Chasing Harry Winston (29 page)

“You look like you’re in the throes of a crushing panic attack,” Jesse whispered in her ear. He pulled her even tighter against him, but it was protective, not sexual.

“I’m a filthy, disgusting, unworthy slut,” she said before she could stop herself, but the second the words were out she regretted them.

Expecting a denial or, at the very least, another hug and some sympathetic clucking—Russell’s specialty—Leigh was horrified, and then supremely pissed off, when Jesse started to laugh.

She wrenched her body away from his and stared, dumbstruck. “You think that’s funny? You think it’s
amusing
that I basically just ruined my life?”

He hugged her tighter and rather than feel suffocated like she usually did, Leigh allowed herself to relax. Jesse kissed her lips and forehead and each cheek before saying, “I’m only laughing because you remind me so much of myself.”

“Oh, great,” Leigh muttered.

“But we didn’t do anything wrong, Leigh.”

“What do you mean, we didn’t do anything wrong? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe with the fact that I’m engaged? Or you’re married?
Or that we work together?
”

She emphasized the working together bit, but it wasn’t until she’d listed everything that Leigh admitted something to herself: She’d been waiting for Jesse to offer a reasonable explanation for his marriage, something along the lines of “We’re actually divorced” or “I’m not really married.” She knew this was unlikely. But that hadn’t stopped Leigh from hoping.

He pressed his finger to her lips and shushed her, which she was surprised to discover she found cute and not enraging. “What happened between us happened naturally. We both wanted it. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with that?” she snapped, her voice taking on a mean, almost vicious tone. “What about your
wife
?”

Jesse rolled over onto an elbow so he was hovering above Leigh and looked directly into her eyes. “I’m not going to patronize you with the usual shtick about how miserable we are and how she doesn’t understand me and how I’m about to leave her, because that’s not true and I don’t want to lie to you. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t extenuating circumstances. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t want you desperately right now.”

Well,
that
was definitely not what she wanted to hear. The I-hate-my-wife-she-doesn’t-understand-me shtick would’ve been just fine as far as she was concerned. The fact that it wasn’t forthcoming made her even more acutely aware of how wrong this all was, something made more confusing by the fact that it all felt so right. So
right
? What the hell was she thinking? This was lunacy…. There was nothing right about betraying Russell or having sex with the man she was supposed to be working with. It had been a horrible lapse in judgment, inexcusable even, and it would be a miracle if they all got through this unscathed. Of course she could no longer edit Jesse, that much was clear, but that seemed an insignificant price to pay for her overwhelming stupidity.

It was time to leave. Immediately.

“What are you doing?” Jesse asked as Leigh wrenched herself out from under him and wrapped herself in the throw blanket. She grabbed her entire overnight bag and, with one hand clutching the blanket to ensure she remained covered, she half sprinted, half hobbled to the bathroom. Only after locking the door behind her did she allow the blanket to fall, but this time she couldn’t face her body in the mirror. Knowing she would only sob if she allowed herself the luxury of a shower, she pulled on a pair of clean underwear, jeans, and a button-down and wrapped her knotted, frizzy hair into a bun. She took the time only to brush her teeth and, with that single task complete, Leigh clamped her jaw shut to keep herself from crying and opened the door.

He was standing in the doorway wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts, looking miserable. Leigh wanted nothing more than to hug him, a desire she found both repellant and appealing, but she managed to squeeze past him without so much as brushing against his arm.

“Leigh, sweetheart, don’t do this,” he said, following her down the hall and then the stairs. “Sit with me for a minute. Let’s talk about this.”

She swept into the kitchen to gather her papers and notebooks and saw the remnants of the dinner they’d never gotten around to eating. A casserole dish of hardened lasagna rested on a hot plate between two place settings and two poured glasses of red wine; two simple silver candleholders were covered in melted ivory wax.

“I don’t want to talk. I want to leave,” Leigh said quietly, with no intonation.

“I know, and I’m asking you to wait.” Leigh glanced at him and noticed his stubble was sprinkled with gray and the hollows around his eyes were so dark they could be mistaken for bruises.

“Jesse, please.” She sighed, her back to him as she slid her files into her bag. She remembered she’d left
Something Blue
in the guest room upstairs, but there was no way she was going back for it now.

He placed his hand on her shoulder and pulled at her gently to turn her around. “Look at me, Leigh. I want you to know that I don’t regret last night at all.”

