Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

“Got to love French hospitality,” Leigh said. “Am I to assume that you haven’t snagged yourself a lover yet?”

“Nice try. Don’t think you’re changing the subject that easily.”

“Em, I really appreciate your listening, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay? I’m sure everything will work out.”

Now that’s the spirit! Emmy thought. Leigh just needed a little time to work through her thoughts, to realize what was important. It was a mere case of overthinking, and Leigh would see she was just being silly. “Okay. Back to the ring. Tell me more.”

“It’s really beautiful,” Leigh said softly. “So classic. I don’t know how he knew I liked that-I’m not even sure I knew I liked that. We never went shopping or looking; we never even talked about it.”

“That’s Russell for you. What shape is it?”

“A larger emerald-cut stone in the middle flanked by two smaller emerald-cuts on the side of a very thin platinum band.”

Emmy whistled. “Sounds gorgeous. Did you really not have any idea?”

There was a long pause. For a moment Emmy again thought that they’d gotten disconnected, but then she heard Leigh breathing heavily.

“Are you okay, honey? Leigh?”

More breathing, this time in shorter, more shallow bursts.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just a little racing heart. Must be all the excitement, you know?”

Emmy pressed her cell phone to her ear, desperately wanting to hear just a little of the giggly, girly enthusiasm of someone who had just gotten engaged, but Emmy knew better. Leigh wasn’t a giggly, girly girl: She was funny, she was sensible, she was loyal, and she was neurotic; giggly just wasn’t her thing. Maybe Leigh was also feeling a little uncomfortable describing her ring when everyone had expected Emmy to be the first. Emmy flashed back to the dinner a few months earlier when she’d excitedly told Leigh and Adriana that Duncan had asked for her ring size. Not necessarily the most romantic gesture, she remembered thinking, but it definitely indicated good things. She felt her face redden at the memory of her excitement and decided she’d save Leigh from feeling any more pity for her.

“So what’d you get him for your anniversary?” Emmy asked with extra, perhaps excessive, cheer.

Another long pause. It sounded like Leigh was trying to moderate her breathing with measured breaths.

“Leigh?”

“Sorry, I’m, uh, I’m fine. Just a little…uh, I got him a laptop bag. An orange one.” She took another deep breath and coughed. “From Barneys.”

Emmy tried to mask her surprise. “Russell finally got a laptop? I never thought I’d see the day. How did you finally convince him?”

“He still doesn’t have a laptop,” Leigh sighed. “Oh, Emmy, I’m the worst person ever!”

“Honey, what’s wrong? I’m so confused. Are you planning on buying him a laptop? That’s cute! You couldn’t have known he was going to propose that night. Don’t worry about it. Russell is the last person to get upset over something like that.”

There was another long pause, and when Leigh finally spoke, Emmy could tell she was crying. “I got him an orange laptop bag because I was too lazy to pick out something personal,” she said, her voice filled with anger and regret. “I called the store and gave them my credit card number and that’s what they sent over. A laptop bag! For someone who doesn’t own a laptop. In orange.” There was a sniffle. “Russell hates bright colors.”

“Leigh, sweetheart, don’t be so hard on yourself. Russell loves you so much that he asked you to spend the rest of your life with him. Don’t let some dumb present get in the way of that. I bet he didn’t mind at all, did he?”

“He laughed it off, but I could tell he was hurt.”

“He’s a big boy, Leigh. He can handle a little gift mix-up.” Both girls knew that wasn’t what had happened, but they let it slide. “So tell me, was everyone else excited?”

Leigh dutifully described her mother’s reaction, and Adriana’s, and Russell’s family’s, interjecting jokes and amusing observations in all the right places. It wasn’t until the girls hung up, promising to talk in more depth the next day, that Emmy let herself feel a twinge of concern. Could there really be a problem with Leigh and Russell? Was it possible Leigh really was having serious doubts? Absolutely not , Emmy decided. Just a case of nerves. Excitement and shock and nothing more sinister. She felt confident in her analysis of the situation and certain that everything would smooth itself out as soon as the excitement settled down a bit. Turning back to her computer, Emmy braced herself to order another coffee from the hostile waiter.

“Pardon?” The male voice came from just over her right shoulder, but Emmy, convinced that another hotel employee was preparing to chastise her for something, ignored it.

“Excuse me?” the voice persisted. “Forgive me for interrupting you.”

Emmy glanced up, remembering at the last minute to appear colossally bored and displeased with the interruption, but the moment she said “Yes?” in the most irritated tone she could muster, she regretted it. Peering down at her was a guy with the kind of classical good looks-thick dark hair, crinkly eyes, easy smile full of straight white teeth-that made him almost universally attractive. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or movie-star sexy, but his pleasing appearance combined with his confident approachability made Emmy think that there wasn’t a sane woman on the planet who would find him unappealing.

“Hi,” she murmured. Bingo , she thought. Tour de Whore contender number one.

He flashed another smile and motioned to the chair beside her with a questioning look. Emmy just nodded and stared as he sat. He was younger than she originally thought, perhaps even under thirty. Her lightning-fast appraisal-honed over so many years that it was now nearly instinctive-produced all positive points. Meticulously cut yet still casual navy cotton sweater over a white collared shirt. Good jeans that were blessedly devoid of deliberate rips, excessive fading, logos, studs, embroidery, or flap pockets. Simple but elegant brown loafers. Regular height, reasonably fit without being obsessive, well groomed but still masculine. If she had to criticize something, she might say that his jeans were a tad too tight. Then again, if one was going to seduce European men, tight jeans were an occupational hazard.

Newly emboldened by his approach, and not forgetting that the only men she’d spoken to in France so far all worked at the Costes, Emmy smiled. “I’m Emmy,” she said.

He grinned and offered her a hand. No rings, no bitten nails, no clear polish-all good signs. “Paul Wyckoff. I couldn’t help but overhear what that jackass said to you…”

Dammit. There was no denying the obvious: Despite the painted-on jeans and the good manners and her fervent desire for it to not be so, Paul spoke English with an American accent. He was undeniably born and raised in the States, or perhaps-at the most exotic-Canada. She was bitterly disappointed.

“…it’s just incredible, isn’t it?” he was saying. “It never ceases to amaze me how much people are willing to pay to be treated so poorly.”

“So it’s not just me?” Emmy asked, slightly relieved that the hotel hadn’t singled her out.

“Definitely not,” Paul assured her. “They’re positively abusive to all of their guests. It’s the only thing they’re really consistent about.”

“Well, thank you for that. I was starting to develop quite a complex.”

“I’m glad I could help. The first time I stayed here, I was a paranoid wreck. My parents used to drag us all over the world-I practically grew up in hotels-but it only took a day here to make me feel like a bumbling idiot,” he said.