Ebony & Ivory

It is Fashion Week in New York and the city is literally in full swing.
All of New York's elite stay in town for the shows at Bryant Park and our best hotels are fully booked with celebrities, socialites, and royalty for the occasion. My friend, Isabella, works for one of the big fashion labels and doesn't miss a chance to see and be seen during this time of year. She organized a dinner with four of her prettiest girlfriends (including moi!) at Cipriani Downtown - which was destined to be a scene. However, at the last minute...she informed me that our table would be doubling in size. Some British guy she had met over the Summer in St. Tropez was in town for the shows with a few friends and so they decided we would merge. So much for the girls night! At least now perhaps I wouldn't have to pay for my $15 bellinis I planned to be drinking all night and perhaps they would be cute - as long as they were the types of British who had an understanding of good oral hygiene and the necessity of braces in one's teenage years. One could only hope.



So, Isabella, myself, and three other pinnacles of hotness all turned up at the same time under the yellow awning, past the massive glass doors...perfectly coiffed and styled - ready to admire and be admired. Three blondes and two brunettes, the shortest one probably 5'7". Isabella air kissed the maître d' and spoke to him in Italian for a minute before he ushered us up to the table by the window in front - exactly the table we had been hoping for - and we anxiously awaited our dining companions. I scanned the room and saw Yoko Ono dining with some dorky guy in his early 30s who looked like he worked in an IT department. The King of Bling, Jacob Arabo (aka Jacob the Jeweler) was at another table filled with men in suits. The entire place was packed with the exception of a table for six right next to us that was being held intentionally vacant - clearly for someone very important.




Suddenly, a very attractive, dark, black man (who resembled Djimon Hansu) in a white suit and a thickly knotted tie walked in followed by four other black men in colored (pink, beige, anything but black) suits and Isabella jumped up and waved. Oh my God. It appeared that we were going to have dinner in a time capsule with Boyz II Men circa 1989...or was it New Edition? The band leader extended his hand and introduced himself with a cockney British accent and on down the row of men....the accents became slightly closer and closer to the Queen's English until we got the the last one (the shortest) who might have been the only black guy to have graduated from both Eton and Oxford (brilliant.) They took their places on the opposite side of the table from us and checked each other out. I will just say this - if it had been a bling competition, they would have won. Between the diamond cuff links, diamond studs, and chunky watches....covered in, you guessed it - more diamonds, I think they probably "out-blinged" Jacob the Jeweler himself. Who the hell are these people and why didn't Isabella say more before they got there? Eventually, I found out that one was a London club owner with his star DJ, then there were two investment bankers, and a fashion designer. But still...I can honestly say that I have never dined with a man in a suit of any shade of pastel - no matter what he does for a living. I was cringing at the sight of it, while being blinded by more diamonds than any man should ever be legally allowed to wear out in public unless he is the ruler of a small kingdom - which, as we had just established...none of them were.




My train of thought was temporarily interrupted by shouting on West Broadway and a gazillion flashbulbs going off as the paparazzi surrounded someone and the entire restaurant fixed their gaze on the door. In walked none other than Victoria Beckham in a strapless, red mini dress and a small entourage who were seated at the table right next to us. Jacob licked his lips and went over to his prey immediately and was whispering in her ear for about ten minutes while she was looking straight ahead at us...five British black guys with five white American girls.

A drunk woman with an awful Long Island twang stumbled up to our table and said loudly to us "Excuse me...." and waved her hands at our odd group and continued "but what is this?" The Band Leader obviously didn't understand and said "What is what?" She refused to budge and laughed nervously and said "This.....you guys....I mean, where do you know each other from? I have been trying to figure it out and I don't get it." I glanced over at Posh who was staring intently at the woman with a bemused look - probably regretting her choice to move to America after being introduced the a primo example of the classic loud American. More awkward silence. Finally - Isabella helpfully said "We are friends....friends from St. Tropez" and she turned back to us and said "Is anybody getting appetizers or are we just getting main courses?" The drunk woman finally skulked off. I'm not sure if the bellinis were making me blush or if the entire evening thus far was doing the job, but I was as pink as the club owner's suit.




The blonde next to me nudged me to check out the hot guy who had just walked in and I continued the nudge down the row until all five girls were gawking at him over the dark shaved heads of our dates. He was the best looking man I had seen in ages. Literally perfect. Tall, with floppy brown hair, chisled features, and a perfectly kissable pout. He was with three other guys that were were average at best - and Isabella whispered into my ear "May the best one win when we get upstairs" with a glimmer in her eye that she gets when she is feeling particuarly competitive. "Upstairs" was the private nightclub run by Cipriani that is very much like an intimate loft party with vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, dim lighting, and great Euro-trashy music. It is technically private...for members only, mafia types, Italian glitterati, models, and the odd celebrity here and there - but Isabella and I manage to get a table when we needed one and tonight was one of those nights. Who cares if we looked like groupies to an R&B group from the 80s? We were on a mission.

