Chasing Harry Winston (32 page)

“Uh-huh,” she mumbled again. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

He followed this with another fatherly kiss and the obligatory hug, then headed to the door. “Safe flight tomorrow. I’ll be thinking of you.”

“You, too,” she said automatically, with no feeling, although this did elicit from him a relieved smile, one that seemed to say,
Thank god you’re not going to make this any more complicated than need be.

A second later he was gone. It took Emmy only another minute or so to realize he hadn’t bothered to ask for her e-mail address or phone number: She would never, ever see him again…and he clearly couldn’t care less.

The therapist’s hands felt sensational working over her knotted shoulders, but even with the mood music and dimmed lighting and lavender aromatherapy oils, Leigh couldn’t calm her mind. The month since she’d slept with Jesse had been torture, and for someone who was accustomed to obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviors, well, that was saying a lot. There had not been a single second—literally, not one—that wasn’t spent hashing and rehashing what had happened with Jesse, what was going to happen with Russell, or some twisted combination of the two. She’d been prepared to tell Russell everything immediately, but then she had a bit of time to think during her drive home from the Hamptons and had reconsidered. It wouldn’t be fair to Russell or either of their parents to ruin everyone’s Thanksgiving with some dramatic—and most likely relationship-ending—announcement. It had helped matters significantly when she’d received a voice mail from Jesse saying that he was leaving the following day for a holiday trip to Indonesia and wouldn’t return until after the new year. It was almost like he was handing her a free pass on a silver platter, and although her conscience begged to be cleared, she decided she would bear the guilt and pretend that everything was fine until they’d all gotten through those horrible weeks of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s.

Somehow Leigh had made it through the last few weeks without having a complete nervous breakdown, but she was even more of a basket case than usual. With Emmy in Israel and Adriana in Brazil, she hadn’t even had the opportunity to share with her friends what she’d done, although were she to be honest with herself, she was also relieved not to have to say it aloud. She’d even endured a particularly painful New Year’s Eve party at one of Russell’s colleague’s apartments—a loft that was almost identical to Russell’s, only this one was in SoHo—but when it came time to head back to work on January 2, she just couldn’t do it. She called in sick that day and the next, an event so rare it warranted a suspicious phone call from Henry.

“Are you really sick, Eisner, or did something happen I should know about?” he had asked. She’d called to leave him a message on his voice mail at six in the morning, but he’d picked up on the second ring. Henry was a lifelong Sunday-night insomniac, so he’d taken to arriving at the office at four or five in the morning on Mondays, claiming those few isolated hours were his only decent work time the entire week. In her distress Leigh had forgotten this.

“What are you talking about?” Leigh asked with passably believable irritation. “Of course I’m actually sick. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you haven’t taken a sick day in all the years you’ve worked here, coupled with the fact that Jesse Chapman—fresh off the plane from Asia—left me three messages yesterday and another two this morning already. Just call me intuitive like that.”

“What did he say?” Leigh asked. She knew in her heart that their professional relationship was essentially over, but she wanted the opportunity to present it to Henry herself, when she was ready.

Leigh could hear Henry sipping something and then chuckling. “He didn’t say a goddamn thing. Claims he was just ‘checking in,’ and ‘touching base’ and ‘saying hello,’ which, coming from Mr. Chapman, may as well be skywriting for ‘something is completely fucked and I’m trying to ascertain whether you know what it is or not.’”

Leigh inhaled, simultaneously impressed with Henry’s perceptiveness and angry at Jesse’s transparency. “Well, I can’t speak for Jesse, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to report. The manuscript is not yet where I want it to be, but it’s no cause for concern,” she said with a steadiness she didn’t feel.

Henry paused for a moment, started to speak, and then changed his mind. “So that’s your story and you’re sticking to it, huh? All right. I don’t buy it, but I’ll accept it—for now. But the moment anything arises that puts our publication date in jeopardy, I want to know about it. I don’t care what time of the day or night, whether it comes by FedEx or fucking carrier pigeon, I want to know. Okay?”

“Of course! Henry, you don’t need to impress upon me how important this is, I promise. I swear I’m handling it. And I hate to cut this short, but it feels like I’m swallowing shards of glass right now.”

“Glass, huh?”

Leigh nodded even though no one could see her. “Yeah, I’m guessing it’s strep, so I probably won’t be in tomorrow, either. But I have my laptop at home, and of course I’m always on my cell.”