For the first time since she’d gotten out of bed, Leigh met his gaze. She stared at him with her iciest narrowed-eye look and said, “Oh, I’m so relieved! Thank goodness
you
don’t regret what happened. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that. In the meantime,
get your hands off me
.”

He pulled away. “Leigh. I didn’t mean it like that. Please, sit down with me for just a minute….” Something about the way his voice trailed off let them both know that the invitation, while sincere, was not something he actually wanted. He looked tired and beaten, like a man who was exhausted by the thought of having to deal with yet another hysterical postcoital female.

She would give anything for him to say that he loved her from the moment he met her and this wasn’t just another extramarital conquest for the legendary Jesse Chapman—that she, Leigh Eisner, was different—but she knew better. She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked proudly through the front door with her head held high, both surprised and saddened when Jesse didn’t follow.

Adriana literally could not remember the last time she’d waited so anxiously for the phone to ring. In junior high, before puberty, when, like all the other girls, she had to wonder if she would get asked to the school dance? Perhaps. She had been rather eager to hear from the campus health center a few times regarding the occasional pregnancy test, and there was that little incident in Ibiza with the smidgen of cocaine that had necessitated flying in a decent lawyer…. Waiting hadn’t been easy then, either. But this was different: She so desperately wanted
Marie Claire
to call with good news that she could scarcely think of anything else.

Not that she was expecting anything but good news, of course—if yesterday’s meeting with the editor-in-chief was any indication, she was sure she’d made a good impression—but these magazine editors were unpredictable. It wasn’t Adriana’s outfit that made her nervous (what sane woman wouldn’t adore the contrast between a floaty Chloe dress, patent Sigerson heels, and a perfectly distressed shearling coat that nipped in just so at the waist?), or how the meeting had gone (the two had shared Pellegrinos and opinions on the city’s best plastic surgeons); she just couldn’t help but wonder why Elaine Tyler had wanted to meet her in the first place.

As promised, Mackenzie had called Adriana a few days after the dinner party to see if she might be interested in writing a sample advice column on sex and relationships, to which Mackenzie would then add her own pitch describing Adriana’s innate talents with men. If all went as expected, Elaine would approve a trial run of the column on the magazine’s Web site and they’d wait to gauge the reader reaction. It had taken Adriana only a single afternoon to compose half a dozen essays (who could ever narrow it down to just one?), missives with titles ranging from “Sex Yes, Sleep No” to “I Was Just Being Friendly and Other Idiotic Excuses.” She was quite confident she’d imparted her hard-won wisdom while keeping the tone light and entertaining, so why on earth had Elaine insisted on meeting her? More to the point, why hadn’t Elaine’s office called yet? Dumbly, Adriana had given her home number when asked by Elaine’s assistant for contact information, and when she’d tried to correct herself and provide her cell number, the girl had waved her off. It was nearing six, and on a Friday! In just a couple of hours she’d have to drag herself out from under her favorite mink throw and get ready to meet Toby. Did they really expect that she’d just sit around and wait for the phone to ring?

“Bor-ing!” Otis cawed. “Big bor-ing!” He was perched on Adriana’s blanketed ankle, staring at her as she stared at the TV.

“Okay, okay, it was just a commercial. There, look. It’s starting again now.” Otis swiveled his head toward the television and proceeded to watch
The Hills
with rapt attention.

Adriana reached toward him and stroked his silky back. Otis pushed against her hand, loving the massage. Adriana smiled to herself, pleased with the bird’s progress. After endless screaming, too many sleepless nights, and no fewer than half a dozen international phone calls to Emmy in which Adriana threatened to maim and dismember Otis were she not relieved of duty immediately, bird and girl had bonded.

Thank god for her epiphany—without it, who knows what would have become of poor Otis. It had happened only last week and was such a welcome surprise. Adriana had just stripped off her night clothes and was sprinkling salts into her morning bath when, from his perch near the toilet, Otis screamed, “Fat girl!” Instantly Adriana’s eyes darted to the mirror, seeking assurance that she hadn’t ballooned overnight; when she was satisfied that her thighs looked as tight as ever, she turned to look at Otis. He was sitting on the bar of his metal cage, head hung low, beak fixed into what could only be described as a sorrowful expression. Most notably, he was staring at himself in the mirror, and just as Adriana understood the importance of this, Otis let out a long, sad sigh and croaked, “Fatty,” with quiet resignation.

It was then that Adriana realized Otis thought
he
was fat, not her.

