Chasing Harry Winston

didn’t like the authentic African zebra skins she had selected to replace their boring Oriental rugs or the way she’d arranged for all the lights, shades, and electronic equipment to work by remote control, well, that wasn’t her problem. And no one, not even her parents, could claim they actually preferred their hand-chiseled, specially imported Italian marble shower and hot tub to the ultramodern rainfall shower, sauna, and steam room she’d replaced them with in the master bath. No sane person, at least. Which is precisely why Adriana had to dress and flee as quickly as possible: In four short hours, her sleek sanctuary had become a strife-ridden ring of hell.

Not that she didn’t love them, of course. Her papa was getting older and, at this point in his life, much more mellow than he’d been when Adriana was growing up. He seemed content to let his wife call the shots, and rarely insisted on anything beyond his nightly Cuban and the tradition that each and every one of his children-three from his first wife, three from his second, and Adriana with his current, and hopefully last, wife-reunite at the Rio de Janeiro compound for the weeks before and after Christmas. The opposite had proven true for her mother. Although Mrs. de Souza had been relaxed and accepting of Adriana’s teen years and all her sex-and-drug experimentation, her liberal attitude did not extend to unmarried twenty-nine-year-old daughters-especially those whose predilection for sex and drugs could no longer be called “experimental.” It wasn’t that she didn’t understand good living; she was Brazilian, after all. Eating (low-fat, low-cal), drinking (bottle after bottle of expensive white wine), loving (when one can’t conceivably feign yet another headache)-these were the very essences of life. To be conducted, of course, under the proper circumstances: as a carefree young girl and then not again until after one had found and claimed an appropriate husband. She had traveled and modeled and partied through her own teen years-the Gisele of her generation, people still said. But Camilla de Souza had always cautioned Adriana that men were (slightly) less fleeting than looks. By the time she was twenty-three, she had secured a (fabulously) wealthy older husband and produced a beautiful baby girl. This was how it should be.

The thought of listening to her mother’s spiel for another two weeks made Adriana feel woozy. She stretched out on the slightly sagging lobby sofa and thought through her strategy. Stay occupied during the day, come home late or not at all, and convince them at every possible opportunity that her energies-not to mention her substantial trust fund-were going toward securing a proper husband. If she was careful, they would never know about the grungy British rocker who lived in an East Village walk-up or the sexy surgeon with a practice in Manhattan and a wife and kids in Greenwich. If she was meticulous, they might not even catch on to the gorgeous Israeli who claimed he pushed papers at the Israeli embassy but who, Adriana was certain, worked for Mossad.

Leigh’s raspy voice-one of the few naturally sexy things about the girl, Adriana was always telling her, not that she ever listened-interrupted her thoughts. “Wow,” Leigh breathed, staring at Adriana with widened eyes. I love that dress.”

“Thank you, querida. My parents came to town, so I had to tell them I was going on a date with an Argentinean businessman. Mama was so happy to hear it that she lent me one of her Valentinos.” Adriana ran her palms down the length of her short black dress and twirled around. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

The dress was indeed beautiful-the silk seemed able to think, knowing where to cling to a curve and where to drape gracefully over one-but then again, Adriana could have looked lovely in a red-checked tablecloth.

“Fabulous,” Leigh said.

“Come, let’s leave before they come downstairs and see I’m with you and not some South American polo player.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a businessman?”

“Whatever.”

The cab crept across Thirteenth Street at a glacial pace, mired in the downtown Saturday-night traffic that made a few blocks feel as long as a commute from New Jersey. It would have taken the girls only ten minutes to walk from their building on University to the West Village, but neither even considered hoofing it. Adriana, especially, looked as though she would risk injury and possible paralysis if she so much as thought about walking more than a couple of carefully negotiated meters in her Christian Louboutins.

By the time they pulled up in front of the Waverly Inn, Emmy had texted each of them a half-dozen times.

“Where have you been?” Emmy hiss-whispered as the girls squeezed through the minuscule front door. She was leaning against the hostess desk and waving in their general direction. “They won’t even let me sit at the bar without you.”

“Mario, such a bad boy!” Adriana crooned, kissing a handsome man of indeterminate ethnicity on both cheeks. “Emmy is a friend of mine, and my dinner guest tonight. Emmy, meet Mario, the man behind the legend.”

Introductions and kisses-air, cheek, and hand-were exchanged before the girls were escorted to the back room and seated at a table for three. The restaurant wasn’t as jam-packed as it normally was since many of its usual revelers were in the Hamptons for Memorial Day weekend, but there was still plenty of opportunity for fantastic people-watching.

“‘The man behind the legend’?” Emmy asked, rolling her eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Men need to be stroked, querida. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to teach this to both of you. They sometimes require a gentle touch. Learn when to use a firm grip and when to cover it in velvet and they are yours forever.”

Leigh popped some Nicorette. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” She turned to Emmy. “Is she even speaking English?”

Emmy shrugged. She was used to the secrets Adriana tried to impart year after year. They were like pretty little fairy tales: fun to hear but seemingly useless in real life.

Adriana ordered a round of vodka gimlets for the table by grasping the waiter’s hand between her own and saying, “We’ll have three of my favorites, Nicholas.” She sat back to survey the crowd. According to Adriana, it was still a little early-it wouldn’t start really buzzing until midnight or so, once all the first-timers and celeb-seekers left and the regulars could commence the night’s real drinking and socializing-but so far the crowd of thirtysomething media-and-entertainment types appeared happy and attractive.

“Okay, girls, why don’t we just get it out of the way so we can all enjoy our meals?” Emmy asked the moment Nicholas delivered their drinks.

Adriana returned her attention to her tablemates. “Get what out of the way?”

Emmy raised her glass. “The toast one of you will inevitably make that’s intended to remind me how much better off I am without Duncan. Something about how single is fabulous. Or how I’m young and beautiful and men will be beating down my door. Come on, let’s just do it and move on.”

“I don’t think there’s anything so great about being single,” Leigh said.

“And while you most certainly are beautiful, querida, I wouldn’t say almost thirty is all that young.” Adriana smiled.

“I’m sure you’ll eventually meet someone wonderful, but men don’t seem to beat down anyone’s doors these days,” Leigh added.

“At least not the unmarried ones,” Adriana said.

“Are there any left who aren’t married?” Leigh asked.

“The gay ones aren’t.”

“At least not yet. But probably soon. And then there won’t be anyone at all.”

Emmy sighed. “Thanks, guys. You always know just what to say. Your unending support means the world to me.”

Leigh broke off a chunk of bread and swirled it around the olive oil. “What does Izzie have to say about everything?”

“She’s trying not to show it, but I know she’s absolutely thrilled. She and Duncan never exactly loved each other. Plus she’s obsessed with the idea that I-quote-’have trouble defining myself outside a relationship,’ end quote. In other words, her usual psychobabble bullshit.”

Adriana and Leigh exchanged knowing looks.

“What?” Emmy asked.

Leigh stared at her plate and Adriana arched her perfect eyebrows, but neither said a word.

“Oh, come on! Do not tell me you agree with Izzie. She has no idea what she’s talking about.”

Leigh reached across the table and patted Emmy’s hand. “Yes, dear, of course. She’s got a doting husband,