Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (19 page)

“Oh,” I said, momentarily embarrassed. But I saw Jade had already forgotten my transgression and was sizing up a spectacular specimen clad in the tightest pair of leather pants I'd ever seen.

Turning her attention to me, she held up her glass. “To well-blessed men,” she said, using a term we had both learned from Grandma Zizi, who had felt a pressing need to inform us of the finer points of selecting a mate when we both turned sixteen.

“Amen,” I said and drank again, alcohol coursing through me like newfound courage.

And thank God for that courage, because before I knew it, the most incredibly beautiful man had planted himself in front of us. I was momentarily speechless until he opened his arms around Jade and enveloped her in a hug, complete with two-cheek kiss. “How
are
you sweetheart?” I heard him shout above the music that throbbed around us.

With something like relief that I was momentarily saved from being sized up by a prospective date, I realized he was gay. I couldn't think of a heterosexual in my dating history who would call a girl sweetheart with that kind of lilting cadence.

“This is my best friend, Emma,” Jade said, once her acquaintance had finished gushing over how great she looked. “Emma, this is Davis. He and I used to work together when I was styling for
Vogue.
Davis was the man behind the makeup palette on that first layout I did for them. But now he's moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Oh, stop. You're making me blush,” Davis said, and I found myself amazed, as I always was, at how this kind of comment coming out of an otherwise striking man could make him suddenly seem so unattractive, on a sexual level at least. I mean you really couldn't call a man who was tall, broad-shouldered and as pretty as Cindy Crawford exactly
unattractive.

“I'm not saying anything that isn't true,” Jade said. Then, turning to me again, she continued, “Davis does makeup for network TV nowadays. You are looking at the man responsible for making Heather Locklear look so utterly fuckable on
Melrose Place.
”

“Please,” Davis protested with a roll of his eyes, “Heather doesn't need
me
to look fuckable. She's
gorgeous.
”

“So what
is
the secret to making a woman look fuckable?” I asked, deciding to take my beauty tips straight from the master.

“It's all in the lips, sweetheart,” Davis said. “All in the lips.” Then he barked out a deep laugh, his teeth gleaming in the lights flashing our way from the dance floor. When he recovered from this burst of hilarity, he looked at me with new interest. “So what is it that
you
do, Emma?”

Ah, the moment of truth. That predictable question one could always count on when surrounded by people richer and more successful than you were. As I began to sputter my usual I-am-an-editor-for-
Bridal-Best
-yes-that-
Bridal Best
-isn't-that-a-riot? speech, Jade cut me off with, “Emma's a writer. And a damn good one.” Then she clinked her glass into mine with a wink. “Let's drink to that.”

I gulped down the rest of my drink as Davis fluttered on about how he absolutely adored writers, how he once dated one and how to this day he still lived in fear that his ex was going to write an exposé about his sex life once he got famous. Then Davis spotted someone else he knew, and with another kiss to Jade and even a hug for me, he bounced away, already shouting lavish compliments at a handsome black man who waited with arms open for the expected embrace.

“Looks like you're ready for another,” Jade said, spying my drink and dragging me off to the bar for a refill.

Several hours and a few drinks later, I didn't even need Jade to introduce me as her writer friend to the numerous new people I met as we mingled, danced and lounged on the long sofas that lined a room bathed in scarlet light in the back. I had already adopted the persona myself—except with three drinks in me, it felt more like a real vocation than just party chat. I even found myself boldly flirting with a twentysomething model named Cliff with the most amazing blue eyes I had ever seen. And I might have even convinced him to come home with me, which in my state of spinning drunkenness seemed like a pleasing prospect, if I hadn't—during a sudden spate of nervousness when I feared his attention was be
ginning to wane—dropped my drink on the floor, causing the contents to splash all over his Armani loafers.

