Lauren Weisberger: Chasing Harry Winston

Adriana broke the silence by doing what she always did when she got uncomfortable: changing the subject entirely.

“Leigh, querida , it’s seventy-five degrees outside. Why are you dressed for the middle of winter?”

Leigh looked at her thick fleece pants and matching sweatshirt and shrugged.

“Do you not feel well? Are you cold?”

“I don’t know; it was just what was laying around. What does it matter?”

“It’s not that it matters, it’s just strange that someone so, how should I say it, temperature aware isn’t positively melting right now.”

Leigh wasn’t about to admit that she was actually warm-too warm-but that there were extenuating circumstances. Adriana might have asked, but she definitely didn’t want to hear that Leigh swathed herself in clothing because she hated when the backs of her arms or thighs stuck to the leather couch. That of course she’d prefer to sit around in a pair of boxers and a tank top, but the skin-on-leather stickiness-not to mention the annoying ripping noises every time she shifted position-made this impossible. Leigh knew they would think her crazy if she explained that she’d actually already worn all of her lightweight, full-length pajama pants (and even all of her yoga pants) and that because she preferred to wear them without underwear, they were really only single-use pants and ended up in the wash pretty quickly. So she was really wearing the fleece sweat suit only because it was the single clean option in her closet that was capable of protecting her from the dreaded leather couch, which both her mother and Emmy had insisted would be the right choice even though Leigh had really wanted the modern fabric one that wouldn’t have felt like sitting in a vat of rubber cement all the time. Not to even mention the fact that in a few short months (six) it would be winter, and she’d still have to dress like an Eskimo because regardless of how toasty warm she kept the apartment, the couch would feel like ice against her bare skin instead of snuggly and soft like the MicroSuede one everyone else had vetoed. No, it would be better to just leave well enough alone.

“Hmm,” Leigh murmured, hoping to end the conversation by saying nothing. “I think we’re ready for another round.”

The second drink went down easier than the first, so easily in fact that even the increased upstairs thumping no longer made Leigh feel quite so…unhinged. It was time to rally for her friend.

“So, give us the top three things the cheerleader will be less than thrilled to discover about Duncan,” Leigh said, placing her soles together and pushing her knees to the floor, feeling the stretch in her inner thighs.

“Yes, yes, a good idea.” Adriana nodded.

A chunk of Emmy’s naturally brunette hair-she was the only one among the three of them, and possibly the only woman in all of Manhattan, who had never dyed, permed, highlighted, straightened, or even so much as spritzed lemon juice on her shoulder-length mane-fell out of her ponytail, covering half of her bangs and her entire left eye. Leigh yearned to reach up and tuck it behind Emmy’s ear, but she resisted. Instead she popped another piece of Nicorette in her mouth.

Emmy looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what are his flaws? Disgusting habits? Deal-breakers?” Leigh asked.

Adriana threw up her hands in exasperation. “Come on, Emmy. Anything! Quirks, hang-ups, obsessions, addictions, secrets…It’ll make you feel better. Tell us what was wrong with him.”

Emmy sniffed. “There was noth-”

“Don’t you dare say there was nothing wrong with him,” Leigh interrupted. “Now, granted, Duncan was very”-Leigh paused here, wanting to say “manipulative” or “devious” or “deceitful,” but she stopped herself just in time-“charming, but he had to have something you never told us about. Some sort of classified information that will have perky little Brianna hanging up her pom-poms.”

“Narcissistic personality disorder?” Adriana prompted.

Leigh immediately jumped in for a back-and-forth rally. “Erectile dysfunction?”

“Gambling addiction?”

“Cried more than you did?”

“Violent drunk?”

“Mommy issues?”

“Dig deep, Emmy,” Leigh urged.

“Well, there was something I always thought was a little strange…” Emmy said.

The girls looked at her eagerly.

“Not that it was really a big deal. He didn’t do it during sex or anything,” she said quickly.

“This just got a hell of a lot more interesting,” Adriana said.

“Spill it, Emmy,” Leigh said.

“He, uh…” She coughed and cleared her throat. “We didn’t really talk about it, but he, uh, sometimes wore my panties to work.”

This disclosure was enough to silence the two people who considered themselves professional talkers. They talked their way through shrink appointments, out of traffic tickets, and into fully reserved restaurants, but for many seconds-possibly an entire minute-neither could produce a remotely logical or rational response to this new information.

Adriana recovered first. “ Panties is a vile word,” she said. She frowned and emptied the caipirinha pitcher into her glass.

Leigh stared at her. “I cannot believe you’re being pedantic right now. One of your best friends just told you that her boyfriend of nearly five years liked wearing her panties, and your biggest issue is with the word?”

“I’m just pointing out its relative grossness. All women hate the word. Panties . Just say it- panties . It makes my skin crawl.”

“Adriana! He wore her underwear. ”

“I know, trust me, I heard her. I was commenting-as a side note, mind you-that in the future, I don’t think we should use that word. Panties. Ugh. Do you not find it repulsive?”

Leigh paused for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. But that’s not really the take-away here.”

Adriana sipped and looked pointedly at Leigh. “Well, then, what is?”

“The fact that her boyfriend”-Leigh pointed at Emmy, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes and a blank expression-“put on a suit every day and went to the office. That under said suit he was wearing a pair of cute little lace bikinis. Doesn’t that freak you out slightly more than the word panties ?”

It wasn’t until Emmy gasped audibly that Leigh realized she had gone too far.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean for that to sound as awful as-”

Emmy held up a hand, palm out, fingers spread. “Stop, please.”

“That was so insensitive of me. I swear I wasn’t even-”

“It’s just that you have it all wrong. Duncan never really showed any interest in my lace bikinis. Or my hipsters or boy shorts, for that matter.” Emmy smiled wickedly. “But he sure did seem to love my thongs…”

“Hey, whore, I’m ready for you.” Gilles swatted Adriana on the upper arm as he walked past, nearly dislodging the cell phone she had balanced between her chin and her left shoulder. “And move it along. I have better things to do than listen to you have phone sex all day.”

A few of the older ladies looked up from their Vogue s and Town & Countrys , eyes wide with disapproval at this breach in propriety, this complete ignorance of basic common courtesy. Looked up, actually, just in time to see Adriana place her china cup on its saucer and, now having one free hand, raise her right arm over her head and extend her middle finger. She did this without glancing up, still entirely immersed in her conversation.

“Yes, querido , yes, yes, yes. It will be perfect. Perfect! See you then.” Her voice lowered, but just a notch. “I can’t wait. Sounds delicious. Mmm. Kiss, kiss.” She tapped a red lacquered nail on the iPhone’s touch screen and dropped it into her wide-mouthed Bottega Veneta satchel.