A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (6 page)

“Like an invitation?” He laid the perfect white square complete with gold engraved letters by my plate, and my breath caught as if I were Cinder-fucking-ella.

“You’re kidding.” I knew my eyes were shining, and I looked around for the pumpkin carriage.

“Nope.” Anderson’s smile was so full of self-satisfaction they could have added it to the menu. “It’s the real deal. And you don’t even have to be home by midnight.”

I picked up the invitation, grinning like a fool. I was back in the game almost before I was out of it. All I needed now was the right dress.

And honey, that’s a problem I know just how to handle.

Chapter 4

Girlshop
. 819 Washington Street (between Little West Twelfth and Gansevoort), 212.255.4985.

Wrapped up in a swathe of 1970s pineapple wallpaper, the virtual online store Girlshop has crossed the chasm into the brick and mortar world—smack-dab in the middle of New York’s Meatpacking District. . . . Known for its collection of trendsetting emerging designers, Girlshop is a must-see destination for New York women.

—www.stylemaven.com

             
∞∞∞

Girlshop started out online—a fabulous way to score great clothes from new and up-and-coming designers. But Laura Eisman realized in a flash that what worked in cyber-space could only be better in brick and mortar. Enter a renovated art gallery in the Meatpacking District and a snazzy retro feel that makes a girl feel positively glamorous. Add to that the fact that, compared to Madison and Fifth avenues, it won’t empty your checking account, and you’ve got shopper’s nirvana.

Usually I keep a find like Girlshop to myself. I mean, the fewer people who know, the more merchandise for me, right? But sometimes in the name of multitasking you have to bend the rules a little. I needed a dress and I needed to have a morning-after-first-date meeting with Belinda Waxman. Which meant I had to allow for a little overlap. Time management at its best.

Fortunately she was running a little late and I’d already managed to reject a gold Cigana slip dress, a multicolored confection from Zola, and a white Sean Combs ruched-waist halter dress that made me think of Marilyn Monroe, until I saw it on me. Believe me, in certain dresses ample wins the day, and that word has never been used to describe the upper half of my anatomy. Not even with Victoria’s Secret doing the lifting and separating.

On the plus side, the black lace Wendy Hill I was currently wearing looked pretty damn good in my humble estimation. I lifted a finger to my chin and twirled first right and then left, eyeing myself from the front and then behind.

“Perfect,” Belinda pronounced, appearing more or less out of thin air. Her low-slung voice always made me think of velvet and whiskey, the kind of woman who sang torch songs in a smoky jazz club in the forties. “So what’s the occasion?”

“The Cavalli party.”

“The one at Bungalow 8?” she gasped, envy flitting across her face. “You really do rank.”

I shrugged, figuring it was better not to go into too much explanation. But Belinda was quick on the draw.

“Mark Grayson is going to be there.”

I stopped twirling, the dress deflating right alongside my enthusiasm. “You read
Page Six
.”

“And the
Daily News
.” She shrugged, her expression all attorney. “Face it, you’re the talk of the town.” Apparently discretion and martinis do not good bedfellows make.

“Let me get out of this dress and we’ll talk.” I nodded toward a chair and headed back toward the dressing room, the mirrored curtains giving an endless view of me and the dress. My own personal Rockette line.

But I digress.

Belinda and I have been friends for a couple of years now. I met her at a New York City Bar function I attended with Richard, and we’d hit it off. At forty, she was still a looker, with heavy auburn hair and a penchant for designers like Lida Baday and Marc Jacobs. She also had an amazing sense of humor and a solid bank account.

Perfect for my roster and, unlike a lot of the ladies I cultivated, already savvy enough to take on the best of the best. In this case, Stanley Barrow.

Not that it was going to be an easy sell.

One of the downsides to this business is that no matter how many times I explain the type of woman a particular man will mesh best with, he isn’t always able to turn off the preconceived notions in his head. Mainly that the only women worth dating have their breasts insured by Lloyd’s of London. It’s a male fantasy that isn’t easily broken.

And Stanley had two ex-wives as testament to his attachment to the idea.

I slipped out of the dressing room and headed for the cash register, Belinda following in my wake.

