Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

Leigh dug around inside her purse, searching for something, anything, that she could busy herself with until Jesse arrived. She couldn’t just sit there, for chrissake, staring off into space, nor did she want to be that girl, the one who was hunched over herself, frantically thumbing her BlackBerry. There was a hundred-page excerpt of a manuscript that her assistant had handed her as she walked out of the office, but she discarded this idea as well; pulling out a manuscript at Michael’s during the lunch hour was like reading a screenplay at The Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. Just don’t. What she really wanted to do was put on her beloved noise-cancellation headphones and block out the shrill, grating voice of the man sitting behind her, screaming into his cell phone. Were she alone or with friends, she would have simply asked to move tables, but Jesse was due any second and she didn’t want to be seen making a big fuss. The anxiety over the lunch combined with her upstairs neighbor’s late-night clomp to the kitchen had resulted in a very deficient night’s sleep, and she yearned to sneak in an earphone-just one was all she needed!-and let her trusty iPod (filled with only the most relaxing classical and mood music) soothe her jangled nerves. She was just untangling the cords when the maître d’ appeared tableside, Jesse in tow.

“Good to see you again,” she said smoothly, deliberately not standing to greet him but instead holding out her hand.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek. It was instinctive and totally impersonal, but Leigh nonetheless felt a little frisson of excitement. Just nerves , she thought.

Jesse stood next to the chair that had been pulled out for him and surveyed the scene. “Leigh, darling, could I trouble you to switch tables with me?” He stared at the two men in suits sitting behind her, one of whom was still on his cell phone, and Jesse said none-too-quietly, “I can’t fucking stand people uncivilized enough to scream into their cell phones in a restaurant.”

His reprimand went unnoticed by the offender, but Leigh nearly jumped from her seat and into his arms. “I loathe that guy,” she said, gathering her things with great haste, but Jesse was already preoccupied with flagging down the maître d’. It wasn’t until they were seated once again-this time at a perfectly situated table for two in a quiet back corner-that Leigh allowed herself to sneak a glance at Jesse.

He was wearing jeans and a blazer-perhaps the very same one he’d been wearing that day in Henry’s office-and his hair was mussed. He looked well scrubbed but casually rumpled, as though he’d given not a second’s thought to his appearance, and this made Leigh acutely aware of just how much time she had spent preparing.

It had been a while since she’d devoted so much time to her morning routine. She’d been so busy and sleep-deprived lately that her hour-long beauty regimen had been reduced to the basics: a quick rinse; a once-over with the hairdryer, just long enough to get the wet out; a touch of mascara; and lipstick on the go. But this morning had been different. She climbed out of bed without snoozing the alarm, carefully so as not to wake Russell, and from there her body moved through elaborate preparations as though on autopilot.

She had debated endlessly what to wear for her first official meeting with Jesse. His whole aura was informal, that much was sure, but she wanted to appear professional. Her father had never failed to remind her that older male authors would forever see her as a woman before an editor, and that if she stood any chance of gaining their respect, she should deemphasize her femininity. Or at the very least, not play it up. Leigh had always followed this prescription carefully, but today-when it should have counted most-she just couldn’t bear the usual black pantsuit. Or the charcoal gray one. Or navy. Nor did her usual cotton bikinis seem sufficient; instead, she climbed into a stretchy hot pink thong and a matching mesh bra that supported little and concealed nothing. Why not? she thought. They were more cute than sexy, and what was wrong with changing it up a little? Over this she tied her favorite Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, a knee-length number with three-quarter sleeves, a low neckline, and a bright yellow, white, and black abstract pattern. She blew her hair dry and applied her makeup barefoot before adding a pair of strappy sandals, going for the three-inchers instead of her more practical work kitten heels. Russell had whistled sleepily when she kissed his forehead good-bye, but the moment she stepped on the subway, she started to wonder if she was overdressed and by the time she was seated at the restaurant, she was convinced she looked more like a high-paid escort than a stylish yet serious professional.

To his credit or his obliviousness-Leigh wasn’t quite sure which-Jesse kept his eyes locked firmly on her face as he said, “Where did my mousy editor go? I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble on my behalf.”

Leigh watched as he settled into the chair opposite hers and immediately regretted her outfit choice. She was prepared for Jesse’s sexist comments-Henry had warned her of those-and judging from his literary-rock-star status, she assumed he’d be a pompous jerk, but despite all that, she wasn’t ready for such a blatant insult. If she didn’t set the precedent right now, their entire working relationship would be doomed. He might be a famous writer, but he was her famous writer now, and she had to make damn sure he understood that.

“For you?” Leigh made a show of looking herself over and laughed gaily. “Jesse, how sweet of you to notice, but it’s actually for a party later.” She paused, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “Am I to infer now that you went to all that trouble for me?”

His hands immediately went to his hair and brushed it back off his face. “Yeah, I do look like shit, don’t I?” he said a bit sheepishly. “I missed the earlier train and then the schedule was all fucked up. It was a bit of a nightmare.”

“The train? I thought you lived in the city?”

“I do, but I can’t concentrate here, so I’ve been writing in the Hamptons.”

“Oh, that’s-”

He interrupted with a rueful laugh. “Really fucking original, I know. Bought the place last November, just as it was starting to get cold. I was always appropriately anti-Hamptons, you won’t be shocked to hear, but this was different: It was gray, isolated, the perfect place to lock down with a computer and not much else. Didn’t see another soul for days at a stretch and then- poof! -the sun comes out for a split second in May, and the whole of the Upper East Side arrives en masse.”

“So why’d you stay? It’s hell on earth there in July,” Leigh said.

“Sheer laziness.”

“Oh, please. I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe it. I’m all set up. I just can’t bring myself to leave. Besides, they’re doing construction on the apartment above mine in the city and the noise is intolerable.”

“Mmm,” Leigh said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

Jesse shook his head and sat back in his seat with an exhale. “How do you endure so many hours with self-obsessed shits like myself?”

Leigh laughed despite herself. “Just a part of the job description,” she said.

“Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re curious what-”

“Jesse,” she said sweetly, stopping him midsentence. “We’re going to have plenty of time for work, so I thought it might be nice if we just got acquainted and saved the editorial discussion for next time.”

He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

“Quite. If that’s all right with you.”

He cocked his head. “You are a strange one, aren’t you? An editor who doesn’t want to talk about my book. Well, well, well. What do you want to talk about, Ms. Eisner?”