Chapter Four

When the phone rang at ten fifteen, just after I opened that ridiculous fortune cookie, it seemed preordained that Jordan would call. I answered in my most seductive phone voice.

Phony as it was, I had several telephone voices, as do most people, even if they won’t admit it. Anyone who knew me could tell if I was talking to my mother, Arnie, Jennelle, a client, or someone I was interested in sleeping with. Can you guess which voice I answered with? Clearly, though, the whole Chinese restaurant fortune cookie copy department was now having a Buddha-sized belly laugh at my expense.

“Frank?”

“Frank?”

“Frank,” he repeated.

“There’s no one here by that name.” I lapsed into my voice for telephone solicitors. “You obviously have the wrong number.”

“No Frank?”

“No,” I hissed. “And it’s after ten on a weeknight. Even if he was here, he’d be dead asleep.” I hung up and it rang again. I let it go to voicemail. The caller didn’t leave a message. Not for me. Or Frank.

• • •

It was one of those weekday mornings when the entire transit system was out of whack. This time someone having a psychotic fit had flung himself on the tracks at Union Square. When he refused to budge, backup police were called and trains were halted, paralyzing movement across much of the city. As I waited for the situation to be resolved, more and more people filled the platform until it was packed like Times Square on New Year’s. Only there was no revelry, just menacing looks at the loudspeaker farting out indecipherable sounds intermittently to explain something. I headed for the exit to hunt for a cab. As I was walking up the staircase in the middle of a thick crowd of grumbling commuters who had made the same decision, I felt something alive in my pocket. I shrieked. People around me stared momentarily and then resumed their climb without a second glance, having had their fill of psychotic behavior for one morning. It was the vibra-ring of my cell.

“What?” I said, in despair.

“You called me.” He had a velvety voice with a trace of an English accent. Jude Law-ish.

“Who is this?” I asked impatiently.

“You called Jordan, didn’t you?”

I bounded to the top of the staircase, walked toward a building to get away from the crowds, and then crouched down. My skin prickled underneath my sweater.

“Yes,” I said, trying to meld my clipped, irritated voice into a more appealing one. “Yes…I did.”

“Well then,” he said, sounding almost amused, “what is it?”

“Here goes…” I exhaled for effect. “I found a letter you wrote—a love letter—and well, I—I had to talk to the man who wrote it because…to be honest…it was one of the most beautiful, seductive love letters I’ve ever read.”

Silence. I held the phone back from my ear to make sure we hadn’t gotten disconnected. The way things were going that morning, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the connection broke and I never heard from him again. But it looked like we were still connected. I let out my breath. No doubt he was convinced I was out of my mind.

“I didn’t expect this…”

“I realize it’s strange.”

“Well, I’m intrigued,” he said, finally. “If this isn’t a New York story…a perfect stranger calling because she read a love letter. Listen, I’ve got a crazy day…but do you think we could meet for a drink later on?”

“A drink?” The village idiot with echolalia.

“Wine, perhaps…champagne?”

He was already laughing at me.

“We could meet around seven, if you’re free. How about Rise?”

“Yes…okay…what time?”

“Seven?”

“Fine.” Seven. He had already said seven. I hung up and headed to my appointment, only to come to my senses. I knew my way around the city pretty well—I had lived here for my entire life. But Rise? I had never heard of it. Was it a restaurant? A bar? It could be a church, a courtroom (all rise…). I’d call the authority on all places drink-related. I speed-dialed Jennelle.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Rise?” No surprise that I neglected formalities.

“Rise? Or R-I-C-E?”

Christ, did he say Rice? Was it a Chinese restaurant? A macrobiotic dive? “I think Rise. Or maybe ricin.” No, that was the god-awful poison. “It’s got to be a bar or something and I’m supposed to meet someone there for a drink but I’ve got no clue what the hell it is or where.”

“Wait.” Keys clicking. “It a bar at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on the fourteenth floor,” she said. “Wall Street area.” There was a pause. “Ooh la la…it looks like quite a romantic little place. Listen to this: ‘The Sugar and Spice package provides a lovers’ escape complete with a passport to indulgence; includes couples massage and entry to the exclusive Chocolate Bar.’”

“WHAT?” So first I fantasized about Wall Street getting quiet at the end of the workday and him trying to lure me into a room in the hotel after we met for a quick drink up on the fourteenth floor, and then I thought about massages and the chocolate bar and I started to sweat. Why couldn’t we meet somewhere down on the ground, not up in the clouds?

