Chasing Harry Winston (34 page)

“Russell, I’m not sure I
want
us to get married,” she said softly, as softly as she could say such cruel words.

Russell’s silence was so complete that she would have wondered if he’d even heard her had he not pulled away and sat back down.

She sat next to him, close enough for intimacy but not so close that they were touching. “Russ, do you love me? Like, really, really love me? Love me so much you want to spend the rest of your life with me and me alone?”

He remained stoically silent.

“Do you?” she pressed, thinking—knowing—that the answer was surely no. If she’d suspected for so long that something wasn’t right, he must have, too. She just needed to give him the chance to say it.

He took a deep breath and reached for her hand. He smiled. “Of course I love you that much, Leigh. That’s why I asked you to marry me. You’re my partner, my fiancée, my love. And I’m yours. I know it can be frightening sometimes when you realize you’ve found something this good, but Leigh, sweetheart, that’s normal. I can’t believe this is what’s been worrying you all this time. Just a little case of cold feet. Poor baby, I’m sorry you kept that inside for so long.”

He stopped long enough to hug her again, but this time Leigh pushed him away. His refusal to hear—to really listen—to what she was saying angered her: Was it really so impossible to fathom that she might not want to marry him?

“Russell, you’re not listening to me. You know I love you, but I can’t stop wondering if things didn’t move so quickly with us because of circumstances, you know? You start dating someone at this age and they fit all the criteria of being smart and successful and attractive and everyone else is getting married and they’re all asking you when you’re going to settle down. And it just chugs right along. What might have been a great, fun, yearlong relationship when you’re twenty-five all of a sudden starts to take on a whole new meaning at thirty, thirty-two. Then, before you know it, you’re getting engaged and committing your life to someone you don’t necessarily know all that well. Because ‘it’s time,’ whatever that means. Christ, I’m not explaining this well….”

Russell’s gaze, just minutes before oozing empathy and kindness, grew steely. “Actually, I think you’re explaining yourself quite clearly.”

“So you sort of understand what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying that you think this is all wrong and has been for some time but you never had the nerve to tell me.”

Now she wanted to tell Russell the whole truth, tell him all about Jesse and how happy and relaxed she felt when she was with him, how that single night of sex stayed more firmly planted in her mind than eighteen months’ worth with Russell.

She was seconds away from blurting out the entire story when, thankfully, she stopped herself. What would be the point of telling him about Jesse? Was it really the charitable thing to do? Russell wouldn’t have to take the rejection quite so personally if he could channel his energy into hating Leigh for her indiscretion. That didn’t feel right, either. Why hurt him unnecessarily? But was it wrong to keep it from him, considering the conventional wisdom that it’s noble to be completely honest and up-front? Confused and exhausted, she decided not to say anything. From the coldness of his last statement and the look in his eye, Russell didn’t appear interested in much more talking. Why make everything harder than it had to be?

Suddenly he surprised her by grabbing her face and staring into her eyes.

“Look, Leigh, I know what you are feeling is nothing more than normal, natural cold feet. Why don’t you take some time for yourself, you know, alone, like you suggested, and think about everything? Think it through.”

Leigh sighed to herself. His pleading look was almost more unbearable than his anger. “Russ, I’m, uh…I’m—”
Say it
, she willed herself,
just pull the Band-Aid off quickly.
“I’m worried that will just prolong the inevitable. I think we should end things now.”

Obviously this was true. She knew there was no point—no point whatsoever—in dragging this out, no matter how much less terrifying it might be to delay the unpleasantness. She knew beyond any doubt that things were permanently over, but hearing her own words was still downright shocking.

Russell stood up and walked toward the door. “Well,” he said quietly, in that controlled voice of his that worked so well on-air. “I suppose there’s nothing more to say. I love you, Leigh, and I always will, but I’d like you to leave.”

These were the words that Leigh repeated to herself as she rode home in the backseat of the first cab she’d ever hailed for herself when leaving his apartment. Almost as quickly as it had begun, her relationship with Russell was over, and gone with it was the anxiety she’d been harboring for months. She took a long, deep breath, and as the taxi flew up Sixth Avenue toward her building, she finally admitted to herself that, yes, she felt deeply sad about what had just transpired, but mostly she felt relief.

