A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (2 page)

The waiter arrived with our drinks and a fresh assortment of nibbles.

The only really bad thing about overdoing martinis is that they’re worse than cannabis when it comes to the munchies. At least I can delude myself into believing that wasabi-dipped edamame aren’t going to break the calorie bank.

I stared down into the smoky depth of my gin, swirled it a few times for effect, then looked across the table at Althea, cutting to the chase. “Did they acknowledge your part in the nuptials?”

“No. But everyone knew anyway. I mean it’s not a state secret what I do.” She tilted her head in a practiced way, the light hitting her tightened and tucked face in just the right places. Althea couldn’t be considered young by anyone’s standards. But she was well preserved. Thanks in part to good genes. And mostly to her plastic surgeon on the corner of Park and Seventy-third.

I used to think plastic surgery was only for the aged or repulsive. I think most people in their twenties would agree with that. But I’m not in my twenties any longer. And suffice it to say, I am on good terms with Althea’s doctor. So far only for a little Botox lift; I mean, I haven’t hit forty. But the little wrinkles at the corners of my eyes aren’t exactly getting smaller. You know?

“I think it says a lot that they invited you at all,” Cybil said, picking up a peanut and then dropping it guiltily back in the silver bowl. “I mean, no one really wants to admit that they need help finding true love.”

“Well, in point of fact,” I said, waving my martini at her, “we’re not really interested in love—true or otherwise. It’s all about combining assets—two parts making a more productive whole.”

“You make it sound like a corporate merger.” Cybil wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“And you, my friend, are entirely too sentimental.” I frowned at her over the rim of my glass. It was an old argument. Cybil, for all her sophistication, was a hopeless romantic. Which meant that when it came to men, she invariably chose losers. Case in point, her current lover, Stephen Hobbs. But I won’t go there.

“I’m not sentimental. I just believe marriage should be about more than just bank accounts.”

“Well, of course it’s more than that.” Althea reached over to pat Cybil’s hand. “There’s the sex.”

I almost choked on an olive. Althea was overly proper by nature. You know, the type who never curses and uses words like “bedroom frivolity” to talk about doing it. Obviously, the martinis were loosening her inhibition.

“And how exactly do you think an arranged marriage guarantees good sex?” Cybil either hadn’t noticed Althea’s slipup or just wasn’t interested. She’d leaned forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. Or maybe just so that there’d only be one Althea.

I mean, we
were
on martini number four.

“Because—like attracts like,” Althea intoned, as if the words held the key to all wisdom.

“Um, I think you mean opposites,” Cybil said, still squinting.

“No, I mean like. Two people of the same background, the same financial circumstances, and the same ideology will invariably be happier than two people who simply respond to chemical combustion.”

“Maybe in a merger. But in the bedroom, I’ll take combustion.” Cybil sat back, sipping her martini.

“In the short run, possibly,” I said, picking up on Althea’s theme. I did say she was my mentor. “But when the combustion fizzles—and it will—you need the bedrock to maintain the marriage. And besides, pleasure isn’t limited to the perfect partner.”

“That’s why there are affairs.” Althea nodded in agreement.

“Actually, I was thinking of vibrators. But that’ll work.” I smiled at her through my gin-induced haze.

“You two are entirely too cynical to be in your line of work,” Cybil said, her glasses shining in the candlelight. “I mean, Vanessa, you even call your business Happily Ever After. How in the world can one have that without love?”

“I think,” I started to lean forward, propping my chin on my hand, “that the two terms are mutually excusive, actually. Love generally does not lead to happily ever after—happily short-term maybe—but not ever after. Unlucky in love is the norm, not the exception. And for the record, my business is called HEA.”

“That’s just semantics.” Cybil waved her hand, and the waiter hustled over, quite possibly for fear that she’d topple over. She shook her head at him and he moved back discreetly. “You’re a matchmaker, for God’s sake. That means you arrange for people to find true love.”

“Only in fairy-tale land, darling,” Althea said, sipping her martini. “This is Manhattan.”

“So you’re saying that no one in Manhattan marries for love?” Not only is Cybil a practicing romantic, she’s stubborn as all hell.