By the time we got upstairs, Posh was already there at a table with Roberto Cavalli, Damon Dash, and L.L. Cool J. I was praying that David Beckham would stop by - but no such luck! Maybe he was babysitting their three boys? Although I doubt it. However, Mr. Fabulous, who we had been salivating over earlier, was seated at at table right across from us and flashed me a huge smile. I smiled back. Isabella looked temporarily defeated, until she remembered that I can't dance to save my life - so she took the opportunity to stand up and let the music take over her long, lean body with one of the other girls from our table. The foxy brunette on my left was pretending to be interested in what one of the Brits had to say, but she was staring at Mr. Fabulous over the Brit's shoulder and showing more cleavage than I remembered seeing that she had downstairs. The race was on and we were all angling for Mr. Fabulous with what ever we had. My personal weapon at that point was the old fall back of hair flipping and eye contact. Finally he stood up and started to walk over to us and reached his hand out to me (score!)...and said "Britt, Britt Walker, right?" Oh my God. What planet was I on? I swear this was not a dream sequence here, but actually truly happening. The four girls shot me looks of death as I took his hand and was lead over to his table, while the British guys seemed amused at the fuss this guy had caused (he obviously wasn't impressive to them in the least.)


The moment I was seated next to him...I insisted to know who he was and how he knew me. Incidentally, we had actually gone to high school together of all things! He was a good friend's younger step-brother at my boarding school. The last time I saw him he must have been 14-years old and their parents had since divorced and so I had forgotten all about him. He had literally grown up to be the sexiest thing on the planet. Who knew? He had just moved back to the States from Argentina (where he had spent the last ten years) and he has a loft in Tribeca and works in banking. He said he recognized me instantly because I hadn't changed that much from high school - which I suppose was a compliment? Did I mention how gorgeous he was? Anyway...

Isabella was looking truly miserable and so I quickly excused myself to pop back over to our table to get my drink. I gave her the five second version that he was an old friend from high school and she seemed truly relieved that her ego could remain intact and then I sat right back down with Mr. Fabulous. I had always heard that you meet the greatest guys when you are not looking - and I can certainly say that night, I hadn't been. It was originally a girls night that got crashed by by the Commodores in their crazy suits and now finally...the perfect man with a great job who I knew way back when...who was clearly really attracted to me. He was my ideal sort of match - in almost a text book sense...tall, dark, and super duper handsome. Heavenly - and how utterly romantic of a situation with our former history. I even managed to imagine for a second what a funny story it would make later in life when we were married with kids!

Fast forward one hour...his arm is draped over my shoulder as he keeps my drink constantly refilled. He is checking out the large packs of models that seems to have sprung up from nowhere, but yet when ever he looks back at me he has an intense stare of affection and admiration. He admitted that he has had a hard time dating in New York so far (as I try to keep a straight face) and that he really wants to settle down because he is finally ready for that stage in his life. I almost needed a diaper at that point.....and he added that he was so happy that we had this chance meeting and that there are no mistakes in life and then - stop the lovely background music. Jekyll exits stage left and in walks Mr. Hyde. I'm serious.

Mr. Fabulous turns to face me and says "So, tell me...are you the kind of girl who will have sex on a first date or the kind who pretends she doesn't - because there are only two kinds." Excuse me? I laughed and reminded him that we were not even on a date. He shrugged and asked if I was ready to go home with him - as if it was something we had done 100 times before! He was so matter of fact about it. Ummm...not really part of the program. He then started to look irritated that I was not on board with his meaningless sex agenda for the evening and said in an exasperated tone "I'm tired and I want to get out of here and you are either coming home with me right now or you are not." I laughed and told him he is insane and he mumbled that it was my loss and tried to give one of his friend's a few $100 bills for the tab and they refused, so he just walked out with a disgruntled look on his face. He didn't ask for my number. I didn't even get a hug good bye. I hadn't even had a chance to tell him that his ex-step sister had just had her first baby...not that he would have cared. What a monster he had grown up to be. So much for fairy tale endings!

I slipped back to my original table with the last shred of dignity I had left - post-proposition - and suggested we move on and we did. Team Domino headed to a nightclub called Tenjune where we closed the place down...several bottles of champagne later...and I challenged Isabella to a dance off and lost. I was so bad that the British guys assumed I was joking because no one could be that bad of a dancer. Oh - how they were wrong on that one, but the thought was sweet.
This morning, I had the worst hang over ever. Consider Fashion Week over for me personally - I can't take a second night of that...at least until next season, which thankfully won't be until February. I should be over my hang over by then. Hopefully.