Chasing Harry Winston (11 page)

Leigh laughed. “Tell him how it is.”

Emmy made a point of speaking loudly into the phone. “I’m sitting in the lounge because it’s too goddamn dark to read in my own room—just sitting, mind you—and I have one of my legs tucked under me. And you want to know the type of shoes I’m putting all over the furniture? Ballet slippers. Like, not ballet-style flats but actual soleless ballet slippers. I’m a
guest
of this hotel, and he has the nerve to
reprimand
me like a
child
?” She flashed her eyes upward to meet the man’s. He shook his head as if to say
Ignorant American
and turned—pirouetted, really—away.

“Got to love French hospitality,” Leigh said. “Am I to assume that you haven’t snagged yourself a lover yet?”

“Nice try. Don’t think you’re changing the subject that easily.”

“Em, I really appreciate your listening, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay? I’m sure everything will work out.”

Now that’s the spirit!
Emmy thought. Leigh just needed a little time to work through her thoughts, to realize what was important. It was a mere case of overthinking, and Leigh would see she was just being silly. “Okay. Back to the ring. Tell me more.”

“It’s really beautiful,” Leigh said softly. “So classic. I don’t know how he knew I liked that—I’m not even sure I knew I liked that. We never went shopping or looking; we never even talked about it.”

“That’s Russell for you. What shape is it?”

“A larger emerald-cut stone in the middle flanked by two smaller emerald-cuts on the side of a very thin platinum band.”

Emmy whistled. “Sounds gorgeous. Did you really not have any idea?”

There was a long pause. For a moment Emmy again thought that they’d gotten disconnected, but then she heard Leigh breathing heavily.

“Are you okay, honey? Leigh?”

More breathing, this time in shorter, more shallow bursts.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just a little racing heart. Must be all the excitement, you know?”

Emmy pressed her cell phone to her ear, desperately wanting to hear just a little of the giggly, girly enthusiasm of someone who had just gotten engaged, but Emmy knew better. Leigh wasn’t a giggly, girly girl: She was funny, she was sensible, she was loyal, and she was neurotic; giggly just wasn’t her thing. Maybe Leigh was also feeling a little uncomfortable describing her ring when everyone had expected Emmy to be the first. Emmy flashed back to the dinner a few months earlier when she’d excitedly told Leigh and Adriana that Duncan had asked for her ring size. Not necessarily the most romantic gesture, she remembered thinking, but it definitely indicated good things. She felt her face redden at the memory of her excitement and decided she’d save Leigh from feeling any more pity for her.

“So what’d you get him for your anniversary?” Emmy asked with extra, perhaps excessive, cheer.

Another long pause. It sounded like Leigh was trying to moderate her breathing with measured breaths.

“Leigh?”

“Sorry, I’m, uh, I’m fine. Just a little…uh, I got him a laptop bag. An orange one.” She took another deep breath and coughed. “From Barneys.”

Emmy tried to mask her surprise. “Russell finally got a laptop? I never thought I’d see the day. How did you finally convince him?”

“He still doesn’t have a laptop,” Leigh sighed. “Oh, Emmy, I’m the worst person ever!”

“Honey, what’s wrong? I’m so confused. Are you planning on buying him a laptop? That’s cute! You couldn’t have known he was going to propose that night. Don’t worry about it. Russell is the last person to get upset over something like that.”

There was another long pause, and when Leigh finally spoke, Emmy could tell she was crying. “I got him an orange laptop bag because I was too lazy to pick out something personal,” she said, her voice filled with anger and regret. “I called the store and gave them my credit card number and that’s what they sent over. A laptop bag! For someone who doesn’t own a laptop. In orange.” There was a sniffle. “Russell hates bright colors.”

“Leigh, sweetheart, don’t be so hard on yourself. Russell loves you so much that he asked you to spend the rest of your life with him. Don’t let some dumb present get in the way of that. I bet he didn’t mind at all, did he?”

“He laughed it off, but I could tell he was hurt.”

“He’s a big boy, Leigh. He can handle a little gift mix-up.” Both girls knew that wasn’t what had happened, but they let it slide. “So tell me, was everyone else excited?”

