The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken by Mari Passananti Page B

coming.
    “Thanks,” the doorman says to Oscar. “Even five years ago I would’ve turned him to pulp, but I’m getting old, and with all the panic about immigrant labor lately, I’m afraid to get physical, even with a prick like that.” His eyes move from Oscar to me and he adds, “Sorry, miss. I meant to say even in self-defense.”
    “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re not hurt.”
    “Probably just bruised a bit. You enjoy your evening, miss.”
    Oscar asks, “Shall we go in? I’m ready for that drink.”
    As we pile into the elevator, he says, “It must be nice, having a friend in your building.” He sounds cool and collected, not at all like a man who nearly beat someone to a pulp mere minutes ago.
    “Mmm-hmm.” I press the button for Angela’s floor.
    “Which floor is yours?”
    “Not tonight,” I say with the best smile I can muster. He pushes me against the wall and kisses me, hard. His little fight doesn’t seem to have taken anything out of him. In fact, it seems to have revved him up. I’m glad we’re not at my place. He might be hard to turn away under the circumstances.
    Angela’s waiting at the door, wearing a floor-length hand embroidered silk robe that one of her beaus brought her from a business trip to Asia. It’s not like she’s uncovered or anything, but I don’t know anyone else who would receive her friend’s date without getting dressed. She’s also sporting the beginnings of a greenish mud mask on her chin.
    “Is he gone?” she demands, before I can even make introductions. The treatment on her chin crackles.
    “Yes, and I doubt he’ll bother you again. Oscar Thornton.” He sticks out his hand.
    “My hero!” Angela’s eyelashes flutter. “Angela Mancuso. Please, come in, have a drink.”
    To my surprise and relief, Oscar says, “Thank you, but I might beg off. I’m afraid I accepted your invitation under false pretenses. I thought if I got inside the building, Zoë might have me up to her place.”
    At this, Angela’s eyebrows go up. Oscar leans down to kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he says, and then to Angela, “It was nice to meet you.”
    “You, too, and thanks for your help with Reiner.”
    “My pleasure.”
    We watch him disappear back into the elevator. Angela hisses, “You still haven’t told him you don’t live here?”
    I shrug. “What the hell happened tonight?”
    “I need a drink before I launch into it.”
    I open the fourth bottle of wine I’m about to share tonight while Angela finishes slathering a new kelp-based anti-wrinkle potion on her face.
    “That bastard slapped my ass.”
    I look up from the corkscrew, confused.
    “Reiner ran into some prince from Monaco, and instead of introducing me, he told me they had to talk in private, and that I should run off and get him a fresh drink. And then he slapped my butt, as if I was some 1970’s Bond girl, and he and the prince laughed like it was the funniest thing ever.”
    “Why didn’t you slap him back?” It’s unlike Angela to take anything less than fawning, doting treatment from her dates.
    “All the decision makers from Vogue were in the room, at least half of the senior management team. I couldn’t risk making a scene.”
    “I thought this baron or whoever was taking you to dinner.”
    “That was supposed to be later. We had to stop in at the Cavalli men’s fragrance launch first.”
    “Why did you have to go to that? You do shoes.”
    “Zoë, dear, you’re missing the point. Reiner humiliated me. In public. And I didn’t know what to do, so I ran outside and got a cab home. I guess he charged out after me.”
    “Wait, when was that?”
    She consults her watch. “Just over five hours ago.”
    “He was out there with your doorman for five hours?”
    “No. There was a shift change. He only harassed Philippe for about three hours. Juan was down there before. But that’s not the worst part. My boss called me twice. She’s furious.