All this time Otis had been screaming “fat girl” and “fatty,” and they were cries for help! He must have known Emmy always offered too much food in a desperate attempt to quiet him. Poor thing! How could he be expected to control himself with the unlimited quantities of processed pet-store birdseed constantly paraded through his cage? Adriana immediately went online and scanned a few sites on proper African Grey nutrition, and she was horrified to find that packaged commercial bird food practically guaranteed morbid obesity and early death from kidney failure. Not to mention the psychological toll it was taking on him! To look at yourself in the mirror day after day—to live your life caged in front of a mirror!—and to recognize that you’re overweight but not be able to do anything about it…well, Adriana wasn’t sure it got worse than that!

This changed everything. Once she understood that Otis’s anger and insults weren’t directed at her, she was overcome with sympathy for the tubby little creature. That very afternoon she’d placed a call to Irene Pepperberg, the living parrot legend herself, and asked what the woman had fed Alex, her world-famous African Grey who had a larger vocabulary than the average American eighth-grader. Mobilized with newfound knowledge and bolstered by a very foreign-feeling desire to help, Adriana immediately hit Whole Foods, the Union Square farmers’ market, an upscale pet boutique, and a vet who specialized in exotic birds. It had taken nearly a week of constant work, but Otis’s lifestyle makeover was nearing completion.

It was hard to say what had had the greatest effect, but Adriana guessed it was probably Otis’s new digs. Banished was his rickety aluminum cage with the vile smell and nasty wire bars that looked—and sounded—like some sort of Middle Eastern torture cell. In its place was a proper avian home: an armoire-sized, handcrafted wooden chest designed by one of New York’s finest architects and built by a reputable contractor who had executed the vision perfectly. The frame was made of solid oak that Adriana ordered stained an espresso color to match her living room furniture; granite made up the floor and ceiling; the sides consisted of high-grade stainless steel mesh; and the front panel was made from floor-to-ceiling unbreakable acrylic that looked just like glass. She’d ordered a lush, high-resolution jungle print from a world-renowned
National Geographic
photographer and had it laminated and mounted in the background so Otis could feel close to nature, and she’d requested a full-spectrum lighting system installed so he wouldn’t struggle so much with day and night. On the advice of a parrot behaviorist, Adriana had outfitted the inside with an assortment of basking ledges, swings, shelves, feeders, and perches, although she had later removed a few accessories after worrying the space might feel too cluttered. It was undoubtedly eight grand well spent, as evidenced by the fact that Otis had literally sung upon seeing it for the very first time. Adriana swore she could see him smiling as he gazed at the jungle panorama from his bamboo perch.

She guessed Otis’s new diet, which included only nutrient-rich whole grains, fruits, and vegetables, had gone a long way toward alleviating some of his body-image issues as well. Adriana purchased a bulk supply of highly nutritious quinoa and supplemented it with organic berries, carrots, and—for calcium’s sake—twice-weekly servings of Greek yogurt. Once Adriana discovered that Otis preferred the taste of Fiji artesian water to both Evian and Poland Spring, she replenished his bottle three times daily to ensure he was flushing out all his toxins. A trip to the avian groomer for a bath, a conditioning mist, and a toenail clip had completed his rejuvenation regimen.

What a difference a little indulgence made! Adriana made a mental note of this, should she ever doubt the importance of pampering herself (however unlikely that was). Otis was like a new bird. He sang, he chirped, he bopped his head in rhythm to the bossa nova music constantly playing in the apartment. In just one week he’d graduated from aggressive beast banished to the bathroom to sweet-natured playmate who liked curling up on the couch. This morning he had demonstrated just how far he’d come when, finally, he responded correctly to Adriana’s relentless coaching.

“Okay, Otis, now try to focus,
querido
,” she cooed as she pulled a hand mirror out from her night table. They walked into the living room and sat together on the floor, where Otis happily pecked a carrot and Adriana coached him on his new vocab words.

“Now, I’m going to show you the mirror, and you’re going to tell me who you see, okay? Remember, you’re a smart, beautiful bird who has nothing to be ashamed of. Are you ready?”

Otis continued to munch.

Adriana moved the mirror in front of his face and held her breath. They were close, she could feel it, but so far Otis hadn’t been able to move beyond screaming “Fatty!” at the sight of his own reflection. She held the mirror very still and waited, willing him to say the right words.

