fine. Name’s Christian. A pleasure to meet you, Andy.’ He pushed a brown curl out of his left eye and took a swig from a bottle of Budweiser. He looked vaguely familiar, I decided, but I couldn’t place him.
‘Bud, huh?’ I asked, pointing to his hand. ‘I didn’t think they served something so lowbrow at a party like this.’
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh instead of the chuckle I’d expected. ‘You sure do say what you think, don’t you?’ I must’ve looked mortified, because he smiled again and said, ‘No, no, that’s a good thing. And a rare thing, especially in this industry. I couldn’t bring myself to drink champagne from a straw out of a minibottle, you know? Something fairly emasculating about that. So the bartender dug one of these out of the kitchen somewhere.’ Another curl push, but it fell back in his eye the moment he took his hand away. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his black sport coat and offered it to me. I took one and proceeded to drop it immediately, seizing the opportunity to examine him while I reached down to retrieve it.
It landed a few inches from his shiny, square-toed loafers that sported the irrefutable Gucci tassel, and on the way up I noticed that his Diesel jeans were the perfect parts faded, long, and wide enough at the bottom that they dragged a little behind the shiny loafers, the ends frayed from repeated interaction with the soles. A black belt, probably Gucci but thankfully not recognizable, kept the jeans riding in the perfect low spot below his waist, where he had tucked in a plain white cotton T-shirt – one that even though it easily could have been a Hanes was definitely an Armani or a Hugo Boss and was put in place only to offset his beautiful complexion. His black blazer looked just as expensive and well cut, perhaps even custom-made to fit his average-size but inexplicably sexy frame, and it was his green eyes that commanded the most attention. Seafoam, I thought, remembering the old J. Crew colors we’d loved so much in high school, or perhaps just a straightforward teal. The height, the build, the whole package looked vaguely like Alex, just with a whole lot more Euro style and a whole lot less Abercrombie. Slightly cooler, slightly better looking. Definitely older, right around thirty. And probably much too slick.
He immediately produced a flame and leaned in close to make sure my cigarette had caught. ‘So what brings you to a party like this, Andrea? Are you one of the lucky few who can call Marshall Madden her own?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. At least not yet, although he wasn’t all that subtle in telling me that I probably should be.’ I laughed, noticing for a brief moment that I was desperate to impress this stranger. ‘I work at Runway. One of the beauty guys dragged me here.’
‘Ah, Runway magazine, huh? Cool place to work, if you’re into S&M and that sort of thing. How do you like it?’
I wasn’t sure if he meant S&M or the job itself, but I considered the possibility that he got it, that he was enough of an insider to know that it wasn’t exactly how it appeared to those on the outside. Perhaps I should charm him with the nightmare involved in dropping off the Book earlier that night? No, no, I had no idea who this guy was … for all I knew he also worked at Runway in some far-flung department I hadn’t even seen yet, or maybe for another Elias-Clark magazine. Or maybe, just maybe, he was one of those sneaky Page Six reporters that Emily had so carefully warned me against. ‘They just appear,’ she’d said ominously. ‘They just appear and try to trick you into saying something juicy about Miranda or Runway. Just be aware.’ Between that and the tracking ID cards, I was quite sure that Runway’s surveillance put the mob to shame. The Runway Paranoid Turnaround was back.
‘Yeah,’ I said, trying to sound casual and noncommittal. ‘It’s a strange place. I’m not so into fashion – I’d actually rather be writing, but I guess it’s not a bad start. What do you do?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘Oh, you are? That must be nice.’ I hoped I didn’t sound quite as condescending as I felt, but it got to be really annoying when anyone and everyone in New York anointed himself or herself a writer or actor or poet or artist. I used to write for the paper in college, I thought to myself, and hell, I even had an essay published in a monthly magazine once in high school. Did that make me a writer? ‘What do you write?’
‘Mostly literary fiction so far, but I’m actually working on my first historical novel.’ He took another swig and swatted yet again at that pesky but adorable curl.
‘First historical’ implied that there other were nonhistorical novels. Interesting. ‘What’s it about?’
He thought for a moment and then said, ‘It’s a story told from the perspective of a young woman, about what it was like to live in this country during World War Two. I’m still finishing my research, transcribing interviews and things like that, but the little writing I’ve done so far has come along. I think …’
He continued talking, but I’d already tuned him out. Holy shit. I recognized the book description immediately from a New Yorker article I’d just read. It seemed the entire book world was eagerly anticipating his next contribution and couldn’t shut up about the realism with which he depicts his female heroine. I was standing at a party, casually chatting with Christian Collinsworth, the boy genius who’d first been published at the ripe old age of twenty from a Yale library cubicle. The critics had gone crazy over his first book, hailing it as one of the most significant literary achievements of the twentieth century, and he’d followed it up with two more since then, each spending more time on the bestseller list than the one before it. The New Yorker piece had included an interview in which the author had called Christian ‘not only a force for years to come’ in the book industry, but one with ‘a hell of a look, a killer style, and enough natural charm that would ensure – in the unlikely event that his literary success did not – a lifetime of success with the ladies.’
‘Wow, that’s really great,’ I said, all of a sudden feeling too tired to be witty or funny or cute. This guy was some big-time author – what the hell did he want with me, anyway? Probably just killing time before his girlfriend finished up her $10,000 per day modeling assignment and made her way over. And what does it matter either way, Andrea? I asked myself harshly. In case you conveniently forgot, you do happen to have an incredibly kind and supportive and adorable boyfriend. Enough of this already! I hastily made up a story about needing to get home right away, and Christian looked amused.
‘You’re scared of me,’ he stated factually, flashing me a teasing smile.
‘Scared of you? Why on earth would I be scared of you? Unless there’s some reason I should be …’ I couldn’t help but flirt back; he made it so easy.
He reached for my elbow and deftly turned me around. ‘Come on, I’ll put you in a cab.’ And before I could say no, that I was perfectly fine to find my own way home, that it was nice to meet him but he’d better think again if he thought he was coming home with me, I was standing on the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza with him.
‘Need a cab, folks?’ the doorman asked us as we walked outside.
‘Yes, please, one for the lady,’ Christian answered.
‘No, I have a car, um, right over there,’ I said, pointing to the strip of 58th Street in front of the Paris Theatre where all the Town Cars had lined up.
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel Christian smiling again. One of those smiles. He walked me over to the car and opened the door, swinging his arm gallantly toward the backseat.
‘Thank you,’ I said formally, not a little awkwardly, while extending my hand. ‘It was really nice to meet you, Christian.’
