A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  “Darling, everyone will be there.”

  “Like that makes it better?” I stared over at her, wondering why it was that my mother always managed to make me feel like an adolescent again. And believe me, that’s not a time period I’d like to revisit.

  “Of course it does.” She turned to pick up her own coffee, her plum-stained lips pursing as she tested the heat. “You’ll waltz in and show them that last night was a one-off.”

  I’ve never waltzed anywhere in my life. Especially with my mother on my heels. “I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

  “Of course you don’t, darling,” she soothed, meaning nothing of the sort. “It’s just that your choices have affected other people as well.”

  “Like you?”

  “Among others.”

  I glared at her, trying to think of a comeback, but I wasn’t exactly firing on all pistons. Chivas will do that to you.

  “Your father—” she began, but I waved her silent.

  “My father doesn’t give a damn what I do and you know it.” You’re probably cheering for my dad right now, but let me remind you that he’s not exactly a warm and fuzzy sort of guy. The only reason he isn’t bothered by my actions is that except for the holidays he rarely remembers I exist. Which sounds like a hardship, but honestly it’s not. My life is what it is. And, frankly, in order to get my father’s attention I’d have to wear a ticker tape or something.

  In all truth, I prefer Moschino.

  “Your father loves you very much,” she was saying, “and so do I.”

  In their own way, I suppose, they did. There are certainly more dysfunctional families. But I had other things to deal with. Like figuring out how to get Mark Grayson to engage (literally). I’d thought about it as I fell asleep—which took longer than you’d think given the situation—and the only thing I’d come up with so far involved throwing myself at his feet and groveling.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Mom, but I think I’m going to have to give the luncheon a pass.”

  “But I’m getting an award.” She was pulling out the big guns. Guilt is a powerful persuader.

  “I don’t have anything to wear.” It was a last-ditch effort and we both knew it.

  “I sincerely doubt that,” she said, already heading for my closet. Of course she was right, and I realized she wasn’t going to let me off the hook. Actually I had promised to go. Pre-Mark Grayson. And I supposed a couple nights of drinking and the bet from hell didn’t qualify as a break-plans-with-your-mother emergency.

  For a moment I considered using Cybil, but since she was probably going to be there, it didn’t seem the best of alibis.

  “What about this?” Mother pulled out a black and white Norma Kamali that had been delightful in its day, but many seasons later looked more like something from a costume exhibition. Shoulder pads belong on football players, but for way too many years we’d forgotten that.

  “Please,” I said, stretching the word out for emphasis, “I’d only add fuel to the fire in that.”

  She pulled out another hanger. This one a red jumper I’d lusted after only a year ago. But now it looked more schoolgirl than socialite. My mother’s image of me, no doubt.

  “Let me.” I elbowed my way past her and pulled out a simple black dress—Shannon McLean, Cosa Bella. “This should do nicely.”

  “Then you’ll come.” She said it as if I’d had a choice. Mothers.

  “Just give me half an hour.”

  “Twenty minutes.” She turned her wrist to look at her watch. “I’ll wait in the living room.”

  Thirty minutes later we were walking into Tavern on the Green. I know, it’s sort of a kitschy place. But at its heart, the Central Park restaurant is sort of quintessential New York. Originally a sheep barn—seriously—it sits right at the top of Sheep Meadow, which, believe me, wasn’t named for its topiaries.

  Anyway, in the 1930s the barn was restyled into a resplendent restaurant, where the elite of the day met to see and be seen. Remodeled in the fifties, it continued to be an “in” spot until the early seventies, when it began to show its age. But fortunately, the restaurant was rescued again with yet another makeover. This one funded by Warner LeRoy. Among other additions, he created the glass-enclosed Crystal Room, a rococo fantasy that’s over-the-top fabulous, especially in the spring.

  Today, the Crystal Room was resplendent, the doors and windows thrown open to the lovely garden beyond, the smells of flowers and trees invading the space so that I almost forgot I was in the city.

  Almost.

  I stood at the back of the room, trying to look invisible, and not succeeding at all. Most everyone had arrived, thank God, but news travels fast and our fellow latecomers were definitely whispering behind bejeweled hands.

  Okay, maybe I’m being oversensitive, but this is Manhattan, where gossip is a full-body contact sport. Returning with name badges, my mother shot me an innocent smile.

  Uh-oh.

  “Did I tell you I’m sitting at the head table?”

  “And me?” I already knew the answer. I was being deserted. She might as well have just fed me to a tank of hungry piranhas.

  “Oh, I arranged a fabulous table for you. You won’t mind, will you?” She handed me my name tag and left me standing in a cloud of First. So much for mothers protecting their young. Come to think of it, aren’t there some species where the mother eats the young?

  I sucked in a breath, and looked down at the carefully calligraphied name tag. Why even bother with good clothes? Slap this thing on and even Dior became tacky. I considered putting it on my purse, but I swear I could hear the leather protesting, so instead I gingerly stuck it in the vicinity of my left breast.

  The murmuring crowd had quieted slightly and I realized it was now or never. And with mother getting an award, never was not an option. Squaring my shoulders I waded into the throng, exchanging banalities and air kisses with people I had known most of my life, but still didn’t know at all.

