A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (22 page)

Since my oven hadn’t been used for anything except shoe storage in nearly a year, I felt fairly certain that it hadn’t suddenly decided to go back into the baking business. That meant that some well-meaning soul had invaded and brought sustenance. Tantalizingly delicious sustenance.

Since only three people had access to the key to my apartment—Anderson, Richard, and my mother—I figured it had to be one of them. And since my mother had already graced me with her presence this week, I was fairly certain she could be eliminated from the equation.

Besides, the smell was decidedly carb-laden, and she hadn’t touched anything containing flour in at least a decade. (Which, of course, explains why she’s two sizes smaller than I am. Although I am two inches taller.)

In truth, I wasn’t sure that I really cared who it was as long as the aroma was attached to something edible. After all, today was most likely going to be trying at best, catastrophic at worst. I needed fortification.

“Morning, sunshine.” Anderson turned from the coffee-maker with a smile. “I brought croissants.”

Not just any croissants, mind you. These were Payard’s croissants. It was like Paris had morphed into pastry and presented itself on a plate. I know that New Yorkers are supposed to consider bagels the bread of life. And I’ll grant you that the right bagel and schmear can be a cathartic experience. But putting a bagel up against a croissant is like comparing Fossil to Prada. And face it, given a choice, who’s going to choose Fossil?

“Don’t you think it’s a little early?” The three LED clocks in my four-foot-square kitchen all attested to the fact that it was seven forty-five. Have I mentioned that I’m not a morning person?

“I figured I ought to be here before the phone starts ringing.” Anderson moved to open a cabinet, and I saw the stack of papers.

“Is it bad?”

“Food first.”

“Oh, God.”

“Well, let’s just say you look really good in the photo.”

Not bothering to wait for a plate, I reached for a croissant and bit in, letting the buttery flakes of pastry seduce my tongue and soothe my soul. “Is it in all of them?” I asked, daring another look at the stack of newspapers.

“Every last one, I’m afraid. And these are just the dailies.”

“You think it’ll go beyond that?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to see it in the regionals.”

“Oh God.” I seemed to be saying that a lot.

“Take this,” Anderson handed me a mug and a second croissant, “and go have a shower.”

“But it’s not even morning yet.”

“Honey, for most people the day is already waning. Besides, you’ll feel better once you’ve had a shower.”

What I wanted was to rip off the bandage and find out just how bad it all was. But Anderson was right, if I went that route I might never get to the shower, and hiding under the bed in my pj’s wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Still, the newspapers were calling my name.

Literally.

“I want to survey the damage.” I put my cup on the counter and moved toward the papers.

Anderson shifted to block my way. (Which wasn’t at all hard to do in my kitchen.) “You really should get dressed first.” He handed me back the coffee. “And have a little caffeine.”

I started to protest, but the doorbell interrupted.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You go and put some clothes on.”

I glanced down at the Hello Kitty-dotted cotton I insisted on sleeping in. The cartoon image might be hip (I mean, even Judith Leiber is in on the craze), but my jammies really weren’t presentable. “All right. I’m going.” I grabbed the second croissant and headed for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I walked back into the living room, feeling a whole lot more human and a heck of a lot more awake. Anderson was sitting at the table with Cybil, the two of them enjoying the last of the breakfast he’d provided. The newspapers were stacked neatly in the center of the table.

“Come to share in my humiliation?” I quipped, trying for a flippant smile.

“I didn’t have anything more pressing,” Cybil returned, pushing her glasses up on her nose. As always, she looked fabulous, the green Ralph Lauren frames on her glasses matching the shade of her silk sueded tank exactly. “Besides, I knew Anderson would have Payard’s.”

“The big guns,” I said, sliding into a chair. “Okay, so I’m clean, caffeinated, and well-fed. It’s time. Any particular order?”

“Actually, they’re fairly interchangeable,” Anderson said, sliding the stack of papers over to me.

I really didn’t want to touch them. In fact, part of me wanted to go straight to the ceremonial-burning part of the equation. I know that sounds extreme, but it’s easier to accomplish than you think. I live in Manhattan, remember? And my building still has an incinerator. All I had to do was walk down the hall, open the little metal door, shove the suckers in, and fifteen seconds later—whoosh.