He was clearly entranced with himself—a good sign if there ever was one—as his wing feathers puffed up a bit and his beak parted ever so slightly. He appeared to be pleased with what he saw, although of course there was no way to tell.
C’mon
, Adriana willed,
you can do it!
And then, sure enough, with his head cocked and his eyes gleaming, Otis cawed, “Pretty girl!”

Adriana almost fainted with excitement. “Oh, now that’s a good boy!” she said in enthusiastic baby talk. “What a good boy you are! Does the good boy want a treat?”

She’d decided to give Otis a little leeway on his gender confusion—for now, at least. There was time enough for everything, and it was his crushing lack of self-esteem that had had her most worried.

“Grape!” Otis cawed, clearly delighted. “Pretty girl! Grape! Pretty girl! Grape!” He shimmied up and down Adriana’s calf as he called out the words.

“One pesticide-free grape, coming right up for…for who? Who gets the grape? The pretty boy gets the grape!” Adriana hoisted him onto the couch arm and headed toward the kitchen. She was just reaching inside the fridge for the bowl when the phone rang.

“Hello?” Adriana said with a twinge of irritation at the interruption. She wedged the portable between her shoulder and chin while arranging a few grapes on an appetizer plate.

“Adriana?” a breathless female voice asked through the handset.

Callers who refused to identify themselves before demanding to know your name were a pet peeve of Adriana’s, but she willed herself to be polite. “This is she. Who, may I ask, is calling?”

“Adriana, it’s Mackenzie. Hi, sweetheart! Listen, I have some phenomenal news. Are you sitting down?”

Phenomenal news sounds good
, Adriana thought with anticipation. Phenomenal news sounded like Elaine had decided to post one (or maybe more!) of her essays on the
Marie Claire
Web site. Phenomenal news might even mean that Elaine had adored Adriana so much that she planned to feature her as a regular monthly contributor on the site, complete with a splashy link on the home page and (naturally) a tastefully posed headshot of the author herself. Author! Who would’ve ever imagined that she, Adriana de Souza, was about to embark on a career…as an author! And one who would surely garner thousands, if not millions, of hits every day. Girls would be forwarding her column link to all their friends, attaching to it little notes that read, “Check this out” and “so true” and “how funny is this,” while men would stealthily visit the site to gaze adoringly at Adriana’s author photo and perhaps pick up a pointer or two from the enemy camp. It was almost too fabulous to fathom.

“I’m sitting, I’m sitting,” she said, trying to keep the squeal out of her voice.

“Well, I just got out of a meeting with Elaine.” Pause. “She was very impressed with you.”

“She was?”

“Very. I’ve worked here for almost nine years, and I don’t think I’ve seen her this on board with a pitch, ever.”

“Really? So that means she’s going to publish one of the columns on the Web site?” Clearly it was true, but Adriana needed to hear the actual words. She was already thinking ahead to whom she would tell first. The girls? Toby? Her mother?

There was another pause, just long enough to pique Adriana’s anxiety before Mackenzie said, “Um, actually, that’s not what she was thinking.”

Not what she was thinking? But she loved it!
Adriana wanted to scream.
You said so yourself! How could I have so misjudged the situation?
she wondered as she rejoined Otis on the couch and balanced the grape plate between her knees. She stroked his back as he joyfully attacked the fruit. Then she began deconstructing the whole stupid idea. American women were never going to change—hell, they’d been on this empowered-female kick for decades now—so what was the point, anyway? Besides, who needed that kind of exposure? Publicity was one thing, but Web-based exposure, what with all those tacky Web site designs and undesirable lurkers…yuck. It made her skin crawl just thinking of it. It was time to put an end to this silliness once and for all.

“Oh, no? How unfortunate,” her voice oozed with insincerity. “Well, I do appreciate your calling to—”

“Adriana! Just shut up for a second and listen. It’s true that Elaine isn’t interested in the Web site articles, but that’s only because—are you ready for this?—she wants to make you a regularly featured columnist! Can you believe it?”

“A what?”

“A regularly featured columnist.”

“Columnist?” Adriana asked again. Her brain was refusing to process the word.

“Yes! In the print magazine.”

“Which one did she choose?”

“Adriana, I’m not sure you’re understanding me. She chose all of them! I think she wants to start with ‘I Was Just Being Friendly,’ but we’re going to run them all eventually.”

“All of them?”

“One a month. Every month. Depending on reader reaction, which she and I both think will be fantastic, we’re going to make it a regular feature each and every month. We’re going to call it ‘The Brazilian Girl’s Guide to Man Handling.’”