“Emmy, I’ve been telling you this since the very first time you walked into my office. You have plenty of time.”

“That’s not what all the magazines out there say!” Emmy said and pointed toward the door. “Isn’t it a mixed message to tell me that I’ve got all the time in the world and then stock your waiting room with a thousand articles that all tell me my ovaries are shriveling up?”

Dr. Kim sighed. She was a pretty Asian woman who looked at least fifteen years younger than her forty-two years, but this wasn’t what bothered Emmy. The good doctor—who reassured Emmy at every single visit (and sometimes in between) that Emmy’s childbearing years were still upon her—had herself birthed three perfect children, two boys and a girl, all before her thirty-first birthday. When Emmy repeatedly asked Dr. Kim how she’d juggled a husband, med school, residency, and three children under the age of five, all while working four days a week and being on call every third night and every other weekend, the doctor just smiled, shrugged, and said, “You just do it. It seems impossible sometimes, but it always works out one way or another.”

Emmy was lying spread-eagled on the exam table exactly one day before her thirtieth birthday, and she was determined to hear the heartening news again. “Tell me about your average patient,” Emmy prompted, barely even noticing Dr. Kim’s gloved finger inside her. She felt the pinch of the Pap smear Q-tip and held her breath to keep from moving.

“Emmy! You could tell it to me. I’ve told you a hundred times already.”

“One more won’t hurt.”

Dr. Kim removed her finger and snapped off her glove. She sighed again. “I have approximately two hundred and fifty patients in my practice at this location. Of those women, the average age for first-time pregnancy is thirty-four. Which of course means that—”

“A whole bunch have to be even older than that,” Emmy finished.

“Exactly. And while I don’t want to misrepresent anything here—it’s important you understand that this is the Upper East Side and probably the only place in the country, if not the world, where that statistic stands—the majority do not experience difficulty.”

“So no pregnant patients in their twenties?” Emmy prompted.

Dr. Kim untied Emmy’s robe and began to examine her left breast in a firm, circular motion. She stared at the wall as she did this, clearly concentrating. After finishing both sides, she pulled the robe closed again and placed a hand on Emmy’s arm.

“Only a few,” she said, looking at Emmy with concern.

“A few! Last time you said ‘practically none.’”

“Only the very young wives of a few Mormon doctors from Utah doing their rotations at Mt. Sinai.”

Emmy breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you still happy with your pill?” Dr. Kim asked, making notations on Emmy’s chart.

“It’s fine.” Emmy shrugged and sat up on the table, removing her feet from the sock-covered stirrups. “Certainly does work like a charm.”

Dr. Kim laughed. “That is the point, isn’t it? I’ll leave you a new script for another six months’ worth at the front desk, okay? We’ll mail your test results within a week, but I don’t foresee any problems at all. Everything looks perfectly healthy.” She handed Emmy’s chart to the nurse and, after making sure Emmy was covered, opened the door. “See you in six months. And sweetheart? Please relax. As your doctor, I’m telling you that there’s absolutely nothing whatsoever to worry about.”

Easy for you to say, with your three kids
, Emmy thought as she smiled politely and nodded.
You, and Izzie, and all those other gynecologists with gaggles of children or sporting gigantic baby bumps themselves, telling me not to worry.
Izzie was due any moment now—she was already three days past her due date, in fact—but to her misery she hadn’t felt a single contraction, nor dilated a fraction of a centimeter. Emmy had grudgingly agreed to wait until Izzie checked herself into the hospital to jump on a flight to Florida (Izzie insisted that first babies could be a week or even two weeks late, and it was stupid to rush down there until they were sure), but she couldn’t stop thinking of her new nephew’s impending arrival.

After dressing, Emmy jumped on the 4 train to Union Square. She figured on a brisk walk directly home to shower—something she always felt compelled to do after the K-Y-heavy exams—but as she exited the subway at Fourteenth and Broadway she found herself heading directly toward Leigh and Adriana’s building. With Leigh’s breakup only a week old and Adriana’s newfound commitment to work, she figured at least one of them had to be home, sulking or writing or both, but the doorman shook his head.

