Eye Candy Page 12

  "Miss Vanderwalk, it's Howard."

  At least he wasn't hysterical.

  "What is going on down there, Howard?"

  "There's a young lady,"—a pause followed by a wailed something akin to Kafrin Mamforf—"a Miss Kathryn Danforth if I interpret correctly, asking to see you. It seems a matter of some urgency but I wanted to check with you first."

  "Send her up—" I started, but realized that might be a bad idea. "Actually, I'll come fetch her."

  "Yes, Miss." Howard paused before adding. "And you might bring some Kleenex."

  "I'll be right down."

  On the ride down in the elevator, tissue box in hand, I mentally ran through all the possible reasons that KY Kathryn had come to me, of all people.

  Not only were we not close, but we had never even had a complete conversation. She had her perfect life and her perfect friends and didn't need me, a thrown-over fiancé with no Manolos in my closet and no Barnard on my transcript.

  I went through all the possibilities and came up with none. Zip. Zero. Zilch. And all those other words started with Z. Except that I had once played the role of jilted fiancé.

  The elevator doors slid open and I entered the tear-fest. Kathryn looked worse than I had ever seen a KY look. Her hair hung in ratty strings around a face free of makeup except for black smudges beneath tear-reddened eyes. Unlike the polished Kathryn I usually saw at work, this defeated Kathryn wore a holey Barnard t-shirt with half the letters rubbed off and a pair of well-worn sweatpants. This was a picture not of an elegant, vengeful KY, but of a downtrodden and heartbroken woman.

  Poor Howard, with only the experience of sons to guide him, sat with his arm around sobbing Kathryn's heaving shoulders. He saw me and lit up like a kid on a snow day.

  He leapt from the bench, helping her to her feet and guiding her in my direction. "Here she is, Miss Danforth."

  Kathryn looked up at me with all the haunting desperation of the world in her eyes. And broke into a fresh round of wails.

  "Come on, Kathryn." I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder in an attempt at friendly sympathy. "Let's go upstairs and you can tell me all about it."

  Handing her the box of Kleenex, I met Howard's gaze over her low-hung head and mouthed a "Thank you." He smiled and nodded. And then hurried back to the front desk, out of sight of the crying woman.

  "Tell me what happened," I encouraged as we entered my apartment.

  She plopped inelegantly into my chofa and wiped away the tears and mascara smudged beneath her eyes. "Victor is cheating on me."

  "How do you know?" I grabbed the basket under the end table and pulled out the pristine package of Belgian chocolate seashells. Serious situations call for serious sugar.

  Kathryn plucked a dozen tissues and blew her nose like a foghorn. "He said he was working late and I called the office and they said he wasn't there."

  "Maybe he had a business dinner," I proposed as I handed her the box and she took a marbled seahorse from the selection. "Maybe he—"

  "No," she said around a mouthful of chocolate. "I called his driver. He was at that new dinner club in Midtown."

  "It could still have been a—"

  "I saw him. With his secretary." She dabbed at her eyes as they watered again. "Huddling."

  "Huddling?"

  "Close huddling."

  Well that did sound pretty incriminating. And it sounded like Kathryn had some doubts in the first place. "Why did you call to check up on him? Were you two having problems?"

  Tucking her feet up under her on the chofa, she reached for another seahorse before continuing. "He's been spending more and more nights working late. And he's more distant. Especially when we're intimate," she continued despite my sudden fidgeting at the encroaching too-much-information zone, "he seems preoccupied and he's spending less time on fore—"

  "What did he say when you asked him about it?" I rushed out before she could divulge all the secrets of her sex life.

  She didn't answer, instead focusing on tearing her tissue to shreds.

  "You didn't ask him?

  She shrugged. "Seems pointless. I know what I saw."

  "It would be better if you talked to him, Kathryn." I retrieved the cordless from the kitchen and handed it to her. "For your peace of mind."