“I’m sorry for the change of plans. But I’m sure you can understand the necessity of a new dress.”

“Best to go into battle in full regalia,” she nodded, holding a pair of gold filigree earrings up to one ear. “These are gorgeous.”

The sales assistant nodded. “They’re Kipepeo. Eighteen karat gold on brass.”

The three-inch disks were intricately shaped like perfect snowflakes, delicate and bold all at the same time. “They’re great. You should buy them.”

Belinda flipped them over to examine the price, and then shook her head. “I really shouldn’t. I’ve been trying to save for a condo and with prices the way they are, every little hit helps.”

With prices the way they are now, I am just grateful I already own my apartment. Although if Mrs. M. has anything to do with it, I may soon be living there sans Waldo.

Belinda caressed the curve of the earring longingly. Boy, did I know that feeling. And then with a sigh, she hung them back on the rack and waited as I paid for the dress. Talk about self-restraint.

The salesclerk handed me the bag, and we headed over to a Starbucks on Ninth Avenue. After ordering a couple of venti nonfat caramel macchiatos and waiting for the barista to perform her coffee magic, we settled at a window table to talk.

Last night Belinda and Stanley had had their first date. Usually I’d have debriefed at dawn, but in light of last night’s hijinks (and this morning’s hangover), the whole thing had sort of been relegated to a back burner, thanks to my total and complete panic over the bet.

Now, however, with invitation, gown, and carriage (Paris Limousine Service, 800-225-7131) all arranged, it was time to get down to business with the clients I already had.

Particularly with first dates, I like talking to the woman before the man—they’re always more open, and it gives me insight for dealing with the client.

“So tell me. How did it go?” I waited patiently while she sipped her coffee, fighting the desire to rush the conversation. Much better to let Belinda take the lead.

She is a great lady, really. Married once a long time ago, she divorced and then put herself through law school, winding up as a partner in one of the city’s top firms. She is a no-nonsense barracuda when it comes to business, but when it comes to personal involvement the mistakes of her past have kept her hamstrung. Afraid to take a risk, she’s sequestered herself in her work, ignoring her desire for marriage and family.

Enter me. And more important, Stanley.

“He took me to Chanterelle.” Her voice took on a wistful quality that had no resemblance at all to the hard-ass lawyer she plays by day. Of course, I already knew about the restaurant. I selected it, after all. Setting the stage is almost as important as the actual date.

Chanterelle is fabulously French and wonderfully TriBeCa and, and more important, it’s over-the-top romantic, which is exactly what Stanley and Belinda needed.

“It was amazing,” she continued, “really it was. It’s just that. . .”

“What?” I tried but couldn’t quite keep the sharpness from my voice. So excuse me for taking rejection personally.

“Well, Stanley was so distracted. It was like he had his mind on a million other things. I mean, at first everything was going really well, and then all of a sudden it’s as if he just disconnected, you know?” She sounded disappointed, which told me two things. First off, she was interested—which was, of course, half the battle. And second, she wasn’t sure exactly what had gone wrong—which hopefully meant it was more to do with Stanley’s reticence to change gears than his actual opinion of Belinda.

“Do you remember what you were talking about when he disconnected?”

She took the lid off her macchiato and stirred it absently with a straw. “Just my work. I was telling him about a case I was working on.”

Well, I, for one, can’t think of anything less stimulating than legalese, but not so with Stanley. His Mean Streets TV series was based on a district attorney’s office and staff. I mean, the man made his money off of legal mumbo jumbo.

“What kind of case, Belinda?” There had to be something more here, the key was figuring it out and nipping it in the bud, so to speak.

“It’s a court battle over an inheritance. Old man dies leaving adult children and a second wife. The prenup is ironclad, but she’s claiming duress and arguing that the estate should pass to her. The children—”

“You hit a hot button. It’s the prenup.” I cut Belinda off with a wave of my hand. “Stanley didn’t have one the first time out. And his ex took him to the cleaners. So second time he had one that he thought would provide protection, but she managed to find a loophole. Not a pretty picture.”

“I didn’t mean to upset him.” She removed the straw, twirling it between her fingers like a tiny plastic baton.

