Chapter Eight
Sue
As I watched him walk away, I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of Irma’s smock and pinched myself.
Oh, for the love of gelato! It was him again. My imaginary boyfriend. The man the universe kept throwing at me like a sexy boomerang.
I’d fake-dated him in my head, summoned him like Beetlejuice, and now here he was, looking like sin in a suit, while I stood there smelling like half-digested gardenia and dressed like the love child of a rejected sofa and a vintage tent.
Him asking me out was the last thing I expected.
Was it a date or just an apology dinner?
Whatever it was, I could take a selfie and show Paul and Mom that I hadn’t been lying—well, not exactly.
I could spend the entire day Saturday primping and getting ready.
This was my chance to show Cam what I was really like, and maybe if I did, and he liked what he saw, there could be a second date, and a third. ..
I lowered myself slowly, dreamily into my chair.
It still carried the warmth of his body and his scent, a mix of cedar and vanilla that brought to mind images of toned, tanned skin and Arabian Nights.
His hands had moved with purpose over my keyboard, tapping keys, dragging files.
It was hard not to notice the way his forearms flexed or how he moved his long fingers—efficient, capable, graceful.
I wanted to slide my hands over his shoulders and down his chest, and whisper sweet nothings in his ear.
Instead, I stood there marinating in eau de cafeteria and shame. Maybe I should just stop wearing clothes altogether. Seen me once, seen it all. No more surprises.
Even so, for whatever reason, he had asked me out.
My shoulders slumped. What the hell was I going to wear?
I needed serious help. I reached for my phone and did the only thing that made sense: I called Ange.
“Sue?” she answered immediately, annoyingly perky for a Monday. “Is this about hats? Please tell me it’s about hats.”
* * *
By some minor miracle, I made it out of school on time Tuesday and hopped on the subway to get to Fifth Avenue, praying I wouldn’t chicken out. Ange had given me very specific instructions: meet her at Fairchild’s by 4:30 sharp or prepare for a lifetime of granny panties and involuntary celibacy.
Ange met me at the top of the escalator, arms crossed, looking like a general preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy.
“Finally. I thought you chickened out and eloped with your dignity. No time to waste—we’re starting with lingerie. Miriam, you’re in charge. I’m on a mission.”
“Roger that,” answered the bored girl in navy and white, while continuing to fold sweaters as though she’d rather be folding herself into a nap.
“Lingerie?” I blinked. “You mean underwear?”
“No, honey. I mean architecture. You can’t put up a skyscraper without steel beams—and you sure as hell can’t seduce a man in stretched-out cotton briefs with a faded Snoopy on the butt.”
“Cotton’s healthy for your lady parts.”
She spared me a glance. “Lady parts?”
“I don’t think vagina sounds any better.”
“Whatever you call it, do you know what’s healthier for it than cotton pants? Sex.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who said anything about sex? It’s just a date. I never ever have sex on a first date.”
Ange grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the down escalator. “It’s not just any date. Jesse told me about your folks coming over for Easter. You need to play your cards right for this date. The stakes are huge. Don’t tell me you find the thought of boinking Cam distasteful.”
I blew out a breath. “Of course not. It sounds like dreaming the impossible dream. Even Neil The Creep never found me particularly sexy.”
“Because he had crappy taste in women, and you didn’t have me back then.
Cam will pick up his tongue off the floor when he sees you.
And maybe you’ll never have to confess that you lied to Mama Morelli.
Hell, if this works out, you could be the first to actually leave Singleville and become the future Mrs. Jones. ”
I laughed. “You’re crazy! You’re getting way ahead of yourself. I want to date the guy, not marry him and bear his children. Yet,” I added under my breath.
The second floor was a sea of satin and lace. A well-dressed saleswoman appeared like a fairy godmother with a tape measure around her neck and a glint of mischief in her eye.
“She’s yours,” Ange said, then turned to me. “No granny pants. No beige. No excuses.”
Thirty minutes and six bras later, I had rediscovered anatomy I didn’t know I had. I bought four sets of bras and matching panties in colors so sinful they should come with a warning label. I also walked out with a silk kimono that whispered come hither in six different languages.
By the time we reached the fourth floor, my budget was sobbing. But Ange wasn’t finished. She had me try on dress after dress until I was ready to sob, too.