“Not once you’ve reached a certain social status.” Althea shook her head. “It simply wouldn’t last.”

Cybil opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. “There are socially prominent married people who are in love, Cybil, but it’s just a perk. An added bonus. Not a necessity. And certainly not the norm.”

“So you’re saying that in order to have a successful marriage, love doesn’t have to be part of the equation?”

“Exactly.” I nodded to emphasize the point. “In fact I’d go so far as to say that more often than not love is a detriment to the process, not an asset.”

“And your clients
know
you think this?” Cybil asked, her expression mutinous.

“Know it? Darling, they demand it.” This from Althea, who was almost two-thirds of the way into her martini. The woman might be repressed sexually, but she can drink like a fish.

“Well, maybe not demand it.” I believed what I was saying wholeheartedly, but in all honesty most of my clients needed a little convincing. “But they usually come ’round to my way of thinking.”

“It all seems a little bleak to me,” Cybil shrugged, “but, apparently it works; business does seem to be booming.”

“Yes. Although I still think we were better as a team.” Althea shot a pointed look in my direction, and I busied myself looking for something in my purse.

“Vanessa’s doing fine on her own,” Cybil said, jumping to my defense. “And your business isn’t hurting either.” She pointed to the newspaper, the Walski wedding headlining the society page.

“I suppose you’re right.” Althea sighed. “But think how well we’d be doing if we’d stayed a team.”

How well
she’d
be doing is more like it. I owe Althea a lot, don’t get me wrong. But being her minion had definite drawbacks. Most of them financial. And since I have a weakness for Versace and Prada, money is essential. Hell, even if I didn’t have a thing for Italian leather, money would be essential. This is Manhattan.

“Did you see who’s over there?” I asked, pointing to a table in the corner, more for diversion than from actual interest. “It’s Mark Grayson.”

Well, actually I suppose there was some degree of interest. A person would have to be brain-dead not to know that Mark Grayson was a cut above the rest when it came to wheeling and dealing.

“I saw him when we came in.” Cybil tipped her head so that she could see him better. “That’s Tandy Montgomery he’s with.” Cybil was always in the know, but was so used to the fact she sometimes forgot that the rest of us aren’t hardwired for the latest buzz.

“A new poptart?” Althea asked, apparently as out of the loop as I was.

“No, she’s the latest winner of that modeling contest. You know, the one on cable.” The last word explained why I hadn’t heard of her. Keeping up with the boob tube’s latest flashes of fame is more work than it is worth. The minute you catch up, their five minutes in the spotlight are over and you have to start all over again. I had better things to do.

“Well, she’s certainly not the right woman for
him
,” Althea said, her eyebrows disappearing into her perfectly sculpted hair.

Mark Grayson was new money, but he’d come by it the old-fashioned way. Hard work. And I wouldn’t have pegged him for the flaunt-the-starlet type. Still, he was a man—and given half a chance the gender tended to gravitate to vacuous, breast-enhanced types. All the better for me, really. I mean, if the right people came together on their own, I’d be out of business.

“Well,
he
seems to think so,” Cybil said. All three of us were now staring over at his table. Not the most polite thing to do. Especially in Bemelmans. But copious amounts of gin tend to blur the line a little when it comes to social behavior. And it was sort of interesting, watching him make his moves. Like a sort of sexual science experiment.

“So what else do you know?” Althea and I both leaned toward Cybil expectantly.

“About Tandy or Grayson?” Cybil asked.

“Both,” we said almost in tandem.

“Well, I don’t know much about her. And I’m pretty certain she’s not a permanent fixture—if you know what I mean.”

“Does he always pick the same type?” Althea asked.

“Redheads?” Cybil asked, frowning over at the would-be model. “I don’t think so. I know I’ve seen him with blondes before.” The martinis were clearly clouding her brain.

“No, I meant the empty-headed-girl-of-the-moment type.”

“You were expecting him to step out with flat-chested fortysomethings?” I quipped, but they weren’t listening to me, they were too busy watching Wonder Boy and his latest girl toy.

“No,” Althea said, shaking her head. “Of course not. I was just. . .”

