The Sweet Edge (3 page)

Stella went shopping with Jane on Saturday. She realized she had nothing to wear to Claire De Lune. She did not consider the dinner a date but she didn't want to look shabby. Stella and Jane went to five stores in two hours. Stella was losing hope and patience. Jane dragged her to one last store – a consignment boutique. Within minutes Jane had found a classic black sheath by Marc Jacobs for an incredibly reasonable price of $40.00. Stella tried on the dress and was suddenly brimming with happiness. The dress molded her. It accentuated her waist, narrowed her plentiful hips and pushed her breasts upwards. It was the best dress she had ever worn. Far better than her turquoise, puffy taffeta confection she wore to prom. Stella had gone to the prom with a cousin and her dress, selected by her mother, was the one consolation of the whole ordeal. She felt pretty in her prom dress. But she felt sexy in the black dress.

Jane was thrilled when she saw Stella. "OMG. You are amazing. You're getting this dress."

Stella didn't argue.

"Do you have shoes?"

"Black low heeled sling backs. Do you think pearls?"

"Classic. Or maybe some large, silver statement piece?"

Stella thought about it. "Pearls, I think."

"Now your hair…" Jane picked up a strand of Stella's blonde hair.

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nice color, but flat. No definition."

Stella bristled. "You never said anything before."

"You never had a date before."

"Ouch. And I have had dates."

"None that mattered."

"May I remind you? This isn’t a date."

"Yeah, whatever." Jane made a W sign with her fingers. "Let me take you to my stylist."

An hour later Jane was sitting in front of a long mirror while a young, hip looking black man fluffed her hair.

"Hmmm. I'm thinking something sleek. Some structure, some romance and you will be gorgeous."

"Hardly." Stella dipped her head so she couldn't look in the mirror.

"Hey, baby. Don't say that. You are beautiful. You just have to believe."

"Not without a lot of work."

The hairdresser laughed. "We all need help. You think movie stars look like that all the time? The right clothes, the right makeup, the right hair and you are as stunning as them. Believe me. Now let's get to work."

The hairdresser clipped, combed and sprayed while Jane flipped through magazines. Occasionally she would eye Stella and give a thumbs up. Stella smiled tightly at her. She didn't like change. She didn't like fuss. The whole makeover experience was change and fuss. Stella thought, for the hundredth time, that Campbell won't notice a thing. He will buy her dinner, talk about work, she will thank him for the meal and then they will part ways. Good. Stella let her thoughts wander to Ben. Ben is who she wanted to impress. Not the mean, drunk Mr. Royce. Stella wanted Ben to notice her. To desire her. Ben was who she longed for.

"Done."

Stella looked up. "Can I see?"

"Of course." The hairdresser swung the chair around.

Stella stared at her image. Her hair bounced around her shoulders. There was a slight curl on the ends and her new bangs were wispy and girlish. Her hair feathered out fanning her face. Her hair was also blonder. Not a trace of beige. Golden and fair.

"Do you like?" The hairdresser looked at her expectantly.

"Yes." Stella was happy. Her hair had never looked quite as shiny, healthy or full of springiness. "You did wonderful."

Jane squealed. She hugged the hairdresser. "You are a magician."

"You know it." The hairdresser had a huge smile on his face.

Early Saturday evening Jane called shortly after her and Stella had parted ways from the hair stylist. She did not sound well.

"What's wrong?" asked Stella.

"Kyle just broke up with me. I’m devastated."

"Didn't you only go on one date? I didn't know you two were together."

"We had a connection." Jane started crying.

"I'm sorry. Do you want me to come over?"

"No! I look awful. My eyes are puffy and you have a date."

"Not a date."

"Stop. Tell me about it when you get home. I'll be here. Drowning in wine. Don't forget to wear makeup. You look smashing in makeup. Bye bye."

Stella stared in the mirror. She opened her dresser drawer and pulled out a small velvet bag. Inside was pots of color. Makeup from Mac, Bobbi Brown, Lancome and Chanel. Stella had been buying it over the past year, waiting for an opportunity to use it. Daily work grind did not seem like an opportunity. Even on the days she saw Ben, it didn't seem worth it. Stella sighed.

"Now or never," she said aloud.

Stella busied herself with shadowing, brushing, glossing and highlighting her face. She struggled to line her eyes evenly and spent close to ten minutes trying to apply the kohl black liner. But it was worth it. Her eyes, light gray, looked larger and mysterious. Stella was pleased. She thought she looked pretty. She was hesitant to say beautiful. She put on the dress, hanging in plastic on her bathroom door, slid on her heels and secured the pearl necklace her deceased grandmother had left her. Stella looked in the mirror.

"Wow," she said. She was suitably impressed and felt a sudden rush of confidence.

Her phone rang. "Hello?"

"This is your driver. I'm down stairs. Would you like me to come up and escort you down?"

"No. I'll be right down."

Stella grabbed her coat, her silver clutch, turned off her apartment lights and hurried down the stairs. She was in a fourth floor walkup and hated the climb up and down, but consoled herself that at least she was getting exercise.

The black Lincoln was parked on the street with its blinkers on. There was a tall man in a black suit standing by the back passenger door.

"Good evening," he said and opened the door.

Stella smiled and got in. The driver closed the door and then got into the front seat and gently pulled away from the curb. Stella normally used the subway and the bus. Occasionally she got a taxi if she was too tired to deal with public transportation. She had never had a chauffeured ride in New York City. Leaning back against the leather seat, she watched as the city glided past. Stella lived in the lower east side and Clair De Lune was in Chelsea. It would take some time to reach the restaurant, but she was in no hurry. She wanted to enjoy the city from inside a nice smelling car with a courteous driver.

