A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (23 page)

The two of them exchanged a glance. The poor-dear-she’s-not-thinking-straight kind of look. “Well, two friends are better than one,” Anderson said, his tone brooking no argument. “And so I’ll go in after you get your bearings.”

Okay, in case you’re thinking I’m a total twit, I know how lucky I am to have friends like Cybil and Anderson. I even know how lucky I am to have my mother on my side—more or less. What I hate is the fact that I need them so damn much. You know? I just want to stand on my own two feet. Take control of my life.

Waldo twined around my ankles, reminding me that I couldn’t even control my cat.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, pushing back from the table. I grabbed the carafe and headed for the kitchen to make more coffee. It was shaping up to be a two-pot kind of day. Behind me, the phone rang again, and I could hear Anderson telling whoever it was that I wasn’t home and then repeating the words “no comment.”

Maybe I should have Starbucks pump the stuff directly into the apartment. If David Letterman could do it, so could I. By the time I’d managed to fill the machine with coffee and start it running, the phone had rung another three times. Anderson was more than a friend, he was a godsend.

I was headed back for the living room when I noticed that the front door was ajar.

“How long has this door been open?” I asked, a tenor of panic seeping into my voice.

Cybil shook her head and Anderson frowned as he hung up the phone. “I’ve no idea. Does it matter?”

“Waldo,” I said, in answer to the question, and Cybil whispered the only words that could possibly make my day worse.

“He’s gotten out.”

“Waldo,” we all yelled simultaneously.

“He was just here,” I said, wondering if the ankle rub had been his way of saying good-bye. He wasn’t generally an affectionate cat. Damn it all to hell.

“Waldo.” The name echoed through the apartment as we began to search frantically for my lady-loving cat. I checked in all of his favorite places, even under the bed behind my sweater box, which required a contortion worthy of Cirque du Soleil. No luck.

“He’s not here.” I surfaced from under the bed just as Anderson emerged from my closet.

“Not here either.”

Cybil arrived in the doorway, panting. “I checked the spare room, he’s not there either. And I even looked behind the desk.”

“He’s gone.” I sat on the bed and tried to figure out what to do next. Not that I accomplished a lot, my head was too busy presenting a picture of Mrs. M. in a black pointed hat turning Waldo into a flying monkey. “Just because he’s out doesn’t mean he’s with Arabella.”

Anderson didn’t have time to comment. The doorbell and phone rang simultaneously. Stupidly, I sat frozen on the bed. Neither option appealed. Maybe if I just sat there all day, the ringing would stop. Anderson took his cue from me and sat next to me on the bed.

Cybil stood frozen in the doorway. The cacophony of ringing continued for at least three beats with no one moving.

Anderson came to his senses first. “I’ll take the phone,” he said, avoiding eye contact. He might be a brave man, but even he wasn’t ready to face the possibility that Mrs. M. was at the door. “Fine,” Cybil said. “I’ll get the door.”

“No,” I said, surprising them both. “I’ll get the door.”

I sucked in a breath and pushed off the bed. Cybil jumped out of the way as I stalked down the hallway, trying to emulate a confidence I did not feel. Rounding the corner, I crossed the living room and, with a small prayer for help, pulled open the door.

“Maris? What are you doing here?” Probably imagining all the ways she’d like to torture me.

“I thought you might need a friendly face.” Well, color me surprised. She’d shown a brave face last night, but in truth I’d still fully expected her to do an about-face the minute she saw the photo. “Two of them, actually.” She moved aside to show a somewhat recalcitrant Douglas standing beside her.

“Come in.” I gestured to the living room where Anderson and Cybil were standing looking just this side of dumbfounded. “We’ve just been trying to find Waldo.”

“Waldo?” Maris asked.

“My cat. I’m afraid he’s a cross between Valentino and Houdini.”

“Sounds like trouble,” she said, giving Douglas a little push. The two of them walked over to the sofa and sat side by side. I followed suit, sitting in the chair across from them.

“I seem to attract it like lint on black pants.” I smiled, not entirely sure what to expect next. The tension was palpable. But at least they were together. I’d take victory where I could get it.

“Why don’t I get everyone some coffee?” Cybil said, heading to the kitchen without waiting for a response. Chicken.

