greens, organic whole wheat couscous, fragrant strawberries, fudge sauce and two bottles of Chianti Classico.
Oh, and Cecily also turned out to be slender, leggy and startlingly beautiful, with long russet hair that was parted down the middle, big brown eyes, flawless milk-white skin and a devilish grin. She wore a snug-fitting sleeveless T-shirt with no bra, tight hip-hugger jeans, leather flip-flops and an interesting assortment of toe rings. And she was no bashful English rose. Charged right on in. Dumped the groceries on his counter. Pronounced his new place “utterly fabulous.” Accepted a cold Bass Ale. Declined a glass. Kicked off her flip-flops and sat on his leather love seat with her legs crossed before her, raptly attentive.
Somehow, this gorgeous woman managed to give Mitch the impression that there was absolutely nowhere else in the world she’d rather be than right here with him.
Clemmie immediately crept into her lap and curled up there, purring.
Mitch sat in a leather chair facing her. For the occasion, he had chosen a powder blue single-ply cashmere crewneck over a white T-shirt, plain front khakis and suede Pumas. The sort of effortlessly casual look that had only taken him seven wardrobe changes and three calls to Sylvia Two. He’d spent another twenty minutes choosing the evening’s musical selections. He’d opened with Stevie Ray Vaughan.
“It is such a thrill to meet you,” Cecily exclaimed, taking a thirsty swig of her ale. “You used to be my favorite of the American film critics.”
“I’m flattered. Only why ‘used to be’? Don’t you read me anymore?”
“I never miss one of your articles,” she responded brightly.
Which threw Mitch decidedly off balance. “So… what brings you to New York?”
“London was beginning to feel stale. I’ve been wanting to try America for a while. Particularly New York. I’ve always loved its energy. The streets here are like pure adrenaline. I decided if I don’t do it now I never will.”
“Lacy told me used to be a dancer.”
“Until I couldn’t any longer,” she confirmed, nodding. “Recurring stress fractures in my left foot. So I decided to write about it instead. I know the dance world inside and out, after all. And writing is something I’ve always had a facility for. I was very fortunate, actually. Began placing commentaries and things right away. It all just fell right into place. And then I heard from Lacy. She is such a dear. Is it true that she once slept with Lord Snowdon?”
“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. If that woman ever decides to write a kiss-and-tell memoir she’ll smash a lot of china.”
Cecily tilted her head at him fetchingly, studying him now. “I don’t wish to be rudely personal, but she warned me that you’d had a bad breakup a while back.”
“Is there such a thing as a good one?”
“Excellent point.”
“It’s true, I did. And I should warn you that I’m not looking to get seriously involved with anyone. Not for a good long while anyway.”
“Excellent.” Cecily gazed at him over her Bass bottle. “Neither am I.”
Definitely on the prowl, if Mitch Berger knew anything about women. Which, let’s face it, he did not.
“Good God, what am I thinking?” she declared suddenly. “I must start dinner.” Moved Clemmie onto the loveseat, leapt to her feet and started for the kitchen. “I’m doing grilled chops with couscous, a salad and a quick skillet ratatouille of my own devising. I already roasted the eggplant this afternoon at Lacy’s. Honestly, I don’t believe she’s ever used that oven. Would you like to know what she keeps inside of it?”
“No, I really wouldn’t.”
“I’ll need a large skillet, Mitch. Cast iron if you have one.”
He fetched her the biggest of his Lodge pans. “There’s rosemary, mint and thyme growing out in my garden, if that’s of any interest.”
“My god, the perfect man!”
He went out onto the patio to cut some for her and fire up the grill. When he returned, the onion and garlic were sizzling in the pan and Stevie Ray had slammed his way into “The House is Rockin’,” a rollicking Texas toe- tapper that had Cecily Naughton shaking her hips, her butt, her everything as she sauteed away. She was no Des Mitry. Hadn’t the green-eyed monster’s moves. Or booty. But she could get down pretty well for the daughter of English royalty.
Watching her at that moment, Mitch was very happy to be alive.
“Dance with me,” she commanded him, grabbing him by the hand and swinging him around.
“No, wait, I don’t dance.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed, bumping hips with him. “Move to the music. Come on, show me what you got! Give it to me, boy! Get down and let your…” Abruptly, she released his hand. “You really don’t dance, do you? Not a problem, the only good male dancers I’ve ever known were gay. You I have other plans for.”
“Such as…?”
“You can set the table, for starters,” she replied, her eyes twinkling at him.
They ate out on the patio by candlelight. The night air was soft and warm, the food delicious, wine perfect.
“What did you mean about my work?” he asked her as he cut into his lamb chop.
Cecily tilted her head at him fetchingly. “Sorry?”
“You said I ‘used to be’ one of your favorite critics.”
She took a sip of wine before she said, “I’m not entirely certain you wish to have this conversation with me, Mitch. I’m known to be rudely caustic.”
“I’m plenty thick-skinned. And I want to hear what you have to say.”
Cecily dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and sat back in her chair. “As you wish. At the risk of sounding like an overt bum licker, you were one of my heroes when I first set out to write about dance. I idolized you, actually. Chiefly because of the way you absolutely refused to accept what the film community was doing. You established high standards of your own and you stuck to them. Wrote about the movies not as they are but as they should be. Demanded more. Held the bastards to account. You stood for something, Mitch. Go back and look at some of your Sunday pieces from two or three years ago. Then look at last week’s quote-unquote reappraisal of Brian De Palma.”
“I simply said that not all of his films are outright terrible,” Mitch responded easily. “The guy’s career goes way, way back to Carrie in ‘76. He’s been making movies for over thirty years. A lot of them bad movies, yes, but you have to admire his perseverance. Besides, I’ve actually enjoyed a couple of them. Scarface is wonderfully kitschy. And Sean Penn slays in Carlito’s Way, which is actually a terrific movie if you can get past Penelope Ann Miller.”
“Why, what’s wrong with Penelope Ann Miller?”
“Aside from the fact that she can’t act? Not a thing.”
Cecily held her ground. “You’ve given in, Mitch. You used to rage against the machine. Now you’re merely another cog in it. Someone who spends his time operating a Web site devoted to cute, diverting trivia. Lacy told me you’re even launching your own television program out in Los Angeles.”
“They’ve given me a twelve-week commitment.”
She shook her head at him gravely. “That’s not you.”
“Sure it is. I’m just using a new delivery system, that’s all. I’m still the same me.”
“So you’ve always waxed your brows, have you?”
Mitch opened his mouth but no words came out. Glanced down at his hands and discovered that his fists were clenched. “You think I’m becoming a total media whore, is that it?”
“I do, Mitch. And it upsets me terribly to see you doing this to yourself. I admire you more than you can imagine.” She reached for her wine glass and took a sip. “I warned you that I can be rude.”
“Quite all right. That’s your opinion and I respect it. But this is simply a new career challenge, that’s all. I’ll rise to it.”
“How, by striding the red carpet with Miss Hawaii?”
“Wait one second…” Mitch said, shaking his finger at her. “Now I get it.”
“Get what? And don’t do that with your finger. It’s very rude.”
“Lacy put you up to this, didn’t she? She sent you here to coax me into leaving the evil empire for her new e- zine. That’s what this whole evening has been about, hasn’t it? The gourmet meal and wine. The tight jeans. Your nipples. You’ve come here to twist my arm.”
