Vanity Fare (14 page)

“Yeah, I’ll take him.” Hugh barely glanced in my direction, though, probably too busy wondering just how Simon knew Sylvia.

Simon leaned back in his chair. “Well, Hugh, Sylvia looks as if she’s been alone quite long enough,” Simon said, arching an eyebrow in Sylvia’s direction.

Hugh nodded. “Molly, talk to you later. Simon, a pleasure.”

He scooted back to their table as though Sylvia were holding an invisible leash. Simon gave me an inquiring look. “Molly, I would have to say your taste in men was not always as exceptional as it is now.” He chuckled a little at his own wit.

I stabbed a piece of pasta instead of replying. He was gorgeous, but did he have to be so darn smug?

Even the cappuccino didn’t improve my mood. There I was, Molly Hagan, having dinner with possibly the most beautiful man I’d ever seen outside of a movie screen and I was annoyed. With him. With me for being with him. With him for knowing her, no matter how he’d known her. With the other him for being with her now.

Gah, it was enough to make me wish I were better at geometry, there were so many triangles flying around.

When we left the restaurant, I was full, but not satisfied. It wasn’t raining anymore, so we strolled along Fourth Street for a bit in silence, me wondering if I should try to go home and sulk by myself, Simon probably wondering if every passerby was as aware of his beauty as he was. Chances were good they were.

He stopped in front of an imposing door with a lizard on it. There was no sign or anything, just dark red velvet curtains covering the windows. It had been a
très
trendy bar back in the day, and I was surprised to see it was still in business. Most trendy places ultimately ended their life cycle, giving way to another, equally glamorous spot. Kind of like recycling a wife, come to think of it. Sylvia was obviously the new improved model.

I was the Edsel. The Pinto. The Corvair, although I was definitely safe at any speed.

We walked into the darkened room. The requisite stunning hostess sat us at one of the small, round tables in the very farthest corner of the room. I was betting Simon was a lot happier at his positioning here than at the restaurant. You had to lean the menu close to the tiny flickering candle to read the small print, it was that dark, and I had to stop myself from exclaiming about the prices, like some rube. Or a mom from Brooklyn.

The waitress came over, another model-thin beauty with cocoa-colored skin and a dress cut so low as to be R-rated. When she leaned over our table to place the napkins, she was definitely in X-territory. Simon grinned, while I couldn’t help but stare. You wouldn’t have thought such a thin woman would be so . . .
ample
.

“What can I get you?” she asked. Simon didn’t even bother with the menu. And he definitely didn’t bother asking me what I wanted, either. At least he was consistent.

“Two sidecars, please.” She nodded and took our menus.

“It’s got brandy and Cointreau,” he explained as she left.

“I’ve had it before,” I said tersely. Did he think I was a rube from Brooklyn, too?

He slid his chair closer to me so our knees were touching. I could feel his breath on my cheek. He moved even closer and kissed my ear. It tingled. Traitor.

“I’m very glad I met you, Molly,” he whispered, just before licking my ear. My body started to sizzle. He
was
less annoying when he wasn’t talking.

I turned my head and gave him a quick kiss. He leaned forward and captured my mouth, pressing his lips against mine with a sure intensity. I felt my bones melt a little. He put his right hand on my rib cage and began to rub my side, moving his fingers in circles. His hand was perilously close to my breast, but not yet on it. My breasts began to throb, as they seemed to want nothing more than for him to put his hands right there.

His mouth tasted like wine and those chalky white mints that he’d tossed in his mouth when leaving the restaurant. I felt his stubble against my cheek while a few strands of hair tickled my nose.

Simon was a lot better-looking than Hugh. I spent a few seconds imagining Hugh kissing Sylvia, giving her that wide-open mouth treatment I’d secretly thought was kind of drooly, and not in a good way. I hoped Hugh and Sylvia were both thinking how much better-looking Simon was.

I snapped my thoughts back to what was happening here and now. I hadn’t made out in a bar since college. He sucked my tongue and bit my lip and my body reacted as though he’d set it on fire.

God, this was fun. And naughty. And fun. I was grateful for the trendy darkness. I doubted anyone else could see us, that is, until I heard the clink of glasses. The waitress! I pulled away from Simon, jerked his hand from my body, and pulled myself up primly in my chair. She bent over our table and placed the drinks down. They were in squat lowballs, and I could smell the liquor even from where I was sitting.

