A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (8 page)

“So why didn’t she come directly to Stephen?”

“He wasn’t in.” She dipped her finger in the cupcake frosting, twirling it around until it clung to her finger like cotton candy. “I told him she recognized the name and his connection to me. So gave me a call. From there it was a simple matter to arrange the sale.”

An ugly idea occurred to me. “Did the woman actually see the painting?”

“Yes.”

“Outside the studio?” I felt like Jack McCoy going for the jugular.

“No. Not exactly.”

“You asked her to buy the painting.”

She licked the icing off her finger and blew out a breath. “Yes.”

“Did she even like it?”

“Of course she did.” Cybil’s answer was a little too glib.

“Is there any way that Stephen could have figured out the truth?” Talk about manipulation.

“No.” She shook her head to underscore the words. “Absolutely not. Abby would never tell.”

Abby was an old friend. One I’d certainly trust. “I agree with that. But there are other ways for information to leak. You of all people should know that.”

“I know. But I don’t think that’s what this was about. If he’d known about Abby, he’d have confronted me with it. Wouldn’t he?” She interrupted herself on a sob. “I really thought we were going to make it this time.”

“Honey, it’ll be okay, I swear it.” I reached for her hand, feeling a lot like crying myself. Of course there was no way I could be certain it would be okay. Hearts could be fickle. Especially the really sensitive ones—like Cybil’s. But overall, the organ was amazingly resilient.

“I don’t see how,” she sniffled, taking another bite of cupcake. “Everyone is going to think I’m such a fool.”

Everyone
was going to be doing handstands in their Cesare Paciottis, but that little fact was best kept under wraps.

“If anyone is the fool, it’s Stephen.” In more ways than I could possibly innumerate.

“But
he
dumped
me
." If she hadn’t been my best friend, I swear I would have slapped her.

“My point exactly. The man’s obviously not thinking clearly. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him. So what exactly did he say when he ended it?”

“After he’d said his piece about you and manipulation, we made small talk about shopping and the celebration. And then everything just sort of trailed off into silence. You know, the uncomfortable kind that you can’t seem to cut through.” Been there, done that. And wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, and you just know that when it does it’ll be covered in dog poop. “He just kept shaking his head, and staring at the fois gras.” He probably didn’t know what it was. But then again, far be it from me to pass judgment on anyone.

“And then what?”

“The wine steward arrived with the champagne. And before he could pop the cork, Stephen just stood up and said it wasn’t going to work. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the sommelier.” She absently picked up a couple of crumbs and popped them into her mouth. “And then he walked out.” Her eyes welled with tears, as she tried valiantly to swallow a sob.

“Maybe this is for the best?” I knew it wasn’t going to be a popular sentiment, but it had to be said.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Cybil scowled at me, dropping the last bit of cupcake back into the box.

“I know. But it doesn’t make it any less true.” I waited a minute, trying to find the right words. “You said it earlier. You and Stephen aren’t on the same page when it comes to life experiences.”

“I didn’t say that. I said that I thought Stephen might think that.”

“Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Point taken. But what I’m trying to say is that maybe you were right. Maybe his reticence to stay in the relationship is based on the fact that the two of you are from different worlds. And despite the fact that you’re willing to ignore the differences, it’s a little harder from his side of things. Maybe he just couldn’t deal with that anymore.”

“Great. My pedigree ruined my relationship.”

“No. It wasn’t you at all. It wasn’t even Stephen, really. It was the two of you together.” I reached for another cupcake and forced myself to stop midway. I wasn’t the one who’d lost a boyfriend. “I’m not saying this right. What I mean is that I truly believe that Stephen cared about you. But in the end, he just wasn’t ready for a real relationship.”

“With me,” Cybil said, the words tinged with self-deprecation.

“With
anyone
," I quickly assured her. “Stephen’s a free spirit. And I think sometimes people like that are better off on their own. I mean, the phrase ‘happy artist’ is probably listed in the dictionary under ‘oxymoron.’ The point, Cybil, is that this isn’t your fault. It isn’t even Stephen’s. It’s just the reality of your stations in life.”

“You sound like Jane Austen.”

