Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Page 8

  “At eight,” I repeated, to dead air. Ethan had already rung off. Clearly he wasn’t big on small talk. Which was just as well, considering I was apparently incapable of forming coherent sentences.

  “I’ve got a date,” I whispered as Bethany and Clinton exchanged high fives. “On Saturday. With my stranger.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Chapter 7

  The next three days passed in a whirl of activity. I shipped off Dillon’s belongings (sans dog and a couple of DVDs). For the better part of valor, I continued to duck his calls, had my locks changed, and kept Bentley with me as much as possible. It was hard to think of everything ending this way. But what’s the T. S. Eliot line? “Not with a bang but a whimper?” Maybe there’s something to that.

  Still, it wasn’t easy. I’d honestly believed that Dillon and I were the real deal. Destined for a long life together. We’d met almost by accident, at a fundraiser my aunt had forced me to attend. It was beyond boring and I’d snuck out to a terrace for some fresh air. Dillon had had the same idea. He’d been leaning out over the balustrade drinking in the city.

  There’s nothing quite like Manhattan at night. Lights glittering like jewels accompanied by the myriad sounds that make up the city after sunset. And there’s no better way to view it than from on high.

  There hadn’t been any small talk at all. Just an instant and intense connection that had made my stomach jittery and my heart skip beats. Newly arrived from La La Land, Dillon was still in the first throes of falling in love with the city. And I’d been delighted to show it to him. Along the way, we’d discovered that we had all kinds of things in common. His parents, jetsetters who loved to travel, had left him on his own a great deal as he grew up. That was something I could totally identify with.

  But the commonalities didn’t end with our lack of familial support or our love for the city. We both loved breakfast at all hours of the day. We hated the trappings of society, but not so much the amenities money could buy. We loved modern art, long walks in the Village, and little pubs and shops where people knew your name.

  In short, we loved. Truly, madly, deeply. (A movie we both adored.)

  And now, suddenly, without any warning, I was questioning all of it. I mean, not only had he fallen for someone else, he’d fallen for Diana Merreck. She was the epitome of everything he’d purported to despise. She was old money with attitude and no tolerance for anything beyond the ermine-lined comfort of her Upper East Side world.

  It was as if I’d fallen down the rabbit hole, the world at the bottom turned inside out without so much as a by-your-leave.

  And then, if all that wasn’t enough, there was Ethan—and the D-A-T-E.

  I’d spent almost as much time obsessing about it as I had Dillon’s defection. And that, in and of itself, was enough for some major consternation. I mean, if I was really in love with Dillon, how could I possibly go out with another man? But if Dillon had left the building, why in the world should I stay at home wallowing in self-pity?

  Ethan seemed on every level to be a great guy. Why shouldn’t I share a meal with him?

  And so it went. Back and forth. Great idea . . . bad idea . . . Andi’s lost her mind. . . .

  Of course, in the middle of all this introspection, I’d also managed to get my hair cut, my nails done, and my brows waxed. I hadn’t had a date in almost three years, so I figured I needed all the cosmetic help I could get. (Clinton actually suggested Botox, but I declined, citing my recent hospitalization and stitches. A girl can only endure so much.)

  Anyway, physically, I was pretty much as good as it gets. Emotionally, I was roller-coastering between depression, sheer terror, and that age-old adolescent shimmer of excitement. And intellectually, at least according to Bethany, who’d had to endure much of my overthinking, I was certifiable.

  Fortunately, however, for both my sanity and my friends’, I had a career to occupy at least some of my time. At midweek the Mardi Gras show aired, and wonder of wonders, the Post and the Daily News both picked up our review. Take that, Diana. Whoever said revenge was a dish best served cold missed the entire point of the act. Done without emotion it is meaningless. I mean, if it doesn’t give you a thrill, then what’s the point? And I have to admit that I took great joy in the fact that I’d dealt her, at the very least, a symbolic blow.

