Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

“Okay,” Adriana mumbled, summoning her reserves of patience to keep from being aggressively nasty to her mother.

“What was that, dear? Did you hear me? I said the doorman-”

“I heard you!” Adriana said more tersely than she intended.

Her mother sighed, the long, extended, dramatic sigh that almost always preceded a long, extended, dramatic conversation. “Adriana, I’ve tried to be understanding-really, I have-but the situation has become untenable.”

Adriana felt her entire body clench, but before she could even react, the curling iron had slipped from her hand and landed on the floor, making a brief but painful stop on her thigh.

“Fuck!” she screamed, bolting to her feet and rubbing the top of her right thigh.

“Adriana! Language! I won’t have you speaking like that in this house.” Mrs. de Souza lowered her voice and approximated a soothing tone. “Come here now. Are you all right?”

“I burned myself. There’s going to be a blister!”

“I’ll bring you a little Neosporin in just a minute. But first I’d like to discuss something with you. I understand that you’re-”

“Mama, please, please, please can we have this conversation when I get home? I’m already late, and as you can see, I’m not even close to being ready. I’m sorry for the language. Really, I am. But can this wait?”

“It’s not just the language, Adi, it’s that tone you’ve been using lately with your father and me. I don’t have to remind you that this is our apartment, and we’re welcome to use it whenever we’d like. Now, you’ve made it very clear that you’re not happy about our presence, but have you thought how that might make us feel?”

“Mama…”

“And of course there’s the spending. I assure you, I’m every bit as tired of this conversation as you are, but nothing changes. It’s simply unacceptable.”

Adriana could feel the knot in her throat begin to grow. Determined not to cry and ruin forty-five minutes’ worth of careful preparation, she breathed deeply and walked toward her mother.

She had every intention of taking the older woman’s hands in her own and explaining calmly why this wasn’t a good time-really, she did-but the anger and frustration consumed her. Nothing on earth could inspire such rage in her as that patronizing look on her mother’s face. So she did what she had done her entire life when she felt cornered by her mother: She screamed.

“WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO RUIN MY LIFE? I ASKED YOU NICELY IF WE COULD HAVE THIS DISCUSSION ANOTHER TIME AND YOU REFUSED TO LISTEN!” She moved closer to her mother, who was slowly backing into the hallway. “I AM GOING TO FINISH GETTING READY AND I’M GOING TO LEAVE AND YOU ARE GOING TO DEAL WITH IT. NOW LEAVE. ME. ALONE!”

She punctuated her diatribe with a hearty door slam and immediately felt a wave of release. Of course it was ridiculous to yell and scream and slam doors at her age; it was positively sophomoric. But that woman could be so incredibly annoying, and her sense of timing was horrific. It was unbearable that her parents had arrived yesterday out of nowhere, with no more notice than the time it took to get to the apartment from JFK, and planned to stay through Thanksgiving, a holiday they didn’t even celebrate! The only solace was that Toby hadn’t also arrived yesterday as planned (the horror of having them all mingling in the foyer was unspeakable), so he had adequate time to find a hotel.

“A hotel? Really?” he’d asked, sounding surprised when Adriana asked if he’d like her to make the reservation or do it himself.

“Why yes, querido , of course a hotel.”

“I can understand why they wouldn’t be comfortable with me staying in your room, per se, but do you really-”

“Toby, please!” Adriana had interrupted in frustration. “You staying here with them is out of the question.”

He’d complied, naturally, and checked himself into the Carlyle; Adriana couldn’t bring herself to explain that her beautiful apartment was really their beautiful apartment, a fact he would most certainly uncover were he to stay under the same roof. No, that simply was not acceptable.

Determined to calm down for the sake of her complexion, Adriana took a seat at her vanity and brushed her cheeks and forehead with bronzer. She carefully outlined her lips with a nude pencil, filled them in with a slightly darker matte lipstick, and slicked a clear gloss for shine on top. A single tissue pucker and she was finished.

The outfit was another issue entirely. What was one supposed to wear to a business dinner? Oh, how she dreaded it! It was an unusually warm November Saturday night, and all the restaurants would surely put their tables outside, and everyone would be excited at the unexpected Indian summer, racing to hit the dance clubs and loft parties that night, and she was going to some stuffy apartment on the Upper East Side. It was sure to be chock-full of musty antiques and precious little collectibles, the mere thought of which was nauseating. Antiques made her sneeze. And Limoges! Just looking at those little boxes made her want to vomit. She’d complained as much as she dared when Toby announced the evening’s plan, but she wasn’t inclined to push it; Toby might be a tad boring in addition to being ever-so-slightly dorky, but he was her boyfriend and she planned to soldier through it like a dutiful and adoring girlfriend if it killed her.

With significantly less effort than she usually spent, Adriana quickly chose a clingy, short-sleeved cashmere wrap sweater and paired it with an extremely fitted pencil skirt. Seamed stockings-Mrs. de Souza had advocated their timeless sexiness since Adriana was a girl-and a pair of four-inch pumps completed the look.

She felt like a nun.

“I’m leaving,” she called to no one in particular.

Her mother materialized out of nowhere; her eyes expertly assessed Adriana’s appearance. There was a barely discernible nod of approval before the woman said, “He’s not picking you up?”

“His hotel is on the Upper East Side, and so is the party. He sent a car instead.” No one insisted on chivalry more than Adriana, but even she recognized the absurdity of a man riding eighty blocks downtown just to turn around and drive back again.

Mrs. de Souza did not. “Oh,” she murmured vaguely, implying without a word that she disapproved.

“Don’t wait up.” Adriana cinched on a Burberry trench-her most conservative coat-and kissed her mother’s cheek.

“What time do you think you’ll be home?”

“Mama…”

Mrs. de Souza held up her hands. “You’re right, I apologize. Go, have fun. It’s just that your father and I would like to meet Mr. Baron soon. Isn’t that right, Renato?”

Mr. de Souza glanced up from his O Globo only long enough to nod and tell Adriana that she looked beautiful and to wish her a wonderful time.

Adriana escaped the apartment without any more questions and held her breath as she waited for the elevator. It really was too much already. She was a grown woman, and still she had to endure the same parental questioning and involvement as a teenager.

She stepped out into the elegant marble lobby, so wrapped up in her anger that at first she didn’t notice anyone in the lobby.

“Adi, over here,” a voice called out.

Adriana turned to see Leigh standing in the building’s tiny mailroom off the lobby, sorting through a pile of papers.

“Hi.” Adriana sighed dramatically, sidling up next to her.

Leigh didn’t look up, just tossed a Victoria’s Secret catalog in the trash. “Nothing’ll make you feel like shit faster than that rag,” she said. “Well, not you , obviously, but the rest of us.”