We’d read her books in high school. Well, actually, Cybil read them. I sort of got the gist vicariously, if you know what I mean. I’ve never been a big reader.

“I sound like a realist. Look, I know you care about Stephen. And I know this hurts like hell. I’m just trying to say that maybe there’s a silver lining out there somewhere.”

“Well, I wish it would hurry up and get here.”

I fished in my bag for the invitation. Who said fairy godmothers had to be old and have wings? “It may be closer than you think.” I held it out with a flourish.

“My God, this is for the Cavalli party.” Even through the tears I could see excitement sparkling in her eyes. “How in the world . . .”

“Let’s just say I have friends in all the right places. Anyway, the point is that you can be my ‘plus one.’ ”

She started to smile but the reflex died before it could fully blossom. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Cybil had enough couture to fill a boutique at Bergdorf’s, but I didn’t even hesitate as I held out my bag. “Of course you do. This will look amazing on you.”

She took the sack and opened it, the Wendy Hill looking resplendent inside. “It’s gorgeous.” She paused as she contemplated the dress. “Mark Grayson is going to be there, isn’t he?”

I nodded.

“This is your battle gear.” She closed the bag and held it out to me. “I can’t take it. You need it.”

I pushed her hand back. “Not as much as you need to feel beautiful tonight. I’ve got lots of other dresses. Besides, I’m not trying to attract Mark Grayson. At least not in that way. What I look like is irrelevant.” That, of course, was a blatant lie and we both knew it. But Cybil did need the dress more.

“I’ve got the perfect shoes.” She hopped up, crumbs raining down on the carpet, already heading for her closet, her heartbreak not forgotten but at least numbed for the moment with the prospect of a new dress and a hot party.

Priorities and all that.

Chapter 6

Bungalow 8
. 515 West Twenty-seventh Street (between Tenth and Eleventh avenues), 212.629.3333.

The name and decor are meant to invoke memories of the Beverly Hills Hotel and old Hollywood; thus the palm trees, concierge, and inevitable NO VACANCY sign glaring into the night at this far-West Chelsea spot. We would advise being utterly fabulous before attempting to cross the threshold or you’ll be doing the walk of shame. Trust us.

—www.hipguide.com

∞∞∞

Bungalow 8 has topped the Manhattan club scene for several years in a row now. And in a town famous for overnight failure, this is not a feat to be taken lightly. But then Amy Sacco, the brains behind LOT61 and Bette, knows her stuff. And the tightly guarded door only makes it more alluring. Maybe it’s the NO VACANCY sign in the window.

Anyway, as we pulled up, I could see the usual assortment of cleavage-baring wannabes staggered amid Gap-clad gawkers and the occasional B-list celebrity. Even though tonight’s soiree was strictly invitation only, hopes of crossing the velvet frontier still apparently ran high.

Fat chance.

Plastering on my best ice princess smile, I stepped out of the town car. Cybil followed suit, looking stunning in the Wendy Hill. Frankly, it looked better on her. I’d chosen an Alberta Ferretti. It was two seasons old, granted. But it was also formfitting and red. And did I mention backless?

If I had to call it, I’d say the two of us looked pretty damn good, especially when you considered the fact that we’d been gorging on cupcakes not three hours earlier. We paused on the sidewalk, playing for the paparazzi.

Cybil usually drew a decent amount of attention. Between her position with the Murdochs and her old family money, she warranted at least a photo or two. And me, well, I had buzz. The kind that can turn on you in an instant, granted, but at least for the moment I was hot.

After a couple of minutes of smiling at no one in particular, I grabbed Cybil’s hand and we moved past the crowd, as the beefy guy at the door smiled in recognition and waved us inside. I could hear the whispers rise as the Victoria’s Secret wannabes tried to figure out exactly who we were and why we were able to achieve what they had not—entrance into one of Manhattan’s coveted hot spots.

It was all over in seconds, but I confess it gives me a thrill every time. That’s probably not the chic thing to say, but it’s true nevertheless. Limelight is a double-edged sword, there’s no doubt about it, but it’s a kick, too. It has to be, right? Otherwise no one would want it, and television shows like Extra would be out of business.