  We’d also begun taping our next show, and, as always, getting into the kitchen provided great escape. There really is nothing like chopping onions, pounding veal, or just beating the hell out of a perfectly aromatic bread dough to ease one’s tension. Besides, no one ever argues with a woman holding a seven-inch chef’s knife.

  That said, there was still the nagging problem of how I was going to manage to serve up Philip DuBois to the network execs. Bethany, as promised, had contacted her client, and the woman had been only too happy to help.

  Unfortunately, DuBois’ publicist wasn’t cut from the same cooperative cloth.

  Monica Sinclair had represented DuBois for something like fifteen years. Which meant she was more than adept at keeping him out of the limelight. In fact, when Cassie had first contacted her about a meeting, she’d responded with a categorical no. But Cassie, being Cassie, had managed to cajole her way right into an interview, and so here we were at the corner of Sixth and West Forty-eighth on our way to Metro Media.

  “You ready for this?” Cassie asked as she signed us in at the front desk of the Simon & Schuster building. Metro Media was the third-largest PR firm in the city, and they handled some of the biggest names in entertainment. Athletes, musicians, movie stars, even a couple of politicians. Celebrities from every occupation. Including chefs. Philip DuBois in particular.

  “It’s just Monica, right? DuBois won’t be there,” I said as we stepped into the elevator.

  “No. I don’t think she’ll have even talked to him about it yet. This is strictly a chance for us to more fully explain what we have in mind. Then, assuming we can sell her, she’ll take the offer to DuBois.”

  “And convince him to forget about his aversion for public displays and come on the show. Like that’s going to happen. I should never have suggested getting DuBois.”

  “It’s a fabulous idea,” Cassie said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “It’s just going to take a little finessing. But we’re good at that, right?”

  “You’re good at that,” I conceded.

  Cassie really was a rising star when it came to the world of television. She had an eye for nontraditional topics that could be made commercially viable. As well as my show, her company had produced specials for PBS, a mockumentary for HBO, a science fiction series for one of the major networks, and a hit reality show about circus performers.

  She’d won numerous awards, including an Emmy, a Golden Globe, and a CLIO for some early commercial work. I was honored that she’d agreed to work with me. And, of course, grateful to have her as a friend. She was definitely the kind of person you wanted to have next to you when riding into battle.

  As if on cue, said ride ceased, and the elevator doors opened.

  “This is it,” I said, my voice quavering.

  “We’re in this together,” Cassie assured. “First up, DuBois’ publicist. Once we get her on our side, she’ll convince DuBois and the next thing you know, he’ll be on the show. Just wait and see.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “We can do this.” Cassie’s tone was just this side of dictatorial. Which was exactly what I needed.

  Squaring my shoulders and sucking in a deep breath, I nodded my agreement as we walked into Metro Media’s eighth-floor offices.

  The lobby had been decorated in that calculated minimalism that had been considered cutting-edge just a few years back. Black leather dominated the waiting area, wrought-iron torchieres reaching toward the ceiling like some sort of modern-day torture implements. In truth it was sort of Goth meets ergonomic gone Danish mod.

  After we introduced ourselves, the receptionist paged Monica, and before I had time t
o flip through the latest issue of People, we were seated in her office.

  In contrast to the lobby, Monica Sinclair’s space felt light and airy. Soft beige walls were accented with mauve carpets and deep purple upholstery, the colors enhanced by simple birch furniture and the muted tones of two lovely oil paintings.

  Like her office, Monica Sinclair epitomized understated class. Dressed entirely in gray, her dark black hair in an immaculate chignon, she looked surprisingly French, which, all things considered, probably made sense. DuBois had grown up in Provence and spent most of his working life in Paris. Subdued elegance would be something familiar. Inviting trust. And I could see that he would be drawn to a publicist who embodied these qualities.

  “So as I understand it,” Monica said, getting right down to business, “you need Philip to appear on your television show.” I’d been right about France. Monica had just the barest hint of an accent. Carefully cultivated away, no doubt, it still gave her an air of exotic authority.