After Cliff had excused himself to the bathroom with a look that spoke of his complete disgust at my utter disregard for his footwear, I came to the somewhat sobering conclusion that there was no way in hell I'd ever hook up with anyone at a scene such as this one. I sought out Jade, who was gyrating wildly on the dance floor with an even more exuberant Davis. “I'm outta here,” I shouted, touching her arm to get her attention. She looked surprised at first, then resigned. “Okay, okay. I'm leaving soon, too. Just one more dance?” she pleaded. I was powerless to resist the request I saw in her eyes not to leave her alone at the club with Davis, who, she had mentioned earlier, was notorious for seducing his companion of the moment into pulling an all-night dance party. “I'll be in the lounge,” I said, pointing toward the back of the bar. At her nod, I headed off, sinking gratefully into the first available sofa I came across.

And just as I had reduced the couple necking on the sofa across the room from me to the kind of desperate, clinging types who sought out whatever affection they could find, I became achingly aware of a tall, dark-haired man standing in the entrance to the lounge, looking deliciously handsome in the kind of offbeat way I adored.

I fought not to stare. In fact, I struggled so hard to seem like I was completely unaware of his lean, lanky presence that I feared I might be sending out negative vibes.
Sit down, sit down,
I willed him silently, desperately afraid to glance up at him for fear he might see the positively needy look in my eyes.

Either he heard my unspoken plea, or my couch was conveniently located—in any event, miraculously, something made my new dream man sit down.

I leaned back farther into my seat, striving for the kind of indifferent, languorous beauty that drove men wild with desire. And as I struggled to come up with some sufficiently nonchalant conversation opener, he suddenly spoke.

“Are you as bored with this scene as I am?”

Something resembling relief was released inside of me. But it
only lasted for a moment. For when I turned to look at him I realized he was even more incredible-looking than I first realized. And he was wearing glasses! How had I not noticed the glasses? “Totally,” I finally managed to say.

“Just not my scene. The club thing.”

We were even on the same wavelength. After two years of weekend after weekend of me, Derrick and some carefully selected movie title from the neighborhood indie video store, I had developed a decided distaste for the kind of romance that required an evening spent with a pack of perspiring strangers in a dimly lit room. “Yeah, well, this is my first time here. And probably my last,” I said, rolling my eyes and hoping to show how ready, willing and able I was to forego this glamorous life for something more sedate and meaningful. He looked like the philosophical type. I could tell by the collarless shirt he wore, which gave him a somewhat scholarly look.

“Max Van Gelder,” he said, holding out a hand which I only touched briefly, hoping he wouldn't notice the layer of sweat on my own.

“Emma Carter,” I replied with a smile.

“Emma. Emma. What a good solid name. Like you stepped right out of a British novel.”

So he was a literary type, I thought, my heart beating faster. “Yeah, sort of like Clarissa after Lovelace got through with her,” I bantered back before I realized I sounded awfully like the bitter, recently dumped ex-girlfriend I was. After all, Clarissa pretty much died after Lovelace left her, if I remembered the novel correctly.

But he only laughed, and I liked the rich sound of it. Strong. Confident. “Whoa,” he said, “let me guess. You're a writer, too.”

Too?
“Yes,” I sputtered helplessly, “how did you know?”

“Because only a person devoted to the word would bother reading the rest of
Clarissa
after Lovelace ‘got through with her,' as you put it.”

Devoted to the word.
I liked that. I believed it. Heck, I would believe anything while sitting so close to the most heavenly man I'd encountered in a long time. “So, do you write for, uh,
Bone?
” I asked.

“God, no. I just came to this party because a friend of mine dragged me. I mostly freelance. In fact, I'm currently working on an article on transcendentalism and the remaking of Times Square for
The New Yorker.
”

Oh, God. I was way out of my league. “That's sounds incredible. Wow,
The New Yorker.
”

“Yeah, well—” then he smiled the most endearingly modest smile “—got to do something to pay the bills while I work on my novel. So what do you write?” he asked.