I mean, Rise? What kind of name was that? Maybe he would, that’s why he thought of it. Maybe he was a sicko. What had I gotten myself into? And Wall Street? Unless you both worked in the financial district, why would you suggest having a drink down there? It was deserted at night.

What people outside of Manhattan failed to understand was that people in Manhattan dreaded going far (except to Europe) for anything. That’s why we paid the absurd prices we did. Everyone should live and work in the same zip code, someone smart once said.

“Fuck. Thanks, Jennelle.”

“Who are you meeting? You sound like a madwoman.”

Jennelle was my human Richter scale, ever-ready to give me a reading on the seismic events in my life. “My cell’s running out of juice. It’s complicated,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

I wanted to meet Jordan, but not in lower Manhattan at a hotel bar that had a name like an erection. I called him back.

“Jordan, it’s Sage.” I put a smile in my voice. “Listen, I’m sure Rise is a lovely place, but I forgot that I’ve got to be uptown this afternoon and I don’t think I’ll be able to make it downtown in time. Could we meet someplace up here?”

“Hmmm.”

Was he stretching or considering the uptown possibilities? Maybe he was in the middle of making love to Caroline or some other conquest.

“How about the Carlyle?” he said, finally.

“Good…see you at seven.” I was about to hang up when I heard, “Wait. How will I recognize you?”

“Five eight, shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, green eyes.” I looked at what I was wearing. “A green Chanel jacket with jeans.”

“Hmmm,” he said again, this time with a smile in his voice. “I’ll find you.”

I spent most of the morning with a client. I was calm and professional. I had all the answers to her wardrobe woes and she felt she could count on me.

“I’d like to be like you,” she said, almost worshipful. “Stylish, self-assured, in touch with what flatters you and what doesn’t.”

If she only knew.

As soon as I was out the door, my veneer of self-assurance cracked like thin ice. To get ready to meet Jordan I canceled my next appointment—I’m so sorry, I’ve got these flulike symptoms—something I hated to do not only because it meant lying but also because I was tempting fate. But the upcoming rendezvous with LW put me in overdrive. An EKG right then would have shown the blips, bells, and bongs of a pinball machine.

I entered my closet, pulling out tops, bottoms, shoes, and jewelry, trying this and that, tossing the rejects to the floor. Like the writer who faces twenty-six keys on the computer and knows all that’s necessary for a bestseller is arriving at the right combination, somewhere in the closet was the right match.

You have one chance to make a serious impression. I repeatedly told my clients that. I settled on a slim black YSL skirt, a find from David Owens Vintage Clothing on Orchard Street, black alligator slingbacks that I bought for next to nothing at Buffalo Exchange in Williamsburg, and a three-quarter-sleeve white cashmere Versace sweater with a scoop neck that I bought back when I was in college at Michael’s Resale, a consignment shop on Madison Avenue where Jackie Kennedy was said to have dumped her castoffs.

The overall look was revealing, but refined. A bold, silver Elsa Peretti cuff that molded snugly around my wrist, and dangling silver mesh earrings that moved with me. Yin-yangish, I thought.

I spent an excruciating amount of time on my hair so it fell in right, applying “product,” as my hair colorist dubbed the styling cream (as in, “Do you want product?”) that she slicked on the roots and ends with lightning speed to give it body and shine. I wore it down instead of back, the way I did for work. Light foundation, eyeliner pencil, and lipstick blotted to a stain. I picked a black Chanel purse and a short white wool Prada jacket. I waved to Harry and locked the door behind me.

I walked to Third Avenue and lifted my arm to flag down a cab. There were usually people at all points of the intersection poised to halt the first cab, as if they were on a reality show and getting a cab meant survival.

Only not then. A cab pulled up instantaneously and that does not happen. I was going to be disgustingly early. I sat back hoping for a tie-up or street construction but no, not a pothole or even a nick. We moved faster than a bobsled on a luge course. I had the driver drop me a few blocks before the hotel and I walked the rest of the way, whiling away time looking into stores on Madison Avenue, stopping at Zitomer, a pharmacy/department store known for exotic toiletries, European underwear, an amazing collection of hard-to-find goodies like peel-and-stick bras and deodorant-removing sponges, natural cures like Vocalzone throat pastilles that I bought for a client who was a singer and lost her voice, and SinEcch—capsules of Arnica montana—that I found for a client who had lingering bruises after a facelift and had an upcoming event she had to look perfect for.

7:10. My pencil-thin heels rat-tat-tatted across the polished black granite lobby floor. Only then did I remember telling Jordan that I was wearing a green Chanel jacket and jeans. Fabulous. He’d now know I went to the trouble of changing. So much for my hectic day.