  It’s shallow, I know. But it’s my world and I’ll defend it to the death.

  Of course, the table Mother “arranged” was all the way up front, so it took almost a full ten minutes to gain access, and by that time the hostess was already standing at the podium welcoming everyone to the fete.

  I slid into my seat with a sigh, and smiled in the general direction of my tablemates. The key to dealing with an uncomfortable social situation is to give the illusion that you don’t care. And the best way to do that is to avoid making direct eye contact with anyone. I know that sounds difficult, but it isn’t as hard as you might think. The key is to look directly into their hairline. They think you’re looking at them, you’re spared the humiliation of seeing what they’re really thinking, and occasionally your spirits are lifted by the fact that their colorist isn’t as good as yours.

  Believe it or not, I’ve never been very comfortable in a room full of people. In college, if I had to go to a party by myself, I used to walk in and head straight for the phone. (Yes, I admit it, I predate cell phones.) Anyway, I’d call time and temperature and have a very earnest conversation with the recording, all the while checking out the room. In the process, I had a chance to kill the butterflies and I usually found someone I knew.

  Tricks of the trade.

  Now you know why newcomers at parties always seem to be on their cell phones. Is there still such a thing as time and temperature?

  I’d scanned most of the guests at the table, recognizing almost all of them. The woman on my left, Esther Remaldi, was an old friend of my mother. They’d even shared the same nanny. Well, not at the same time, but you get the point. She was rarely in the city these days, preferring her Bar Harbor estate. (Can you blame her?)

  We had a house in the Hamptons when I was growing up, but my father’s late life interest in skiing had meant good-bye, Sag Harbor, hello Aspen or Saalbach. Not that I’m complaining.

  Directly across from me was the director of a prep school. A dour man who had spen
t his life on the edges of a society he couldn’t possibly afford. It was no doubt an awkward position, but he’d managed it with decorum. His wife sat next to him, and a woman I vaguely recognized from similar functions sat next to her. To the director’s left was another couple, the Gaudier-Smiths. I knew them from my parents’ Christmas parties. My presence at the table was definitely bringing down the median age.

  Finally, I turned to my right, my social smile freezing in its politely upturned place.

  Mark Grayson.

  The fact that I hadn’t noticed him before was either a blessing or my mind on protective overdrive. Either way the jig was up; he was here and in the flesh. I didn’t know if I should kiss my mother or kill her. Although kill was looking like the odds-on winner.

  “We meet again.” His voice was polite, but glacial. I stole a glance at the rest of the table to see if they were leaning forward, ears extended, but these people had manners flowing through their veins and everyone seemed to be involved in their own conversations.

  “Mr. Grayson.” I fumbled around for something pithy to say, but my intelligence along with my stomach seemed to have deserted the ship.

  “Please, call me Mark,” he said, clearly not meaning a word of it.

  “And I’m Vanessa.”

  “I know.” His eyes narrowed with the expression. “I can hardly turn around without stumbling over your name.”

  “I don’t control the newspapers, Mr. Grayson,” I said, the emphasis on his last name. Something about his attitude pissed me off. And since anger is the great equalizer, my head cleared, my stomach lurched back into place, and my answering smile made his seem almost tropical.

  “I wasn’t speaking of the tabloids. I was referencing the fact that your constant proximity is bordering on stalking.”

  “I beg your pardon.” I didn’t have to pretend to be offended. I was. “I’m here because my mother is receiving an award.” I tipped my head toward my mother, who was deep in conversation with the hostess.

  “Anna Carlson is your mother?” He sounded as if I’d just announced I was a Kennedy.

  “Sometimes to my chagrin.” Mother chose this moment to look up, and with a waggling of eyebrows offered a beatific smile. I know I’ve said this before, but mothers can be a pain in the ass.

  “I’ve always found her to be quite charming.”

  “You know my mother?” I don’t know why it surprised me. I mean, our social circle is surprisingly small. But somehow I hadn’t really considered him a part of it.

  “Not well. But I’ve worked with your father on numerous occasions, and because of that I’ve had the chance, from time to time, to socialize with your mother.”

  The fact that my mother had kept this little tidbit a secret was enough to make my head explode, but now was not the time. “How lovely.” Okay, it didn’t work at all as a comeback, but at least my tone remained frigid.

  “I take it you didn’t arrange for this?” There was an actual glimmer of sympathy in his eyes, and I wasn’t quite sure how to take it.

  “No. I hadn’t any idea, actually.” I frowned over at him, trying to judge his sincerity. “Believe me, after last night, if I had, I would have pulled every string I possessed to be certain that I was seated somewhere else.”

  “What about the bet?” He was goading me, I was sure of it.

  “It’s finished. A miserable failure that hopefully will soon be forgotten.”

  “Somehow I didn’t take you for the type who gives up at the first sign of trouble.”

  I studied his face, trying to figure out what the hell he was playing at. “I’m not. But I’m also not the type to waste my time on lost causes. And you made it pretty damn clear last night that any further effort on my part was going to be rejected summarily. I’m a fighter, Mr. Grayson. But I’m not a fool.”

