by Dee Davis
“You’re fine,” Cybil said. “Just add a hat and you’ll look like every other Manhattan celebrity trying to dodge attention.”
She had a point. Cybil wasn’t my best friend for nothing. And besides, there was only one thing that could possibly get my mind off the mess I’d made of my life.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing my Yankees cap from its hook by the door, ignoring the phone ringing behind me. “Let’s go shopping.”
Chapter 17
Barneys New York. 660 Madison Avenue (between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets), 212.826.8900.
Barneys has been a mecca for discerning fashionistas and clothing connoisseurs since 1923. As Sarah Jessica Parker once told Vanity Fair, “If you’re a nice person and you work hard, you get to go shopping at Barneys. It’s the decadent reward.” Barneys stands for taste, luxury, and humor.
—www.barneys.com
∞∞∞
Sarah Jessica Parker has it right. Barneys is a decadent reward. Or, in my case, a decadent escape. Why is it that you always spend more money when you’re on the verge of losing it, than when you’ve got an endless supply? It must be hormones. Or desperation. Either way, in just a couple of hours I’d dropped a sizable chunk of change on a fabulous Lanvin Hero bag and an amazing pair of Marc Jacobs Mary Janes. Both to die for.
And since misery loves company, Cybil had spent money, too, buying a wonderful Philip Crangi gold cuff bracelet and a new lipstick from Bobbi Brown. Our shopping urges satiated, we’d adjourned to Fred’s. A ninth-floor restaurant where women go to see and be seen, it wasn’t exactly incognito world, but with my cap and jeans I figured I’d be deemed persona non grata and therefore summarily dismissed.
I was wrong.
My mother could recognize me in a gorilla suit.
“Vanessa?” Her voice carried across the entire restaurant. And I swear the temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. Okay, I know not everyone in the room was looking. But it sure felt like they were. You know that sickly cold prickle that works its way from the base of your spine up to the hairs on your neck? There were definitely snickers. Well-mannered ones, of course, but the intent was the same as if they were pointing their well-manicured fingers.
I met Cybil’s gaze, signaling SOS. But there was nothing she could do. It was my mother.
“Darling, I thought that was you.” She reached out to pluck the Yankees cap from my head. “There now, isn’t that better? We can see your eyes.”
“That was sort of the whole point, Mother.”
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, not waiting for an answer.
I looked frantically at Cybil, searching for a way out, but short of sprinting past the other diners, there didn’t appear to be one.
“I wish you’d answered my calls.”
“I should have,” I assured her. “It’s just that I wasn’t up to talking to anyone.”
“Except Anderson and Cybil.” If I hadn’t thought it impossible, I’d have sworn she actually sounded hurt.
“They just sort of popped by.”
Mother eyed us both for a moment as if considering the idea, and then, with a shrug, reached over to cover my hand with hers. “So how are you?”
“I’m fine.” Okay, I wasn’t, but it was in the manual somewhere that grown-up daughters are not allowed to run to their mothers for help. Especially when we’re talking about my mother. She means well, but the truth is she’s practically perfect, and so totally incapable of understanding the varied misadventures of her daughter.
“You’re not fine. But at least you’re not hiding out in your closet.”
It sounded innocuous enough, until you considered the fact that when I was twelve, and Bobby Dormand told everyone at school I’d gotten my period, I refused to come out of my closet for three days. What can I say, I don’t deal well with pressure.
“Although, really, when you think about it,” she continued, “Barneys isn’t all that different from a closet. It’s just a little bigger and has more clothes.” It takes a certain degree of deeply embedded pedigree to be able to equate Barneys with a closet. Not to mention money. My mother, of course, had both.
“I’m not hiding from anything,” I protested.
“Baseball cap not withstanding.” She held it up gingerly between two fingers. You’d think it was covered with anthrax or something. “At least you had the sense to bring Cybil along.” As if by mere association, my sin of underdressing could be forgiven.
