Chasing Harry Winston (7 page)

“Leigh, baby, are you awake? I know I am.” He gave another little push just in case she wasn’t sure what he meant.

“I’m exhausted, Russ. It’s so late already, and I have to be up early for the meeting tomorrow.”
When did I start to sound like my mother?
she wondered.

“I promise you won’t have to do a thing.”

He pulled her closer and kissed her neck. She shivered, which he interpreted as delight, and ran his fingers over her goose bumps, which he took as a good sign. When they first started dating, she thought he was the best kisser on earth. She still remembered their first kiss—it had been positively transcendent. He took her home in a cab after the book party and the dive bar, and just before they reached her building, he pulled her toward him for one of the softest, most amazing kisses she’d ever experienced. He used the perfect combination of lips and tongue, the ideal pressure, the exact right amount of passion. And there was no doubt he had plenty of experience on which to draw, having been one of the most well-known and sought-after men she had ever met. Yet in the last few months, it had started to feel like she was kissing a stranger—and not in an exciting way. Instead of soft and warm, his mouth now often felt cold and damp and a little shocking on her skin. His tongue probed too voraciously; his lips always seemed either rigid or fleshy. Tonight, against the back of her neck, they felt like they were made out of papier-mâché before it properly hardened. Pulpy papier-mâché. Refrigerated, pulpy papier-mâché.

“Russ.” She sighed and clenched her eyes closed.

He stroked her hair and rubbed her shoulders, trying to relax her. “What, baby? Is this so awful?”

She didn’t tell him that each touch felt like a violation. Hadn’t the sex once been fantastic? Back when Russell was a bit elusive and flirty and seductive, and not quite so clingy or so determined to settle down with a more serious girl than all the flighty ones from his twenties? It all seemed like so long ago.

Before she realized what was happening, he worked her shorts down to her knees and pulled her even closer. His upper arms were huge, literally bulging under her chin and inadvertently pressing against her throat. His chest threw off heat like a furnace and the hair on his thighs felt like sandpaper. And for the first time ever while in bed with Russell, she began to feel the familiar heart-attack symptoms begin.

“Stop it!” she breathed, her whisper louder than she planned. “I can’t do this now.”

His embrace slackened instantly and Leigh was instantly grateful that it was too dark to see his face.

“Russ, I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“No worries, Leigh. Really, I understand.” His voice sounded calm but distant. He rolled away from her and within minutes his breathing steadied to its deep-sleep rate.

Leigh finally fell asleep just before six, just as the lady above donned her various foot accoutrements and commenced the day’s clomping, but it wasn’t until the next morning’s meeting, at which she felt inarticulate and thick-tongued from exhaustion, that she remembered her final thought before drifting off. It was of dinner with the girls a couple of weeks earlier and their proclamations of change. Emmy was going to expand her experience by having lots of affairs and Adriana had made a resolution to give monogamy the old college try. For the ten days since then Leigh hadn’t been able to think of anything she was willing to contribute. Until now. Wouldn’t it be funny to announce that she was going to work up the nerve to end her flawed relationship even though she was utterly terrified of being alone and convinced she wouldn’t meet anyone who loved her half as much as Russell so obviously did? That she kept waiting and waiting to feel the way about Russell everyone thought she should, but that so far it hadn’t happened? Ha-ha.
Hysterical
, she thought to herself.
They wouldn’t believe it for a second.

She was trying to think of something else—the weather, her upcoming trip, the fact that her parents were discussing the possibility of moving back to the States—but Adriana’s mind refused to focus on anything other than the gorgeous contrast between Yani’s rough, ropelike dreds and the milky texture of his skin. Each time he stretched or straightened that beautiful midsection, her pulse quickened. She watched covertly as a droplet of perspiration traveled from his forehead to his neck and tried to imagine what it tasted like. When he placed his huge hands over her hips, it was all she could do not to groan. A coarse dreadlock brushed against her shoulder; he smelled like moss, overpoweringly
green
, but it was pleasant, masculine. He placed two fingers in the small of her back and nudged her pelvis forward. “Right there,” he said softly. “Just like that.”

