Chasing Harry Winston

college buddy’s Martha’s Vineyard home sometime that summer, and his recap of a joke one of the show’s makeup artists had told him that morning. It wasn’t until the waiter delivered two flutes of champagne and something called a coconut dacquoise that Leigh felt alert. There, resting casually next to the plate of poached pineapples and surrounded by berries, was a black velvet box. She was surprised and a little disconcerted that her first feeling upon spying the jewelry box was one of relief: Its long, rectangular shape indicated that it wasn’t-thank god-a ring. Of course she’d probably want to marry Russell someday-there wasn’t a friend or family member who’d ever met him and not immediately referenced his superior husband potential, kindness, handsome looks, successful career, charisma, and obvious adoration of Leigh-but she definitely wasn’t ready to marry him now. There didn’t seem to be any harm at all in waiting another year, or maybe two. Marriage was, well, marriage, and she wanted to be absolutely sure.

“What’s this?” she asked with genuine excitement, already envisioning an initial pendant of some sort, or perhaps a pretty gold bracelet.

“Open it and see,” he said softly.

Leigh fingered the plush velvet and grinned. “You shouldn’t have!”

“Open it!”

“I just know I’m going to love it.”

“Leigh, open the box. You may be surprised.”

The look in his eyes gave her pause, as did the way his hand tensed around his champagne glass. She snapped open the lid and, just like they do in every bad rom com she’d ever seen, she gasped. There, nestled in the very middle of the necklace-sized box, was a ring. An engagement ring. A very huge, very beautiful engagement ring.

“Leigh?” His voice shook. Gently, he took the box from her and plucked the ring out. In one swift movement, he took her left hand in his own and slid the ring onto the proper finger. It fit perfectly. “Leigh, honey? I’ve loved you since the moment I met you, one year ago today. I think we’ve both known from the very first night that this was something special-something forever. Will you marry me?”

Emmy’s first meeting the next day with a local culinary staffing company wasn’t until two o’clock-one of the many benefits of the hospitality industry-but she was really starting to feel the jet lag. When she’d arrived at the hotel that morning at ten, she had ordered a light room-service breakfast of coffee, croissant, and berries (after a quick conversion from euros to dollars, she realized the cost was $31, not including tip) and then bathed using the three-ounce bubble bath she found in the minibar ($50). Following a quick nap and few hours spent confirming the next day’s appointments, she’d had a Nicoise salad and a Coke in the restaurant’s outdoor garden ($38). None of it felt particularly extravagant, though, when compared to dinner, a simple steak-frites she had eaten alone in the hotel’s lobby lounge two hours earlier. Steak, fries, and a single glass of red wine. (“House wine? What do you mean by ‘house wine’?” the waiter had asked with a barely suppressed sneer. “Ah,” he said after a moment of intense thought. “You mean ‘inexpensive,’ yes? I will bring it to you, madam.”) The bill had come to a whopping $96, and the wine tasted like Manischewitz. He hadn’t even called her mademoiselle!

Occupying a prime sliver of real estate on chic Rue du Faubourg in the 1st arrondissement-just steps from the Ritz and Hermes-the Hotel Costes was legendary for its celeb-heavy clientele and ultra-chic late-night lounge scene. When the travel department asked if she had any hotel preferences, Emmy couldn’t work up the nerve even to suggest the Costes. It wasn’t until the agent had given her a choice between there and a gorgeous riverfront hotel on the Left Bank that she practically shrieked with excitement. What better place to get started on Tour de Whore ’07?

Emmy had spent a full week anticipating her stay at the Costes. One hour after arrival she was awed by its coolness; two hours later she was intimidated; three hours after that she was ready to check out. The Costes might be the best place in town to be seen, but it seemed impossible that anyone actually stayed there. Either she had gotten really, really old or the Costes had a major attitude problem. The hallways were so dark that she’d taken to running her hands along the corridor walls to keep from walking into them. The music from the lounge reverberated through the rooms, and the noisy bustle of models sipping skim lattes and various nationalities of modelizers slurping Bordeaux in the central courtyard bounced off every window. Her charming claw-foot tub had no curtain, so the floor flooded when she turned on the handheld showerhead. There was no electrical outlet in the bathroom (probably because everyone brought their own stylist), so Emmy had been forced to dry her hair, sans mirror, at the desk. So far she’d been patronized, ignored, and mocked by the hotel staff. And yet, irritatingly enough, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she should feel honored to stay there.

So she sat as unobtrusively as she could manage in the lounge, reading e-mails on her laptop and savoring an espresso (a flawless one, she grudgingly conceded). Her sister wrote that she and Kevin were planning to come to New York for the Fourth of July, and asked if she’d be in town. She had just written back to say that they could have her studio and she’d stay at Adriana’s when her new company-provided international cell phone rang.

“This is Emmy Solomon,” she said as professionally as possible.

“Emmy? Is that you?”

“Leigh? How did you get this number?”

“I called your office here and said it was an emergency. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Sweetie, is everything okay? It’s two in the morning there.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just wanted you to hear it from me before the word got out over e-mail. I’m engaged!”

“Engaged? Oh my god! Leigh, congratulations! I had no idea you guys were even thinking about it. This is so exciting! Tell me everything.” Emmy saw a uniformed staffer shoot her a nasty look, but she glared right back.

“I, uh, guess I wasn’t really expecting it, either,” Leigh said. “It just sort of came out of nowhere.”

“Well, how did he do it?”

Leigh described what was supposed to be a simple anniversary dinner, how haggish she’d looked and felt, and what each of them had ordered at Daniel in measured, factual detail. By the time she got to the dessert-time proposal, Emmy had started interrupting in a desperate attempt to get to the good stuff.

“I don’t care how you looked-what does the ring look like? And let me remind you that now is not the time for modesty.”

“It’s huge.”

“How huge?”

“Very huge.”

“Leigh!”

“Just under four.”

“Just under four! Carats? Four carats?”

“I’m worried it’s too big. How can I wear something like that to work? I work in book publishing.” Leigh sighed.

Emmy wanted to scream. “I won’t even dignify it with a response. Did you tell Adriana that you think it’s…I can’t even bring myself to say it.”

“Yes. She told me if I think it’s too big I don’t deserve it.”

“I’ll second that. Now stop being a goddamn idiot and tell me more. Have you set a date yet? When do you think you’ll move into his place?”

The silence on the line was so complete that Emmy thought they’d been disconnected. “Leigh? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We haven’t even come close to picking a date yet-I don’t know, next summer, I guess? The summer after?”

“Leigh! You’re thirty years old and not getting any younger. You think we’re going to let you be engaged for two years? If I were you, I’d have that boy at the altar in five months. What are you waiting for?”

“I’m not waiting for anything,” Leigh said, sounding peeved. “I just don’t see what the big rush is all about. We just met, for chrissake.”

“You met a year ago, Leigh, and as you’ve pointed out yourself on numerous occasions, he fits every checklist of everything you’ve been looking for in a man. And more. You’d be insane not to lock this up at the earliest possible date. At the very least, you need to get yourself situated in his apartment. Stake your claim.”