Vanity Fare (24 page)

Remembrance of Things Yeast

We’ve done a good job summarizing works of literary fiction in these blurbs, haven’t we?

Well, here we just have to throw our hands in the air and admit defeat. Proust is unwieldy, beyond long-winded, spinning out minutiae as if we had a lifetime to read his work. And sorry, Marcel, but we don’t, even if you hand us a madeleine and some tea.

We’d rather eat this light, fluffy, and completely insubstantial bread. Yum.

23

THE NIGHT OF THE OPENING WAS A GORGEOUS SPRING EVENING
: A soft breeze drifted through the trees, it was mild, and most of the tourists must have wandered over to Bubba Gump or somewhere because the sidewalks weren’t even that crowded.

I emerged from the subway and took a few deep breaths. This was it. This was the moment I’d been working toward all summer.

Plus, I tried not to remind myself, this’d be one of the last times I’d see Nick.

I walked resolutely toward the brightly lit shop; most of the other stores had closed for the night, so the store was a beacon across Forty-second Street. I smelled the pastry aroma half a block away, and my mouth started to water.

No matter what his other faults, Simon really was an incredible baker.

There was a camera crew at the shop’s entrance, and a tiny red carpet that made me smile as I stepped on it. This was the closest to glamour I’d probably ever get, and I had to admit it was pretty cool.

“Welcome, Molly.” Simon, of course, met me at the door, his expression showing none of the pissed-off-ness I’d come to expect from him.

“Yes, welcome,” a woman’s voice chimed in behind him. Simon turned halfway around and put his arm around the shoulders of a stunning woman who gazed at him in adoration. He gave me that Cheshire Cat look.

No wonder he wasn’t pissed off anymore. “This is Sarah,” he said. “She does PR for the network.” She had that thin, glassy-eyed look that came from not eating enough.

“Hello, Simon, nice to meet you, Sarah,” I said. “The shop looks amazing.”

It really did. The glass windows and clean steel lines of the tables were a complement for the wall décor, which featured old book covers, bookmarks, reading glasses, and other literary detritus. Behind the counter a large sign had pictures of Simon’s offerings along with my descriptions, written in charming calligraphy. The people who were serving were garbed as the stereotypical absentminded authors, with pens tucked behind their ears, ink stains on their monogrammed shirts, and all wearing similarly geeky glasses.

“Thank you, Molly. Thank you for all of your hard work,” he added almost as an afterthought. “I have to say, I had my concerns when Natalie was off the project.” He frowned. “I heard about the stunt she pulled when her friend heard the plans. Thankfully we’d already booked the meeting with the network. Of course that’s not the worst thing an ex has ever tried after we’ve broken up.” He sounded as though heartbroken women pulled hijinks like this all the time. No wonder he was so aghast—and didn’t believe me, in fact—when I dumped him.

Which was one of the best decisions I’d made. At least in the last few months, maybe ever. The guy didn’t have an unselfish bone in his gorgeous body.

It was no wonder he’d chased after me so aggressively—once Natalie was out of the picture, he didn’t have a woman on call. I doubted he’d ever been in that situation, not since he’d gone through puberty.

I snagged a glass of champagne from one of the author-waiters and eyed the tables piled with desserts of every shape and size. Tonight I was going to eat one of every single item, even if I burst at the end. I deserved it. What’s more, I wanted it.

John came up from behind me as I was pondering which treat to eat next—the chocolate one or the other chocolate one. “Molly,” he said, clasping my hand with both of his, “so glad you’re here. The network is filming the event, they think they might be able to create some sort of special on it later on, especially if Simon’s test goes well.”

“Simon’s testing for TV?” I said. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I mean it wasn’t as if there were that many—maybe not any—chefs as good-looking as Simon. He seemed born for TV, I shoulda been surprised he didn’t already have a show.

“Yes, that was part of what Natalie was bringing to the table, actually. She has network connections, we almost lost the chance when she and Simon . . .” His words trailed off.

“It would just make so much sense for him to segue to TV, though. I’m glad your company gets the chance to see it through. You guys deserve it.”

Speaking of deserving—I spotted Nick at the other end of the room. He had dressed up for the occasion, and was wearing a dark suit with a tie.

Holding a coffee cup in one hand and a huge flaky bear claw in the other.