“Well, feel better. And I’m glad we had this little chat.”

A shot of pain in her neck brought her back to the massage she’d scheduled right after hanging up with Henry. She flinched.

“Oh, sorry,” the therapist said. “Was that too hard?”

“No, not at all,” Leigh lied. She knew it was acceptable to provide feedback during a massage, that it was silly to pay a boatload of money and not enjoy it or, worse yet, to endure an hour’s worth of pain, but no matter how often she was reassured of these facts, Leigh could not bring herself to say anything. Each time she swore to herself that she’d speak up, and each time she gritted her teeth through kneading that was too strong, music that was too loud, or a room that was too cold. She wondered if she was worried about hurting the masseuse’s feelings. That would be ironic. No hesitation whatsoever in cheating on her fiancé, but better not tell the salaried stranger that you’d prefer a softer touch! Leigh shook her head in disgust.

“I am hurting you, aren’t I?” the girl asked in response to Leigh’s movement.

“Hurting is an understatement, actually. It’s more like getting pummeled by a professional boxer,” Leigh said without thinking.

The girl began to apologize profusely. “Ohmigod, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I can definitely be much gentler.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean it like that. It just, um, it came out wrong. Everything’s great,” Leigh rushed to say. Why couldn’t she control her own mouth?

The massage had seemed like a good idea that morning—if ever she’d needed to relax, it was now, and one of her authors had sent her a gift certificate for Christmas, so she didn’t have to feel guilty about spending the money—but so far it had only served to provide a solitary, quiet chunk of time during which Leigh could do nothing but think.

She and Russell had plans to discuss the wedding over dinner that night, and Leigh could think of nothing she dreaded more.

“Your whole neck is knotted up pretty tight. Are you feeling a lot of stress lately?” the girl asked, working a muscle with her flattened palm in the same painful circular motion.

“Mmm,” Leigh murmured noncommittally, praying the girl would intuit her disinterest in chatting.

“Yeah, I can tell. People always wonder how we know where they’re carrying their tension, and I’m always like, ‘C’mon, guys, that’s what we’re trained for,’ you know? Sure, anyone can rub your back and make it feel good, but it definitely takes a professional to locate those specific pressure points and smooth them out. So, what is it?” she asked. Her voice was low and not particularly grating, but the speed with which she talked made her sound anxious herself.

“What’s what?” Leigh asked, annoyed that she was being forced to participate in this exchange.

“What’s all your stress related to?”

For someone who had stopped seeing a shrink because she found it too revealing, Leigh was not thrilled with this line of questioning. Or any questioning, on anything, from anyone. And yet she was entirely unable to utter a few simple words, something along the lines of “I have a bit of a headache; would you mind if I just lie here quietly?” Instead, Leigh made up some inane story about tough deadlines at work and the pressure of planning the perfect Greenwich wedding. The girl clucked sympathetically. Leigh wondered what sort of reaction she might elicit were she to describe the real source of her tension, i.e., the fact that she had slept with one of her authors (and by “slept with,” she really meant “had the best sex of her life in every imaginable position and variation over the course of ten mind-blowing hours”) while still acting the part of loving and excited partner to her sweet, supportive, and totally clueless fiancé.

By the time the massage ended, Leigh felt slightly more anxious and significantly less relaxed. She pulled on her clothes—not even bothering to shower off the scented oils—and mentally tried to prepare herself to deal with the mess she had created. All she really wanted to do was return to her childhood home, curl up under the blankets, and lose herself in some TiVo. She wanted it so bad she could feel it, and she was just about to drive Russell’s car to her parents’ when another image flashed into her mind. It, too, had a soft comforter and her favorite novels, but it included a panorama of both parents arriving home and attacking her with questions.
Why are you here in the middle of the week? Where’s Russell? How’s work going? When are we going to choose the menu for the reception? What’s happening with Jesse’s book? Where are you going to register? Why do you look so miserable? Why? Where? When? Tell us, Leigh, tell us!
Her dull headache now had that special ice-pick quality to it, and she suddenly felt particularly gross with a layer of clammy leftover massage oil between her skin and her clothes.

She paid quickly and managed to stand her ground when asked to fill out a survey on her experience with the spa.