Leigh dutifully described her mother’s reaction, and Adriana’s, and Russell’s family’s, interjecting jokes and amusing observations in all the right places. It wasn’t until the girls hung up, promising to talk in more depth the next day, that Emmy let herself feel a twinge of concern. Could there really be a problem with Leigh and Russell? Was it possible Leigh really was having serious doubts?
Absolutely not
, Emmy decided.
Just a case of nerves. Excitement and shock and nothing more sinister.
She felt confident in her analysis of the situation and certain that everything would smooth itself out as soon as the excitement settled down a bit. Turning back to her computer, Emmy braced herself to order another coffee from the hostile waiter.

“Pardon?” The male voice came from just over her right shoulder, but Emmy, convinced that another hotel employee was preparing to chastise her for something, ignored it.

“Excuse me?” the voice persisted. “Forgive me for interrupting you.”

Emmy glanced up, remembering at the last minute to appear colossally bored and displeased with the interruption, but the moment she said “Yes?” in the most irritated tone she could muster, she regretted it. Peering down at her was a guy with the kind of classical good looks—thick dark hair, crinkly eyes, easy smile full of straight white teeth—that made him almost universally attractive. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or movie-star sexy, but his pleasing appearance combined with his confident approachability made Emmy think that there wasn’t a sane woman on the planet who would find him unappealing.

“Hi,” she murmured.
Bingo
, she thought.
Tour de Whore contender number one.

He flashed another smile and motioned to the chair beside her with a questioning look. Emmy just nodded and stared as he sat. He was younger than she originally thought, perhaps even under thirty. Her lightning-fast appraisal—honed over so many years that it was now nearly instinctive—produced all positive points. Meticulously cut yet still casual navy cotton sweater over a white collared shirt. Good jeans that were blessedly devoid of deliberate rips, excessive fading, logos, studs, embroidery, or flap pockets. Simple but elegant brown loafers. Regular height, reasonably fit without being obsessive, well groomed but still masculine. If she had to criticize something, she might say that his jeans were a tad too tight. Then again, if one was going to seduce European men, tight jeans were an occupational hazard.

Newly emboldened by his approach, and not forgetting that the only men she’d spoken to in France so far all worked at the Costes, Emmy smiled. “I’m Emmy,” she said.

He grinned and offered her a hand. No rings, no bitten nails, no clear polish—all good signs. “Paul Wyckoff. I couldn’t help but overhear what that jackass said to you….”

Dammit. There was no denying the obvious: Despite the painted-on jeans and the good manners and her fervent desire for it to not be so, Paul spoke English with an American accent. He was undeniably born and raised in the States, or perhaps—at the most exotic—Canada. She was bitterly disappointed.

“…it’s just incredible, isn’t it?” he was saying. “It never ceases to amaze me how much people are willing to pay to be treated so poorly.”

“So it’s not just me?” Emmy asked, slightly relieved that the hotel hadn’t singled her out.

“Definitely not,” Paul assured her. “They’re positively abusive to
all
of their guests. It’s the only thing they’re really consistent about.”

“Well, thank you for that. I was starting to develop quite a complex.”

“I’m glad I could help. The first time I stayed here, I was a paranoid wreck. My parents used to drag us all over the world—I practically grew up in hotels—but it only took a day here to make me feel like a bumbling idiot,” he said.

Emmy laughed, already forgetting about Paul’s lack of eligibility. Which was lacking, of course, for game purposes only. It had taken less than four minutes of small talk to deduce that he would make the perfect husband. But no! No, dammit; she wasn’t going to fall into that trap again.
Sex good. Attachments bad.
She repeated these four words as images of her dream Monique Lhuillier wedding dress (sleeveless but not strapless, floor-length, with a dusty rose sash cinching the waist) and her perfect menu (citrus heirloom tomato salad to start, followed by a choice of grilled ahi tuna or a Matsuzake beef tenderloin) danced through her mind.

“Glad to know I’m not alone.” Emmy finished her coffee and licked the spoon clean. “Why did your family travel so much?”

“This is where I should say ‘army brat’ or ‘diplomat’s son,’ but really, there’s not one reason. Mostly my parents are just schizophrenic about where they live, and they’re both writers. So we were always on the move. I was actually born in Argentina.”

