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“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.
“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.
He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”
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Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.
“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without me saying a word.
“Liv Dotson.”
“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”
Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.
She’s a gorgeous redhead who dabbled in modeling and started her own clothing line, then kicked up her fame another notch by marrying the New York Yankees’ center fielder a couple of years ago. They now have their own reality show called Live, Love, Liv, which I watch with far more enthusiasm than I’m proud of.
Liv and I used to be kind of close a couple of years ago, but she and Marley were after the same guy for a while and it got tense. Since I ended up on Team Marley, obviously, Liv sort of keeps me at arm’s length. She’s friendly, but I’m not exactly holding out hope for making a cameo on her show.
“No cameras,” Marley says, craning her neck to get a better look.
Just as I’m about to turn and check out the situation for myself, the hostess finds us to tell us our table’s ready.
“Perfect,” Marley says, dropping a few bills for the bartender. “I asked for a seat by the window, so we’ll walk right by Liv’s table and can say hi. Got to bury the hatchet sometime, right?”
Marley and I follow the hostess, and I’m still scanning for Liv’s red hair, trying to spot her for myself.
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Marley hisses, grabbing my arm with her free hand. “You’ll never guess who she’s having dinner with!”
“I take it by the scandalized tone that it’s not her husband,” I say, still scanning the crowd while also trying not to look too celebrity-stalkerish.
“Um, try the most famous divorce attorney in the city,” Marley says.
My mouth drops open. “No. They can’t be getting divorced. They’re so happy!”
“Obviously not,” Marley murmurs.
I’m still hoping Marley’s wrong when another thought hits.
“Wait. Wait,” I whisper urgently. “How do you know who the most famous divorce lawyer in New York is? Who is it?” I start scrutinizing the tables more closely.
“Um, because I read TMZ like a proper citizen of this city. And because he’s practically as famous as the celebrities themselves.”
No. No. I know the name before Marley has a chance to respond.
Sitting across from the gorgeous Liv Dotson is one Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
Georgie
TUESDAY EVENING
Now, it’s not the first time I’ve seen Andrew outside of our early morning meet-ups.
In addition to that first disastrous move-in day, our paths have crossed a handful of times coming and going in the evenings, him getting home after a long day, me just heading for a night out.