I made my way to Bemelmans Bar, an intimate space known for the whimsical murals done by the creator of the Madeline children’s books, Ludwig Bemelmans. The story goes that he was a guest at the hotel and painted them as a form of barter because he couldn’t afford his bill. Despite the child-friendly nature of the art, the bar is touted as one of New York’s most romantic spots. And it lives up to its reputation. It’s lush, leathery, and dimly lit—that soft golden light that airbrushes away imperfections. Dressing rooms lit that way turned you into a swan and cost you serious money. Day or night, you can count on seeing celebrities here. One evening I met a friend there and Paul McCartney walked in. The piano player wasted no time segueing into “Penny Lane.”

As if arriving in another outfit weren’t bad enough, I got there before Jordan did. And I hate that. “I’m meeting someone,” I murmured to the maître d’. I was seated at a small table along a dark leather banquette. Not counting the bartender, I was the only one in the room who was alone. No book, no newspaper. I filled the minutes staring at my phone, but really dissecting my life.

Sage Parker, a thirty-four-year-old unmarried closet consultant, recently ditched by her filmmaker boyfriend who preferred an anorexic French actress devoid of fashion savvy, was sitting in a bar waiting to meet a total stranger who wrote a letter she unearthed on the filthy floor of a cab. She went to great lengths to track the writer, making blind calls to strangers in the phone book, canceling client appointments, and finally spending hours in her closet to come up with the right outfit.

There it was. I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again. Dress up and sit alone in a bar and whoosh, you’re a hooker. I avoided extended eye contact with men in the room and pretended to study the murals. I glanced to my left when I sensed someone approaching. He was tall and powerfully built, with a ponytail and wearing a long black leather coat. Jordan? Not the way I’d pictured him. He scanned the crowd and waved to someone across the room before he headed that way.

Not Jordan. Good. Ponytails rarely worked unless the man was under thirty and a rich Italian with soulful eyes, perhaps the black sheep of a prominent family. Otherwise: drug czar, hit man, or bouncer.

Back to the murals. Someone else came close. Not Jordan. A waiter, unless Jordan masqueraded as one to check me out before committing himself. I wasn’t losing my ground or anything. More mural scrutiny until I looked up again. I was sure it was the omnipresent waiter, but this time, someone about six foot two in a wonderful suit was smiling down at me. Very good eyes and an easy smile.

“Sage?”

I looked back at him, aware of the atoms of attraction bombarding each other.

“Yes.” He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.

“Nice Chanel jacket,” he said, deadpan.

I flashed him my most radiant smile. “It would have been an hour ago.”

He was critically handsome with beautifully cut dark hair, a fine, straight nose, and a searching look in his deep-set, coffee-colored eyes, if the light wasn’t distorting them. Impeccable fit to the navy gabardine suit over a deep blue shirt and striped navy tie. I could have improved just a mite on the tie, but whatever. He was broad-shouldered, elegant. Large, graceful hands like a surgeon and perfect nails, and I was thinking about the possibilities.

“What are you drinking?” he asked. “Can I get you another?” My glass was almost empty, I realized. It had been six hours since lunch. I didn’t do well drinking on an empty stomach.

“Chardonnay, thanks.”

He ordered a gin martini. We sat silently for an awkward few seconds taking each other’s measure. The drinks came and after a quick “Salut,” he looked at me with a guilty smile. “So you were intrigued by a love letter.”

I sipped the wine, rotating the stem between my fingers. “It’s just not the kind of thing men do anymore… And anyway, you write so well.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but whatever.”

“What do you do for a living?” It wouldn’t have surprised me to hear he wrote novels. Maybe he was a publisher, an actor, or a pilot. Too well-dressed to be a journalist.

“Mergers and acquisitions.” He shook his head, almost in disbelief himself. “And you?”

“I help people get dressed,” I said, feeling the wine supersaturating my blood.

“How’s that?” He tilted his head to the side with a half smile. Was the alcohol working on him too, or was he just naturally cocky?

“I’m a wardrobe consultant. If you needed help with your wardrobe I’d go through your closet with you and tell you what to keep and what to throw out. Then we’d go shopping.” I studied his face. Some people were amused by how I spent my time. Or envious. Others thought it was stupid and shallow. Like an astute businessman, he held his feelings in check.

“You’d come into my closet?” He leaned forward, giving it more intimacy and danger than it merited. “And how much would that service cost?”

