wrong.
And I was just the person to prove it to him.
All that was left was to figure out how.
Chapter 9
Fine Linens. 1193 Lexington Avenue (between Eightieth and Eighty-first streets), 212.737.2123.
Manhattanites always expect the very best, and when it comes to sumptuous bedding, no one can beat the wow factor of Fine Linens. Whether it’s your table, your bed, or your bath, they’ve got you covered—luxuriously.
—www.allthingsluxurious.com
∞∞∞
One of my favorite things about a bedroom is, well, the bed. Or, more important, the linens on the bed, which explains why my sheets and duvet cost slightly more than a Birkin bag. Okay, I’m exaggerating. But only a little. My bedding (from Fine Linens) is the most luxurious thing I own. After all, I do spend half of my life there.
And in all honesty, there’s nothing more fabulous after a night of humiliation than sinking into the soft cool comfort of your very own Italian-made, six-hundred thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. The only thing marginally better is waking up in them. You know the drill—luxurious stretch, long yawn, and then a quick snuggle for another ten minutes’ sleep?
Heavenly.
Unless the first thing you see is your mother standing at the end of the bed.
“Vanessa, get up.” Her voice had a smoker’s rasp, the effect much nicer than the habit that precipitated it. “We’re due at Tavern on the Green in an hour and a half.”
Why in the world did I ever give her a key?
“Go away,” I said, turning my face into the cool sanctuary of my pillow. “I had a bad night.”
“I know, darling, it’s the talk of the town.” There was a note of condemnation. I think I mentioned that my mother has never really approved of my choice of profession. Heck, who am I kidding? My mother wouldn’t approve of any profession. In her mind the best thing a girl can do is marry rich, spend the better half of the money, and give the rest away.
And so far, I might add, she’s been doing a damn good job of it.
I surfaced from the freshly scented heaven into familial hell. “Did it make the papers?”
“Yes,” she said, bending now to push Waldo out of the way. “Vanessa, do something about your cat.”
I don’t know if it’s her perfume or the fact that she despises all things feline, but Waldo thinks my mother is one of his conquests. From my vantage point I could just see the tip of his tail as it wove figure eights around my mother’s Ferragamos. “He’s not a dog, Mother. You can’t call him off.”
“Well, try.”
We’d played this game a million times already, and if anything it had only increased Waldo’s ardor. “Come on, Waldo.” I sat up and pat
ted the comforter for effect. Nothing happened. “Waldo.” This time there was a hint of exasperation. I wasn’t in the mood. And miracle of miracles, Waldo cocked his head, considered the matter, and with a walk worthy of a king, sauntered over to the bed and leapt up beside me.
“See,” my mother said with self-satisfaction.
I sighed again, this time for effect, and ran my hand over Waldo’s silky fur. “How bad was it?”
“How bad was what?” Mother asked.
“The papers,” I said in exasperation.
“Oh that,” she answered, emphasizing the last word as if Waldo had left a little present for her. “Fairly tame actually, considering the nonsense you and Althea have been up to.”
I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Cybil, Richard, and Anderson, and sank back into my pillows. Another bullet dodged. “I’m too tired to go to one of your benefits, Mother. I just want to stay here and sleep.” Waldo, obviously in an obliging mood, curled up beside me.
“Wallow is more like it.” She crossed the room, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. With a whoosh she pulled up the shade, the morning sun blinding against the white of my bedroom walls. “You know better than most that the best way to deal with gossip is to face it head-on.”
I knew no such thing, but she obviously wasn’t about to back down. My mother might look like an aging movie star, but she has the tenacity of a rottweiler. It was simply easier to give in than it was to try to argue with her. Besides, in the end, the result was the same. I did exactly what she wanted.
“I’ve forgotten where we’re going.” I sat up again, pushing my hair out of my face, my awakening senses picking up the scent of coffee. “You made coffee?”
“Hardly.” Mother laughed, the sound surprisingly musical. “I brought Starbucks.”
All the better. I got up and padded into the kitchen, her footsteps echoing behind me.
“It’s a benefit for the Make-a-Wish Foundation. A luncheon.”
“Oh, joy,” I said, pulling the lid off my mocha latte and simply inhaling. What is it about coffee? It smells so divine, but without serious dairy infusion, it tastes like shit. Definitely an acquired taste. But with a little Starbucks mojo, I was definitely on board.