As I watched him, he took a bite of the pastry, then grimaced as flakes drifted down and onto his suit.

Even without the baked flakes adorning him like tinsel on a Christmas tree, he was entirely lickable.

I told myself to settle down but still found myself making a beeline toward him. He gave me a guilty little-boy grin when I approached and wiped his face with a fancy linen napkin.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, keeping his gaze on me as he took a sip from his cup. “Want some?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. I already downed a few at the door. Nervous habit.” I tilted my glass toward him. “Have you had any champagne?”

“I wish I could. I have to make sure everything goes absolutely perfectly tonight. Make sure Simon impresses all the right people.” His expression showed what he thought of that.

“Should I not—?” Suddenly I felt like I shouldn’t be drinking or something.

He waved me off. “No, have fun. You deserve it.”

“Hey, thanks for helping my mom out.”

His face went blank, then his eyes widened in what looked like shock. “She told you?”

“Told me—what?” Now I was surprised. “She has voluntarily been going through her finances, whereas before you spoke to her, I had to threaten to destroy her glass figurines to even get her to open the files.”

He looked relieved. “Right. Well, of course, no problem.”

“What did you think she told me?”

There was that expression again. And silence.

“Well,” he said, using what I recognized as his investor voice, “it’s merely a matter of organizing the assets, she was just overwhelmed by the process.”

What the hell did that even mean? Screw it. “What the hell does that even mean?” I said, downing the last bit of champagne and using the empty glass to make my point. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

That was a lie. I knew it, he knew it, and I wasn’t going to back down from it, not this time.

“What did you do?” I repeated. I kept my eyes on his face until his gaze faltered.

“Not much. I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“You didn’t!” I interrupted. “But you will now. What did you do?” I had years of practice with Aidan, repeating questions until I got the answer I wanted. I was betting Nick had never dealt with a Mother Intent on an Answer.

“I paid for her consultation with the money guy. My friend who owes me a favor?”

“How much money? We’ll pay you back.” My heart was racing.

He shook his head. “No. It’s a gift. And I’m not going to tell you how much, Molly, you’ll just worry.” He really did know me, didn’t he?

For once, I was silenced. It was clear from Nick’s implacable expression that that information was all I was going to get.

“And, if you’ll excuse me, I see one of those executives who were at the presentation heading for Simon.” He darted away before I could find anything to say. Leaving me alone with my now empty glass.

Well, there was something I could have control over. I grabbed another glass from a passing waiter as I contemplated it, the reality of it settling in my stomach like I’d eaten too much chocolate. And I hadn’t even come close yet.

Oh, hell, no. The perfect guy for me, perfect in every way except he had made it clear he wasn’t interested in me, not to mention he lived in another country, had pulled a Mr. Darcy and saved my relative’s ass?

Like I wasn’t already ruined for any other guy. Ever. Damn.

“Wow,” I muttered under my breath. I stood there, feeling the rush of competing emotions—relief, embarrassment, love, agony, heck almost anything I could feel—course through me. Nick. Nick had rescued my mother, and he hadn’t done it for any other reason but me. Wow.

I took a sip. This was my secret to hold on to. My secret to hold on to, and cherish, every time I thought about the guy who got away. Who left. And not the rotten ex-husband who’d left, but the other guy. The smart, sexy, witty, Mr. Darcy–savvy one.

I promised myself as I stood there, watching the faux-authors drift around me with their champagne and pastry-laden trays, that I wouldn’t be less than what he must think of me to do something like that.

It was a tall order, but I could do it.

I would do it. Just like Gloria Gaynor, I would survive.

I left the party after three
truffles and an almond scone. Not to mention another glass of champagne.

And decided to do something so unlike me I knew I’d chicken out if I even thought about it for a second. I dug in my pocket and found the card—as I remembered, her office wasn’t too far from here. I checked my watch: 7:00
P.M.
I bet she’d still be there.

I buzzed the office number.

“Natalie Duran.” She was there.

I took a deep breath. “Hi, Natalie, it’s Molly Hagan. Can I come up?”

“Oh!” She sounded very surprised. Good. “Of course.”

The front door clicked open, and I took the elevator up to her floor. She stood at the door, a puzzled expression on her face. “Hello, Molly, how . . . unexpected to see you.”

“Mm, yes.”