  She stared at the phone then looked up at me with sad eyes. "Did you talk to Gavin when it happened?"

  I shouldn't have been surprised by either her question or her apparent knowledge of the details of our break-up. As I looked at her, a sorry heap surrounded by crumpled Kleenex, I saw a reflection of myself two years ago. Me in ratty Columbia sweats planted on Bethany's couch and surrounded by empty candy wrappers. Drained of every last drop of energy and confidence. If Bethany hadn't kicked me out of the apartment every morning at seven I would have lost my job.

  It was months before I went out for anything resembling a social occasion. Months of days filled with work and self-pity and weekly trips to the candy aisle at D'Agnostino.

  And as much as I despised the KYs and all they stood for, I would never wish that miserable agony on any woman.

  So I answered honestly.

  "No, we never talked." I pushed the phone into her hand. "And look how that wound up."

  After several silent moments of consideration and tissue shredding Kathryn took the phone and dialed the number. "Victor?" she asked, her voice breaking with emotion.

  She looked to me for encouragement and I managed a genuine smile.

  Her jaw set in determination and she boldly asked, "Are you having an affair?"

  One hour and countless apologies and assurances later, Victor escorted Kathryn from my apartment. Turned out he had been working tons of overtime to surprise her with an Aegean cruise for their honeymoon.

  By the time they left I was so sick of baby talk and endearments that I might have given up Jelly Bellies for life just to silence them.

  I closed the door on their clinging embrace and faced my suddenly empty apartment. It had always felt like home. A comforting and welcoming space with just the right mixture of cozy and spacious.

  Right now it just felt desolate.

  Something was missing, something more than a table or a painting. Something emotional.

  "Maybe I need candy," I said out loud, just to hear the sound of a voice and maybe convince myself that was all I really needed.

  But for once in my life candy was not the solution. That in and of itself should have floored me, if not for the greater problem at hand.

  For the first time in two years I began to question whether I had done the right thing in just dissolving the relationship with Gavin without so much as a this-is-over talk. Admittedly, I had caught him in a significantly more compromising position—meaning his secretary kneeling at his feet and his pants around his ankles—but that didn't mean I didn't need closure.

  Before I could think myself out of it, I picked up the phone and dialed Gavin's number.

  When the machine picked up I nearly wimped out. Then I thought of all the heartache I had gone through, and all the heartache I had just saved Kathryn from, and I firmed up my resolve.

  At the beep I left my brief message. "Gavin, it's time we talked."

  With that long-due conversation irretrievably in the works, that left me with a looming realization. Somehow I had just made friends with a KY and I didn't know what to think about that. And the scariest part was realizing that they—or at least Kathryn, who always had been the friendliest of the clique—had all the same feminine insecurities as other women. As me.

  The fresh pint of Heath Bar ice cream in my freezer called to me, promising to help digest this new information.

  I had just dug a spoon from the drawer when the phone rang.

  This night was never going to end.

  13

  Q: What goes "tick-tick, woof-woof"?

  A: A watch dog.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #115

  "Miss Vanderwalk, this is—"

  "Just tell
me there are no tears involved, Howard," I pleaded over the sounds of raised male voices in the background. And for a second I thought I heard a yip.

  "No, Miss," Howard assured me, "no tears."

  "Heellooo, Lydia!" one of those male voices shouted into the phone.

  I pressed a palm to my forehead, certain I was feverish in explanation of this hallucination. Hadn't I just sent Phelps home a few short hours ago? A quick glance at the kitchen clock confirmed my suspicion that it was after two.

  Clearly I was not meant to sleep tonight.

  "How many are there?"

  "Two. The young man you returned with earlier and an older gentleman—"

  "I am not old, I am distinguished!"

  "—with white hair and an... unplaceable accent."

  "My accent is Italian."

  Even if he was not.

  Howard did not respond to Ferrero's comments, remaining steadfastly professional.

  When a sharp pinch to my thigh and counting to ten did not wake me from this nightmare, I relented. "Send them up."

