“She said I should help you.”
“Thanks.” Exactly how many boyfriends did Jo have?
She wandered out again with mugs of coffee for them both, which she offered with a vague, satisfied smile—heck, now he was paying attention, he saw she had “I got lucky” all over her, too, but for some reason on her he found it endearing—and then she went back into the house
“Cool. IKEA,” said Jason when they got to the flat boxes in the truck. “You want some help putting these together?”
“And what happened next?” Mr. D. asked, when I told him the story at work.
“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of something along the lines of a hot threesome surrounded by cardboard boxes.”
He laughed. “Not until now. So how did you get rid of Jason?”
“He said he had work to do. It was easier than I expected.”
“And do you think you’ll do it again?”
I tucked the phone under my chin as I replaced CDs on the shelves. “We work together and it could get awkward. I enjoyed it, but it was a bit like having a well-trained puppy around—he was so eager and happy to please me. If I’d asked him to be rough or selfish—and I did, remember?—he’d defuse it by being acquiescent. Quite unintentionally … I don’t think he was jerking my chain.”
“Another dog metaphor?”
“Or a bitch metaphor, but you’re too polite to say it. I guess that’s why I have a cat—you never really know what they’re thinking, although the answer to that is probably nothing at all. But back to Jason—I’d always thought I’d enjoy a hot young stud who was hard all night long, but his erection never went away, and it was boring. I wanted some variety, some textural interest.”
“Did you think about me when you were fucking him?”
“No.” I put the last CD on the shelf. “I thought about telling you about it. When he curled his tongue around my clitoris and put his fingers inside me, I thought, Mr. D. will enjoy this. Did I tell you I kissed him and tasted myself?”
“Go on.” His voice had a dreamy, throaty quality.
“Are you hard?”
“God, yes. Tell me more.”
And I did, and heard him sigh and groan and give a low laugh.
5
“BRING HIM TO BILL’S BIRTHDAY PARTY,” KIMBERLY said.
“Who?”
“The Leprechaun. I can be his rebound girl.” She propped her feet up on her desk and took another mouthful of coffee. It was Wednesday and ostensibly we were meeting to proofread the station newsletter and discuss the fine details of the station manager’s birthday party. She peered at the papers strewn over her desk. “Should this really be the Erotica Symphony?”
“What? No! It’s the Eroica, Italian for heroic. Please tell me there isn’t a T in the middle.”
“Just kidding.”
“And you can’t be serious about Patrick. He’s only been separated a week. Less than a week.”
She shook her head. “My sources tell me it’s been six months since they split up. He’s ready.” She tapped her pencil on her desk. “And when are you going to start dating someone?”
“I don’t really feel like it.” I considered telling her about Jason.
“Dating or telling me?”
At that point the phone rang. “Yeah, she’s here.” Kimberly winked at me with the receiver pressed to her ear.
“What is it?”
“Wait, honey,” Kimberly cooed. “You just sit tight.”
The door to her office swung open and a huge bunch of flowers appeared, almost masking the station receptionist.
“Ooh, who are they from?” they both squealed as I snatched the card out from the floral depths.
Mr. D., please. But these weren’t his style, I hoped, and they were far too expensive to be from Jason. I ripped open the card.
“They’re from Willis Scott.” I stared with disbelief and fascinated horror at the phallic floral exhibition in front of me, while Kimberly and the receptionist made excited, giggly comments.
“What does he say?” Kimberly plucked the card from my hands. “'I owe you lunch. Best, Willis.’ How cute.”
“Is it?” I stared in fascinated horror at the flowers, some of which I was sure had been genetically engineered by a scientist with a dirty mind. Nature could not be so crass.
“Of course. He’s getting ripe.”
“Like a cheese?”
“Ripe to make a major gift.” Kimberly reached for her Rolodex, flipped it over and began typing. “I’m emailing you his number. And his cell. He’ll be a change from those bearded intellectual bores you usually date—”
“Hugh did not have a—”
“Or those muscle-bound rock-climbing types—”
“One, four years ago before I met Hugh—”
“Or those pretty dancers who couldn’t decide whether they were bisexual or not—”
“I couldn’t help hanging out with other dance majors and that was a long time ago, and only one was—”
“So now you can date an adult,” Kimberly said with an air of finality. “And if you give me the Leprechaun’s email I’ll invite him to Bill’s party.”
I scribbled his email address on a Post-it. “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to let you pimp me for the station or corrupt my tenant.”
“I’m sure both of us will behave with the utmost professionalism.” She handed me a paper napkin as I spluttered coffee over her desk.
After six months of housesitting, friends’ sofas and occasional returns to Elise’s bed in a house that no longer felt like home, Patrick thought he should feel relieved to be in his own place. If only. He felt he didn’t belong in this small space, him and the half-dozen humming computers, the clean quiet of it all. Jo was a remarkably silent neighbor—he guessed she slept most of the day. He met her one gloriously sunny afternoon planting bulbs in the front yard.
“Daffodils,” she said. “The squirrels eat everything else.”
“Right,” he said.
“Are you coming to Bill’s party?”
He hesitated. “Maybe.”
“It’ll be fun,” she said, stripping off her gardening gloves. “Liz Ferrar’s coming, probably some other people you know. Everything okay in the apartment?”
“Yeah, it’s great, thanks.” He sounded wildly enthusiastic—he really needed to get out more—as though he were commenting on an orgy.
She usually left for work in the late afternoon and out of curiosity, and by the need to deal with his laundry, he entered the house later that day. The doorway to the apartment opened into the upstairs of the house—polished wood floors, white walls, all very ascetic, like a nunnery.
Except for the bathroom. The half-open door revealed a rack across the bathtub, with expensive underwear laid out to dry. Christ. Was she wearing something like that under her gardening outfit? Classy stuff, too. Sexy and silky and … stockings, too. A far cry from the faded Santa Claus panties, all that exotic lace and silk and satin. Underwear made to be displayed, slowly removed (or