Looking at myself in the mirror in the elevator in my apartment building, I continued to laugh, shaking my head at myself, nervously playing with my hair, wrapping it around and around my index finger. A habit left over from childhood. In hindsight, I think I may have been a tad hysterical and at one stage imagined slapping myself. However, it really doesn’t work when you do it yourself. I’ve tried before.
Entering my apartment, I kicked off my fire engine red patent, bejewelled Mui Mui heels and then, dramatically leaning against the door, I cried with embarrassment and through my rantings told myself that it was because I didn’t have long legs. That was definitely it. My legs were the problem.
To my utter dismay, somewhere around the age of 15, I realised I was never going to have long legs and I was always going to be curvy. I think a good description would be small but voluptuous, with my fantastic breasts… yes I do say so myself… svelte waist, curvy hips and rounded bottom. And can I tell you, I rather like the way I look. If I had lived in the 1940s, I would have been perfect movie star material. A bit short, however perfect, none the less.
And look, I make the most of it. With my well styled expensive suits I liked to wear low cut shirts and blouses to show off my assets.
I was well known for it. There were even times, when Davis, propped on the edge of my desk, would say to me, ‘Seriously Frenchy, we need to pull out the big guns for this client… can you flash your tits a bit!’
He was the only person in the world who called me Frenchy, as most people were unaware, that my biological father was French. Davis, with his voice low, would literally breathe it, never failing to send shivers up my spine, so sexy was it.
Being vertically challenged meant that I had fallen in love with heels. They gave me confidence, made me feel taller, thinner, like I wasn’t going to slip through the cracks of life, and that something fantastic was going to happen to me. Men turned to look at me. Hell, I turned to look at me.
They were such a weakness of mine. Jimmy Choo, Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik, Ralph Lauren, Chanel, Sergio Rossi and Roberto Cavalli’s were all friends of mine, paired beautifully, sitting on the custom designed shelves in my wardrobe. It wasn’t actually a wardrobe, but the second bedroom in my apartment turned into a walk-in-robe. The boys often joked that my investment portfolio needed to include my terribly expensive, designer, killer shoes.
I kept thinking that in the right pair of shoes, everything would be alright.
Well moving right along… six months later precisely, there we were on another Friday night, jammed in along the onyx bar at the Cru Bar, among a sea of suits in navy and various shades of grey, and over his pinot grigio, Davis was crying on my shoulder after another blonde five foot ten… yes they were all tall and blonde… who had left him for greener pastures. Hang on, I lie, there had to be a couple of five elevens and even a six footer thrown in there – bloody Amazonian!
Anyway the thing was, on that particular night, although I was giving him the lip service he required, I didn’t know why he was so upset. He didn’t really spend that much time with any of his girlfriends. Truth be known, they were trophies for him. And I was bored stiff with hearing about them. Glassy eyed, I wondered how long I could stare at the Baccarat crystal chandelier, nodding my head, without him noticing, that Hello, I’m not bloody interested.
Elbow on the bar and propping his chin on his hand, out of Davis’s mouth came the words, ‘Frenchy… why can’t I find someone just like you?’ And then while I absorbed this bit of information, he lent closer. Narrowing his eyes, and with his wine smelling sweet breath cool on my face, he whispered, ‘What are we doing Peach? You know you’re the one.’
At the time, I had just taken a mouthful of my sauvignon blanc, and I was so surprised, I sprayed it all over him. I mean literally. All over him. In his eyes, his face, down the front of his crisp white, double cuffed, business shirt, and violet pin striped tie. Did I happen to mention he was an impeccable dresser? I grabbed a white cloth napkin and with trembling hands busily attempted to blot the wine.
In my mind, I wanted to yell at him, “What do you mean I’m the one? I’m a five foot two, brunette. If you wanted someone like me, you’ve been bloody well looking in the wrong direction.” And then there was the other part of me, that felt all warm and fantastic, because how long had I been waiting for this?
So there we were at the bar, and finally after all these years, he has noticed me. He has said he wants someone like me. Like me! He has said I am the one. The one! Yes, I know I am repeating myself, but I could not believe it was actually happening, so every time I think of that night, I go over every detail, twice!
Reaching out, Davis touched my hair, delicately playing with one of my dark perfectly blow dried waves.
I didn’t look directly at him, just continued to fuss with the napkin and made a sound in the back of my throat, attempting a light hearted laugh, however it came out all wrong.
Gently, he took my busy hands in his, holding them quiet. I let out a deep breath and looked at him. I mean really looked at him and I saw it. He actually loved me.
I wanted to do that Sally Field thing where, at the Oscars, she had yelled, ‘You like me, you really like me’, but thought it a tad obvious and inappropriate.
And then he lent down and kissed my lips. Slowly. My God, how long had I wondered how that would be? Baby, he did not disappoint. I lost myself totally. Time stood still. Pulling away, he looked at me once more and then kissed me again, longer this time. And look, there was absolutely no argument from me. And he knew it. Because at some stage I realised I had my hands in his hair, and I may have moaned.
Over his shoulder, I briefly spotted the smile on Marty’s face. I could tell he was genuinely pleased for me… for us. I blushed and thought my world could not be any more perfect. In fact, I remember later thinking that I wanted to have a group hug with him as well.
And for some time, life went on like that. I had my apartment. Davis had his. In personal matters he didn’t like to rush things. Business was different.
We were so loved up.
I once asked Davis about his reaction to my kiss six months prior. He explained that Marty, sensing his feelings earlier, had read him the riot act and told him he had to be absolutely certain.
Anyway Marty seemed pleased for us. And it appeared as if it was forever going to be us three musketeers, in between Marty’s girlfriends of course.
I remembered it being nothing new when Davis dragged his feet on the two of us living together, however finally he got sick and tired of going between apartments. Mind you, it only took him another three years.
We had listed a superb modern apartment in a renovated warehouse building with lots of glass and glamour, not far from work. It provided the lifestyle that Davis craved. He felt it was the way we should be living and would look good for the business, for us to be a united front.
Now, you would think that I would have jumped at the chance and of course I wanted to. But I wanted it to be because of us, not because of the business. Up until this point of time I had been an independent woman. I could have actually bought that warehouse on my own if I’d chosen to. For that matter, so could he.
Although, I was thinking different thoughts, I was thinking about the future. And by that I did not mean how much capital gain we would have on the property. Shame on me I know! Davis had recently had his thirtieth birthday and I was coming up to mine. At some stage, I did want a family.
The thing that did it in the end was when his brother Steve asked me to go to a PR conference with him to Paris. Months before, Steve booked the conference and paid for his partner, Thomas, to attend all of the dinners and partners’ events. Because of the economic decline, Thomas decided that it wasn’t timely for him to be gallivanting all over Europe and needed to stay put in his hair salon, keeping an eye on his staff