His voice got louder, but only slightly. “Gently place the left palm on the floor and rotate your body into plank position. Feel the energy flow from your hands to the earth, from the earth to your hands. Don’t forget to breathe. There; hold it right there.”

Adriana tried to block out the sound of his voice and, when that wasn’t possible, to reconfigure his words so that they sounded slightly saner. The class moved like a choreographed dance troupe, a collection of sinewy limbs and tight torsos that made the movements appear almost effortless. She loved yoga and she lusted after Yani, but she had minimal tolerance for the touchy-feely stuff. Correction: The touchy-feely stuff was great, as long as it was Yani touching
her.
All the lecturing about energy and karma and spirit made him just a little less appealing, and that was a real shame—but nothing she couldn’t overlook. She shifted her body into plank pose, her triceps quivering with effort, and glanced up to locate Yani. He was standing over Leigh with a foot positioned on each side of her extended legs, pressing the spot between her shoulder blades closer to the floor. Leigh met Adriana’s gaze and rolled her eyes.

As usual, the class consisted exclusively of women. Adriana had expertly scanned the room upon entering and, after determining herself the most fit and attractive woman in attendance, laid out her mat and saved a space for Leigh. She felt proud that in this room of beautiful women—all in their twenties or early thirties, all but one at or under their ideal body weight, all groomed to within an inch of their lives despite the early Sunday morning and the physical nature of the activity—she was the most beautiful. This realization no longer surprised or delighted her the way it had when she was younger; rather, it gave her a little added confidence bump that helped smooth along the day. The fact that Yani wouldn’t sleep with her most likely indicated that the problem was his and not hers, a theory she wanted her friends to confirm at a post-yoga breakfast.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Adriana said, placing her mouth delicately around a spoonful of granola. “What do you think is wrong with him?”

Leigh sipped her coffee and smiled at the waitress for more. The diner at the corner of Tenth and University wasn’t the best brunch place around—the servers were always surly, the eggs were sometimes cold, and the coffee ran the gamut from watery to bitter—but it was close to the studio and both girls could be certain that they would never see anyone they knew. There weren’t many places in downtown Manhattan where you could dine sporting yoga pants and sweaty ponytails without raising eyebrows, so they persevered.

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose you think he’s gay?”

“Of course not,” Adriana snapped.

“And there’s no chance that he’s just not that into you….”

Adriana gave one of her cute mini-snorts. “Please.”

“Well, then it’s got to be one of the usuals. Erectile dysfunction, mid-herpes outbreak, freakishly small member. What else could it be?”

Adriana considered these options, but none of them felt quite right. Yani seemed peaceful, accepting, completely self-assured in that strong, silent way. No man had ever
not
responded to her. And it’s not that she wasn’t trying—it had been years since she’d needed to make an effort like this, and that time the boy’s reluctance had been tied to his upcoming wedding—but it sometimes seemed like Yani didn’t even
see
her. The more she swung her hair or thrust out her perfect breasts, the less he noticed.

“What else? Why, isn’t it obvious? He’s a total bed-wetter and he’s terrified of being found out.” Emmy seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and for the briefest moment Adriana was irritated to have the attention shifted away from her.

“Hey! We didn’t know if you’d make it. Here, give me your stuff,” Leigh said, holding out her arms.

“What, don’t you want me to sit next to you? I promise I’ll sit really close, maybe rub my shoulder against yours. It’ll be fun.”

Leigh sighed.

Adriana patted the seat next to her; she knew Leigh had “space issues” and she tried to be understanding, but it was annoying always having to be the one who got crammed inside booths and crowded in banquettes. “How does Russell deal with the fact that you can’t stand being near anyone?”

“It’s not that I ‘can’t stand being near anyone.’ I just like a little buffer zone. What’s wrong with a little personal space?” Leigh asked.

“Yeah, but seriously: Does he get it? Accept it? Or does he hate it?”

Leigh sighed again. “He hates it. I feel bad. He comes from a huge, happy family of mouth-kissers! I’m an only child with parents as affectionate as ceramic statues. I’m working on it, but I can’t help that all that closeness and touching seriously freaks me out.”

Adriana raised her hand in defeat. “Fair enough. As long as you recognize the issue.”