Inside the club you could actually feel the vibrations from the music. On a normal night Bungalow 8 holds about a hundred people, and the strict door policy keeps it to that, maintaining the intimate feel of the place. Tonight, however, the place was overflowing, a short runway jutting out amid the potted palms, Cavalli-dressed mannequins emerging from behind glittering curtains in an endless stream of amazing couture.

Trays of the club’s infamous watermelon martinis wended their way through the crowd, the excellent waitstaff making certain that no one was left without libation. I passed on the martini with a shiver of memory and chose champagne instead.

“Quite a crowd,” Cybil whispered, sipping a martini. Obviously her stomach was stronger than mine.

“And then some.” I nodded to a hard-bodied man in Tommy Hilfiger, shirt open to the waist. He flexed as he walked past us, and I resisted the urge to pinch to see if it was real.

Three scantily clad twentysomethings passed in his wake, their eyes locked on his now undulating derriere.

“
Bungahos
,” Cybil said, with a catty smile almost reminiscent of pre-breakup.

Bungahos were women (and I suppose men) who hung out at Bungalow 8 with startling regularity. Hangers-on who could get in—
just
—and intended to make the most of the fact.

“I don’t think so. The look isn’t right.” I nodded at blonde number two. “Definitely off-the-rack. My guess is they’ve been admitted as part of someone’s entourage.”

Cybil tilted her head, studying them as they walked away. “You’re right. My vote is Banana Republic.”

Now, please understand that in normal life there is nothing at all wrong with buying clothes from Banana Republic, but if you’re trying to capture the attention of someone of the opposite sex in a place like this, you have to dress for the challenge.

Unfortunately these girls hadn’t gotten the memo. I smiled kindly, thinking what I could do for them, and then pushed the thought aside. I wasn’t here for recruits.

“You see him?” Cybil asked, as usual reading my thoughts.

“No.” I shook my head, trying to pitch my voice beneath the music. “But I can’t see more than about a foot in front of me. There’re too many people in here.”

As if on command the Dolce & Gabbana crowd shifted and there beside a potted palm and a red velvet banquet I saw a flash of gold Ungaro and the perfect symmetry of an auburn pageboy.

Althea.

Fortunately, she was talking to an editor from
Woman’s Day
. Martha something-or-other. If memory served, the woman was a chatterbox. Which at the moment suited my purposes perfectly since it bought me valuable time.

Assuming, of course, Althea hadn’t already found our quarry.

The thought sent panic coursing through me, but a long sip of champagne stopped it cold. I traded in my empty glass for a full one, letting the frosty bubbles bolster my courage.

“If he’s here, he’ll be up there,” Cybil said, gesturing to the glass-enclosed VIP lounge above our heads. If getting into Bungalow 8 took connections, getting up to the VIP lounge took credentials.

Thank God Anderson had them. Which meant that my gold-edged invitation trumped the bulk of the crowd holding simple white ones. Althea’s, of course, would have gold as well. So the race was on.

“Help me get through the crowd.” I was already moving, using a strategic smile, as well as a well-placed elbow, to work my way forward.

Cybil moved to my left, flanking me on that side. It was a dance choreographed through years of clubbing. We might have been on the wrong side of the age equation, but what we lacked in skin tone we more than made up for with experience.

In fact, we’d almost made it to the überbouncer when I felt a hand on my arm.

“Vanessa. I knew you’d be here.” Speaking of young and perfect.

Devon Sinclair was a client. One I’d taken on in a fit of optimism that I had a feeling I was going to live to regret. In all truth, he was too young for this game. Too many wild oats to sow. A wunderkind on Wall Street, with a seven-figure income and the pubescent mind of a teenager.

If a male could in fact be a bungaho, Devon fit the bill to a T. Except that in addition to all the philandering, he supposedly yearned for 2.5 kids and acreage in Westchester. Hailing from somewhere southwestern, he had that rare combination of boyish charm and Mensa IQ. Common sense not coming into the equation at all.

So far I’d set him up with four women without success. His reticence was helping my income and ruining my average. But I had high hopes for my latest choice. Lindy Adams was as delicious as she was connected. A year younger than Devon’s twenty-six, she was Barbie to his Ken. A perfect couple.