“Come on, Mother, you didn’t follow us to Barneys to lecture me about my outfit.”
“Well, actually, I didn’t follow you.” Her perfectly penciled brows drew together with the denial. “I just happened to be shopping and I saw you in women’s shoes.”
“Why am I not buying this?” I asked, shooting a look over at Cybil. She was fighting laughter, and somehow in light of her amusement, my anger faded.
“Because it isn’t true.” Mother shrugged with the fatalistic air of someone who is perpetually challenged by life. Or more specifically—me. “I talked to Anderson. He said you were coming here.”
“Well, the food here is definitely better than in my closet.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Vanessa. I came because I was worried about you.”
There was no arguing with that. She was worried. I could see it in the tiny lines around her eyes.
“I know. And I should have called. It’s just that escape seemed the better option.”
“From me?”
“No. From everyone else. The phone was ringing nonstop. Even Cybil was getting calls.”
“Me, too, I’m afraid. It’s seems you’re something of a celebrity these days.”
“My five minutes of infamy,” I said, forcing a smile.
“It’s nothing to make light of.”
We were spared further conversation for the moment when the waiter approached to take our order. From the looks he kept shooting my way, it was clear he’d either seen the photograph or recognized a mother-daughter powder keg when he saw one.
“I’ll have a dry salad,” my mother said, “and a Bloody Mary.” Cybil, following my mother’s lead, ordered a Bloody Mary and a Caesar salad.
Daring to buck the vegetable-driven solidarity, I ordered crab cakes and, after a moment’s hesitation, a martini with two olives. After all, martinis had started this disastrous ball rolling. Maybe a little hair of the dog would make the whole thing go away. Or at the very least, make it more palatable.
In short order the drinks arrived, and after a sip, my mother sat back, ready to begin the inquisition.
“So,” she said, with the air of a queen presiding over her court, “where were we?”
“Having a quiet lunch and trying to forget about Vanessa’s problems?” Cybil’s suggestion was much appreciated but, of course, totally ignored.
“Well, burying one’s head in the sand is hardly the way to deal with something this important.”
“Actually, Mrs. C., when you put it like that, it sounds a little macabre.” Cybil had been calling my mother Mrs. C. since we’d hit puberty and she’d started watching reruns of Happy Days. My mother hadn’t exactly warmed to the idea, but after a time it sort of caught on among my friends, and she’d grudgingly learned to accept it.
“You know what I mean.” She waved her hand, her wedding ring flashing in the light.
“I’m not hiding out or sticking my head in the sand,” I said, bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand. “I’m just trying to put a little distance between myself and the tabloids.”
“You should have thought about that before you let that man kiss you.”
“He didn’t actually consult me about it, you know.”
She sighed. “I know it’s not your fault. But it’s still going to be a problem.”
“For me. Not for you.”
“You’re my daughter, Vanessa, if it’s happening to you, then it matters to me. And so I want to do what I can to help.”
T
he last thing I needed was for my mother to poke her nose in and make things worse. No matter how well intentioned she was.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“I know. And I suppose that’s the hardest part. It doesn’t matter how old your children get, you want to protect them. Make their pain go away. It’s as natural as breathing.”
Put like that, it sounded pretty damn wonderful. But I wasn’t a kid, and no amount of motherly love was going to make things all right.
“Vanessa?” a familiar voice said. “I thought that was you.” Great, this was turning into a full-blown party.
Belinda Waxman stood beside the table. “I just wanted to come over and see how you’re doing.”
“Fine,” I said, feeling a lot like a fish in a bowl. Or more realistically, a duck in a shooting gallery.
“Really?” she asked, her frown making it perfectly clear that she wasn’t buying a word of it.
“Yes. Honestly. I mean I’ve had better days. But this too shall pass.” I smiled brightly, fooling no one at all, but the effort made me feel better nevertheless.
“You and Douglas aren’t. . . ,” she trailed off, clearly embarrassed.
