A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (12 page)

Richard headed for the cashier to pay the bill as we all stood up and gathered our things. “You staying with Cybil?” Anderson asked.

I opened my mouth to agree, but Cybil beat me to the punch. “It’s not necessary. I’m fine. Or at least closer to it than I was eight hours ago. What you need right now is a good night’s sleep, in your own bed.”

“I’m not sure that’s—” I started, but Cybil interrupted.

“I’m okay. Really. If I have trouble sleeping, there’s always the rest of the cupcakes to keep me company.”

“Chocolate isn’t going to help you sleep.”

“No, but I’ll be very happily wide-awake. Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

We’ve already established that accepting defeat gracefully isn’t one of my strong points, but sometimes a person just has to give in. And to be honest I was so tired I was almost dragging on the sidewalk.

Anderson stepped off the curb to hail a cab as I gave Cybil a hug. “I’ll call you in the morning?”

“Not too early,” she returned with a smile. “But I’ll count on it.”

Tears pressed against the back of my eyes. For Cybil, for me. Hell, for all mankind. (Okay, that was the remnants of Chivas talking. Did I mention that before I left Bungalow 8, Cybil and I had drowned our sorrows?)

I sniffled and waved at Cybil, then slid into the taxi between Richard and Anderson. We were quiet for most of the drive back, each lost in our thoughts. It was a comfortable silence. The kind that only comes when you’ve known someone forever.

Or when there’s nothing left to say.

The truth was that I hadn’t the slightest idea how to wiggle my way back into Mark Grayson’s good graces. In point of fact, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d ever been there to begin with. But I was certain that I’d seen a spark of interest. Grayson might not have thought he wanted a wife, but he was wrong.

And I was just the person to prove it to him.

All that was left was to figure out how.

Chapter 9

Fine Linens.
1193 Lexington Avenue (between Eightieth and Eighty-first streets), 212.737.2123.

Manhattanites always expect the very best, and when it comes to sumptuous bedding, no one can beat the wow factor of Fine Linens. Whether it’s your table, your bed, or your bath, they’ve got you covered—luxuriously.

—www.allthingsluxurious.com

∞∞∞

One of my favorite things about a bedroom is, well, the bed. Or, more important, the linens on the bed, which explains why my sheets and duvet cost slightly more than a Birkin bag. Okay, I’m exaggerating. But only a little. My bedding (from Fine Linens) is the most luxurious thing I own. After all, I do spend half of my life there.

And in all honesty, there’s nothing more fabulous after a night of humiliation than sinking into the soft cool comfort of your very own Italian-made, six-hundred thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. The only thing marginally better is waking up in them. You know the drill—luxurious stretch, long yawn, and then a quick snuggle for another ten minutes’ sleep?

Heavenly.

Unless the first thing you see is your mother standing at the end of the bed.

“Vanessa, get up.” Her voice had a smoker’s rasp, the effect much nicer than the habit that precipitated it. “We’re due at Tavern on the Green in an hour and a half.”

Why in the world did I ever give her a key?

“Go away,” I said, turning my face into the cool sanctuary of my pillow. “I had a bad night.”

“I know, darling, it’s the talk of the town.” There was a note of condemnation. I think I mentioned that my mother has never really approved of my choice of profession. Heck, who am I kidding? My mother wouldn’t approve of any profession. In her mind the best thing a girl can do is marry rich, spend the better half of the money, and give the rest away.

And so far, I might add, she’s been doing a damn good job of it.

I surfaced from the freshly scented heaven into familial hell. “Did it make the papers?”

“Yes,” she said, bending now to push Waldo out of the way. “Vanessa, do something about your cat.”

I don’t know if it’s her perfume or the fact that she despises all things feline, but Waldo thinks my mother is one of his conquests. From my vantage point I could just see the tip of his tail as it wove figure eights around my mother’s Ferragamos. “He’s not a dog, Mother. You can’t call him off.”

“Well, try.”

We’d played this game a million times already, and if anything it had only increased Waldo’s ardor. “Come on, Waldo.” I sat up and patted the comforter for effect. Nothing happened. “Waldo.” This time there was a hint of exasperation. I wasn’t in the mood. And miracle of miracles, Waldo cocked his head, considered the matter, and with a walk worthy of a king, sauntered over to the bed and leapt up beside me.

“See,” my mother said with self-satisfaction.

I sighed again, this time for effect, and ran my hand over Waldo’s silky fur. “How bad was it?”

“How bad was what?” Mother asked.

“The papers,” I said in exasperation.

“Oh that,” she answered, emphasizing the last word as if Waldo had left a little present for her. “Fairly tame actually, considering the nonsense you and Althea have been up to.”

I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Cybil, Richard, and Anderson, and sank back into my pillows. Another bullet dodged. “I’m too tired to go to one of your benefits, Mother. I just want to stay here and sleep.” Waldo, obviously in an obliging mood, curled up beside me.

“Wallow is more like it.” She crossed the room, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. With a whoosh she pulled up the shade, the morning sun blinding against the white of my bedroom walls. “You know better than most that the best way to deal with gossip is to face it head-on.”

I knew no such thing, but she obviously wasn’t about to back down. My mother might look like an aging movie star, but she has the tenacity of a rottweiler. It was simply easier to give in than it was to try to argue with her. Besides, in the end, the result was the same. I did exactly what she wanted.

“I’ve forgotten where we’re going.” I sat up again, pushing my hair out of my face, my awakening senses picking up the scent of coffee. “You made coffee?”

“Hardly.” Mother laughed, the sound surprisingly musical. “I brought Starbucks.”

All the better. I got up and padded into the kitchen, her footsteps echoing behind me.

“It’s a benefit for the Make-a-Wish Foundation. A luncheon.”

“Oh, joy,” I said, pulling the lid off my mocha latte and simply inhaling. What is it about coffee? It smells so divine, but without serious dairy infusion, it tastes like shit. Definitely an acquired taste. But with a little Starbucks mojo, I was definitely on board.

“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?)