A few days later, Leigh called and said Brooks was asking for my number. I told her to go ahead and give it to him, without thinking too much about it. I had other things on my mind—like continued public humiliation and the potential loss of employment.
In fact, when Brooks did call, I was so preoccupied with all the trouble at CBS that I didn’t get back to him right away. So he called again. When I finally responded, he actually said, “I can’t believe you didn’t call me back!”
Clearly, he wasn’t intimidated.
Brooks suggested we get together. “Do you want to do a sailboat race with me next weekend?”
Uh, no, thanks.
“How about rock climbing? Or we could go for a run in Central Park.”
Maybe I looked like I was in better shape than I actually was. “Do you work for Outward Bound?” I joked. Dinner sounded a lot less strenuous, so we made a date for the following week.
At a Greek restaurant, in my usual third-wheel position with my friends Pat and Mark Shifke, I told them I had a date coming up that I was kind of excited about.
“Who is he?” Mark asked. Having lived through so many of my romantic escapades, they felt a certain investment in my love life. I also think they were eager for me to finally find someone so they wouldn’t have to hear yet another chorus of “Breakin’ Up Is Hard to Do” （and even harder to listen to）。
“I actually don’t know much about him,” I said.
“Why don’t you just google him?” Pat suggested. It was 2006—googling wasn’t yet something you did 87 times a day.
“You do it, Mark!” I said.
Mark squinted at his BlackBerry. “Okay, got him. He’s from Darien…he works at a hedge fund. Went to Williams…he was on the tennis team…he was actually captain of the tennis team…” Pause. “In 1996.”
We did the math. I had a date with someone 32 years old. Seventeen years younger than me.
I was stunned, then slightly titillated. “Oh my God,” I said. “Should I even go on this date?”
Then I answered my own question. “Why not? It could be fun.”
Pat and Mark looked less enthusiastic.
“Hey,” I added, “if I ever write a book, it’ll make a great chapter!”
64
Lasagna Was Served
BROOKS AND I had our first date at Raoul’s in SoHo. We ran through the standard get-to-know-you topics—work, college, childhood, family. He was easy to talk to. I liked the fact that he seemed close to his parents （they were his cheerleading squad at triathlons）。 And did I mention Brooks was handsome? I knew I wanted to see him again, but Jimmy was still in the picture.
The girls really liked Jimmy—he happily shuttled Ellie and her friends around the Hamptons before they had their licenses, and Carrie, at 10 years old, basked in the male attention. One night, while all of us were in the kitchen at the apartment, Jimmy was tossing walnuts for Carrie to catch in her mouth; she kept dissolving in giggles as they bounced off her cheek. In the middle of it all, Brooks called. I took the phone into the other room.
“You have to go outside,” he said.
“What?”
“You have to go outside and look at the moon. It’s a huge, orange harvest moon—it’s incredible. You’ve got to go see it.”
I told Jimmy and the girls I needed to walk Maisy and ran to the end of the block, where I could see the moon glowing above the rooftops. Brooks was right—it was incredible. The bright orange ball illuminating the city made me swoon.
That January, I was throwing myself the mother of all birthday parties. I worshipped Audrey Hepburn and couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather celebrate the big 5-0 than at Tiffany’s on 5th Avenue. I wore a little black dress, with an out-of-character scoop neck that showed off my cleavage, and long, black satin gloves. Tiffany’s had loaned me a diamond-studded tiara worthy of the royal family; it came with two burly security guards who were never far from view. The waiters served trays of “Tiffaninis” （a martini-type cocktail the color of Ty-D-Bol）， mini–Maryland crab cakes, filet mignon on French bread, and that perpetual crowd-pleaser, pigs in a blanket.
Salespeople were stationed at the jewelry cases on the expansive first floor to help guests try on serious bling. Barbara Walters, Regis Philbin, Al Roker, and Jeff Zucker were there. Flipping through the pictures, I see Les Moonves and Matt Lauer were there too, wearing big, prelapsarian grins, oblivious to what their futures held. I’m looking pretty smiley too—you’d never know that at the time, my day-to-day existence was a dumpster fire.