Who Would You Choose? Page 2

  “I know, Ms. Webster.” He interrupted her. “Just some lemon juice and pepper.”

  “You’re a dear,” she said. “And a cappuccino.” She handed the menu to him. “That’ll be all.”

  Bridey ordered a hamburger and sweet potato fries. And a small green salad. The waiter took her menu and disappeared.

  The manuscript she’d been reading was on the table in front of her, and she opened her tote bag to put it away.

  “Is that for the new book?” Marge asked. “Or your next column? For us?”

  “It’s the column. For the December issue.”

  “The ‘Christmas in Scandinavia’ theme. And you still proof on paper?”

  “It’s a good check. I miss a lot on screen.”

  “You’re so old-fashioned.”

  “I know. Serves me well.”

  “Mack loves you that way.”

  “Mack is old-fashioned, too. In a way.”

  “Jerry is, too. Sort of.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re both lucky.”

  “I guess.”

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  Bridey spoke first. “So, what other deep thoughts have you been having on your way over here?”

  “Actually, an idea for you.” She took a breadstick from the basket. “You know those carts you see on the streets around town. The ones that sell roasted nuts. The honey-roasted kind?”

  “I know. I could eat bags of the peanuts. Those are my favorite. And I love how the aroma fills up the whole street.”

  “Exactly. Well, I bought some while I was walking. And while I was eating them, I was thinking of all the great street food we have here in New York. Not just hot dogs. You can get Ethiopian and Chinese and Indonesian and Peruvian and God-knows-what-else. And it’s all really good. So I was thinking about doing a ‘Cart Food in New York’ theme, with fashion to go with each one. Just a thought. But I think there’s something there and I’m going to work on it. What do you think?”

  “It would work.”

  “Maybe call it ‘What to Wear While Dining Out.’”

  Bridey smiled. “That’s cute. I like it. And it would be fun research for me.”

  “I might join you. I could really use the break.”

  Bridey waited a minute—choosing her words. Then, gently, she said, “You work awfully hard, Marge.” She looked seriously at her friend. “Is it okay to tell you?” She paused, then not waiting, she plunged on ahead. “You’re looking—tired.”

  “Oh, Bridey. Not you, too.” She took a sip of her wine. “My doctor’s been telling me to take a rest.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Okay, okay. You don’t need to nag me.” She took another breadstick and gestured with it as she talked. “Tell you what. As soon as this next issue is out, I’ll take a vacation. Promise. Jerry’s tied up in some big litigation for the foreseeable future so I’ll hardly get to see him anyway.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” The waiter was there with her asparagus and Bridey’s burger, so she paused while he set it all down, offered the additional twists of pepper, made sure they had everything they wanted, then disappeared. She continued, “And here’s a thought. How about let’s do it together. You and me, without the guys, just a girls’ week out of town. Or at least a few days. We could go to Cape Cod or even a Caribbean island, someplace gorgeous, and drink wine and loaf in the sun. What do you think?”

  “I think you need a whole lot more than a week and I’d be lucky to be able to spare even that much.”

  “Oh, come on. Mack can take care of the kids for a few days. He’d love it. He’s great with them and it wouldn’t hurt you to take a short trip without them. It’ll be an interesting change.”

  Bridey laughed. “Are you kidding? I know what you’re doing, Marge. Like when we were kids. You’ll wind up getting me into some kind of mischief.”

  “Who, me?” Marge laughed, too. “No way. I’m all grown up now. Those days are over. It’s a rest I need, not excitement.” She squeezed a bit of lemon on her salad. “Have dinner tonight with Jerry and me. We can talk about it some more. ”

  “Sounds nice. I’ll check with Mack and get back to you.”

  “Great,” Marge said. “Galba’s at seven.” And then, as though she’d flipped a switch, she slipped abruptly back into “professional” mode. “But this is a business lunch. We need to talk about your TV segment next week. So let’s forget about vacations for now.” She took a file of notes out of her bag and laid them next to her plate.