“They did leave together, though,” he said, checking his watch. “Probably an hour or so ago.”

Emmy texted them both the same message:
WTF?? In your lobby. Where are you?
and received nearly simultaneous responses. Leigh’s read
Shopping w/Adi for your 30th! Talk later
; Adriana’s was a bit more concise:
If you want a bday present, go home.
Emmy sighed, thanked the girls’ doorman, and began the slushy, freezing trudge to Perry Street. It was a cold, wet Friday evening in February, and Emmy was desperate for a shower, but she managed to avoid going home to her empty apartment for nearly two hours, as she found a reason to stop at nearly every block along Thirteenth: a hot coffee from Grey Dog on University; a long, adoring gaze at the puppies playing in the window at Wet Nose; an impromptu manicure and paraffin pedicure at Silk Day Spa, where they were kind enough to take her without an appointment. No point in racing home only to sit by herself as the clock struck twelve and she kissed her twenties good-bye. She’d flat-out rejected the girls’ offer of a fun night out—shot down suggestions for everything from an elegant dinner at Babbo (even though she was dying to try their mint pasta with the spicy lamb sausage) to a regressive night at Culture Club. It was only after weeks of pushing and prodding that Emmy finally agreed to show up the next afternoon for some sort of surprise birthday activity. Adriana and Leigh promised only that it wouldn’t involve men of any kind, so she had grudgingly agreed. She planned to fill the hours between now and then with a bottle of wine and some quality self-pity. Perhaps, if she was feeling really motivated, she’d MaxDelivery herself some cupcakes.

By the time she reached her building and trudged up the five flights of stairs, she was drenched from head to toe: her hair from the freezing rain, her feet from the filthy slush, and her ladyparts from the overzealous application of medical-grade lube. There had been no birthday cards in her mailbox, and not a single package in the hallway outside her door. Nothing. She reminded herself that it was still only the day before, that if all else failed she could certainly rely on something from her mom and Izzie. She stripped just inside the doorway, tossing her wet clothes in a pile by the closet, and made a beeline for the bathroom. It was just as the hot water was fully soaking her hair that she heard her cell phone ring. Her home phone rang next, and then the cell again. She couldn’t help but hope it was Rafi, that he’d tracked down her number somehow and was calling to apologize for being such an ass. Granted, it was unlikely that he’d found both her cell and home numbers, but who knew? He seemed resourceful enough, and besides, he was likely the only one of her recent men—
affairs
—who might even bother to find her. George had definitely moved on to his next undergraduate already, and there was no reason to believe Croc Dundee would ever be heard from again.

After towel-drying her hair and maneuvering her body next to the toilet so she could open the door, Emmy crossed the small studio and, kneeling down, naked, pulled a shopping bag out from under her bed. She carefully untied the grosgrain ribbon that secured the handles and gingerly removed the tissue-wrapped bundle from inside. Then, losing all patience, she tore the monogrammed foil sticker in half, bunched the tissue paper into a pile, and plunged her hands into the plushness of the single most expensive item she had ever owned. To call it a robe was a disservice to the luxurious softness of the four-ply cashmere, to its rich chocolate color and its elegantly simple monogrammed
E.
Robes were for covering up flannel pajamas or maintaining a modicum of decency between the locker room and the pool. But this? This was meant to drape sexily over every curve (or, in Emmy’s case, to expertly accentuate what few curves there were), to feel as light as silk but as warm as down. It grazed the floor breezily as she walked, and the cinch-tie at the waist made her feel like a model. She was instantly flooded with relief. It had not been a mistake. She’d seen it a couple of weeks earlier in the window of SoHo’s most expensive lingerie salon, a place where it was impossible to buy three inches of fabric for less than a few hundred dollars. Every bra, every panty, every pair of stockings in the store was more expensive than any dress she owned, which made the robe…well…a bigger chunk of her monthly rent than she cared to remember. How had she worked up the nerve even to enter the store? It remained a blur. All she knew was how good she looked wearing that robe in the plush salon dressing room with the heavy brocade curtains, her lips pursed and her right hip jutted out, standing sexily in the provided pair of stilettos. One look in the mirror tonight confirmed that nothing had changed in the weeks the robe had waited, virginal and wrapped, until her big birthday. Still in front of the mirror, Emmy combed her wet hair back into a chic chignon and bit her lips to make them swell. She slicked on a new sheer berry lip gloss from her makeup drawer and patted a bit onto her cheeks.
Not bad
, she thought with surprised pleasure.
Not bad for thirty at all.
Then, suddenly bored with the spontaneous makeover and ravenously hungry, she slid into a pair of snuggly sheepskin booties, retied the cashmere dream around her middle, and headed to the kitchen to make some soup.