Before I could take it, Simon took my glass and handed it to me, holding his as well. “To the start of something wonderful,” he said softly. He clinked his glass against mine, then raised his eyebrow and took a sip. I did, too. The chilled sweetness slid down my throat, a marked contrast to how heated my body was. It tasted decadent and sensuous.

I put my drink down and regarded Simon. How could anyone get tired of looking at him? Even in the dark, his eyes were almost glowing, like a cat’s, and as I looked at him, he darted the tip of his tongue across his lips to capture an errant bit of moisture.

I thought of Dr. Lowell as I leaned forward again and lowered my eyelids. I kissed him this time, deliberately licking his lips with my tongue. I trailed my fingers down his arm and placed my other hand on his knee and squeezed, gently. He groaned in the back of his throat. Dr. Lowell would be so pleased at my . . .
inappropriateness
.

It felt good to be so in control. To do something that was for me, with no ultimate goal beyond pleasure. I had no illusions about me and Simon; even if he weren’t just here for business, he and I were clearly too different to forge a real relationship together. As for forging a casual lust? I thought we were doing just fine.

“You’re someone to take home to Mum, you know that, don’t you?” he murmured, starting to nibble my ear again. I froze.

Take home to Mum was not casual lust. Take home to Mum intimated I was a safe, solid choice, not a dangerous obsession. Damn it, I wanted
dangerous,
not parent-approved.

“Too bad your mum’s across the Atlantic, then, hm?” I said, trying to gloss over the subject without saying just how execrable an idea I thought it.

He removed his mouth from my earlobe and gave me that wicked grin. I felt a slow burn slide all the way down to my toes. “She’s here, actually,” he said.

Oh. Here. Oops, so much for casual glossing. “Ah. Just for a visit, then?” I said, hopefully.

“No, she lives here. On Park Avenue and Eighty-sixth Street, with her third husband. He’s American. I’m staying with her.”

“Ah.”

“She hasn’t liked many of my past—the women I’ve dated, but I just know she’ll love you.”

I had to ask. “Why didn’t she like them?”

He shrugged. “They always end up butting heads about something or another.”

And I would do the opposite, because I’m a spineless, conflict-averse coward. Oh, Simon, you do know how to sweet-talk a girl.

He moved toward my lips again, but I held my hand up between us. “I think I’ve got to get home, actually,” I said.

“You’re doing it again,” he said with a scowl.

“Doing what?” I said with a disingenuous smile.

“Running away before things can get . . . interesting.”

Did that make me a cock tease? Because honestly, I’d never even come close to being accused of being one, and if I were, that’d be kinda cool in a coldhearted female kind of way.

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with things moving so fast.”

“Why not? You’re over age—aren’t you? You’re free, or almost free, and Molly, you are the most amazing kisser, and my imagination is going wild thinking what you’ll be like in my bed.” He said that last part in a lowered, husky tone that almost made me toss my scruples to the wind and go home with him. Almost.

I let out a deep breath. “Simon, thank you. I just can’t.” I reached beside my chair and picked up my purse. I drained my glass and placed it carefully back on the coaster.

I kissed him on the cheek, gave his knee a last, regretful pat, and stood up. Whoa, that cocktail was lethal. I held on to the back of my chair for a little support. He stood, too, but I waved him back down into his seat. “No, please, stay a while. I’ll grab a cab just outside.”

“I cannot let my date walk out of here alone. Hold on a sec.” He flagged the waitress, who model-walked over. She dropped the check down on our table as if she had been expecting it. And gave me a wry look that I couldn’t decipher. Oh—I bet he brought all his dates here. Hm.

He pulled out his wallet and dropped a ten and a twenty down on the table. The wallet gaped open, and I could see he had a wad of cash. I stifled the quick flash of envy that almost overtook my lust. Hey, only five more sins and I’d have a complete set!

We walked outside into the brisk February air. He kissed me quickly, then stepped into the street and waved a cab down. As I got in, he took a twenty out of his pants pocket and handed it to me. “I was hoping to send you home in the morning, but since you’re so bloody moral—” he said, grinning a little, as if to take the sting out of his words.

I felt abashed. “Thanks, Simon. I appreciate it.”