  “Right,” Bridey said. “Back to work.” And there was no more talk of vacations.

  Chapter Two

  Piero Massione arrived all Italian charm and air-kisses, with his signature white hair flowing, and a pale leather jacket slung cape-like over his shoulders.

  “Marge, mia cara, you look wonderful.”

  “And so do you, Piero. Young and handsome as ever. But you bring me disturbing news.”

  The tiny flicker of anxiety in Piero’s eyes didn’t match the broad, confident smile he was putting on, as though the two parts of his face were from two different people.

  He didn’t want to displease Marge Webster. No one wanted to displease Marge Webster. The photographers, the designers, the distributors—her approval was essential to everyone’s success. Despite the surface cordiality, Piero was afraid of her. They were all afraid of her.

  “Alas, Marge. What can I say? I am an artist. I cannot give you anything but my best work. And I was not happy with these latest.”

  “You know we close in two weeks.”

  What game is he playing? Does he think I’ll let him re-negotiate his billings?

  “Of course. But what can we do?”

  Piero is a brilliant fashion photographer. But he shouldn’t try to swim with the sharks—

  “We can re-shoot, of course. If we need to. But you have access to the digital originals?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have your people send them. Max will see what we can do.” Maximilian Kovacs was Lady Fair’s brilliant design editor and Marge trusted him to spin magic gold out of whatever Piero could provide, because whatever he’d shot, Marge knew they could work with it. There were a thousand ways to manipulate photographs to make them usable. “In the meantime, have a coffee and tell me about your flight.” She signaled her assistant, Frieda, who had been alerted to be ready with an espresso. “You always meet such interesting people.”

  Piero pouted but he made his call to his studio in Milan. The pictures would be sent electronically. O brave new world! Then he took a seat and he and Marge chatted together, like old friends. Which, of course, they still were.

  All would be well. Another disaster averted.

  * * * *

  Galba’s Café was fizzy with the dinnertime buzz and clink of a popular Midtown restaurant. A couple of heads turned as the maître d’ escorted Marge to the table, but most people were too cool to make a show of recognizing her. When Bridey came in, a few minutes later, a few more heads turned. People knew her delicious TV personality on the Your Turn, Chef cooking show and a discreet trail of smiles followed her as she threaded her way through the tables to join Marge.

  “The guys aren’t here yet?” as she sat down.

  “No, we’re ahead of them.”

  Bridey stowed her bag at her feet. “So,” she said. “Did you get your latest disaster resolved?”

  “Oh, sure. Just needed a little genius-massaging. It will work out. It always does.”

  “It does because you make it work out. But I know, Marge. It’s a crisis-a-minute.”

  “That’s just about it.” Marge closed her eyes wearily, sighed briefly, then smiled. “But I do love my work.”

  “And you do a great job. Lady Fair is the best!”

&n
bsp; “I know it is.” She could say that to Bridey, without bragging, because they were old friends. “I know it is, Bridey.”

  “As long as you stay healthy.”

  Marge made a face and said, “Let’s change the subject.”

  “I’m just saying. You look like you could use a little time in the sun. Maybe if you put on a little lipstick.”

  “Oh, jeez. I ran out so fast, I forgot.”

  “See? My point exactly. Since when do you forget to keep your face perfectly made up? That’s really not like you.”

  “I know. I know.” She was getting her little makeup kit out of her bag.

  “Some color will help.”

  Marge took a quick look at her face in the mirror, and frowned.

  “Let’s face it,” Marge said. “I’m not twenty anymore.”

  She held the mirror up real close.

  “That’s for sure.” Bridey was laughing. “Those days are long gone. And thank God for that. I wouldn’t be twenty again for anything. I remember when you and I didn’t have two pennies between us to rub together.”

  Marge touched a finger to the faint—very faint—beginning of a crease at the corner of her eye.

  “I’m not thirty anymore, either.”