“Sizing him up?” Cybil grinned, just managing to swallow her laughter. “So what did you decide?”

“Truth?”

Cybil nodded

“He’s not the marrying type.” Althea studied the man, her look calculating. “Of course, with proper persuasion . . .”

“He certainly seems the ideal candidate for your concept of marriage. Merger is his middle name,” Cybil agreed.

“Hey, I’m sitting here, too.” I frowned at them both, waving my martini glass at them. Not a good idea as it turned out, since the liquid also went flying. Fortunately no one seemed to notice except our still hovering waiter, who immediately produced a fresh napkin. “And, anyway, I found him first.”

“Darling, no one found him. He was here before we were. And besides, if anyone can land him, you know it will be me. I simply have more experience.”

Of course she was right, but I’d had three-plus martinis and I hated to be bested at anything. “Experience isn’t everything. There’s technique involved. And you always did say I have amazing instincts.”

“Instincts, yes. Technique, not so much. Besides, I’m the one who landed Walski as a client.” She sat back, crossing her arms as if she’d trumped me. But I wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

“Walski practically had ‘marriageable’ tattooed on his forehead. Anyone with half a brain could have hooked him up.”

“Maybe,” she acquiesced with a shrug, “but not with Susannah Barker.”

“How about John Pollard? He’d been notoriously single for years. And I managed to snag him almost right out of the gate. And marry him off, happily, I might add, three months later.”

“Pollard could be Pierce Brosnan’s twin. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t marry him if given the opportunity,” she countered, tossing back the rest of her martini.

“Yes, but he wasn’t quite as easy to please. And yet,” I paused for effect, “I did it. Which means that I am more than up to the task of convincing Mark Grayson that it’s time for him to take the plunge. And if we’re really rolling out the big guns,” I paused again for effect, “there’s always Franklin Pierpont.” Despite my subsequent defection, Althea knew I’d saved her ass on that one.

“Maybe you both should give it a go.” Cybil’s seemingly offhanded remark had exactly the effect she’d intended, both our heads turning in unison in her direction.

“How do you propose we do that? We can hardly share a client,” Althea said.

“I’m not saying that you should.”

“But you said . . .” This was getting interesting.

“I said that you should both try. I frankly don’t think either of you will succeed. But a little competition might be interesting. You’ve got to admit, Althea, that Vanessa has become quite successful. And, Vanessa, you’re always complaining that Althea gets all the attention. So why not prove who’s the best by seeing which of you can snare Mark Grayson. And once there’s a winner, I’ll announce it in my column. That way everyone will see it. The verdict will be final. And one of you will be crowned the ruler of matrimonial Manhattan.”

The idea had definite appeal. I mean, Althea might be mentor and friend but, let’s face it, she was big-time competition as well, and the idea of proving myself once and for all was almost irresistible. Not to mention the idea of having the fact touted before most of the free world. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that Cybil’s column was an international must-read.

I glanced over at Althea, who was trying to appear uninterested, but I could see the calculation in her eyes.

“So the first one to sign him as a client wins?”

“No way.” Cybil laughed, idly rubbing her finger around the rim of her glass. “That would be too easy. In order to win, you have to dance at the man’s wedding. I mean, marrying him off is the whole point, isn’t it? Signing him as a client is only half the challenge.”

“I don’t know.” Althea shook her head, her eyes on Grayson, who had paid his check and was now ushering runway girl out of the bar. “Matchmaking isn’t an exact science.”

“Oh, please.” Cybil sighed. “You just spent half an hour telling me how marriage is nothing more than a business deal. Are you saying now that you’re not up to the task?”

I popped an olive into my mouth, all the better to keep it shut. This wasn’t a task to enter into lightly. I mean, this public an endeavor could very well backfire, leaving my newly flourishing business deep in Chapter 11. A matchmaker who fails doesn’t get a lot of repeat business.

But the olive apparently had not gotten the message. It slid blissfully down my throat and my mouth seemed to open of its own accord. “I’m in.”

There was silence for a moment, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. Althea wasn’t the type to ignore a gauntlet, and I had just thrown one.

“Then so am I, darling.” What can I say, I know the woman well.