She stepped back so I could go into the office. Like John’s office, it was in shades of business-edgy: maroon, olive, umber. She gestured toward the reception sofa.

“Please, sit.” She was impeccably dressed, as usual, but there were circles under her eyes, and her hair was more disheveled than artfully disarranged.

“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.” I paused. “Look, Natalie, I don’t want to play coy with you. I know you know tonight was the shop’s opening event, and I also know that you tried to sabotage it.” She opened her mouth, and I held my hand up. “I don’t know if you planned it, or your friend just called you up and you couldn’t resist. I don’t want to know. The fact is, it didn’t work.”

Her lips pinched together and I saw her swallow. “I didn’t . . .” Her voice faltered. She sat down, suddenly.

I had to say the rest of it, everything I’d practiced on the walk over. “You tried to undermine my work and jeopardize the entire venture.”

“That’s not what I meant to do.” Now she sounded entirely defensive—like when Aidan said there was no way he’d eaten the last cookie when the Oreo crumbs were decorating his face.

Her fingers were twisting together in her lap, and I felt a pang of guilt that I’d done that to her. And then a tiny blaze of triumph because
I
had done that to her.

“It doesn’t matter what you
meant
to do.” It really did feel as though I were speaking to Aidan. “The fact is, you did it. And I think you did it because of a man.” I paused and let the words settle in. “And I wanted to tell you that’s not okay. It’s never okay to do anything just for a man.” Especially one like Simon—good to look at on the outside, not enough filling on the inside. Kind of like an Oreo, come to think of it.

She looked up at me. I was startled to see the beginning of tears in her eyes. “You’re right,” she said in a whisper.

Wow. I was right? And she was admitting it? She continued, “And I’m really sorry.” She rose from the couch and held her hand out. “I apologize, Molly. It was a rotten thing to do.”

I took her hand and shook it. “Oh. Of course. Thank you. Well,” I said, dropping my hand and sticking it in my pocket, “that’s all I wanted to say. Thank you for hearing me out.”

One lone tear tracked down her face, and I felt like a heel. A justified, finally-got-that-off-my-chest heel, but a heel nonetheless.

We didn’t speak again as I left her office.

As I headed to the subway to return to Brooklyn, I thought of all the ways that could have gone, and that it went as well as it did astonished me.

Was there no limit to what I could do? Maybe I’d try to wear makeup every single day for a week, or read Proust, or challenge my mom to a game of Scrabble that didn’t allow us to use the letter
e
.

On the other hand, there were limits. I was just happy I was pushing them.

I was still in a Helen Reddy mood
when I got home. I told my mom the highlights of the evening—starting with the pastries, natch—and headed to my bedroom to peel off my fancy clothes and put on my jammies.

The phone rang as I was kicking my shoes into the corner. “Hello?”

At first, all I heard was muffled crying, followed by a wracking sob. I recognized that cry, I’d heard it when Alexander McQueen died. “Lissa?”

“Oh, Molly.” She wept. I sat down on the bed and unzipped my skirt. There were a few too many treats in there to sit comfortably. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is it Tony?”

She gulped. “Yeeeesssssss.”

I leaned back against the pillows. “What happened?”

The whole sordid story poured out, interspersed with loud wails of anguish. Tony had insisted she accompany him the night before to an art gallery opening, then belittled her in front of his clients and told her she was fat. Then, when she was still standing there, he introduced another woman to his business partner and proceeded to flirt outrageously with her in front of everyone, not even sparing a glance toward Lissa.

After a few minutes of gaping at him, Lissa slunk away with the help of Tony’s assistant, who made sure she got home safely. She was humiliated, miserable, and worse, she felt as if she deserved it.

“What the hell are you talking about, Lissa?” I demanded. “No one deserves to have someone treat you as badly as that. No one. Not even Hugh,” I said, ignoring the memory of wanting to see him naked in Times Square while all the tourists pointed and laughed.

“I know. But if I had just tried harder to be like he wanted me to be—”

“—You’d be as much of an asshole as he is. Listen, do you want to come over?”

“No. Maybe we could just talk for a while. How’s Aidan?”

“He’s in the living room making a going-away present for Nick.” I answered the silence at the other end of the phone. I sighed. “Nick’s just someone I’m working with on this freelance project. And he’s leaving soon, obviously.”