  “Clearly you’re not.” His gaze met mine, and I felt as if I were being scanned by some sci-fi computer. You know, the kind that can record your innermost thoughts. At least I knew why he was so successful in business. He simply locked eyes with his competition and scared the shit out of them.

  But I was made of sterner stuff. “Look, I gave it my best shot. You have to understand that I believe in what I do. And I honestly believe that I could have found the right partner for you.”

  “Not to mention gaining a reputation as Manhattan’s best.”

  “Sure. That was a big part of it. Althea is good at what she does.” The minute the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but better to soldier on. “I started out with her. And even though I’m out on my own now, people still think of me as her protégé. I mean, would you want a hotel designed by a master architect or his apprentice? It’s as simple as that.”

  “You need to make a statement that’s all yours.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I fit the bill?”

  “Look, you’re high-profile, you’re single, and in my opinion, you’d be better off if you had a better half.”

  “Well, I have to give you one thing. You’re the first woman who’s said that to me and not been angling for the position herself.” He smiled and I was surprised again at how it softened his face. But in an instant he regained his usual grim composure. “Unless this is a ruse?”

  “You caught me,” I said. “My business is all a ruse. I invented the whole thing as a way to meet men. I mean, offering to marry a guy off to someone else is such a great opening line.”

  “All right. I admit that was a low blow.”

  “No kidding. I realize my bet with Althea has put the spotlight on you, but I assure you that wasn’t the intention. Your involvement was strictly happenstance. You were sitting at a table in the corner-—with Tandy Montgomery. Someone said it was high time you were married and the rest is rather overrated history, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t buy that. I know for a fact that there were at least three other eligible bachelors at Bemelmans. Why me?” There was something in the question that begged more than a flippant response. I looked down at my hands, taking a moment to gather my thoughts.

  “Because there was something in your eyes.”

  “It’s impossible to see anything in there.”

  “Well, I could see your eyes. And there was a look that said, I've conquered the mountain. Now what?’”

  “And marriage is the ‘what’?”

  “A partnership is. Look, people weren’t meant to operate solo. It just doesn’t work. That’s why the first humans banded together in groups. It’s what makes us come home for Thanksgiving even though we know we’ll want to throw things fifteen minutes after we arrive. We all need to belong somewhere.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in love.”

  “I don’t. At least not as the only basis for a marriage. See, I believe that with the right partner, you not only have someone to come home to, you have someone to share life with. The good stuff and the bad stuff. And even better, since you get to choose, you can avoid the Uncle-Henry-drinks-too-much-and-Aunt-Sophie-never-shuts-up syndrome.”

  “A manufactured family.”

  “Sort of. Although I think that’s institutionalizing it even more than I would.”

  “And because I had the ‘what next’ question in my eyes, you automatically translated that to ‘I need a wife’?”

  It was a fair question.

  “No. Well, not exactly. I mean”—this was getting tricky— “in that moment, yes. That’s exactly what I thought. But after—”

  “You sobered up,” he finished for me.

  “Right. After I sobered up, I had a chance to really think about it. And the truth is, you have all this success and no one to share it with.”

  “What if I like being on my own?”

  “It’s like I said last night, you’re just using that as an excuse to avoid intimacy.”

  Anger sparked in his eyes, and I recognized in an instant that I’d gone too far. “I hardly think—”

  The hostess chose that exact mome
nt to start the proceedings. There was no more time for talk. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or regretful. Besting Althea was a hell of a carrot, but sometimes the donkey needed to get a life.

  I sat back in my chair and went through the motions of paying attention, but in truth I didn’t hear another word the hostess said. I vaguely remember picking at the rubber chicken while some politician spoke about something or other, and I remember my mother standing up to accept her award, but the rest of the event went by in a haze. Until suddenly it was over, and people were standing, exchanging polite good-byes.

  I stood up and was turning to go, when Grayson touched my shoulder. Damn it, I’d thought maybe he’d let it go. Squaring my shoulders I turned, bracing for his rebuttal, but instead he handed me his business card. “I’d like to finish the conversation. Call my secretary and she’ll set something up.”

  I stood there for another fifteen minutes at least. And for the first time in my life I completely understood the phrase “knock me over with a feather.”

  Chapter 10

  Chef & Company. 8 West Eighteenth Street (corner of Fifth Avenue), 646.336.1980.

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  —www.chefandco.com

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  Television production sets aren’t noted for their opulence. Especially location shots. But Stanley Barrow’s sets were an exception to the rule. And this one, filming inside Central Park, was more lavish than most. I stood, arms crossed, waiting patiently for Stanley to finish the last of the day’s shots.

  Beside me a lavish table of “afternoon snacks” was laid out with the elegant precision of a master chef. Nestled amid peach-colored linens were glorious platters of crostini and tapas, flanked by a magnificent cheese board and an assortment of the most mouthwatering pastries I’d ever seen, meant for cast and crew alike. Working on this set was most definitely not a hardship. At least not where the stomach was concerned.