“I’ll help,” Anderson said. Make that two chickens.

Maris, Douglas, and I sat awkwardly for a moment. And then I ventured into the potentially shark-infested waters. I mean, someone had to do it.

“So how are you feeling, Douglas?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. Maybe recalcitrant had been the wrong word. Maris reached over to cover his hand with hers, and suddenly I felt hope blossoming like a perfectly aged brandy.

Douglas grimaced but still managed to smile. “I feel like someone drove a Fresh Direct truck through my head. But I guess it’s better than I deserve.” He paused for a moment and then turning his fingers over, he laced them with Maris’s. “Look, Vanessa, I owe you an apology. It’s my fault you’re getting all the bad publicity. If I hadn’t kissed you, none of this would have happened.”

It was the absolute truth, and I had every right to be angry. But I wasn’t. I understood how difficult it had been for him to apologize. Maybe Douglas and I had more in common than I’d thought. “It’s all right. You weren’t thinking straight.”

“That’s a polite understatement.” His smile was more genuine. “I was scared shitless, and because of that I got smashed.”

“With good reason,” I said.

“Well, if it hadn’t been for you, I shudder to think of what would have happened.”

“You’d have come to your senses on your own. I just pushed things along a little,” I assured him.

“See,” Maris said. “I told you she’d understand.” She beamed at me as if I’d just given her a present.

“So the two of you are okay?”

“What you’re asking is whether she forgave me?” Douglas said, the lilt in his voice giving it away before he had the chance to put it in words. But I wanted to hear it anyway.

“So?” I prompted.

“Suffice it to say that the wedding is on again,” Maris said, smiling over at Douglas. Score one for the good guys.

“I’m glad,” I said. “You two deserve happiness.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have it if it hadn’t been for you,” Douglas said.

“Tell her the rest,” Maris urged.

“Well,” Douglas said, his face more animated than I’d ever seen it. Clearly, making up with Maris had done him a world of good. “My agent called this morning. And apparently there’s been all kinds of renewed interest in my books because of the photograph. He even got a call from Today. Can you imagine ? I might be interviewed by Matt Lauer.”

Funny, the networks hadn’t been calling me. I guess luck depended upon which side of the kiss you landed. Mine being the should-have-seen-it-coming side.

“So in a backhanded kind of way,” Maris was saying, “it’s the best thing that could have happened. And it’s all because of you.”

“Well, I’m just glad it all worked out.” And despite the fact that my life was falling apart all around me, I really meant it. Maris and Douglas made a good pair.

“Seriously, Vanessa. We owe you.”

I was mumbling something about how it was all part of the job when, thankfully, Anderson and Cybil arrived with the coffee tray.

“What would you like?” Cybil asked. “I’ve got leaded and unleaded.”

Maris shook her head. “We can’t stay. We’ve got loads of things to do.” They both stood up. “We just wanted you to know that we’re in your corner.”

Tears sprang to my eyes as I stood up, too. Maris gave me a hug. And Douglas started to follow suit, stopped, turning bright red, and then with a nod and a nudge from Maris, moved forward again to give me an awkward embrace. I don’t know if it was the tension, the hug, or the general ridiculousness of the entire situation, but suddenly everyone was laughing, and for the first time since I’d woken up, I had a feeling that maybe somehow everything would be okay.

I walked them to the door and was turning around with a self-satisfied sigh, when the phone started ringing again. I winced.

“Come on,” Cybil said, abandoning her coffee tray and taking my arm. “Let’s get out of here. You need a break. And I know just the place to take you.”

“What about Waldo?” I shot a look at Anderson, not sure what I should do.

“No worries. I’ll find the cat,” he said. I started to protest, but he shook his head. “I can handle Mrs. M. if it comes to that. I won’t let her haul Waldo away. I promise. Just get out of here.”

“But I’m not dressed to go out,” I protested, looking down at my jeans. Granted, the jeans were Diesel and my T-shirt was Juicy Couture, but despite the labels, the ensemble was hardly trendsetting.

“You’re fine,” Cybil said. “Just add a hat and you’ll look like every other Manhattan celebrity trying to dodge attention.”