“See you Saturday. And work on those scruples, hm?”

That wasn’t all I had to work on, I thought, as the cab sped away.

A Clockwork Orange Chiffon Cake

It’s not a futuristic fantasy, but a deliciously whimsical piece of reality that could shock you into behaving badly. Almost so dense and packed with orange zest as to be allegorical, this dessert seems as if it’s innocent until it hits you with its flavor, wallops you with the overpowering aroma of power. And orange.

14

“
AND YOU JUST . . . LEFT? MAN, YOU ARE GIVING THIS MAN
the worst case of blue balls.”

“Well, thanks for making me feel bad. And as if I’m back in high school. Do you think he’ll still ask me to the prom?”

I sighed and rolled onto my back on the bed. It was late, way later than I should be up, but Keisha had started the last showing—I think it was
Quadrophenia
—and she couldn’t talk until now. Not that I could sleep anyway. My mind was roiling with all sorts of things: Simon’s kisses, my hesitancy, my lack of money, self-confidence, health insurance. The minor stuff.

Keisha snorted. “I think he’ll ask you what the fuck is wrong with you. Oh, wait, that’s me. And forgive my memory, but didn’t we have this conversation last time? And you decided to go for it?”

“It just didn’t feel right.”

“Then he must be doing something wrong.”

“Not that.
That
feels great.”

“Then what’s the problem? You’ve got the urge, he’s got the dick. Insert tab A into slot B. Works like a charm.”

“My friend the pottymouth. Look, Keisha, it’s more than that.”

Her tone got serious. “What is it then, hon?”

“I dunno. It’s just that—well, since Hugh left, I’ve been thinking about what I want from my life. From a relationship. And I don’t think it’s this.”

“A few weeks of incredible passion with a gorgeous British guy who’s only here for a short time? That’s a romance book right there.”

“I know. I think I read it. And it ends well, but it’s not for me. Not for Aidan, not now.”

“You can’t deny yourself because of your son,” she said in a forceful tone.

I felt myself start to get angry. “I’m not, Keisha. Anytime someone says they don’t want something that seems to be good on the surface, someone accuses them of doing it as some sort of self-sacrifice. It’s not. It’s not a good fit, not for either one of us.”

“Okay,” she said, abashed. Then her voice got a bit wheedling. “But wouldn’t it be fun, just for one night?”

My mind drifted back to Simon, his kisses, how his hands felt on my body. Oh, God yes, it would be fun. My body could handle it, but could I?

“He said he wanted to introduce me to his mother.”

“Really?” She sounded almost as amazed as I was. “That sounds so serious. He didn’t strike me as a get-serious-right-away kind of guy.”

“No, I know. I didn’t think so, either. I have no idea what’s up with that at all.”

“Does that mean he’ll buy you dinner and maybe pay the utility bill?”

“If only.” I sighed. “He does flash a lot of cash.” I sighed in my now-familiar fiscal envy and moved on to what I’d been dying to tell her since I saw the brown-haired pinhead. “I saw Hugh again, too,” I admitted. “With her.”

“No way. Did she have a big zit?” Her voice was hopeful.

“Not unless you count Hugh.”

She laughed, that big belly laugh that always cheered me up. “Were you with Simon the Sexpot? Ooh, I bet Hugh felt all kinds of insecure.”

“I think so, actually. It was fun for a minute in a very vengeful way. But then Simon began to crow—”

“Cock of the walk, huh?” Keisha joked.

“And Sylvia was all that and a side of fries, and I just felt—”

“Like your poor pitiful self. Can it, Molly, you deserve better than that.”

I bit my tongue before I said something totally defensive and pitiful. Hey, at least I was learning.

“I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment. “I shouldn’t say shit like that to you. It’s just that I know—”

“You know it’s true,” I said, a little dispiritedly. “It’s so goddamned hard, Keisha, and then even when I get the prime stallion, I need to check his teeth.”

And why, the question lay unanswered, hadn’t I checked Hugh out more thoroughly?

To be fair to the prick, he had been charming at first. And he had cared for me, as much as he could. It was only after we’d been together for a while that his selfish streak started to emerge, overwhelming whatever niceness he’d shown me.

And if I hadn’t been with him, I wouldn’t have Aidan. Okay, point taken.