Leigh nodded. “Definitely aware. Constantly, neurotically, miserably aware. And working on it, I promise.”

Emmy collapsed onto the bench beside Adriana; the padded vinyl heaved a bit with the extra ninety-five pounds and then settled. “How was yoga? Still no love from the Y-man?”

“Not yet. But he will succumb,” Adriana said.

Leigh nodded. “They always do. For you, at least.”

Emmy clapped her hand on the table. “Girls, girls! Have we forgotten so soon? Adriana is no longer seeking casual encounters. Of course, she’s welcome to become Yani’s girlfriend, but according to the rules, she cannot be his one-night stand.”

“Ah, yes. The rules. Agreed to after one too many cocktails and, at least as of today, not settled yet. I think that still makes Yani fair game.” Adriana made a point to smile cutely, not sexily, focusing on deepening the dimples that appeared when she was acting her most girlish.

Emmy blew her a kiss. “Honey, save those dimples for your future boyfriend. They’re worthless at this table. And besides, I have news.”

“Duncan news?” Leigh asked automatically, forgetting for a second that they’d now been broken up for nearly three weeks.

“No, not Duncan news—although I did run into his sister, who told me that he and the virgin cheerleader are going in on a Hamptons share with three other couples for July and August.”

“Mmm, sounds great. They can pay twenty grand for a small bedroom and shared bathroom and bumper-to-bumper traffic, all so they can spend the summer
not
having sex. Sounds dreamy. Do I have to bring up summer of ’03 again?”

Adriana shuddered. Just the thought of that summer was enough to make her feel on edge. It had been her idea—what could be so bad about a mansion in the Hamptons with a pool, a tennis court, and forty to fifty single, professional twentysomethings?—and she’d campaigned Emmy and Leigh vociferously for weeks until they finally agreed. All three had been so miserable with the 24/7 noise and partying and drinking-till-you-puke theme that they’d spent each weekend of their half-share huddled at the far end of the pool together, clinging to one another for sanity’s sake. “Please, no! Don’t go there. Even all these years later, it’s still traumatic.”

“Yeah, well, Duncan and the trainer can go hang themselves for all I care. I had a long talk with Chef Massey this week and he’s still interested in having me do some work abroad. He’s planning to open two new restaurants this year alone and needs people on-site to oversee the progress, help with hiring, stuff like that. And of course, menu ideas whenever possible. I start a week from Monday.”

“Congratulations!” Leigh said.

Adriana squeezed Leigh’s hand and tried her hardest to appear pleased. She wasn’t unhappy for Emmy—after all, the girl
had
had a shitty go of it lately—but, selfishly speaking, it was hard sometimes hearing about her friends’ career successes. She knew they envied her free time and would kill to have the funds and time to enjoy life a little more, but it no longer made her feel good to hear it. And of course it was not like she wanted either of their jobs; that was for sure. Emmy’s tirades about egomaniacal chefs and impossible restaurant personalities were scary enough to turn anyone off a career in the food-service industry, and Leigh’s hours were insane. She complained constantly of lunatic authors and oppressive reading schedules, and Adriana wondered if she wasn’t just a little bit envious of those who actually got to write the books instead of edit them. But if Adriana was going to be completely honest with herself, she knew that both girls found a certain satisfaction in their jobs that she would never know from her daily schedule, however rigorous, of grooming, lunching, exercising, and socializing. It’s not that she hadn’t
tried
working—she’d given it a fair shot. Right after graduation she’d signed on for the buyer training program at Saks but quit as soon as she realized that she’d have to start with makeup and accessories and it would take years to work her way up to premier designer apparel. There was a brief stint at an advertising agency that she’d almost enjoyed, at least until her boss asked her to go outside
in the snow
to buy him a cup of coffee. She had even worked a few weeks for one of the famous Chelsea galleries, before realizing how naïve she’d been to think she could meet eligible straight men in the art world. Right after that job Adriana realized it just didn’t make much sense to work forty hours a week and neglect so many other aspects of her life for a couple thousand dollars here or there. So while she knew from experience that she’d never trade the freedom of her situation for the drudgery of a nine-to-five, of course, there were times when she wished she was good at something besides bedding men. The exception being the current case with Yani.