  No way I was fetching those two. Whatever the reason for their visit. Of course I wasn't going to turn my boss away from my doorstep in the middle of the night, either.

  I managed three quick and painfully cold bites of ice cream before the buzzer rang. Peace of mind was not immediately attained. Giving the sugar a chance to work, I waited as long as I could to answer the door.

  Even willing the sugar into action didn't work.

  They started banging on the door.

  "We know you're in there, Lyd."

  "Please, cherie, let us in. We have a problem."

  Bang, bang, bang.

  I glared at the ice cream carton, knowing it was willfully denying me comfort in my hour of need. Shoving it into its new home at the back of the freezer, I steeled myself for whatever was to come.

  Whoever said bad things come in threes grossly underestimated the persistence of problems.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  "Don't make us sleep in your hall," Phelps goaded. "What would the neighbors think?"

  Probably that I have a pair of stalkers.

  Fortified by a deep breath, I swung open the door. "What's this big prob—" I caught sight of something furry in Phelps' arms. Pointing a shaking finger at the furball, I demanded, "What is that!"

  "A puppy," he answered with a smile.

  "No," I backed cautiously into the apartment, away from the tiny brown fluff, "puppies are soft and round and behind Plexiglas at the pet store. That," I accused, waving my hand in an encompassing gesture, "is a rat."

  "Please, cherie," Ferrero soothed as he approached me, "give her a chance."

  "H-her?" That thing was female?

  Oh no, a tiny brown head popped up and a tiny pink tongue dropped into view. Big round puppy-dog brown eyes blinked against the light of my apartment. She was... she was... the most adorable thing I had ever seen.

  But that didn't explain why she was here.

  Unless... "No, no, no. I don't want a dog. I hate dogs, ever since Sissy Kowalchuk's bulldog trapped me up a tree when I was nine." I tried to back further away as Phelps approached, but ran into the couch. "And dogs hate me back. They bark and drool and snarl and pee on me. It's a mutual dislike. They—"

  Phelps held the little furball out and she had the nerve to lean forward and lick my nose, undermining my entire argument.

  "See," he waved the dog before my eyes, "she likes you already. And she's housetrained."

  Ferrero approached, reverently petting the furry little head. "Take her. You were made for each other." He winked and elbowed me in the side. "I can tell these things."

  I met his eyes and knew he referred to more than just the dog. If his intuition saw a blissful ever after for Phelps and me, then the dog and I were doomed.

  "No, I—"

  "She has nowhere else to go."

  Phelps smiled sadly, clearly knowing he played the trump card. How could I turn away a sad little ragamuffin with no home and no one to love her?

  "Why can't you—"

  "My place doesn't allow pets," Phelps argued.

  "And I," Ferrero interjected, "travel all the time."

  I was beat, and they both knew it. Phelps held her out and I reluctantly took her in my arms. She immediately settled in, snuggling her cold nose into the crook of my arm.

  Tempted as I was too coo and baby talk—despite my repulsion at the same only minutes earlier—I was not about to show my maternalistic weakness in front of them.

  So I focused on business.

  "Is this the problem you were moaning about?" I looked them both in the eyes, indicating my disapproval of their underhanded techniques. "Or was there something else we need to discuss at, oh, two o'clock in the morning?"

  Neither had the decency to look ashamed.

  "We," Ferrero spread his hands dramatically, "have a crisis."

  With Ferrero, there was always a crisis.

  Last month it was the color of the hangers Barney's was using to display his ready-to-wear collection.

  The month before it was the number of stitches per inch on the lining of one of his men's coats.

  Naturally, I was not overly concerned.

  "You are going to the suburbs this weekend," he accused.

  "Yes, my parents—"

  "And you are taking your young man with you."

  I was starting to wonder whether the man could remember his own name. "Yes, Phelps is going with me."

  "This is a disaster." Ferrero collapsed onto the couch.

