happened to be accurate in this case.
Ferramore humored me with a quiet chuckle, but as he resumed his full attention on Courtney, it was clear he couldn’t care less what actually had happened to me or my face.
He reached out, taking both of Courtney’s hands in his. (
Ugh again.
) “Actually, sweetheart, there is something I need to discuss with you.”
I took that as my cue. (
Shit.
)
“Why don’t I leave the two of you alone,” I said with a step toward the door.
“Nonsense. This is your office, Nick,” said Courtney. “Come, Tom, we’ll go to mine. Nick has a lot of work to do.”
Before Ferramore could even nod in agreement, though, my office filled with the sound of Courtney’s cell phone. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of her Chanel suit to check the caller ID.
Out of the blue, Ferramore’s entire personality changed. He looked anxious and concerned. Now what was going on? Was it about me? Or Courtney and me?
“Who is it?” he asked Courtney.
She seemed momentarily baffled that he would want to know, let alone ask her outright. “It’s Harold Clark,” she finally answered him.
Clark was a seasoned reporter with the Associated Press. His nickname was “Baskin,” short for Baskin-Robbins. In other words, he was known for his scoops.
“Don’t answer it!” Ferramore practically shouted at her.
“Why not?” asked Courtney. “What’s going on, Tom?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about, sweetheart.”
Chapter 40
“MORE COFFEE, NICK?” asked the waitress behind the counter at the Sunrise Diner near my apartment the following morning. She had the glass pot hovering and ready to pour as she waited for my answer.
“Absolutely,” I told her. “Thank you, Rosa.” I was going to need the extra caffeine today.
There was no way I could’ve known what Courtney and Ferramore had discussed once they’d left my office. Even if I had been so nosy as to approach Courtney about it afterward, there was still no way I could’ve known.
That’s because I couldn’t find her.
Courtney had basically disappeared—
poof!
—for the remainder of the day. Her terrific assistant, M.J., said she’d stormed out of the office without saying a word. That night she didn’t answer her phone at home.
But then came the morning. And now
I understood everything
.
So did the rest of Manhattan, if not the world.
Someone had posted a video on YouTube. It starred the French supermodel Marbella, backstage a few days earlier at the Hermès fashion show in Paris. The stunning brunette had a cigarillo in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other—and next season’s must-have Jimmy Choo shoe planted firmly in her mouth.
A voice off camera asked the supermodel who the richest man she’d ever slept with was.
After a sip of the champagne and a puff of the cigarillo—removing the shoe from her mouth first—she looked straight into the camera and answered with her French accent. “Thomas Ferramore. Far and away, him!”
“When was that?” the off-camera voice asked.
She giggled and whispered, “Last night.”
Whoops.
I hadn’t actually seen the video, but news of it was splashed all over the papers, especially the
New York Post
that was opened on the diner counter in front of me as I gobbled up my fried eggs over easy and a stack of wheat toast. How do I stay at my current weight of 175? A very good gene pool. There’s no other possible answer.
Anyway. Of course I felt horrible for Courtney that she would have to endure such a public humiliation, but at the same time I couldn’t help selfishly hoping that this would change everything between her and Ferramore.
“Excuse me, is this your phone?” I suddenly heard to my left.
I turned to see a man sitting on the stool next to me. He must have just sat down, because I hadn’t noticed him. He was pointing at my iPhone on the counter between us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, moving it closer to me.
“No, it’s fine, it
Ferramore humored me with a quiet chuckle, but as he resumed his full attention on Courtney, it was clear he couldn’t care less what actually had happened to me or my face.
He reached out, taking both of Courtney’s hands in his. (
Ugh again.
) “Actually, sweetheart, there is something I need to discuss with you.”
I took that as my cue. (
Shit.
)
“Why don’t I leave the two of you alone,” I said with a step toward the door.
“Nonsense. This is your office, Nick,” said Courtney. “Come, Tom, we’ll go to mine. Nick has a lot of work to do.”
Before Ferramore could even nod in agreement, though, my office filled with the sound of Courtney’s cell phone. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of her Chanel suit to check the caller ID.
Out of the blue, Ferramore’s entire personality changed. He looked anxious and concerned. Now what was going on? Was it about me? Or Courtney and me?
“Who is it?” he asked Courtney.
She seemed momentarily baffled that he would want to know, let alone ask her outright. “It’s Harold Clark,” she finally answered him.
Clark was a seasoned reporter with the Associated Press. His nickname was “Baskin,” short for Baskin-Robbins. In other words, he was known for his scoops.
“Don’t answer it!” Ferramore practically shouted at her.
“Why not?” asked Courtney. “What’s going on, Tom?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about, sweetheart.”
Chapter 40
“MORE COFFEE, NICK?” asked the waitress behind the counter at the Sunrise Diner near my apartment the following morning. She had the glass pot hovering and ready to pour as she waited for my answer.
“Absolutely,” I told her. “Thank you, Rosa.” I was going to need the extra caffeine today.
There was no way I could’ve known what Courtney and Ferramore had discussed once they’d left my office. Even if I had been so nosy as to approach Courtney about it afterward, there was still no way I could’ve known.
That’s because I couldn’t find her.
Courtney had basically disappeared—
poof!
—for the remainder of the day. Her terrific assistant, M.J., said she’d stormed out of the office without saying a word. That night she didn’t answer her phone at home.
But then came the morning. And now
I understood everything
.
So did the rest of Manhattan, if not the world.
Someone had posted a video on YouTube. It starred the French supermodel Marbella, backstage a few days earlier at the Hermès fashion show in Paris. The stunning brunette had a cigarillo in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other—and next season’s must-have Jimmy Choo shoe planted firmly in her mouth.
A voice off camera asked the supermodel who the richest man she’d ever slept with was.
After a sip of the champagne and a puff of the cigarillo—removing the shoe from her mouth first—she looked straight into the camera and answered with her French accent. “Thomas Ferramore. Far and away, him!”
“When was that?” the off-camera voice asked.
She giggled and whispered, “Last night.”
Whoops.
I hadn’t actually seen the video, but news of it was splashed all over the papers, especially the
New York Post
that was opened on the diner counter in front of me as I gobbled up my fried eggs over easy and a stack of wheat toast. How do I stay at my current weight of 175? A very good gene pool. There’s no other possible answer.
Anyway. Of course I felt horrible for Courtney that she would have to endure such a public humiliation, but at the same time I couldn’t help selfishly hoping that this would change everything between her and Ferramore.
“Excuse me, is this your phone?” I suddenly heard to my left.
I turned to see a man sitting on the stool next to me. He must have just sat down, because I hadn’t noticed him. He was pointing at my iPhone on the counter between us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, moving it closer to me.
“No, it’s fine, it
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