Chasing Harry Winston. Lauren Weisberger
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had once joked that she looked ‘lesbian chic’ in the blazer she was wearing, and although she’d always loved its shrunken fit and its chunky gold chains and the fact that it was Chanel – the only article of haute couture she owned – she had never noticed until this very moment that it made her look like a linebacker. ‘Don’t worry,’ she mumbled, unaware that she was talking to herself. ‘Russell’s a sports commentator. He works for ESPN. He dedicates his life to professional sports. Russell loves football players!’ And with that, clutching the gorgeously wrapped gift box from Barneys, trying not to worry about the fact that its contents were a complete mystery, she gathered her unkempt self and hustled downstairs to hail a cab.
Russell stood outside Daniel, looking relaxed and fit and happy. Like he’d just returned from a month in the Caribbean, where he’d done nothing but treat his body like a temple. His charcoal gray suit hugged every toned muscle. His skin glowed with the health of someone who runs six miles a day; he was freshly washed and shaven. Even his shoes – a pair of black lace-ups that he’d bought on their last trip to Milan – literally shined. He was groomed to perfection, and Leigh resented him for it. Who on earth managed to work a full day and keep their tie that clean or their shirt that crisp? How was it always possible to match that well, to have coordinated cuff links with trouser socks, shoes with briefcases?
‘Hi, gorgeous. I was starting to worry.’
She pecked him on the lips but moved away before he could open his mouth. ‘Worry? Why? I’m right on time.’
‘Well, you know, I just hadn’t heard from you all day. You did get the orchid, right? I know the purple ones are your favorite.’
‘I did. It was beautiful. Thank you so much.’ Her voice sounded strange to her own ears – it was the higher-pitched, polite tone she used with her doorman or dry cleaner.
Russell placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the front doors. They were immediately greeted by a tuxedoed man nearing the end of middle age who appeared to recognize Russell. They conferred momentarily in whispers, the maître d’ leaning in toward Russell, the two men clapping each other on the shoulders. A moment later, he motioned for a young girl in a tight but conservative pantsuit to show them to their table.
‘Football fan?’ Leigh asked, more to appear interested than because she actually was.
‘What? Oh, the maître d’? Yeah, he must have recognized me from the show. What else could explain this table, right?’
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