Oh, is that all?
I smiled weakly. I was being eaten alive by envy.
“Well, it’s been great meeting you, Hailey. But we really should be going,” she said, glancing quickly at her gold Bulgari watch.
Dane nodded and extended his hand. “Harrison,” he said, and then turning to me, “See you around, Hailey.” He smiled.
I watched as they weaved their way through the cocktail-toting party goers, stopping frequently for a quick hello as Dane kept his hand pressed firmly in the small of Cadence’s silky back. And just before they left, I could’ve sworn he turned and looked at me, with the weirdest expression. But before I could confirm it, Harrison said, “What do you say we go grab a bite?”
And by the time I looked back, they were gone.
“But, it’s your party!” I said. “I mean, you can’t just walk out on your own party. Can you?”
“We’ll find out,” he said, slipping his arm through mine and leading me toward the door.
The last time I’d been to Elaine’s was nearly six years before, after I first moved to the city and couldn’t wait to visit all the places I’d only read about. And knowing that it was supposedly a big, glitterati, literary hangout, it was at the very top of my to-do list. But after squeezing into the overcrowded bar and spending the next ten minutes attempting to order a drink from a surly bartender who seemed hell-bent on ignoring me, I quickly crossed it off my list and doubted I’d ever return.
But going to Elaine’s with Harrison Mann was a whole new experience. Suddenly every member of the waitstaff was my new best friend, as a glass of red wine, a scotch on the rocks, and a table full of appetizers appeared within seconds of our being seated.
Ignoring the significant buzz I was already feeling from the two
glasses of champagne I’d just quaffed at the party, I lifted my glass and smiled at Harrison. “Do you own this table?” I asked, taking a sip of cabernet.
“It’s an illegal sublet, and I was lucky to get it.” Me smiled, raising his glass and tossing back a hefty amount of scotch.
I gazed around the crowded room, then leaned toward him excitedly, still not quite believing we were actually sharing a table. I mean, I had so many questions I didn’t even know where to begin. But deciding not to waste any time, I cleared my throat and said, “Harrison, I was wondering—”
“Harrison! Darling!’
I looked up to see a Very Famous TV Interviewer whom I’d recently served on a New York to L.A. nonstop (and who’d been so rude and demanding that the flight had seemed twice as long as usual) puckering her bright pink lips and veering toward Harrison’s cheek. Then, using her thumb to erase the faint tattoo she’d left behind, she planted herself right next to him, glanced briefly at me, and, instantly calculating that I was
no one special,
placed her hand on his forearm and proceeded to monopolize all of his attention.
I just sat there, picking at the appetizers and drinking my wine, as the table began to fill with famous faces. And even though it might seem fascinating and exciting to be surrounded by celebrities, the fact that I was being so systematically ignored made it no different than when I was forced to serve these exact same people on an airplane. So after five pieces of shrimp cocktail, a bowl of linguine with clam sauce, a glass and a half of cabernet, and a complete lack of attention from Harrison, I decided to leave.
“Excuse me, Harrison?” I said, reaching for my purse. “I’m taking off.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you out,” he said, rising from his seat and leaving the literary bad boy, the newscaster, the Broadway star, and the political pundit to fend for themselves.
“Sorry about that,” he said, holding the door and rushing to hail a cab.
“Oh, I can walk,” I said, knowing my wallet was down to its last twenty and that the ATM definitely wouldn’t cooperate between now and payday.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He motioned me into the backseat, and for a brief moment I wondered if he was planning to come along. But then he closed the door between us and said. “How about dinner? This Saturday? Somewhere quiet.” He raised his heavy eyebrows and waited.
“Okay,” I said, reaching into my purse and scribbling my number on the back of a Rite Aid receipt, wondering if he really would call.
Then I watched as he tossed the driver a twenty, waved goodbye, and headed back to Elaine’s.
“I know that guy,” the cabbie said, peering at me through the rearview mirror as he pulled into Second Avenue traffic. “What movie was he in?”
“He’s not an actor,” I told him, leaning back onto the slick vinyl seat. “He’s a writer. A Pulitzer prize winner.” I smiled.
I was sitting in my usual Starbucks at my usual table, next to the window, just north of the condiment counter, waiting impatiently for Clay, who was now more than fifteen minutes late even though he was the one who’d initiated this whole early-morning, emergency summit.
“Hey,” he said, striding through the front door, a little too casually for someone so late. “Where’s Kat?” He removed his Gucci sunglasses and tossed them on the table between us.
“She’s in Greece,” I told him. “Again.”
“Must be love.” He shrugged, reaching over and breaking off a piece of my biscotti.
“Is that why she’s always going there?” I asked, curiosity fully peaked. “She’s dating someone?”
“Probably,” he said, covering his mouth while he chewed. “But she’s acting all hush-hush, so who knows?” He shrugged.
“So, what’s going on with you?” I asked.
He looked at me and shook his head sadly. “Peter and I are over.”
“Oh Clay.” I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. I’d never actually met Peter, but he seemed like a decent guy. “When did this happen?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly told him yet, but trust me, it’s over.”
I dropped his hand, leaned back in my seat, and looked at him. “Okay, so when do you plan on giving him the good news?” I asked.
“Soon,” he said, taking my recycled paper napkin and folding it down to a small, neat square. “I should have this case wrapped up in a week; then I’ll just lay out all the evidence, and that will be it.” He shrugged.
“Evidence? Who are you? Charlie’s fourth Angel?”
“Very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “For your information, this is serious. Ever since I accidentally said ‘I love you,’ he’s started acting really strange. I’m telling you, its the worst thing you can ever say in a relationship.” He shook his head sadly.
I watched him unfold the napkin, smooth it out, then start all over again. This time making triangles. “But do you love him?” I asked.