“It’s okay, hon. If it doesn’t feel right, you shouldn’t do it. Although I wish you’d say that to yourself when it comes to your tired analogies.”

“Screw you.”

“Right back at you. And your mama, too. Speaking of which, how is she?”

“Driving me insane. Those goddamned figurines all over the place, her eyes getting all wide every time I even
mention
a man, making a face when she sees what I’m reading. Or saying. Or doing.”

“Really? You’d think she’d be over that after forty years.” Both of us knew she didn’t really believe that.

“She’s here. She’s hovering. She practically jumped through the phone when Simon called.”

“Is she going to lose her house? How does that work, anyway? I thought if you lost money on investments, you just . . . lost it.”

I sighed. “I have no clue. I guess she gambled that the stocks she invested in would pay off, so she took out another mortgage. I don’t know who the hell gave her that advice. She’s not sure what’ll happen if she defaults on the loan. And the deadline is at the end of the month, so she’s contacting her lawyer, thankfully an old friend, to see what she can do.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry. Tell her I said hello, okay?”

“Sure.” I waited a heartbeat, then asked what was uppermost in my mind. “What’s up with you and the Great White Hope?”

I could almost see her squirming at the other end of the phone. “I’m moving in next month.”

“Did you tell him about your . . . ?”

“Issues?”

“I
was
going to say concerns. But call them issues, if you want.”

“Yeah, he knows. He said he promises to talk about his ashy skin and take up smoking Newports if it’ll make me more comfortable.”

“Well, at least he knows his stereotypes. And what does your dad think?”

“Dad’s over the moon about it. He can’t believe I’m even worried about the whole race thing because Mike is such a great guy. You should’ve seen him last Sunday watching football with my dad, even though I know for a fact Mike’s never watched an entire game in his life.”

“He sounds really great, Keisha. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Yeah. It’s just that, I’ve always been so aware of my skin. My dad doesn’t talk about it much, but things were hard for them here. People always looked at them like “couldn’t you find someone your own color?” Never mind no one could figure out if me and my brothers were black or white. I’d always vowed I’d choose a black man, like my mom did. I wish Mike weren’t so great, this would be easier.” Her tone sounded mournful.

Not for the first time, and for sure not for the last, I thought about the choices I’d made. Hugh’s background was as similar to mine as possible, but that didn’t seem to matter for the long term. If Keisha loved this guy, and he loved her—and what’s more
told
her he loved her—she stood a lot better chance of being happy than I had been, matching Caucasian couple or not.

“Honey, did someone accidentally tell you love was easy? Because, you know, it’s not.”

“Isn’t that a bitch?”

“Yeah, but would it be so rewarding if it were easy?”

“They say that about reading Proust, and did you ever finish that thing?”

“No. You?”

“No, me neither.”

“Bye, hon. Gotta read Proust. Or go to sleep. One or the other.”

“Bye. Sleep well.”

The papers came the next day.
They were in a long, official-looking envelope. The return address sported a company name about five inches long. I stuck my thumb in the flap and began to rip.

Dear Ms. McLaughlin:

Enclosed please find the details of the final settlement negotiated between you and Mr. McLaughlin. Please sign, date, and return in the enclosed envelope. If the settlement is accepted, you will receive notification of final divorce within eight weeks.

If you have any questions, please contact Mr. Bradford.

Sincerely,

Lawrence K. Bradford, Esq. lkb/dw

Enclosures

My copy editor’s mind immediately noticed they’d used
enclosed
twice in two sentences. My woman’s mind realized this was it.

Divorce.

Final.

I stood there, clutching the papers to my chest as I thought about how it all came down to a few sheets of fancy vellum and a pen. Me and Hugh, watching
Star Trek
in the dorm lounge. Hugh sweating over his final exams with me coaching him so he could pass Ethics and Morals in the Twentieth Century. Graduating an hour before Hugh because Hagan came before McLaughlin, and lording it over him that entire night for being done with college first. Our wedding song, Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart”; our first apartment together, and its grotesque hallway carpeting; Aidan’s birth.

The night he came home and told me he was leaving.

I looked down at the envelope again, my eyes blinded by tears. I remember watching my mother cry when my father left. Funny how the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Another Hagan woman, another departing man.