Novel. He was writing a novel. My own unfulfilled dream swam before me, blurring my eyes and clogging my throat. “A novel?” I asked, ignoring his question about what I was writing. Better to leave
Bridal Best
out of this relationship until he was hopelessly hooked on my wit and charm.

“It's my second actually,” he said, with another one of those smiles I was becoming addicted to. “The first is tucked away under my bed.”

“Better than still being tucked away in the brain cells,” I said, gaining another one of those great chuckles of his.

“Well, my agent thinks this one has potential,” Max continued.

He even had an
agent.
Suddenly I felt my heart skittering between hope and utter despair, as my mind leaped past this chance meeting to the day when he sold that second novel and left for a book tour and a better life without me as a
New York Times
bestselling author. And just as I was about to make some self-deprecating joke about how my latest writing achievement was purchasing a new computer to surf the Web with, Jade suddenly appeared, her face flushed and, surprisingly, anxious. “Let's go,” she said, then realizing that she had just waltzed in on what probably looked like a very cozy moment between me and my next heartbreak, she backpedaled. “I mean, if you're ready, that is.”

“Uh, I can go if…” I began, suddenly unsure how to maneuver this next crucial moment in my budding relationship with Max Van Gelder.

“You know what,” Jade said, as if realizing I was about to blow it, “I'm going to the bathroom. Meet me out front whenever you're ready.”

“Okay,” I said, relieved. And just as I turned to Max to introduce him to Jade, she disappeared.

“Gosh, sorry about that,” I began.

“Hey, not a problem. I was thinking of heading out of this gin joint anyway.”

I smiled, then just when I was trying to figure out some non-desperate-seeming way to get his phone number, he asked, “Maybe we can finish this conversation over a cup of coffee some time?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering at my good fortune.

“Do you have a card?” he asked.

“Uh.” I started fishing around in my bag, then realized that even if I did have a card, I wouldn't want to scare him away with it, featuring as it did a wedding cake and the
Bridal Best
motto,
Making wedding dreams come true for over a decade.
“I don't think I have one with me.”

“Hang on just a sec,” he said. Getting up, he headed for the bar, allowing me a nice view of his perfect little ass. After a brief conversation with the bartender, who looked over Max's shoulder at me and winked, Max came back and handed me a pen and a cocktail napkin.

I quickly jotted down my home phone number and handed both items back to Max, hoping my hands weren't shaking because I was absolutely strumming with joy inside. “Well, it was great meeting you, Max.”

“Great meeting you, too,” he said, then took my hand in his and held it long enough to fill me with a tingly kind of hope. “I'll call you, Emma.” And with that, he smiled and released my hand.

I stood there stupidly smiling at him for a few moments before I realized this was the part where I was supposed to smoothly make my exit. Finally, with a nod of the head and a small wave, I headed out of the lounge, feeling his eyes burning into my back and praying that my skirt hadn't somehow gotten tucked into the underwear or that my ass didn't look too fat.

I couldn't believe my luck. By the time I got out front where Jade stood, puffing, somewhat angrily it seemed, on a cigarette, I felt as if I were in some sort of strange dream.

“I hope you didn't leave without his number,” Jade said.

“I gave him mine.”

“Oh, well. I guess that will have to do. But in the future, don't be giving away your phone number. Always get his.”

Fearing I had messed up already, I asked, “Why?”

“Because then it's up to you whether or not you want to see him again. Puts all the power in your hands.”

Damn,
I thought, realizing that if Max Van Gelder didn't decide to call, I would never forgive myself this fatal error.

“Don't worry about it. Let's just get the hell out of here,” she said, and started walking, her hand in the air to hail whatever cab might come rolling by at 2:00 a.m.

I noticed a stiffness in her movements, and as I hurried to catch up to her, I asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's fine,” she replied without looking at me.

But everything wasn't fine. I could tell by the tightness in her expression, and the way she wouldn't look at me once I was walking side by side with her. “Jade—”

“Okay, okay. Michael showed up.”