  “Just put on your lipstick, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You look terrific and you know it.”

  “In a few years I’ll be forty.”

  “You’re thirty-five and much too young to be mourning your lost youth.”

  “I know. I know. I’m just tired.” Marge brushed a bit of color onto her lips. “Working too hard, too much to think about.” A last glance into the mirror and she stowed it and the lipstick into her makeup case, zipped it up, and dropped the case into her handbag. “I need a rest. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Maybe when the September issue closes?”

  “I’ll think about it, Bridey. I really will.” Marge brushed a tiny wisp of lint from her jacket, sat back in her chair and put a smile on her face. “The guys will be here in a minute and I just want a cheery dinner with my best friends.”

  “That’s better,” Bridey said. She broke off a bit of bread from the basket and dipped it into the tiny dish of olive oil the waiter had set between them. “Honestly, Marge. Have you any idea how many women would die for the life you have? You’re healthy, you’re beautiful, you have the greatest job in the world. Designers plead with you to wear their clothes, they give you enough gorgeous stuff to outfit the whole Upper East Side, plus accessories, and buckets of makeup no ordinary human being can afford. How much does that lipstick cost?”

  “It’s ninety dollars retail. Louboutin’s latest.”

  “I didn’t know it was possible to spend ninety dollars on a lipstick. And the suit?”

  “You don’t want to know. It would make you mad.”

  “Thank you for that.” Bridey’s face reflected the sarcasm. “You live in a gorgeous apartment that cost millions, and you have a great, successful, good-looking guy in love with you, who’d move in with you in a minute if you’d let him. And I know he’s proposed, at least twice. Mack told me. Jerry Germaine thinks you’re absolutely the best thing that ever happened in his whole life—”

  “I know.”

  “—and who really is maybe the best thing that ever happened in your life.”

  “Well—maybe—”

  “Marge, you know I’m right.”

  “I know.”

  “So that’s enough, Ms. Webster. We’re both totally lucky and I don’t want to hear another word.”

  “You’re right. Of course.”

  “Now drink your wine and stop looking so snarky.”

  * * * *

  When Jerry arrived, ten minutes later, it was with a smile, a quick kiss for Marge, and a single red rose, which he presented to her with a small flourish. “Guy outside was selling these and I couldn’t resist,” he said. “It’s my apology for being late.” He looked at the empty fourth chair. “Where’s Mack? Is he late, too?”

  “He texted,” Bridey said. “Got hung up in traffic. He’ll be here soon. Said to go ahead and order without him.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’m starving. No time for lunch—just a bag of pretzels and a Coke out of a vending machine.”

  “How’s the trial going?” Marge was putting the rose into her water glass. “You finished jury selection?”

  “Yeah. Too early to tell, but all good so far. Guy on the other side will be tough.”

  “You’ll win,” she said. “You always do.”

  How could he not give her a big smile? He did, a smile that took in Bridey as well, and maybe the whole restaurant. And he leaned over to Marge and kissed her again. “You are my best cheering squad. Couldn’t do it without you, honey.”

  “It’s mutual, Jerry.” Marge returned the kiss. “And you’re my cheering squad.”

  “Okay, okay, you two,” Bridey said. “Enough of that. I’m starving, too. Let’s order.”

  “Right,” Jerry said, and signaled the waiter who came right over, order pad in hand. In a few minutes, a nice Italian red wine was being poured, they were sharing a plate of antipasti for the table, and were talking about vacation possibilities.

  “I’m all for it,” Jerry was saying, “And I think we should make plans. But this trial’s going be a long one so there’s no way I can commit to anything for at least a month—could be more. Maybe you two could take off a little time together. See if Mack could join you.”

  “I know he can’t,” Bridey said. “He needs to be in New York for the Expo thing this month. But Marge and I were talking about it. I think Mack would be able to handle the kids for a few days anyway to let me get away for a quick vacation. I’ve really been pushing Marge to get a rest—”

  She broke off, because Mack had just arrived and she waved to him as she saw him looking around for them. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

  And there was Mack, also bearing a single red rose.