I narrowed my eyes, aware of my breathing. “It would depend on how long it took,” I said, slowly reaching for my drink. Why was this conversation starting to sound like something it wasn’t? For diversion, or at least a blood sugar boost, it would have helped to have some snack food. Pretzels or Goldfish crackers, but there was just the plump Spanish olive stuffed with red pimento speared on his toothpick, and I wasn’t about to reach across the table and slide it off into my mouth.

“It’s about clothing and self-image…it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Hmmm,” I said, mimicking him, “just my sixth sense. So you’re English,” I said, coming up with a great non sequitur.

He nodded with a knowing smile.

“And you live here now?”

“No, I live in London most of the time. I’m here for business a few months of the year, though. And you’re from New York?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re single?”

I nodded again. “And you?”

He paused for a moment. “Married.”

Slap.

“My wife’s at home,” he said.

I tried to show no emotion, but I felt stung. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band; I had checked the moment he sat down. I couldn’t deny the attraction, and now all my detective work, my hours of fantasy, not to mention all that time in my closet and the canceled client appointment were for nothing. The game was over. For once, Arnie was so, so right. The whole thing was like a movie I made up in my head. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Greg the wretch had staged it all for the cinematic possibilities.

“So why did you ask to meet me for a drink? What was the point?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, hoping he didn’t see my cheeks starting to flush.

“I was intrigued, obviously,” he said. “You called me, I didn’t call you. It was unusual, to say the least, to get a phone call like that. Can you blame me for wondering who you were?”

“No…yes…I—I don’t know. But now we’ve met and it’s getting late and I haven’t eaten, and you’re married, so before I’m blotto from two glasses of wine on an empty stomach”—I pushed out my chair—“I’d better be going.”

I was about to leave when I realized I hadn’t asked him about Caroline. Clearly he had had an affair with her. Maybe that was his pattern. He was strikingly handsome; how easy it would be for him to take lovers with his wife an ocean away. He was a serial adulterer, no doubt. Women flocked to his door and he had his pick, secure that he’d never be found out. Wonderful sexual adventures for a month or two, then he’d return home—the faithful husband. He wined them, dined them, and if someone should turn her back on him before he was through with her, he’d get out his Montblanc and dash off a heart-wrenching missive about how he couldn’t live without her.

I waited a moment while he signed the check. I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to be his latest conquest. I stood up and put on my jacket.

“Don’t run off,” he said, tucking his wallet into a back pocket, as he saw me buttoning my jacket. “Please. We’ll get some dinner. I won’t follow you home or anything. No strings attached…I’d just like to get to know you.”

“I have to go…but one last question. Whatever happened to Caroline?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, in your letter…you sounded so desperately in love with her…I mean, that was the whole point, wasn’t it? So I wondered.”

“It’s over,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “It’s history.”

“I see.”

He looked at me strangely. I stood up. All around us, sitting at the intimate café tables, were couples who seemed to be basking in each other’s company without any labored backstory. After drinks and a light dinner, they’d either jump in their limos and head home or go upstairs to their two-thousand-dollar suites with fresh flowers and spectacular Central Park views to spend the night in king-size beds, in each other’s arms.

There were 8.2 million people in New York. It was the most densely populated city in North America. Was it too much to hope that I would meet one man, one single man whom I could love, or was I destined to hit the online dating sites for the rest of my life and go off for coffee after endless coffee? Most women found someone. Yes, even women who didn’t know how to dress. Women who wore cheap, badly fitting, unflattering clothes. Women with no fashion or style sense whatsoever. Women who were too fat or too thin. Kmart shoppers. Socialites. Low-end, high-end. Everybody. Anybody. They had husbands, lovers, dates. They didn’t resort to hunting down perfect strangers for companionship. They met men the usual ways. They didn’t comb the floors of taxis like desperate bag ladies and have high hopes that perfect strangers would transport them.

I was pathetic and loveless—well-dressed outside, but peel away my designer layers and I was a designer clone of Beth, who had OD’d on fried chicken legs and seven-layer cake, trying to shop and eat her way out of despair by buying more and more shapeless, hideous fat clothes to hide behind. I rushed to the door without looking behind me. Well-dressed people strolled by, enjoying the night air on their way home.

“Sage, wait,” he called out, catching up to me. “You don’t know the whole story. I owe you an explanation. This wasn’t…fair.”

“Fair?” I hesitated. Since when was life fair? “It’s fine, really.” I held my arm up and again, like in the movies and almost never in real life, a cab pulled up and I got in without turning back or searching the floor for buried treasures.