Chasing Harry Winston

Well, this seemed to quiet the old woman. Adriana found it humiliating that she was at her parents’ mercy, since it was their apartment. They could arrive anytime, without warning, and stay for as long as they liked. They could question every dollar she spent on clothes or facials or flights simply because they were paying the bills. And now, as a thirty-year-old woman, she was being forced to justify Toby. She was glad no one else was there to witness it.

“Is that so?” her mother asked. “And who, may I ask, is this gentleman?”

“Oh, just a little movie director. You know Toby Baron, don’t you?”

Adriana heard her mother gasp and was nearly delirious with pleasure.

“Tobias Baron? Didn’t he win an Oscar?”

“He most certainly did. And he was nominated for two others. Yes, he’s probably one of the top three most influential directors alive today,” Adriana said proudly.

“What is your relationship with Mr. Baron?” her mother asked.

“Oh, he’s my boyfriend.” Try as she might, she couldn’t mask the glee in her voice.

“Boyfriend? Adi, querida, you haven’t had a boyfriend since seventh grade. Do you mean to tell me you are dating him exclusively?”

“That is exactly what I’m telling you, Mama,” Adriana said. “In fact, this visit was all his idea. He said it felt strange not having me be a part of his life in Los Angeles, not knowing his friends and what his home looks like.” Again she lowered her voice and bent her head below the driver’s seat back. “Which, incidentally, I’ve heard is incredible.”

Truth be told, she’d done more than heard: In her many hours spent researching Toby online, she’d run across an article in InStyle that featured a dozen or so interior shots of his bachelor pad. Adriana already knew he preferred a sparse modern look for his four bedrooms and five baths; that his home was Balinese- style with indoor/outdoor showers and gardens, plus separate pavilions for eating, living, and sleeping; that, to top it all off, there was a drop-dead gorgeous infinity pool that looked like it stretched to, well, infinity over the valley below. She had decided sight unseen that with only a few minor adjustments (surely the master bedroom would need a built-in vanity and the immediate installation of proper California Closets), she would be very, very happy living there.

“Well, querida, we’re willing to overlook it this time. But please do show a bit of restraint in the future. I don’t have to tell you that your father has been under a lot of stress lately.”

“I know, Mama.”

“And behave yourself with Mr. Baron,” her mother warned. “Don’t forget everything I’ve taught you.”

“Mama! Of course I won’t forget.”

“If anything, the rules become even more important with wealthy and powerful men. They are the most accustomed to having women fall at their feet, and in turn are the most appreciative when they meet someone who refuses to do so.”

“I know, Mama.”

“Maintain your mystery, Adriana! I realize you go to bed with men far faster now than we did in my day, but that makes it even more important to remain a bit unattainable in other areas. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama. I understand perfectly.”

“Because you’re not setting a great precedent by flying across the country to see a man,” Mrs. de Souza said.

“Mama! It’s time. He’s been to visit me in New York four times already.” So she might have been exaggerating a touch, but her mother didn’t have to know that.

“And you’re staying at a hotel, I hope?”

“Of course. Even though it would be much less expensive to stay at his house…”

The mere suggestion of this sent her mother into a panic. “Adriana! You know better than that! Of course your father and I would appreciate your showing a bit more financial sensitivity, but this particular area is nonnegotiable.”

“I was kidding, Mama. I have a suite reserved at the Peninsula and I plan to use it.”

“And remember: no spending the night! If you absolutely must be intimate with him, then at least have the good sense to leave afterward.”

“Yes, Mama.” Adriana smiled to herself. Most moms warned their daughters against casual sex for fear of potential disease, disrespect, or reputation. Mrs. de Souza had none of these concerns; she feared only that a false move would irreparably damage the relationship’s power balance and make the end goal-Adriana’s swift betrothal to a proper man-even more difficult to achieve.

“Well, all right, dear, I’m glad we had this chat. He does sound very promising. Certainly far favorable to the men you usually date…”

“I’ll call you when I’m back in New York on Sunday, okay?”

Her mother made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “Let me see here…I’m just checking my book. Ah, yes, we’ll be in Dubai then. The cell should work, but it’s always better if you just ring the apartment phone. Do you have that number?”

“I have it. I’ll call you there. Wish me luck!”

“You don’t need luck, querida. You’re an absolutely stunning girl that any man-Mr. Tobias Baron certainly included-would be delighted to have. Just remember your responsibilities, Adriana.”

They kissed over the phone and hung up. Adriana glanced at the driver to see how much he might have heard, but he was talking quietly into his own Bluetooth headset. There was no denying that her mother was exhausting and, judging from Leigh’s and Emmy’s stories, quite different from most moms, but it was hard to argue with her accomplishments. Mrs. de Souza had turned a phenomenally successful modeling career into a lifetime of luxury and leisure, all provided by a kind, hardworking man who worshipped the ground she walked on. A compound in Sao Paulo, an oceanfront mansion in Portugal, and gorgeous flats in both New York and Dubai…well, that wasn’t something to sneeze at. The furs and jewels, cars and staff weren’t bad, either, and naturally Mrs. de Souza made very good use of her unlimited and unquestioned spending (a clause she’d insisted upon before the wedding ceremony took place). It might be tiresome enduring the endless “lessons” from her mother, but Adriana did not question the woman’s authority on all things men-related.

Adriana gazed out the window as they exited the 405 on Wilshire and weaved their way through Westwood and then Synagogue Alley. It had been a couple years since Adriana had last been in LA, but she was pretty sure the driver had just missed the turnoff to her hotel.

“Sir? Excuse me, I think we just passed the Peninsula. Wasn’t that Santa Monica Boulevard?”

He coughed and looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Mr. Baron has redirected us to another location, ma’am.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, I’m afraid I have to override him. I would like to go to my hotel first, please.” As eager as she was to see Toby’s palatial spread, i.e., her future home, she desperately needed to attend to her humidity- limpened hair and sallow travel complexion. And then there was dealing with the whole “ma’am” incident.

Much to her chagrin, and then her shock, the driver ignored her and kept driving. Was she being kidnapped? Was the driver some pervert who lost his mind the second a pretty girl got in the backseat? Should she call Toby? Her mother? The police?

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that-”

“Can you please not call me ‘ma’am’?” Adriana snapped, all thoughts of imminent death gone.

The driver looked appropriately embarrassed. “Of course. Miss. I was just saying that I think you’ll be pleased with where we’re headed.”

“Are we going to Madonna’s Kabbalah center?” she asked hopefully.

“No, ma’am. Uh, miss.”

“Tom’s Scientology center?”

“I’m afraid not.” He eased the car into a left turn, a beautiful, magical, welcome left turn…onto Rodeo Drive.

“Paris’s penitentiary?” It was easy to joke now that they were somewhere so delightful.

The driver sidled up to a curb that stated NO STANDING, turned off the car, and retrieved Adriana. He offered