“No,”
he said, sounding like a two-year-old.
“So let me get this straight. You just spent the last four days slinking around town, spying on him?”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer the word ‘observing,’” he said, rolling his little paper triangle awkwardly across the table.
“Oh, so it’s really more of an
anthropological
study, rather than a crazed, psycho boyfriend stalking kind of thing,” I said.
“I sense that you’re not taking this seriously.” He dropped his little origami project in the center of the table, leaned back in his chair, and gave me “the look.”
But I ignored it. “Because it kind of seems like
you’re
the one who’s been freaking ever since those fateful words were spoken. You’re the one who’s flirting with everyone, dressing up in drag, and spying on your boyfriend.”
“I wasn’t in
drag,
Hailey. I was in
hetero.
I was wearing baggy jeans, a flannel shirt, and a backward baseball cap.”
“New York Yankees?”
“Fire Island. I lost the Yankees on a layover.”
“Oh yeah, real hetero.” I laughed. “So tell me, after all this
observing,
what exactly have you come up with? A chaste kiss on the cheek? A clandestine meal at the most overlit restaurant in Chelsea?”
He just shrugged and looked away.
“Which leads me to conclude that maybe
you’re
the one with intimacy issues, not Peter.” I leaned back in my chair and smiled triumphantly, wondering why I never had that kind of clarity in my own romantic disasters.
But Clay refused to look at me. “I will consider your opinion, but I make no promises,” he said, and I watched as he got up from the table and headed for the counter.
And then, just as I popped the last piece of biscotti in my mouth, Dane walked in.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he asked, combing his fingers through his wavy brown hair and smiling.
“Great!” I mumbled, covering my mouth and chewing furiously while feeling for any random crumbs that might’ve gotten stuck in my lip gloss.
“How was the party?”
“Great! Thanks for inviting me. I mean, for getting me in.”
God, why am I always so verbally challenged around him?
I wondered, taking in his charcoal gray suit, lavender shirt, and blue tie, and thinking how I might start coming here every morning around this time, since it seemed to be part of his normal routine.
“And Harrison?” He raised an eyebrow at me.
“Harrison was great!” I said. Ugh, why did I keep saying”‘great”? Surely I knew other descriptive terms. I mean, what kind of hack writer was I?
But he just nodded.
“We left shortly after you guys, and then grabbed some dinner at Elaine’s,” I said, wondering why I’d just divulged that.
“Elaine’s, huh?” His face wore an expression I couldn’t quite read, though I would definitely rule out surprise.
And was that an amused nod? Or just a regular nod? Jeez, where was Clay when I needed him to dissect my own romantic dilemmas? I looked toward the counter and saw Clay flirting with the guy behind it.
Figures.
“In fact, I’m supposed to see Harrison this weekend,” I informed him.
Tourette’s. Could I possibly have Tourette’s?
But Dane just smiled. “Well, I’m gonna grab some coffee and run. Good seeing you, though.”
“You too.” I smiled. “And say hi to Cadence!” I added, to my own dismay. Then I spent the next five minutes obsessing over our dialogue, and cringing every time I came to my part.
“Hailey?” Clay slid onto the seat across from me with coffee in one hand, barista’s screen name in the other. “Who was that?” he whispered, watching Dane leave.
“That was Dane, the guy that got me into the party.” I shrugged, avoiding his eyes.
“You’ve been holding out on me.” He gave me an accusing look.
“No, I haven’t.” I gazed down at my scattered biscotti crumbs.
“I can’t believe you went out with him. He’s gorgeous.”
“Okay, first, I’m not quite sure how to take that. And second, I didn’t ‘go out with him.’ He had a date. And believe me, she is overgifted in every possible way. You should have seen her: shiny, glossy, and word has it completely brilliant, too.”
“But you
like
him,” he said, as though it was fact.
“I do not!” I said, sounding like a seventh grader.
“You do too!” he said, sounding like a bully.
“Clay, are you not listening? He has a girlfriend.”
“How do you know it’s a girlfriend? How can you be so sure it wasn’t just a hookup?”
“Because I saw her and
you
didn’t. Believe me, there’s not a straight guy on the planet that wouldn’t want to live happily ever after with her.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He shook his head.
“Clay, trust me. She’s a Triple Crown—winning thoroughbred, and I’m—” I hesitated, searching for just the right words. “I’m a Shetland pony forced to work the kiddie carnivals.”
“Yeah—cute, stubborn, and a helluva ride.”
just because Harrison Mann was a Pulitzer prize—winning author didn’t mean I wanted him to know where I lived. So after agonizing over what to wear (I was so desperate I even asked Lisette’s opinion), I settled on a colorful Diane vonFurstenberg wrap dress I’d bought on sale two years ago but still loved, a pair of strappy gold stiletto sandals, and my trusty Bombay chandelier earrings. Then I hurried uptown, narrowly avoiding a death-by-taxi situation, until finally arriving at Elaine’s short of breath, wobbly of heel, and with a forty-dollar blowout that was threatening to strike.
And just as I was about to step inside and head for our designated meet spot, I heard someone say, “Ms. Lane?” And I turned to find a tall, thin man dressed in a somber black suit and chauffeur’s hat motioning toward a long, shiny black limo, where Harrison Mann held court in the back.
“Do you always travel by limo?” I asked, attempting to climb inside without hitting my head, breaking my heel, or flashing my panties.
“Ever try to grab a cab on a rainy Saturday night?” He reached for two champagne glasses and proceeded to fill them up.
“That’s where my MetroCard comes in,” I said, taking my glass and smiling.
“Did you fly today?” he asked, settling back against the seat and crossing his long legs.
“Nope.” I shook my head and sipped.
“Yesterday?” He looked hopeful.