Chasing Harry Winston

count him as south america

Emmy removed the tray from her toaster oven and carefully flipped each of the pita chips with her fingertips, alternately delighted at their delicate crispiness and irritated that she couldn’t make a bigger batch in a proper oven. Her friends were coming over for their twice-yearly visit to her apartment, and rather than whip up a feast for them (probably Italian, a good scaloppine with a side of perfectly al dente pasta), she was baking pita chips in a toaster oven that took up her entire “counter space” and mashing chickpeas in a bowl on her lap. Emmy had always comforted herself with the knowledge that she and Duncan would one day have a new place together, a place with a huge Viking stove and a Sub-Zero fridge and cabinets filled with real stainless steel pots, but that dream had vanished when he did.

She could barely believe they’d broken up a full five months ago. Even weirder was how completely they-or, if she was going to be really honest, Duncan-had severed contact. Although Emmy hadn’t told Izzie or the girls, she had called him pretty regularly during the first few months and had even showed up at his apartment, at least until he’d changed the locks. After that humiliation she managed to tone things down, and by midsummer Emmy had pretty much stopped calling, save for one little relapse after the Paris/Paul rejection. Oh, and there was that e-mail. It was embarrassing, but Emmy reassured herself that these things happened. She hadn’t intended to write to him, but she had come home one night right before she left for Florida, slightly buzzed from a work-related wine tasting, and sat down at her computer to surf for a bit before going to sleep. Remembering it was her friend Polly’s thirtieth birthday, she opened her e-mail and typed P in the To field, and sure enough, Duncan’s e-mail address popped into place (she had him saved in her address book under “Pumpkin”). She considered this for just a moment before forging forward and crafting a fake e-mail to Paul, the guy she’d met at the Costes who had flatly rejected her and whose e-mail address she most certainly didn’t have.

Hey baby,

Glad to hear you’re having such a great time in St. Tropez, although I’m missing you here. Work is crazy right now, but I guess that’s to be expected with a new job that requires so much traveling. It’s just so hard to be away from you! Thank you so much for the gorgeous little French negligee you sent. It’s so lacy and pretty and s-e-x-y. I can’t WAIT to model it for you. Only one more week until I join you there…

xoxo E

She hit Send and felt a thrill of excitement when she saw Duncan’s name in her Sent box: If that didn’t elicit a response, nothing would. It had taken two full days for him to respond, and even then, it was disappointing. He’d merely replied, “I think you accidentally sent this to the wrong person,” and had signed off with a smiley face. An emoticon! It was too insulting for words, and she immediately regretted the whole thing. No jealous questions about the identity of Emmy’s secret lover, no reference to her new job, not even a wry acknowledgment about her sexy nightie or (supposed) upcoming trip to the South of France. That was the final straw. It had been nearly two months since that mortifying exchange and Emmy hadn’t contacted him once. More to the point, she was happy to realize she hadn’t so much as thought about him in the two weeks since she’d had hot, random sex with George. Which obviously meant one and only one thing: Much more hot, random sex was required.

Her buzzer rang at exactly eight and Emmy braced herself for Otis’s imminent caw. Sure enough, he shook himself awake and squawked, “Who is it? Come on up! Who is it? Come on up!”

She sighed, slipped on her flip-flops, and headed for the stairs. The mechanism that allowed her to buzz people in was broken and although the building did have an elevator circa 1925, it had taken only one afternoon trapped inside it three years earlier to convince Emmy that the stairs were a much better option. She appreciated that Adriana and Leigh made the effort to come to her place twice a year or so-especially considering they lived in the same building and both had apartments that were significantly more comfortable than hers-but she just ended up feeling self-conscious about the size of her studio and guilty for subjecting everyone to a five-floor climb, after which they had to sit on the floor and endure a whole night of the hideous parrot’s insults.

“Hi!” she called cheerfully, forgetting her reservations when she swung open the building door and saw the girls sitting on her stoop. The air was warm for October, but it was filled with smoke. “Whoa! What do I see here?”

Adriana elbowed Emmy in the side and, grinning, motioned toward Leigh. “Check this out.”

Sure enough, Leigh was stamping out a cigarette as she exhaled a last plume of smoke.

“Leigh! What happened? You were doing so well!” Emmy cried.

“Were being the operative word.”

“What happened?”

“Jesse Chapman happened,” Adriana sang with obvious pleasure.

The girls began the single-file trudge upstairs.

Emmy turned around and looked at her friends. “Why is your relapse Jesse Chapman’s fault?”

Leigh sighed melodramatically. “I always suspected you guys didn’t listen to a word I said.”

“Oh, save the drama,” Adriana said. “We listen to every single Chicken Little work-related melodrama of yours. It’s just lucky for us that Jesse Chapman happens to be a little more interesting than your usual lunatic authors.”

“Wait! Back to the ‘Jesse Chapman happened.’ What does that mean?” Emmy asked. They had finally reached her apartment; Emmy was pleased to see that even though her friends were both panting and breathless, she felt perfectly fine.

“Nothing happened. You make it sound like there’s something scandalous going on, which I assure you, there is not. He’s just a handful.”

Adriana smirked. “I’ll bet he is.”

Emmy motioned for the girls to claim a cushion and began pouring the red wine she had opened before their arrival. “Speaking of sex with strangers…”

Adriana squealed so loud that Otis began his own series of screams and caws and Leigh clamped her hands over her ears.

“Emmy! You didn’t!” Adriana said.

“Oh, but I did.” It felt so good to say those words, to watch the reactions on her friends’ faces. Between their trips to the Hamptons and LA, the entire month of September had vanished without a single chance to tell them face-to-face, but Emmy was glad she’d waited until now.

“Noooo,” Leigh breathed, looking up from her wineglass with a look of utter shock.

“Yeeeeeeeees,” Emmy sang gleefully.

“Fatty! Fatty! Fat girl!” Otis screeched. Adriana banged his cage with the back of her hand, which Otis immediately tried to bite.

“Tell us everything! Who was he? Where? When? How? Was it good? Is he the future father of your children?”

Emmy plopped on the floor and took a long sip of wine, savoring the attention.

“His name is George. He’s a law student at Miami. Obviously, I met him when I was visiting Izzie and Kevin. And it just sort of happened,” Emmy said, staring at her hands.

Adriana gave her a playful shove in the shoulder. “You are totally lying to us. Don’t you think, Leigh?”

“I believe she actually did the deed,” Leigh said thoughtfully, “but something’s not adding up. I don’t think we’re getting the real story.”

“You’re in love, aren’t you?” Leigh asked, leaning forward. “That’s it. You fell head over heels for this guy, and you’re already picturing him as your husband.”

Adriana nodded her agreement. “One hundred percent. Lawyer, friend of your sister’s, probably the nicest guy on earth. Well, I’m happy for you, honey. Not surprised, I have to say, but happy for you. However”-Adriana wagged her forefinger-“I would like us to recognize that I, as one-half of a committed relationship that I promise will be leading to an engagement in the next six months, have officially won our bet.”

“I’m a witness,” Leigh concurred. “And it’s true. I, too, am happy you met the guy of your dreams, Emmy, but you are handing the contest to Adriana.”

Adriana picked up a folder of take-out menus from the coffee table and began thumbing through them. “Let’s order now so it gets here in time for Grey’s. Sushi?”