Clair de Lune was a pan-European restaurant with a modern infusion. It was, currently, one of the hottest restaurants in town. There was a long bar with a piano player, gilded tables, ornate sconces and an expensive menu. Stella entered the crowded restaurant.

"How can I help you?" the Maître D asked.

"I'm meeting someone."

"Of course, who are meeting?"

"Um," Stella momentarily blanked. "Campbell. Campbell Royce."

"Ah, yes. He has arrived. I will escort you."

Stella followed the Maître D through a maze of stylishly dressed patrons. Campbell was standing. He was wearing a gray suit and a Klimt inspired tie. He looked clean shaven, very serious and attractive. Campbell looked at Stella openly and carefully. He was not even sure the woman in front of him was the same woman he met on that horrible night. The woman in front of him was gorgeous. Her figure, though full, seemed lush and her face was soft. Her eyes also looked like cat's eyes – the marble kind. Campbell remembered playing marbles as a child and his most prized marble was a large black one with a silvery center.

Stella looked hesitant. "Hello."

Campbell did not say anything. He was still gazing at her. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Please have a seat. Please. Thank you. You look lovely."

Stella sat down and accepted the menu from the Maître D. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome," he said. "Your server will be with you shortly."

Stella stared at the menu. She was afraid to look at Campbell. He seemed intimidating. Distant. Completely unattainable. Stella thought of Ben. Sweet, wonderful Ben.

"Thank you for meeting me. I…I wanted to apologize. I acted horribly."

"Apology accepted. You had a bad night. Your girlfriend broke up with you."

"That was no excuse."

"You should really apologize to Carlos. The bartender. You shorted him on the tip."

"You're right. I will have to rectify that."

Campbell looked away and sighed. He felt nervous, but did not understand why. "Do you like French food?"

Stella set the menu down. "Honestly, I don't think I have ever had it. I grew up in a small Massachusetts town and, well, French food seems so expensive that I didn't have it when I moved to Boston or here."

"You're in for a treat. Do you mind if I order for us?"

"No. Please do." Stella was relieved. The menu had no prices on it and she was worried she would order food that was too expensive. Stella considered that bad taste. When someone bought you a meal you didn’t order the most expensive thing on the menu.

Campbell signaled for the waiter. A stout man in a crisp shirt approached. "How may I help you?" The waiter had a thick French accent.

"We will start with the Betteraves au Chévre rôti et Pistaches, Salade d’Auvergne and the Tartare de Thon au Gingembre et Avocat. Then we will have the Filet de Boeuf, Béarnaise and Noix de St. Jacques Poêlées au Champagne. Also, add a side of warm asparagus with a poached egg and wild mushrooms."

"Very good, Sir. Will you be having wine?"

"Two Greyhounds, Belvedere vodka. And a Bourdeux, I think. Château Lécuyer, Pomerol, 2007."

"Excellent choice." The waiter took the menus and walked away.

"What did you just order?"

"French food. An assortment."

"Your French is quite good."

"You studied French?"

"No. German and Russian."

"Fluent?"

"I can read both. Not good with speaking either."

"Well, that's impressive. Where did you learn?"

"Wellesley."

Campbell was intrigued. "Why is a Wellesley girl a restaurant hostess?"

"Oh, there aren’t many jobs in this economy for literature majors. I've applied to every publishing house in town as well as newspapers and magazines. No bites. I'm still trying. Fingers crossed."

"So what's your dream job?"

"Writer of literary fiction. But the market is bigger for romance so I am currently writing a romance novel. I'm about at the halfway mark."  Stella lied. Earlier in the morning she scrapped much of the book and was down to ten pages.

Campbell was impressed. In his mind, Stella was a nice woman of limited means and talents. He wasn't sure why he thought that, but he was happy to be very wrong about her.

"What do you do?" Stella asked.

"I'm in finance. Trader. Economics at MIT and then MBA at Harvard. Boston boy. What town are you from?"

"Chelmsford."

"Ah, I know it well."

"We were poor." Stella had no idea why she said that.

"So was I."

"Given your home address on Park Avenue, I would say you did well."

"I did well. It took time, but I did well."

"Your parents must be proud."

"Yes. No. They don't really understand what I do. They think I am doing something illegal. Gambling or something."

"Being a trader is gambling. Legalized gambling that the economy relies on, but gambling all the same."

Campbell laughed. "An accurate assessment."

Stella smiled. "So what happened with your girlfriend?" Stella was curious.

Campbell's face looked momentarily darker. "She was my girlfriend for the money. She traded up. She dumped me for the CEO of the company I work for. Devin Roberts. You might have read about him in the Wall Street Journal."

"I don't read the Wall Street Journal."

Campbell smiled. “Right. There’s no use talking about it. I got over it the night I got drunk, met you and made an ass out of myself. She was obviously a gold digger. Remarkably beautiful, but shallow.”

Stella looked away. Campbell sounded bitter. She suspected that he had deeper feelings for his girlfriend than even he suspected.

The waiter came with a large tray. He poured wine, presented the drinks and arranged the cluster of plates artfully. He left only when Campbell waved him away. Campbell named every dish and encouraged Stella to eat.

“Eat as much as you want. This is your French experience.”

Stella ate happily. She was in love with the golden beet salad with goat cheese and pistachios. The tuna tartare was delectable. It was complemented by a spicy avocado mixture that Stella was mad about. Stella said little to Campbell as she munched. The food was too good to ruin with talk. Campbell said nothing either and eagerly shared the plates with Stella.