It took Emmy only a split second to understand the significance of that fact. “Does that make you Argentinean?”

Paul laughed. “Among other things.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I’m an Argentine because I was born in Buenos Aires while my parents were both working on books. We lived there off and on for a couple of years before heading to Bali. My father is English, so I’m automatically conferred UK citizenship, and my mother is French, but their citizenship laws—like their customer service—tend to be tricky, so I’ve never claimed that one. It may sound interesting, but I assure you, it’s a colossal mess.”

“It’s just that you sound so…American.”

“Yeah, I know. I went to American schools my entire life, literally from kindergarten on, in whatever country we were in. And I went to university in Chicago. It kills my dad that I sound like a born-and-bred American.”

Emmy nodded, trying to process it all. Or really to catalog every detail so that her triumphant e-mail to the girls that night would be airtight.

“You ready for something a little stronger?” Paul asked. “You might need it after listening to me talk about myself for so long.”

“What were you thinking?” she responded, deliberately heavy on the eyelashes and the forward lean.
Sex good. Attachments bad.

He laughed. “Nothing too crazy. Maybe switch from coffee to wine?”

They shared a bottle of something rich and velvety and so heavy with tannins it made Emmy’s mouth pucker. A Bordeaux, she would wager, although she could no longer venture a guess to the particular vintage, as she’d been able to years ago, when she’d spent six months traveling all over France, working random restaurant jobs and visiting vineyards. Bordeaux had never been one of her personal favorites, but tonight she loved the way it tasted. They chatted effortlessly through another bottle, during which time Emmy envisioned their imminent honeymoon (an oceanfront villa in Bora Bora with an open-air sleeping pavilion and a private plunge pool, or perhaps a luxury African safari where they’d make love in their net-draped bed before a driver whisked them past elephants and lions in an imposing black Range Rover) only once. Things were quite flirtatious, actually, until Emmy asked—casually, she thought—how Paul felt about kids.

His head snapped up. “Kids? What about them?”

Was she not being as subtle as she thought? The wine must be clouding her judgment. She’d thought that asking whether he had any nieces or nephews would serve as a totally natural segue into soliciting his opinion about having his own kids one day, but perhaps this was more transparent than she had originally figured?

“Oh, nothing in particular,” Emmy said. “They’re just so adorable, aren’t they? Although it does seem like so many people don’t want them these days, doesn’t it? And I just can’t imagine that. I don’t mean immediately, of course, but I definitely know I want them at some point, you know?”

Something about this observation seemed to remind Paul that he was late for his previously unmentioned plans.

“Yeah, I guess. Listen, Emmy, I’m actually really late meeting up with some friends,” he said, staring at his watch.

“Really? Now?” It was nearly midnight, but it felt like four in the morning. She was pleasantly drunk and mellow and determined to seduce Paul like the sexually independent and freethinking woman she was. Never mind that she really just wanted to continue their conversation upstairs, tucked under a comfy duvet while they languidly talked and kissed until sunrise. She would lay her head on his chest and he would play with her hair, occasionally cupping her chin with a strong hand and gently pulling her lips to his. They would laugh at each other’s silly puns and share secrets and talk about all their favorite places to visit, hoping but not yet saying—after all, it was only their first night—that they would someday travel to all of them together. They would wake in the late morning and Paul would tell Emmy how adorable she looked all sleepy and disheveled and they would order room-service breakfast (flaky croissants, fresh orange juice, coffee with full-fat milk, and a whole plate of plump, juicy berries) and work out their plan for—

“Hey there. Emmy?” Paul placed a few fingers on the top of her hand. “You still with me?”

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that I have to get going. I was supposed to meet some friends at ten, but I, uh, got distracted.” His sheepish smile made her heart skip a beat. “Any other time I’d invite you to come—I’d insist on it—but, well, it’s actually a birthday party for my ex, and I’m not sure she’d be thrilled if I brought…someone. You know?”

The projector in Emmy’s head came to an abrupt stop; the screen showing the two of them laughing as they raided her minibar for more wine was replaced with one where she alone watched the endless loops on CNN International, clad in her holey gray T-shirt, popping those massive French
framboises
by the fistful.