glare.
“Robbie, stop it!” said Lauren. “Come on, please, I have a very important client who will pay anything for them. He lost them at auction and he’s devastated. I could cut you in on the deal.”
“Miss Blount, the answer’s no. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“—can I try this?” interrupted Lauren.
She was leaning over a glass case, pointing at an antique turquoise and diamond bracelet that was shaped like a serpent. Robert sighed.
“Certainly, Miss Blount,” he replied, unlocking the case and delicately lifting out the object.
Lauren put it on and slid it up her arm as far as it would go, Egyptian-style.
“Oooh,” she breathed. “Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”
“It’s awesome,” I said.
“It’s twenty-two awesome big ones as well,” she said, looking at the price tag dangling under her arm. “I’m not sure, Robbie—”
“—No doubt we could work something out for you, Miss Blount. You are a regular client,” said Robert, watching Lauren like a hawk.
“Could that something include the mysterious Mr. Fabergé cuff links?” Lauren was deadpan, suddenly all business.
Robert huffed. He tipped his head to one side. He glowered slightly at Lauren.
Then he beckoned us to follow him into a back office. It was cramped, with a huge leather desk piled with books, jewel cases, and sketches of gems. Robert somehow squeezed himself behind the desk and tapped at an ancient-looking PC. A photograph of the cuff links appeared on the screen. They were beautiful and delicate, and the yellow enamel was so intense it seemed to glow. Underneath, a few particulars were listed:
Price: $120,000
Client: G. Monterey
Payment type: Bank Transfer
“G. Monterey,” I asked. “Who is he?”
“We never met him. Someone called on his behalf, the money was wired, and the cuff links were taken to the Park Hyatt in Moscow. They were very secretive,” explained Robbie. “Wouldn’t give us contact numbers. That’s normal with many of our clients based in Russia. It’s so dangerous, no one wants you to know anything about them. Now, Miss Blount, how would you like to pay for the bracelet?”
“I can’t believe you had to buy that bracelet,” I said to Lauren when we were in a taxi heading back downtown.
“I’ll bill it to ‘the client’,” said Lauren cheekily. “Sanford wants those cuff links so bad, he doesn’t care what it costs him. And I suspect,” she said, with a raised eyebrow, “my research is going to be quite costly.”
I laughed. Lauren didn’t get away with murder, she got away with homicide.
“Sanford is actually an angel, you know,” she said. “If he wasn’t married—twice—with two small daughters, and God knows how many other stepkids, I might, you know…”
“Really?” I said.
“—actually, I just don’t know if I could imagine—” Lauren paused. She looked over to the driver to make sure he wasn’t listening and then whispered “—it would be like making love to a waterbed.”
“Oh, God, Stop,” I begged her. “You’re totally out of control.”
“My sex life is. What I would give for a young, unmarried, weight-loss Sanford. If only he had a son.”
As the cab jerked us down Fifth Avenue, I rifled in my bag and pulled out my BlackBerry.
“OK, now I am going to find the mysterious G. Monterey,” I said.
Despite the lurches of the cab I managed to type GOOGLE into my BlackBerry, and then the name G. Monterey.
“Why don’t we go to Moscow to find him the first weekend of November? It’s the ice polo. It’ll be fun,” said Lauren.
I was tempted. I’d heard Moscow was crazily fun, and that everyone in fashion was doing amazing business there. Maybe I could score some commissions for Thackeray.
“It could be great, but can I let you know? I might go to Paris with Hunter then.”
“So everything’s good with him?”
“He’s been adorable since he’s been back,” I said.
“So sad you won’t be joining our ranks,” said Lauren.
“Robbie, stop it!” said Lauren. “Come on, please, I have a very important client who will pay anything for them. He lost them at auction and he’s devastated. I could cut you in on the deal.”
“Miss Blount, the answer’s no. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“—can I try this?” interrupted Lauren.
She was leaning over a glass case, pointing at an antique turquoise and diamond bracelet that was shaped like a serpent. Robert sighed.
“Certainly, Miss Blount,” he replied, unlocking the case and delicately lifting out the object.
Lauren put it on and slid it up her arm as far as it would go, Egyptian-style.
“Oooh,” she breathed. “Oooh. Oooh. Oooh.”
“It’s awesome,” I said.
“It’s twenty-two awesome big ones as well,” she said, looking at the price tag dangling under her arm. “I’m not sure, Robbie—”
“—No doubt we could work something out for you, Miss Blount. You are a regular client,” said Robert, watching Lauren like a hawk.
“Could that something include the mysterious Mr. Fabergé cuff links?” Lauren was deadpan, suddenly all business.
Robert huffed. He tipped his head to one side. He glowered slightly at Lauren.
Then he beckoned us to follow him into a back office. It was cramped, with a huge leather desk piled with books, jewel cases, and sketches of gems. Robert somehow squeezed himself behind the desk and tapped at an ancient-looking PC. A photograph of the cuff links appeared on the screen. They were beautiful and delicate, and the yellow enamel was so intense it seemed to glow. Underneath, a few particulars were listed:
Price: $120,000
Client: G. Monterey
Payment type: Bank Transfer
“G. Monterey,” I asked. “Who is he?”
“We never met him. Someone called on his behalf, the money was wired, and the cuff links were taken to the Park Hyatt in Moscow. They were very secretive,” explained Robbie. “Wouldn’t give us contact numbers. That’s normal with many of our clients based in Russia. It’s so dangerous, no one wants you to know anything about them. Now, Miss Blount, how would you like to pay for the bracelet?”
“I can’t believe you had to buy that bracelet,” I said to Lauren when we were in a taxi heading back downtown.
“I’ll bill it to ‘the client’,” said Lauren cheekily. “Sanford wants those cuff links so bad, he doesn’t care what it costs him. And I suspect,” she said, with a raised eyebrow, “my research is going to be quite costly.”
I laughed. Lauren didn’t get away with murder, she got away with homicide.
“Sanford is actually an angel, you know,” she said. “If he wasn’t married—twice—with two small daughters, and God knows how many other stepkids, I might, you know…”
“Really?” I said.
“—actually, I just don’t know if I could imagine—” Lauren paused. She looked over to the driver to make sure he wasn’t listening and then whispered “—it would be like making love to a waterbed.”
“Oh, God, Stop,” I begged her. “You’re totally out of control.”
“My sex life is. What I would give for a young, unmarried, weight-loss Sanford. If only he had a son.”
As the cab jerked us down Fifth Avenue, I rifled in my bag and pulled out my BlackBerry.
“OK, now I am going to find the mysterious G. Monterey,” I said.
Despite the lurches of the cab I managed to type GOOGLE into my BlackBerry, and then the name G. Monterey.
“Why don’t we go to Moscow to find him the first weekend of November? It’s the ice polo. It’ll be fun,” said Lauren.
I was tempted. I’d heard Moscow was crazily fun, and that everyone in fashion was doing amazing business there. Maybe I could score some commissions for Thackeray.
“It could be great, but can I let you know? I might go to Paris with Hunter then.”
“So everything’s good with him?”
“He’s been adorable since he’s been back,” I said.
“So sad you won’t be joining our ranks,” said Lauren.
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