The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page B

“Water padding. You like?”
    “Definitely vavoom. But I have a feeling I’m not the one you’re advertising for.” No use bringing my personal baggage to work with me. I am determined to be chipper. “Did I miss much yesterday? Sorry to overload you this week.”
    “Family obligations. I understand. Anyhow, the only thing going on businesswise is a fax from our international rep. We sold the Riker’s Island film to Finland and Norway. Three thousand dollars between the two of them, nothing to write home about, but enough to pay the rent for a month and a half. And also some kook keeps faxing us about showing our film in his festival, which he says is world-class.”
    “Why do you say he’s a kook?”
    “The festival’s at his house. The Third Annual Fred Diamond Festival of American Cinema.”
    I snort. “One of us should go, just for the cocktail-party story.”
    “Yeah, you first. Oh, we also have a new intern from the City as School starting Monday. His name is Roswell…” She pauses to look at the paperwork and adds, “Birch.”
    “What’s ‘City as School’?”
    “It’s a citywide New York program that allows high-school seniors to gain real-world experience before they leave school. The administrator called me to see if we could place this kid since she had read in a profile of us that I went to Stuyvesant High School, where Roswell goes. He’d expressed an interest in filmmaking.”
    “High school? Wouldn’t someone from NYU or Columbia be better?”
    “We needed the extra hands and I thought, how stupid could he be if he passed that Stuyvesant entrance examination?”
    “I’ll trust you on that one.”
    “The administrator—her name is Jacinta—is dropping by later to speed up our paperwork. But I have much bigger news on the personal front, so get your damn coat off already and let me tell you.”
    “Go on.” I drape my powder-blue quilted jacket on the IKEA coatrack that the previous tenant left in the office.
    “I met a fabulous man. We had one incredible date together and I’m seeing him again tonight.”
    “Aha, now I get the bra.”
    “I’m pulling out all stops. I have a feeling that this may be the one.”
    “What’s so special?” I wait for her answer while she signs for a FedEx package. The deliveryman gives Vondra a very broad smile. I may be a lost cause, but I’ve always known Vondra would hook up with her version of Mr. Right, however anachronistic that sounds. With her body, brains and spark, she can afford to be choosy.
    “He’s refined, adventurous and unfuckingbelievably handsome,” she says after the FedEx guy leaves.
    “Sense of humor?”
    Vondra thinks. “Well, to be fair, I don’t know him that well yet. But did I tell you he has the coolest job? He’s a diplomat.”
    I lift an imaginary teacup, pinkie raised. “How did you meet him?”
    “Remember we were looking for that Egyptian woman who studied sexual views of Africans. Bahiti Rateb—the Virginia Masters of Africa?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, since it was so quiet here yesterday, I called the Egyptian consulate, and a secretary accidentally put me through to Mahmoud Habib. He said his mother is practically sisters with Bahiti Rateb and to come over and he’d have his assistant pull together background information, and he’d be willing to talk more about his personal acquaintance with her. We talked for three hours, and we continued the conversation—”
    “Where, at his house?”
    “No, bitch, at the Beekman Hotel at their deco bar, Top of the Tower—”
    I blow out air enviously. That’s one place I’ve always wanted to go on a date. (Well, that and Union Square Café, but look where that got me.) “I’ve heard that place is so romantic.”
    “Is it ever. I couldn’t believe how generous he was with his time. Heather, he’s cultured and very open-minded. He spoke to both sides of the Palestinian issue, and didn’t flinch when I said my business partner was Jewish. He’s