“God, no.” The minute it came out I realized the protestation was a little too strong. I mean, Douglas was a client. “He’s marrying Maris.”
“So it’s still on? I’d heard there were problems.”
“Well, if there are, it’s nothing to do with Vanessa,” my mother asserted.
I shot her a look—chagrin mixed with gratitude—which pretty much sums up our relationship in a nutshell.
“There was a little hitch,” I said, returning my attention to Belinda. “That’s why I was with Douglas yesterday. But everything’s back on track. I talked to them both this morning.”
“And the kiss?” Belinda asked, never one to mince words.
“Was simply an overexuberant Douglas saying thank-you.”
“You mean an inebriated Douglas,” Cybil interjected.
“Well, it all amounts to the same thing. With a little prodding, Douglas was able to overcome his fear of rejection and realize that he didn’t want to lose Maris.”
“You’re a genius.”
Both Cybil and my mother worked to cover their laughter. Cybil by starting to cough and my mother, uncharacteristically, by stuffing her mouth with lettuce. I, quite wisely, kept my mouth shut.
“No,” Belinda said. “I mean it. First, you fix things between Stanley and me.” She reached up to touch the Kipepeo earrings. “And then you make things right for Maris and Douglas. I don’t care what the buzz is, I think you’re the best.”
Okay, I’m not immune to flattery, but there was a big ugly fly in all that sugar. “Buzz?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Oh, you know,” she said, suddenly looking uncomfortable, “it’s just the usual stuff.”
“Come on, Belinda,” Cybil said. “Vanessa’s a big girl. Just tell us what you’ve been hearing.”
Mother reached for my hand again.
I felt like I was about to be voted off the island.
“It’s not anything, really,” Belinda said, trying desperately to backpedal.
“Out with it,” I said, pulling free of my mother. “Cybil’s right. I can handle it.”
“All right,” she sighed. “Word is that you’ve not only lost the bet, you’ve lost credibility. And the scuttle is that Althea is already fielding calls.”
“What kind of calls?” Cybil asked, prolonging the moment.
“Clients.”
“Mine?” I asked, my voice coming out on a squeak.
“Yes.” She nodded. “And then, of course, there’s Mark Grayson.”
“What are they saying about him?” For some reason my stomach chose that moment to attempt to reject the martini and what was left of the croissants. I laced my fingers tightly and concentrated on the keeping everything down.
“It’s just gossip,” Mother said. “Most of it with no more credibility than that damn photograph.” My mother only curses when she is angry. Maybe she’d really meant what she said about wanting to right my wrongs. At the moment, the idea of a champion wasn’t at all distasteful.
“Just that if he’s truly interested in the idea of a matchmaker, he’d be better off with Althea.”
“Your mother’s right,” Cybil said. “It’s just a bunch of people with nothing else to talk about. There’s probably not a kernel of truth in any of it.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Belinda said. “I’m sorry. But for the record, I agree with Cybil and your mom, and that’s what I’ve been telling anyone who broaches the subject with me.”
“No,” I said, “I’m glad you told me. Better to know what’s being said. It’ll give me a leg up on dealing with the fallout.” If there was anything left to deal with. Althea might be a friend, but she wasn’t a stupid one. And she’d be a fool not to use my misfortune to her advantage. I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same thing if given the chance.
“So far your clients are standing strong,” Cybil reminded me, correctly reading my mind.
“Some of them, yes.” I shot a grateful smile at Belinda. “But I haven’t talked to all of them.” I’d actually managed a few calls while Cybil was trying on clothes. And I’ll admit, everyone that I talked to had refused to jump ship, even when I’d said I’d understand. So maybe they were right. Maybe it would blow itself out in the wake of something more tantalizing. I mean, that’s exactly what I’d be saying if it were someone else in the same predicament.
Only it wasn’t someone else. It was me. And currently panic seemed to be winning the day, despite the troops rallying to my side.