  “Hi, everyone,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.” He handed the rose to Bridey and said, “There’s a guy outside selling these.” He kissed her and said, “For you, honey. Traffic was all snarled coming down Lexington.” He pulled out the empty chair and got himself settled. He saw the rose in Marge’s water glass and he laughed.

  “Hey, Jerry, so you were late, too?”

  “I got hung up at court. Couldn’t get away earlier.”

  “Big case?”

  “Big enough. The girls were talking about taking a vacation, but I’ll be tied up with this thing for weeks. I can’t get away now, not for a couple of months, at least.” He turned to Marge and said, “But honey, maybe I can make it up a bit. The client gave me a couple of tickets to the game tomorrow night. Courtside. At the Garden. Want to go?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I want to go.”

  “My time might be a little tight tomorrow, so why don’t you meet me at the courthouse so we can grab a cab and go together.”

  She nodded, big smile, and it was arranged.

  Mack said, “Hey Jerry—how about those Knicks? You think they’ll make it this year?”

  Jerry was instantly animated—all thoughts of jury selection, strategy to brainstorm, millions of bucks at risk—all slipped away and the men were boys again.

  Marge tipped her head at Bridey and her little smile spoke for her.

  See what I mean? Look at them. No matter how grown-up they are, they connect so easily with each other in their world of play. Like little boys

  They reminded her of the pick-up game she’d watched earlier that day, the male of the species, bonding in its love of sports, a love rooted in their little-boy lives, never outgrown. And why should it be? No matter how solemn their work may be, they could always tap back into their little-boyness.

  She observed the two men with
admiration. With wonder. And with pleasure. She was comparing the two men.

  Look at them. Bridey’s a lucky woman. They are such an attractive couple.

  Bridey Berrigan, with her delicate features, her creamy complexion, framed by the brilliant red curls—Marge had always imagined her friend as the daughter of an Irish fairy mother and a leprechaun father—a mischievous child, grown now into a reliable, busy and productive professional. She was still trim, not a single extra pound had been added to her fine, slim frame since having her two absolutely darling children, five-year-old Llewellyn, named for his grandfather, and Henrietta, about to have her second birthday in a few weeks.

  Bridey made a lovely counterpart to Mack whose dark hair and almost black eyes contrasted so attractively with her colorful beauty. Mack was an ex-Navy man, and he had the good looks of a fit, healthy, well-bred, conservative executive. Book publisher, actually. From the neat trim of his haircut down to the mirror-shine of his black shoes, Mack Brewster was every inch, outwardly, the conservative, by-the-book man he’d been brought up to be. But Bridey had brought merriment and magic into his well-managed life and he adored her. Marge thought they were a physically beautiful and emotionally perfectly matched couple.

  Her own Jerry—she always thought of him as “her” Jerry—was a different type altogether. Good-looking, too, but in a different way. He had a bit of the absent-minded professor about him. A killer in the courtroom, but never could find his keys, his wallet, the book he’d been reading. She wondered if she and Jerry—like Bridey and Mack—were a “good-looking couple.”

  She thought it was sweet of Bridey to have said she was beautiful, but Marge was around professionally gorgeous women all day every day, and she knew what great beauty looked like. She didn’t think of herself as beautiful. Okay-looking, she thought, but not beautiful. Her features were regular, the teeniest bump at the bridge of her nose, very deep-blue eyes (she really liked her eyes which were slightly almond-shaped), her hair was dark, thick and a little hard to keep under control. But what woman likes her own hair? She didn’t worry much about it. It was professionally styled—it had to be because of the position she held—and right now she’d have been wearing it dressed low to the nape of her neck, but just before she left the office to come to the restaurant, she’d pulled the pins out, shook her hair loose, and let it fall naturally just past her shoulders.