But that was the coward’s way out.

Better to face the problem head-on. Then I could run screaming from the room.

I have to admit the picture was actually a good one. And if I’d been in love with Douglas it would have been a keeper. But Douglas was engaged to Maris, and I was supposed to be a professional. And believe me, none of that was reflected in the photograph. And, of course, a column wouldn’t be a column without pithy captions. Mine ranged from titillating to X-rated.

“It could have been worse,” Cybil said, cutting through the silence.

“It’s not good.” I shook my head as I perused Newsday and then a supermarket tabloid I hadn’t even heard of. More of the same. “At least I got to Maris before these came out.” I pushed the papers away. “She was amazingly practical last night. I’m just hoping that with reality staring her in the face, she doesn’t change her mind.”

On that thought, the phone rang. At least we’d made it to almost nine o’clock.

“Do you want me to get it?” Anderson asked. I usually try to fight my own battles. Really, I do. But it was still early, and I hadn’t even had a second cup of coffee.

“Would you mind?”

“Honey, that’s what I’m here for.” He headed into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. All the better for me not to hear.

“I take it you’ve already seen these,” I said, as Cybil grabbed the carafe off the table and refilled my cup.

“Yeah. First thing this morning. I wanted to assess the damage before I came over.”

“So what do you think?”

“Well, I’ve got to say that even to me, it looks a lot like Douglas is enjoying himself.”

“Oh, please. He was drunk.”

“I know. I’m just telling you what it looks like.” She smiled and reached over to pat my hand. “You’ve got to admit it’s a bit funny. You and Douglas Larson.”

“It most certainly is not,” I snapped, surprised at the strength of my anger. “This picture could very well mark the end of my days as a matchmaker. I mean, look at this one.” I pulled out a paper at random. “ ‘Matchmaker Lights His Fire.’ ”

“Well, it is a bit inflammatory.” She waited a beat, but I didn’t even smile. “Look, I know this is serious. But you’ve got to find a way to get through it. The truth is that if anyone stops to consider it for a moment, they’ll see that it reeks of a setup. I mean, it’s only a snapshot. And most people are capable of recognizing bullshit when they see it. Have you talked to Douglas or Maris yet?”

“I haven’t even been awake an hour.” I sounded defensive, but hell, it wasn’t a good day.

And to emphasize the point, the phone rang again, but only once. Anderson was clearly on the job.

“People were calling me, too,” Cybil said.

“Friend or foe?” The latter of course was more likely, gloating being the national pastime for our circle.

“Neither, really,” she sighed. “Mainly it was the voyeuristic type.”

“Wonderful. The vultures circle. Did Althea call?”

“No,” she said, looking down at her hands.

“Cybil. I know that look.” The phone rang again in the background, but neither of us reacted. “Spill it.”

She sighed. “Fine. She called. But it wasn’t to gloat. She just wanted to know what the real story was. And if you were okay.”

“So why didn’t she call me?”

“She was afraid that it would be rubbing salt in the wound.”

“I suppose there’s something to that. You swear she didn’t sound pleased?”

“Vanessa, you know better than that. Althea is competitive, but she’s also your friend.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling cornered. I really wanted to win the bet. And now, I’m afraid I haven’t a chance in hell.”

“Well, at this point I think the bet should be the last of your concerns.”

“I disagree. I think it’s even more important now. If I could get Mark on board, it would prove to everyone that I’m still in the game.”

“It isn’t a game, Vanessa. You’re talking about people’s lives.”

“I didn’t mean to sound crass. It’s just that I feel like I’ve lost control. And I guess I’m looking for a way to get it back.”

“Well, that’s understandable.” The phone rang again, this time it stopped almost before it could complete the first ring. “So how did things go with Grayson last night?”

“Actually, they went pretty well. He’s different from how I pictured him, somehow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I can put it into words, but he’s just more real. Does that make any sense?” The minute it was out of my mouth I realized how stupid it sounded. But Cybil was pretty good at reading between the lines.

“You like him.”

“Yeah, I do. And I guess that surprises me.”