  “We want Chef DuBois,” Cassie corrected. “Would be honored to have him, in fact.”

  “Yes, well, my sources tell me that in order to move your show to prime time, you must produce Philip.” She sat back, one eyebrow arching upward with controlled amusement. I suspected I’d quite like Monica Sinclair if my entire career didn’t rest in her perfectly manicured hands.

  “Your sources are correct,” I said. “Or at least partially so. I do have a shot at moving to prime time. And that means coming up with an amazing show. But the idea to ask Chef DuBois was entirely mine. I’ve been a fan of his forever. Bijou is practically a legend and I go to his L.A. location every time I’m there. And last year, when my boyfriend and I went to Paris, we ate at La Mangeoire.”

  “Paris is a very romantic city,” Monica said.

  “It was a fabulous trip.” And, I’d thought, one Dillon and I would repeat nostalgically as we grew old together. So much for romance. “I still remember the striped bass in sun-dried tomatoes. And the profiteroles.”

  “They’re everyone’s favorite.” Monica smiled at my enthusiasm and, banishing bad memories, I smiled back. Bonding over food was not something new for me.

  “Well, you can imagine my excitement when I heard that Mr. DuBois was here in Manhattan to open a new restaurant. The news is huge.”

  “Except that no one is supposed to know about it.” Monica frowned. “Who told you?”

  “Someone with an inside track,” I said, thinking of Bernie and her friends. “But not anyone who’d wish Chef DuBois ill. My friend found out inadvertently and only told me because she knew how much I admired the chef’s work, and how excited I’d be to know that he was coming back to New York. Anyway, all of that added together is why I want him on the show.”

  “To elevate What’s Cooking to prime time,” Monica repeated pointedly.

  “Of course.” I nodded, facing her implications head on. “Who wouldn’t jump at that opportunity? Having Chef DuBois on the show would certainly help advance my career. I’d be the first to admit it. But quite honestly, for me this is much bigger than that. It’s a dream come true. The chance to cook with a master.”

  “And,” Cassie inserted smoothly, “it’s an opportunity for Chef DuBois to publicize his new restaurant without the media frenzy of a full-on interview. We’re talking about a cooking show. And a very positive slant both on DuBois and his return to the city.”

  “I saw this week’s show.” Monica steepled her fingers. “A restaurant named Mardi Gras, no? Not exactly a positive spin on the restaurant.”

  I sighed. “Once a month we review new restaurants. In this case the food simply wasn’t up to par. And it’s my duty to be honest with my viewers. I’m sure if you check our archives you’ll find that there have been as many good reviews as bad ones. Mardi Gras just wasn’t one of the winners, I’m afraid.”

  “The point is,” Cassie was quick to insert, “that we won’t be doing a review of Chef DuBois’ restaurants. We won’t be doing a review at all. With the exception of our monthly review show, Andi spends most of her time talking with area chefs about their dishes and their restaurants.”

  “As well as patrons and personal lives. I’ve seen the show on more than one occasion.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said. “But if you’ve watched the show, then you know that it’s all done with good intention. I love Manhattan and I love its restaurants. So it’s a privilege for me to get to bring some of the greatest cooking in the city into the homes of my viewers.”

  “And that’s what you intend for Philip?”

  “Exactly.” Cassie nodded. “We want to feature his cooking. And, at the same time, give our audience a chance to get to know the real man. It would be a special show dedicated to one of the world’s foremost chefs.”

  “But the world already loves him,” Monica said. “Or at least his cooking. So what does Philip gain by doing your show?”

  “On an international level he is definitely considered one of the greats,” I agreed. “But here in the city his reputation isn’t quite as stellar.” Cassie shook her head, but I ignored her. Unless I’d totally misread Monica Sinclair, she was the type of woman who responded best to honesty. “You know as well as I do that when he abandoned Bijou there were some hard feelings in both the financial and gastronomic communities. And both have very long memories, I’m afraid.”