“You sure?” the receptionist asked, snapping her gum in quick, irritating bursts. “You get a fifteen-percent-off coupon for your next treatment.”

“Thanks, but I’m in a rush,” Leigh lied, almost smiling to herself (almost) when she calculated that probably half of what she said these days was completely untrue. She scrawled an unrecognizable signature on the gift certificate, handed over a twenty-five-percent tip in cash out of guilt for not being chattier with the therapist, and ducked out the front door before one more gum crack could drive her to murderous action.

Even with a heavy load of rush-hour traffic, the cab ride from the Upper East Side spa to TriBeCa felt like it took only thirty seconds. The cabbie was just dropping her off in front of Russell’s building when her phone rang.

“Hey,” Russell said when she clicked it open. He sounded different somehow, more distant, but Leigh told herself she was just imagining that.

“Hi! I’m just pulling up to your building right now. Are you home?” Her own voice sounded forced and faux-cheery, but Russell didn’t seem to notice.

“No, I’ll be at least another hour, but I was hoping you’d wait for me. Just let yourself in and maybe order us some food? I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

“Me too,” Leigh said and was relieved when she realized it wasn’t a complete lie.

She’d just paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi when her phone rang again. She flipped it open without looking at it. “I forgot to ask, do you want sushi or Italian?” she said.

“I vote Italian,” a female voice said with a laugh.

“Emmy! Are you calling from Israel? How are you?” Leigh didn’t particularly feel like talking to anyone just then, but she couldn’t just hang up on her best friend when they hadn’t spoken in over a week.

“No, I just landed. I’m in a cab on my way back from JFK. What are you up to tonight? I was hoping I could drag you to dinner. I miss my friends!”

“I’m breaking up with Russell,” Leigh said quietly, with absolutely no intonation. It took a second before she was even sure she had uttered the words, but Emmy’s gasp confirmed it.

“What did you say? AT&T is shit. I don’t think I heard—”

“Yes, you did. You heard me,” Leigh said with more calmness than she’d felt in seventy-two hours. “I said I’m breaking up with Russell.”

“Where are you?” Emmy demanded.

“Emmy, I’m fine. I appreciate your—”

“Where the fuck are you?” she screeched so loud Leigh had to move the phone away from her ear.

“I’m about to walk into his apartment. He’s not home yet, but I’m ordering dinner for us and I’m going to do it then. Emmy, I know this must seem like it’s out of nowhere, but—” Her voice cracked and a sob choked off her breath.

“I’ll be right there. Listen to me, Leigh Eisner. I am on my way over there, okay?” Leigh heard the muffled sound of Emmy redirecting the cabbie to Russell’s cross streets. “Are you still there? We’re already through the tunnel and headed south on the FDR. I’ll be there in ten, twelve minutes. Do you hear me?”

Leigh nodded.

“Leigh? Say something.”

“I hear you,” Leigh squeaked through a sob.

“Okay, don’t move. Do. Not. Move. Understand? I’ll be there momentarily.”

Leigh heard Emmy hang up, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her own phone. Why had she just said she was going to break up with Russell? It wasn’t at all what she’d been thinking for the past couple of days, during her massage, on the ride back to the city. She’d merely reached the conclusion that she must be honest with him—at all costs—about Jesse. That even if it was only to selfishly assuage her own guilt, starting off a marriage based on cheating was probably not a brilliant idea, and Russell deserved to know the whole truth from the beginning. That said, she was also reasonably sure that Russell—with the proper reassurances—could be convinced to give her a second chance. It wouldn’t have been pretty or enjoyable for either of them, but if she worked hard enough at assuring him that it was a complete fluke with Jesse (which it was) and would never happen again (not a lie), she figured they had a pretty decent chance of getting through this. What she hadn’t even considered was that she might not
want
to get through this…until she’d blurted out those very words just moments before.

Leigh bought a cup of coffee from a tiny corner health-food shop with no proper half-and-half or fake sweeteners—where were all those goddamn Dunkin’ Donuts when she needed one?—and retied her scarf tighter around her neck. She was about to walk into Russell’s lobby when she heard Emmy’s voice shouting behind her. She turned to see a cab screeching to a stop, a tan but panicked Emmy hanging out the back window.

Leigh stood and waited calmly in the doorway, watching as her friend threw three twenties at the driver, collected a few dollars’ change, and dragged her rolling suitcase from the trunk.