And now Hugh wasn’t even going to support us. As I found a pen to sign the documents, I hesitated a moment.

Why should I let him get away with failing us again? Why should I accept the agreement, made when Hugh and I had been working on an amicable—and generous financial—divorce? Back when Hugh
had
generous finances.

I dropped the pen on the table and shoved the papers away. Standing up, I strode to the window, looking out at the usual assortment of midday Brooklyn life: Caribbean nannies meandering slowly down the sidewalk pushing their charges, a Fresh Direct truck double-parked a few doors down, a young woman walking an enormous black dog. This was life.
My
life. And I loved it, and deserved not to have to change it because my husband was a cheating asshole. I spun on my heel and headed back to the table.

I stuffed the papers into an envelope and scribbled a quick note to my lawyer. He’d be surprised, but he’d been urging me to be more aggressive with the settlements anyway. I sealed the whole package with a decisive press of my fingers. I wanted them out of the house as soon as possible before I regretted being the strong woman I should have been all along.

Hugh would probably resent me, maybe even grow to hate me, but I couldn’t care about that. I had more important things to worry about. Like Aidan. And now my mother.

I dropped the envelope in the mailbox on the way to pick Aidan up from school. I walked away quickly, knowing that was the last time I’d be crying over Hugh.

Aidan was already looking for me when I arrived, and my stomach tensed at what I saw in his face: hope, anxiety, toy lust.

“Mommy, can we go to the toy store before we go home? Jason told me about a new Power Rangers toy he got yesterday.”

I had a mental image of Aidan holding my wallet upside down and shaking it. “We can look, honey, but we can’t buy anything. Maybe we can put it on the list for your birthday.”

His lower lip stuck out almost immediately. How come I can say “get dressed” about a thousand times in the morning and he doesn’t hear me, but when I say no he understands right away?

“But, Mommy, my birthday is so far away from now.” He drew out the last part of the sentence in a long screechy wail. I saw a couple nearby mothers give me understanding looks.

“Not that far away, honey. Only two months.” I thought about the joys of eating, and paying rent, and watching cable. I didn’t think Aidan would like being homeless, hungry, and relying on network TV. I hardened my heart a little. “And besides, you’ve got loads of toys at home you probably don’t even remember.”

“But Jason said his birthday party was a Power Rangers party, and he said I’d need to bring one to come.”

“You’ve got plenty of Power Rangers, honey.”

He glared at me in disbelief. “Not Power Rangers Alien Planet,” he said, as if I should know the difference.

“I’m sorry, honey, but Mommy just can’t afford it right now. You’ll just have to go to the party with one of your other Power Rangers.”

“Then I won’t go,” he said with all the certainty of a piqued six-year-old.

“We’ll talk about it later. Look, let’s go home, Grandma is out”—
evading the creditors
—“on an errand, you and I can watch Scooby-Doo or something. Lissa’s coming over tomorrow night, too.”

“You’re going out again?” he asked hopefully.

“No. We’re just going to hang out at home, all together tonight.”

“You’ll let Lissa play with me, though, right?”

“Sure I will. After she plays with me for a little.”

Once we were home, cookies and juice in stomach and Shaggy doing his beatnik thing on the television, I made myself a cup of coffee and sorted through the papers I’d jammed in Aidan’s backpack. Sure enough, there was an invite to Jason’s birthday party among the notices for bake sales, special art projects, and infectious disease notices.

Please bring an agile grown-up
it read at the bottom. Whatever happened to drop-off parties? Not touchy-feely enough for Park Slope, I guessed. “Agile grown-up” was definitely not me, not with the way the muscle spasms were tap-dancing on my lumbar. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to Hugh I couldn’t handle something. I tapped the invite against my teeth. I had time to think of something.

Saturday was a nasty, rainy day,
the kind of day that made me just want to sit inside, drink tea, and read lurid romance novels. Which, if pressed, I’d have to admit was just about every day.

Simon called at nine in the morning, his voice lowered a few octaves, still groggy from sleep. “Be there in an hour and a half,” he mumbled. I, of course, had been up since seven, but I still wasn’t very functional. Some days there was just not enough coffee in the world.

“Who was that, Molly?” my mother asked, trying to appear nonchalant. I could tell she was jumping out of her skin to get a glimpse of my new boyfriend, as she called him.