She had a point. Cybil wasn’t my best friend for nothing. And besides, there was only one thing that could possibly get my mind off the mess I’d made of my life.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing my Yankees cap from its hook by the door, ignoring the phone ringing behind me. “Let’s go shopping.”

Chapter 17

Barneys New York.
660 Madison Avenue (between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets), 212.826.8900.

Barneys has been a mecca for discerning fashionistas and clothing connoisseurs since 1923. As Sarah Jessica Parker once told Vanity Fair, “If you’re a nice person and you work hard, you get to go shopping at Barneys. It’s the decadent reward.” Barneys stands for taste, luxury, and humor.

—www.barneys.com

∞∞∞

Sarah Jessica Parker has it right. Barneys is a decadent reward. Or, in my case, a decadent escape. Why is it that you always spend more money when you’re on the verge of losing it, than when you’ve got an endless supply? It must be hormones. Or desperation. Either way, in just a couple of hours I’d dropped a sizable chunk of change on a fabulous Lanvin Hero bag and an amazing pair of Marc Jacobs Mary Janes. Both to die for.

And since misery loves company, Cybil had spent money, too, buying a wonderful Philip Crangi gold cuff bracelet and a new lipstick from Bobbi Brown. Our shopping urges satiated, we’d adjourned to Fred’s. A ninth-floor restaurant where women go to see and be seen, it wasn’t exactly incognito world, but with my cap and jeans I figured I’d be deemed persona non grata and therefore summarily dismissed.

I was wrong.

My mother could recognize me in a gorilla suit.

“Vanessa?” Her voice carried across the entire restaurant. And I swear the temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. Okay, I know not everyone in the room was looking. But it sure felt like they were. You know that sickly cold prickle that works its way from the base of your spine up to the hairs on your neck? There were definitely snickers. Well-mannered ones, of course, but the intent was the same as if they were pointing their well-manicured fingers.

I met Cybil’s gaze, signaling SOS. But there was nothing she could do. It was my mother.

“Darling, I thought that was you.” She reached out to pluck the Yankees cap from my head. “There now, isn’t that better? We can see your eyes.”

“That was sort of the whole point, Mother.”

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, not waiting for an answer.

I looked frantically at Cybil, searching for a way out, but short of sprinting past the other diners, there didn’t appear to be one.

“I wish you’d answered my calls.”

“I should have,” I assured her. “It’s just that I wasn’t up to talking to anyone.”

“Except Anderson and Cybil.” If I hadn’t thought it impossible, I’d have sworn she actually sounded hurt.

“They just sort of popped by.”

Mother eyed us both for a moment as if considering the idea, and then, with a shrug, reached over to cover my hand with hers. “So how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Okay, I wasn’t, but it was in the manual somewhere that grown-up daughters are not allowed to run to their mothers for help. Especially when we’re talking about my mother. She means well, but the truth is she’s practically perfect, and so totally incapable of understanding the varied misadventures of her daughter.

“You’re not fine. But at least you’re not hiding out in your closet.”

It sounded innocuous enough, until you considered the fact that when I was twelve, and Bobby Dormand told everyone at school I’d gotten my period, I refused to come out of my closet for three days. What can I say, I don’t deal well with pressure.

“Although, really, when you think about it,” she continued, “Barneys isn’t all that different from a closet. It’s just a little bigger and has more clothes.” It takes a certain degree of deeply embedded pedigree to be able to equate Barneys with a closet. Not to mention money. My mother, of course, had both.

“I’m not hiding from anything,” I protested.

“Baseball cap not withstanding.” She held it up gingerly between two fingers. You’d think it was covered with anthrax or something. “At least you had the sense to bring Cybil along.” As if by mere association, my sin of underdressing could be forgiven.

“Come on, Mother, you didn’t follow us to Barneys to lecture me about my outfit.”

“Well, actually, I didn’t follow you.” Her perfectly penciled brows drew together with the denial. “I just happened to be shopping and I saw you in women’s shoes.”

“Why am I not buying this?” I asked, shooting a look over at Cybil. She was fighting laughter, and somehow in light of her amusement, my anger faded.

“Because it isn’t true.” Mother shrugged with the fatalistic air of someone who is perpetually challenged by life. Or more specifically—me. “I talked to Anderson. He said you were coming here.”