“Don’t you have to like someone to find them a match?”

“No. I mean I don’t think I could do it if they were mean, or a bad person, or something, but I don’t think my liking them per se has anything at all to do with finding a match. I just have to be able to read their personality. Figure out what it is they really want.”

“Sounds impossible.”

“It does.” I laughed. “But you know as well as I do that I seem to have a knack for it.”

There was a long pause, and I almost thought she was going to disagree with me, but instead she asked about Mark. “Did you tell him about me?”

“Not in so many words. I mean I talked about you a lot. And I also told him I had someone in mind for him, but Maris called before I had the chance to connect the dots.”

“That’s probably just as well,” she said, staring down into her coffee cup. “I mean I’ve been having second thoughts.”

“You’re just nervous.”

“No. I think maybe it’s more than that. I mean I just broke up with Stephen; it seems too soon to be jumping into something else.”

“It’s just a date, Cybil.”

“With big expectations.”

“No. I swear. None at all. I admit that in the beginning when I thought of you it was because of the bet. But I also meant what I said. I’d never set you up with someone I didn’t think was right for you. And the more I get to know Mark, the more certain I am that he’s perfect for you.”

“Well, I’m not nearly as confident.”

“That’s understandable. But you do think he’s interesting, right?”

“From what I know,” she admitted with a shrug.

“And you think he’s good-looking.”

“You have to be crazy not to think that.” She was smiling now.

“So all I’m asking you to do is give it a chance. Go out with the guy. And if I’m right, everything else will follow.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.” I snorted, not even certain I believed it myself. “But if by some miracle I am, then you just chalk it up as a one-off and that’s the end of it.”

“Really? No pressure?”

“None at all. I swear. Honest to God, Cybil, I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I didn’t truly believe the two of you suit.”

“Now you sound like a matchmaker. Who uses the word ‘suit’?”

“Okay,” I said. “How about ‘I think he’ll blow your socks off.’ Is that better?”

“Well, it’s certainly more appealing,” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, it’s still a long shot, right? I mean he hasn’t agreed to anything.”

“No. He hasn’t.” Reality came crashing in like the ladies who lunch at a Bergdorf’s end-of-the-year sale. “And after he sees the photograph, he probably won’t. I’m surprised Althea wasn’t crowing.”

“Well, the truth is that it isn’t just a strike against you, it’s a strike against the profession, and that includes Althea.”

“Are you trying to make me feel worse?”

“No. Just assuring you that at least with regard to the bet, Althea isn’t going to benefit from today’s journalistic debacle.”

“Funny, I think that actually makes me feel better,” I sighed. “I’m a rotten person.”

“No, you’re not, sweetie. You’re just human.”

“Well, that’s six calls,” Anderson said, putting the cordless back in its cradle. “Two from so-called friends, one from your mother, and three from reporters requesting the inside scoop.”

“What did you tell them?” I asked, feeling slightly sick.

“Well, since I figured ‘fuck off’ wasn’t an option, I told your friends that you were working, your mother that you’d call her later, and the press, ‘no comment.’”

“Well done,” Cybil said. “I think maybe you missed your calling. You should be in PR.”

“Oh, please,” Anderson laughed. “Anyone can answer a phone.”

“Better you than me,” I said. “I’m not sure I could have handled any of them. Especially my mother.”

“She was just worried about you,” Anderson said, reaching for the Times. Thank God there was one paper that wasn’t interested in the misadventures of Vanessa Carlson.

“I know,” I sighed. “But as much as I hate making a fool of myself, I hate doing it in front of my mother even more. I want her to be proud of me, not saying ‘I told you so.’ She’s never approved of my business.”

“I think it’s more your attitude about relationships she disapproves of,” Cybil said.

“Well, there’s the pot calling the kettle black. She’s spent the last ten years trying to fix me up with every single male within her social orbit.”

“She’s a mom,” Anderson said. “It’s in the job description.”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I snapped. I mean, after all he was supposed to be taking my side.

“I told them I’d be in late.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” I sounded petulant, but I couldn’t help it. I’d been taking care of myself for a long time. “Besides, Cybil’s here.”