Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

Leigh inhaled, simultaneously impressed with Henry’s perceptiveness and angry at Jesse’s transparency. “Well, I can’t speak for Jesse, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to report. The manuscript is not yet where I want it to be, but it’s no cause for concern,” she said with a steadiness she didn’t feel.

Henry paused for a moment, started to speak, and then changed his mind. “So that’s your story and you’re sticking to it, huh? All right. I don’t buy it, but I’ll accept it-for now. But the moment anything arises that puts our publication date in jeopardy, I want to know about it. I don’t care what time of the day or night, whether it comes by FedEx or fucking carrier pigeon, I want to know. Okay?”

“Of course! Henry, you don’t need to impress upon me how important this is, I promise. I swear I’m handling it. And I hate to cut this short, but it feels like I’m swallowing shards of glass right now.”

“Glass, huh?”

Leigh nodded even though no one could see her. “Yeah, I’m guessing it’s strep, so I probably won’t be in tomorrow, either. But I have my laptop at home, and of course I’m always on my cell.”

“Well, feel better. And I’m glad we had this little chat.”

A shot of pain in her neck brought her back to the massage she’d scheduled right after hanging up with Henry. She flinched.

“Oh, sorry,” the therapist said. “Was that too hard?”

“No, not at all,” Leigh lied. She knew it was acceptable to provide feedback during a massage, that it was silly to pay a boatload of money and not enjoy it or, worse yet, to endure an hour’s worth of pain, but no matter how often she was reassured of these facts, Leigh could not bring herself to say anything. Each time she swore to herself that she’d speak up, and each time she gritted her teeth through kneading that was too strong, music that was too loud, or a room that was too cold. She wondered if she was worried about hurting the masseuse’s feelings. That would be ironic. No hesitation whatsoever in cheating on her fiancé, but better not tell the salaried stranger that you’d prefer a softer touch! Leigh shook her head in disgust.

“I am hurting you, aren’t I?” the girl asked in response to Leigh’s movement.

“Hurting is an understatement, actually. It’s more like getting pummeled by a professional boxer,” Leigh said without thinking.

The girl began to apologize profusely. “Ohmigod, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I can definitely be much gentler.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean it like that. It just, um, it came out wrong. Everything’s great,” Leigh rushed to say. Why couldn’t she control her own mouth?

The massage had seemed like a good idea that morning-if ever she’d needed to relax, it was now, and one of her authors had sent her a gift certificate for Christmas, so she didn’t have to feel guilty about spending the money-but so far it had only served to provide a solitary, quiet chunk of time during which Leigh could do nothing but think.

She and Russell had plans to discuss the wedding over dinner that night, and Leigh could think of nothing she dreaded more.

“Your whole neck is knotted up pretty tight. Are you feeling a lot of stress lately?” the girl asked, working a muscle with her flattened palm in the same painful circular motion.

“Mmm,” Leigh murmured noncommittally, praying the girl would intuit her disinterest in chatting.

“Yeah, I can tell. People always wonder how we know where they’re carrying their tension, and I’m always like, ‘C’mon, guys, that’s what we’re trained for,’ you know? Sure, anyone can rub your back and make it feel good, but it definitely takes a professional to locate those specific pressure points and smooth them out. So, what is it?” she asked. Her voice was low and not particularly grating, but the speed with which she talked made her sound anxious herself.

“What’s what?” Leigh asked, annoyed that she was being forced to participate in this exchange.

“What’s all your stress related to?”

For someone who had stopped seeing a shrink because she found it too revealing, Leigh was not thrilled with this line of questioning. Or any questioning, on anything, from anyone. And yet she was entirely unable to utter a few simple words, something along the lines of “I have a bit of a headache; would you mind if I just lie here quietly?” Instead, Leigh made up some inane story about tough deadlines at work and the pressure of planning the perfect Greenwich wedding. The girl clucked sympathetically. Leigh wondered what sort of reaction she might elicit were she to describe the real source of her tension, i.e., the fact that she had slept with one of her authors (and by “slept with,” she really meant “had the best sex of her life in every imaginable position and variation over the course of ten mind-blowing hours”) while still acting the part of loving and excited partner to her sweet, supportive, and totally clueless fiancé.

By the time the massage ended, Leigh felt slightly more anxious and significantly less relaxed. She pulled on her clothes-not even bothering to shower off the scented oils-and mentally tried to prepare herself to deal with the mess she had created. All she really wanted to do was return to her childhood home, curl up under the blankets, and lose herself in some TiVo. She wanted it so bad she could feel it, and she was just about to drive Russell’s car to her parents’ when another image flashed into her mind. It, too, had a soft comforter and her favorite novels, but it included a panorama of both parents arriving home and attacking her with questions. Why are you here in the middle of the week? Where’s Russell? How’s work going? When are we going to choose the menu for the reception? What’s happening with Jesse’s book? Where are you going to register? Why do you look so miserable? Why? Where? When? Tell us, Leigh, tell us! Her dull headache now had that special ice-pick quality to it, and she suddenly felt particularly gross with a layer of clammy leftover massage oil between her skin and her clothes.

She paid quickly and managed to stand her ground when asked to fill out a survey on her experience with the spa.

“You sure?” the receptionist asked, snapping her gum in quick, irritating bursts. “You get a fifteen-percent-off coupon for your next treatment.”

“Thanks, but I’m in a rush,” Leigh lied, almost smiling to herself (almost) when she calculated that probably half of what she said these days was completely untrue. She scrawled an unrecognizable signature on the gift certificate, handed over a twenty-five-percent tip in cash out of guilt for not being chattier with the therapist, and ducked out the front door before one more gum crack could drive her to murderous action.

Even with a heavy load of rush-hour traffic, the cab ride from the Upper East Side spa to TriBeCa felt like it took only thirty seconds. The cabbie was just dropping her off in front of Russell’s building when her phone rang.

“Hey,” Russell said when she clicked it open. He sounded different somehow, more distant, but Leigh told herself she was just imagining that.

“Hi! I’m just pulling up to your building right now. Are you home?” Her own voice sounded forced and faux-cheery, but Russell didn’t seem to notice.

“No, I’ll be at least another hour, but I was hoping you’d wait for me. Just let yourself in and maybe order us some food? I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

“Me too,” Leigh said and was relieved when she realized it wasn’t a complete lie.

She’d just paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi when her phone rang again. She flipped it open without looking at it. “I forgot to ask, do you want sushi or Italian?” she said.