“You wouldn’t have known.” I cursed myself for the slipup. I’d briefed Belinda on Stanley’s background, ex-wives included, but I hadn’t thought to discuss his residual bitterness. Big mistake.

Fortunately this was date number one (I require two for each match; it gives involved parties time to relax and show their true selves instead of a fractured version brought about by first-date jitters), which meant that there was still time for salvage.

“So what happens now?” She sounded so wistful I wanted to hug her.

“Let me talk to him. I’ll explain that you didn’t know, and I’m sure that will be that. Everything was going fine up until then, right?”

“It was great. He’s really funny. And he made me feel like he actually saw
me
, you know, not just the package I come in.” She’d folded the straw accordion-style and was absently pumping it up and down with her thumb. “And you’ll never believe this, our parents both have summer homes in the Adirondacks on the AuSable. I’ve probably passed him on the river. We both fly-fish,” she added by way of explanation.

Of course, I already knew all of that. It pays to do one’s homework. As I said, commonalities are the things that make for permanent connection.

“Well, it sounds very promising. I’ll talk to Stanley and then get back with you to let you know how he wants to proceed.” The two-date rule was more or less absolute, but occasionally I had to accept defeat and let it slide. Which put the ball squarely in Stanley’s court.

“I see.” Now she sounded dejected. This was the part of the job I really didn’t like. I didn’t go into this business to break hearts, quite the opposite really.

“Don’t worry, it was only the first date. Everything will be fine. You just have to have to be a little patient. All right?”

“Patience has never been one of my strong suits.” As if to underscore the feeling, she flipped the now-mutilated straw onto the tabletop. It wasn’t a pretty picture. I reached over to cover her hand with mine.

“It’ll work out. You just have to have a little faith.”

Her laugh was hollow. “‘Faith’ isn’t exactly a catchword in my industry. We deal in tangible facts. Everything in the detail.”

“So concentrate on the fact that you had fun. Despite his backing off, I’m betting Stanley felt the same way. You belong together,” I said, channeling a Miss America smile. “I know what I’m doing, so relax and let me handle this.”

She nodded, although she didn’t look completely convinced. Not that I blamed her. I’m good, make no mistake, but matchmaking is a very inexact science. All of which begged the question as to what in the world I’d been thinking agreeing to take on Mark Grayson. The man was a born bachelor. (Did you know that the term “confirmed bachelor” was a euphemism for gay in the forties and fifties? I had no idea. Nor, I suspect, does my mother, who throws the term around with the abandon of the totally uninformed.)

Anyway, all terminology aside, the honest truth is that I’m in over my head—no question about it.

“I heard that Althea’s wearing Ungaro,” Belinda said, segueing nicely into my panic.

The idea of Althea seducing a man with her wardrobe was almost laughable. Almost. The point here was that she was arming with stronger weapons than mine. But, quite frankly, my bank account couldn’t support anything that pricey. I’d just have to rely on a combo of Wendy Hill, Jimmy Choo, and the new Manolos I’d bought last week. The sum of which surely equaled Ungaro. Especially when adorning my considerably younger body.

“I’ve got Manolos.” It was an “I’ll see yours and up the ante” moment and Althea wasn’t even in the room.

“You’ll do fine.” Belinda smiled. “Just remember Grayson doesn’t like phonies.”

Oh God, I was a born a phony, came from a long line of them. Bullshitting was like a family name. “Do you know Mark Grayson?”

“Casually,” she nodded. “Our firm has handled some of his corporate maneuvering.”

“So spill.”

“Really, I don’t have all that much to share. But during a conference, Grayson asked for some stats we clearly didn’t have. And instead of admitting the fact, a junior associate tried to bluff. Grayson caught him in the lie, and threatened to walk.”

“What happened?” I sipped my coffee feeling a lot like someone had slipped a noose around my neck.

“The associate was fired, and we did everything but throw ourselves prostrate on the floor. The man was pissed. And deservedly so. All I’m saying is whatever you do, stick to the truth. And don’t mince words.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.” She frowned, pursing her lips as she considered the question. “He’s very self-contained. The kind who expects you to follow his train of thought even when he hasn’t vocalized it. He’s tough in that silent, condemning kind of way. Frankly, he scares the shit out of me. Too intense. You know the type.”