  Phelps looked to me, brows raised in question. I shrugged and shook my head, not understanding myself why my parents' bon voyage party was a disaster when it hadn't even happened yet. And my mother would never let a party at her home be a disaster.

  "And," he continued, his accent growing stronger with each successive word, "he does not even own a trench coat."

  Rather than give in to the temptation to fling a pillow at his head, I sat in the chofa, facing him, and calmly asked, "Why is this a disaster?"

  Phelps, choosing to squish in next to me on the chofa rather than have a whole cushion to himself on the couch, also took the calm approach. "I have a parka. Can that work?"

  "No. You are going away this weekend. Next week we prepare for Milan and the following weekend we go." Ferrero pleaded with his eyes. "I have an inspiration that requires two days of sketching and a trench coat. If I do not manifest this inspiration soon I will lose it. And the world will never see this wonderful design."

  "What the—"

  I elbowed Phelps in the ribs before he could blurt out what we were both thinking. Ferrero was off his rocker. But I was not about to lose my job by pointing out that my boss was a nut case.

  "What can we do to help?" I knew that solving Ferrero's crises usually required only a little effort and imagination.

  Like last month when we got Barney's to tie feathered hair clips to all the hangers. Made Ferrero happy, and every customer got a little extra accessory.

  "This weekend," he lamented, shaking his head, "would have been the perfect time. But since you're going away..."

  He trailed off and I knew what the answer to the first part of the crisis was.

  "Why don't you come along? I'm sure my parents would love to have you."

  His face lit up.

  One down, one to go.

  "And I can take Phelps shopping tomorrow for a trench coat." Especially now that I had no official duties left to take care of at work. "Then this weekend you can have him in a trench coat"—why did that sound like a dirty fantasy?—"without the distractions of the city."

  Phelps hadn't said a word since I shushed him, but he sat there wide-eyed at our interchange. Surely he'd worked with temperamental photographers and models before. Or maybe he was a temperamental model.

  One look at Phelps dispelled that notion like yesterday's trend. The man was a conglomeration of hard-earned muscle and salt of the earth. He might wear Armani
and have the face of an angel, but there was nothing temperamental about him.

  Astounded, yes, but not temperamental.

  "Does that work for you?" I asked Phelps, purely out of courtesy and knowing he would say yes.

  When he started to form the word no, I silently added a please.

  "Sure," he said, though his eyes said I owed him one, "sounds great to me."

  "Perfecto." Ferrero clapped his hands before jumping up from the couch and pulling out his wallet. "Now, show me this workshop your young man was telling me about."

  This time Phelps had the decency to look embarrassed.

  As Ferrero headed off in search of my workshop, I whispered in Phelps' ear, "We're even."

  Phelps and Ferrero finally left at three thirty. I crashed the instant they left, not regaining consciousness until the phone—which I was seriously considering unplugging permanently—rang at seven thirty.

  How Phelps had not only the nerve but also the energy to call me that early to go shopping was beyond me.

  Still, I managed to drag myself into the shower and get some orange juice and toast down by the time he called from the lobby. Grabbing my purse and keys, I was almost to the door when I heard a plaintiff whine.

  Dyllie.

  Darting into my bedroom, I peered into the makeshift den I had made for her from a cardboard box and an old blanket. I was not relying on Phelps' assurance that she was housebroken.

  She hadn't piddled in the box, which I took as a good sign, but that meant she needed to go out.

  I had no leash, no collar, and no idea where the nearest green spot was.

  We would just have to wing it.

  Plucking her meager five pounds from the box, I tucked her into my purse with the promise that we would get a dog carrier before the day was out.

  "Morning sunshine," Phelps greeted as I stepped off the elevator in the lobby.

  He looked fresh off a full night's sleep, blue eyes bright and glowing above the fitted black t-shirt that spread sculpturally across his chest. His hair was as tamed as those thick curls ever could be and he looked delicious enough to eat.

  I glowered. "Let's go."