My cell phone rang, breaking through my paranoid delusions, and I pulled it from my purse, checking the display before flipping it open.
My heart stutter stepped to a complete stop.
Mother’s eyebrows shot up in question, and Cybil tried to peer over my arm at the screen. Belinda, however, had full view of the phone, and she was the one who put them out of their misery.
“It’s Mark Grayson.”
“Answer it,” Cybil said.
“Quickly,” my mother added, “before he hangs up.”
Something in her tone broke through my inertia and I flipped the phone open. “Vanessa Carlson.” I was delighted to hear that my voice actually sounded close to normal.
“When you said compromising, you weren’t kidding,” he said. Nothing like jumping straight to the point.
“Well, I always try to do my very best.” I scrambled for something less flip to say, but nothing came to mind. “Did you call just to give me a hard time?”
His laugh was oddly comforting. “No. Actually I called to see if you’re free for dinner.”
“Can you hear what he’s saying?” Mother asked Cybil, who was closer to the phone. She shook her head, and I shooshed them both.
“Are you sure you’re up for it? I seem to be a magnet for trouble these days.”
“A magnet of your own making, I suspect.” I started to argue, but he really did have a point. “But to answer your question, I think I can handle a little innuendo. It’s not like I haven’t been there before.”
“Thanks in part to me.”
“So are you free?” he asked again, ignoring my self' deprecation.
I thought about saying no. But then I looked at Cybil. She deserved this. Even if I didn’t. “Yes. I’m free.”
And just like that, I was back in business again. Althea might have the upper hand for the moment. But my mother was right, tomorrow would yield something juicier than Douglas’s drunken kiss.
I just hoped to heaven it didn’t involve me.
Chapter 18
Waldorf-Astoria. 301 Park Avenue (between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth streets), 212.355.3000.
For more than a century, the Waldorf-Astoria has combined luxury with a wealth of amenities and services. This forty-two-story art deco hotel, located in midtown Manhatta
n, beckons New Yorkers and visitors alike. An official New York City landmark since 1993, the Waldorf-Astoria is synonymous with elegance and grandeur, boasting recent renovations renewing the splendor that has long made it an international icon.
—www.historichotels.org
∞∞∞
The Waldorf-Astoria is one of my favorite places. I’m an unabashed fan of everything about the place. From the grand lobbies to the ornately appointed rooms, it embodies my idea of the good life. So when Mark had asked me to meet him there, I’d readily agreed. But when we got on the elevator instead of heading for Oscar’s or the Bull and Bear, I had a shiver of concern.
And when the doors opened on the eighteenth floor, my stomach lurched with the elevator. The marbled rotunda was full of people in tuxedos and couture. On the plus side, I’d decided to dress for dinner. Wearing a vintage midnight blue sheath from Oscar de la Renta and rhinestone sandals from Stuart Weitzman, I could hold my own. On the negative side, these were the very people who’d been calling my apartment nonstop. (Anderson had kept a log. It read like a who’s who of Manhattan socialites.)
“I thought we were going to dinner,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth, simultaneously nodding at Winston and Marjorie Pierce. Just what I needed, an agonizing stroll through the latest incarnation of peacock alley.
“We are,” Mark responded, his hand on my elbow as we followed the coiffed and cultured into the exquisitely decorated ballroom.
“Here?” I said, glancing at the milling hoards.
I should stop here to say that the Starlight Roof is a fabulous place. In the thirties, the venue was reputedly one of the most luminous nightclubs in New York. But for more than fifty years its beauty languished behind a modern architectural remuddle. Fortunately, it has been restored to its former art deco glory, complete with two-story damask-covered windows and a fanciful grille that in its heyday retracted to give patrons an unparalleled view of the stars.
Of course, right at that moment, all I could think about were the smirks and whispers that were going to follow me as I walked through the room. “I can’t,” I said, trying to swallow my panic.
