My Favorite Mistake Read Free Page A

Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and El en Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial
    advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dol ar martinis. “But he was a rich son of a-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”
    When she’d told me the amount of money she was talking about, it was more like an effing yacht- load (although at the end of the evening she hadn’t made a move to pay the slightly obscene bar bil ). Grey Goose vodka had bowled her over. I honestly didn’t think she’d remember my name…or even my sex, for that matter.
    I wet my lips careful y, trying to keep my excitement at bay. “Do you think she’l open an account at Trayser Brothers?”
    “I’m almost sure of it. You’re stil coming to the honors dinner tonight, aren’t you?”
    “Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss seeing you get your award.”
    “I might not win,” he chided.
    I pshawed, supportive girlfriend that I was.
    “El en wil be there. I’l try to pul her aside and feel her out,” he promised.
    I was flattered—Barry had never been keenly interested in my profession, but then most people were vaguely suspicious of investment-types, as if we hoarded al the moneymaking secrets for ourselves, while col ectively laughing at everyone who trusted us. (Not true—I was currently poor and working toward precisely what I advised al my clients to do: buy your apartment sooner rather than later.) But, El en’s boatload of money notwithstanding, I felt obligated to point out the potential pitfal s of advising my boyfriend’s boss on financial matters. “Barry, you know I appreciate the referral, but…”
    “But what?”
    “Wel , El en is your boss. I don’t want this to be a conflict of interest for you.”
    He gave a little laugh. “Gee, Denise, it’s not as if you and I are married.”
    Ouch. I glanced at the wedding gown, barely contained by the closet, and my face flamed. “I know, but we’re…involved.”
    “Trust me—it won’t be an issue. In fact, El en wil be indebted to me for introducing her to you. This could turn out great for both of us.”
    “Okay,” I said cheerful y, pushing aside my reservations.
    So help me, dol ar signs were dancing behind my eyelids. I could picture the look on old Mr. Trayser’s face when I announced in the Monday morning staff meeting that I’d just
    landed an eight-figure account. “Partner” didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had last week…or at least an office with a window.
    “What’s the dress code for this evening?”
    He made a rueful noise. “Dressy. And El en is a bit of a clotheshorse. I’m not saying it’l make a difference…”
    “But it might,” I finished, my cheeks warming when I remembered the woman’s critical glance over my aged navy suit and serviceable pumps yesterday. I wasn’t exactly famous
    for my style—my most trendy clothes were season-old steals from designer outlets. I was more of an off-the-rack kind of girl, and I didn’t relish running up my credit card for a one-night outfit. But drastic times cal ed for plastic measures. “I’l find something nice,” I promised.
    “I know you’l make me look good.”
    I blinked—Barry considered me a reflection on him? That was serious couple-stuff…wasn’t it? I straightened with pride at his compliment.
    “I’l pick you up at seven.”
    “Great,” I said. “Oh, and thanks…Barry…for the recommendation.” We had never quite graduated to pet names and as tempted as I was to say “sweetie” or “hon,” I decided
    that while he was hooking me up with a revenue stream with his boss, this might not be the best time to start getting gushy.
    “Anything for you,” he said, then hung up.
    I smiled, but when I disconnected the phone,