  “And you think your show can help alleviate some of these ‘hard feelings,’ as you call them?”

  “I think it’s a chance to show people that the past is the past. And that Chef DuBois is coming back to the city to cook, not to stir up old stories. It’s an opportunity to announce that he’s bringing some of the phenomenal success he’s had worldwide back to a place where he has roots. Bijou was actually his first real success, wasn’t it? So there’s history. And New Yorkers love history. If the story is spun properly, DuBois will be treated like the prodigal son.”

  “An interesting take, certainly,” she said, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Most importantly, it’s a chance for him to do what he does best. Cook. And share his love for all things culinary with a like-minded audience. It’s win/win for all of us.”

  Cassie nodded her agreement, all but shooting me a thumbs-up.

  “He hasn’t done anything like this in years,” Monica said, cocking her head to one side as she considered the possibility. “But to be quite frank, you’re right about his reputation. It’s totally undeserved, of course. There were extenuating reasons for his leaving New York. Personal ones. But since he is an extremely private person, it’s not something he’s ever going to explain. Which means the topic would be strictly off-limits for your show.”

  “I can totally understand that.” I nodded. “And I think we can make sure that you have that in writing. I have no interest in probing into the private areas of Chef DuBois’ life. I simply want the opportunity to cook with him. And to share that with the people who watch What’s Cooking in the City.”

  “Well, I have to admit, I’m drawn to the idea of presenting him in a fresh light.”

  “But we would, of course, want to talk about his professional history,” Cassie said, her voice taking on a decidedly businesslike tone. “His background gastronomically speaking as well as the various restaurants in his culinary empire. It’s part of the appeal of our show.”

  “I think that would be acceptable.” Monica nodded. “As long as there are clear limits, and we’ve approved the topics beforehand.”

  “So we’re actually going to do this?” I said, unable to contain my excitement.

  “I think you could say that I’m cautiously optimistic about the idea. Of course, I still have to present it to Philip. And he’s never very receptive when I’m talking about the press.”

  “But I’m not the press. Not at all. I’m just a lucky woman who gets to make her living meeting and cooking with some of the city’s best chefs. It’s pure joy. Believe me.”

  “I do, actually.” She smil
ed. “That’s one of the reasons I’m considering your request.”

  “Good,” Cassie said, ever the professional. “Then we’re agreed. I’ve prepared an information package with ratings and a demographic breakdown. I think you’ll find that it skews nicely in the direction of Chef DuBois’ intended customers.” She laid a large packet on the desk. “In addition, there’s a full proposal outlining our ideas for formatting the show should the chef decide to become involved in the project. There’s also a DVD with several episodes of What's Cooking in the City similar in format to what we have in mind for Chef DuBois.”

  “Excellent,” Monica said, rising to shake our hands. “I’ll review this and present your ideas to Philip.”

  “I’m sure you’ll understand that this is time specific,” Cassie said. “We’ve only a short window to make this work.”

  “Absolutely. And quite honestly, Philip isn’t the type to dither over making a decision. So hopefully, I can get back to you quickly.”

  I nodded, and sat back in my chair, content to let Cassie and Monica hash out the nuts and bolts of our potential agreement while I enjoyed my small moment of success. Cassie had been right; with Monica on our side, the idea that I might actually share a saucier with the Philip DuBois, on national television no less, suddenly seemed entirely possible.

  Prime time was within my grasp.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday night arrived way before I was ready and with enough rain to float an ark down Broadway. I sat at the window, trying to come up with a legitimate reason for canceling my date with Ethan. Don’t get me wrong, part of me really wanted to go. But another, stronger part of me was just plain terrified.

  Anyway, I’d picked up the phone about a hundred times, tried on pretty much every dress I owned. And basically come to the conclusion that I was a complete and total freak when it came to men. I couldn’t hang on to the one I had and then, presented with the opportunity to get to know someone new, I panicked.