The landline jangled again just as she plugged in her hot plate.

Private caller. Hmm.

“Hello?” she said, propping the phone between her ear and shoulder while she wrenched open a can of chicken noodle soup.

“Em? It’s me.”

No matter how many months went by, it felt like Duncan would always say “It’s me,” and Emmy would always know exactly who was speaking. A million thoughts flashed through her mind. He was calling to wish her a happy birthday…which meant he remembered her birthday…which meant he was thinking about her…which possibly meant he wasn’t thinking about the cheerleader…unless, oh god, he was calling to give her news…news that had everything to do with the cheerleader…news that she was not prepared to hear, not tonight, not ever.

Reflexively she almost hung up, but something forced her to keep the phone to her ear. If she didn’t say something soon she was going to ask him straight-out if he was engaged, so as a purely defensive maneuver she said the first thing that came to her mind.

“When did you make your number private?”

He laughed. His amused-but-not-totally-enamored Duncan laugh. “We don’t talk for months on end and that’s all you have to say?”

“Were you hoping for something else?”

“No, I guess not. Listen, I know you just got home and everything, but I was hoping I could come up?”

“Come up? To my apartment? You’re here?”

“Yeah, I’ve, uh, been here awhile. At the copy shop across the street, waiting for you to get home. They’re getting a little weirded out by me, I think, so it would be great if I could come in for a minute.”

“So you’ve been just sitting there watching my apartment?” How odd to find something so creepy and so flattering at the same time.

Duncan laughed again. “Yeah, well, I called a few times before, right when you walked in, but you didn’t pick up. I promise I won’t stay long. I just want to talk to you face-to-face.”

So he was engaged. That asshole! Probably thought he was doing something noble by coming all the way over here to tell her in person. And on the day before her birthday, which she was willing to bet any amount he had completely forgotten. He could take his face-to-face talk and shove it, as far as she was concerned, and without a moment’s hesitation, Emmy told him as much.

“Emmy, wait, don’t hang up. It’s not like that. I just—”

“I’m pretty fucking sick of hearing what you want and don’t want, Duncan. In fact, my life has been about a thousand times better without you in it, so why don’t you run home now to your little pom-pom girlfriend and make her miserable. Because I’ll tell you what: I’m not interested.”

She slammed down the phone and felt a wave of tremendous satisfaction, which was instantly followed by a tremendous wave of panic. What had she just done?

Barely sixty seconds passed before she heard a knock at the door.

“Emmy? I obviously know you’re there. Can you please open up? Just for one minute, I promise.”

She knew she should be supremely pissed off that he’d used the key he’d never bothered to return, but part of her was downright curious: What could possibly be so important that Duncan—Mr. Indifference Personified—would resort to full-fledged stalking? She was also partly relieved; the Duncan she knew would never, ever make such an effort simply to announce his own engagement.

Not even bothering to kick off her furry slippers, Emmy opened the door and leaned against it. “What?” she asked without a smile. “What’s so important?”

Winded from the five-flight climb, but significantly less than he used to be—the three or four times in five years he’d bothered to come to her place, that is—he looked pretty damn good, and she suspected the positive changes (thinner face, no deathly pallor, great haircut that hid the small bald spot) were the results of the cheerleader’s hard work, not his own.

“Can I come in?” he asked with one of his specialty smiles, a grin that fell somewhere between flirtatious and bored.

Emmy backed against the door and waved her hand toward the apartment, making sure he saw her own supremely indifferent expression.