Half an hour later when I dragged my tired self out of the changing room for the umpteenth time, Ange clapped her hands with all the excitement of a mother watching her child win the Nobel Prize. “That’s the one!”
It was a sleeveless royal blue dress with a deep V neck and figure-hugging shape that made my pulse stutter. Were those boobs really mine? Damn! That bra was worth every penny. I didn’t just look good—I looked hot.
I twirled in front of the mirror. “Isn’t it a bit too elegant?”
Ange wiped an imaginary tear of pride. “Cam won’t know what hit him. He’ll propose before dessert.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re welcome.”
I hugged her. “I’ll buy you dinner if this ends with me not crying into a bottle of wine.”
“Just don’t wear that old robe again. I still have PTSD.”
* * *
By the time I collapsed on my couch Wednesday night, I was held together by nothing but sheer willpower and under-eye concealer.
School had been a disaster zone—rainy day, indoor recess, and a Science Fair looming on the horizon.
The kids were wound tighter than the strings on a cheap guitar.
One was launching spitballs across the room with disturbing precision, while a few others were arguing over who got to play the serial killer in their group project skit.
I felt less like a teacher and more like the reluctant warden of a low-security, co-ed juvenile zoo.
And to top it all off, the fill-in spin instructor had clearly confused our class with Navy SEAL training. By the time I limped home, I was nothing but spaghetti legs and pain.
I nuked a frozen turkey entrée, shoved some kale around a plate to pretend I was healthy, then collapsed onto the couch with a mug of mint tea. I was close to falling asleep with my face in my mug when the phone rang.
“Hey, Sue,” Lily said, skipping hello entirely. “We’re downstairs. Your buzzer’s still broken, right? Let us up.”
We?
Curious—and too sore to argue—I pressed the button. Less than a minute later, Lily and Nikki were in my doorway, all smiles and mystery.
“Okay,” I said, waving them in. “Is this an intervention or a bachelorette party?”
“Neither,” Lily said, walking over to the couch. “Ange told us about Saturday. We came bearing gifts.”
Nikki held up a pink gift bag and set it on the coffee table, plopping down on the couch next to Lily. “It’s a seduction kit from all of us. For our first real date with Cam.”
I rolled my eyes. “Our date?”
“It’s a Singleville tradition,” Lily protested. “As your single friends, we have the right to live vicariously through your sex life.”
“There is no sex life,” I pointed out. “There’s not even a sex forecast.”
“There will be if you let us help,” Nikki said. “Ange also told us about your parents coming over and your little lie about a boyfriend.”
“Fast work,” I said dryly. “Nothing’s private among friends. Let me get you some drinks. I need one before I look into that bag.”
I returned with beers for everyone.
“Have you heard the news about Neil and Sally?” Nikki asked, sipping her beer.
I squeezed myself next to them on the couch. “What, that they’re getting a divorce? Mom mentioned it, but she didn’t know any details.”
“Ooh, my cousin told me all the details.” Nikki stretched her legs, ready to gossip. “Sally dumped His Royal Truffleness after she caught him with the dental hygienist right in her home, on their new Tempur-Pedic mattress. Apparently it’s stain resistant, but not rage-proof.”
I felt my eyes pop out of my sockets. “He cheated on her too? Well, I guess I’m not surprised. Once a cheater, always a cheater. She probably thought she was special when he cheated on me with her. I bet she never thought he would cheat on her.”
Lily shook her head. “All mistresses believe that, until they get cheated on, too. It’s a very common cycle when it comes to adultery.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Nikki said. Her eyes gleamed with morbid delight—the kind she usually saved for describing decomp timelines. “Sally didn’t just kick him out. She retaliated in the most agriculturally devastating way possible.”
I sat forward. “She didn’t—”
“She did,” Nikki said with a grin. “She salted the saffron beds.”
Lily gasped. “Like, actually salted?”
“She emptied six boxes of Morton’s finest across the eastern field and then spray-painted CHEATER on the side of his truffle shed.”
I slapped a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God! Way to go, Sally! I didn’t think she was that psychotic. I have new respect for her—all things considered. I wish I’d had the balls to do that to him.”
Nikki grinned. “Revenge is a dish best served cold and done by other people. Neil’s been cultivating that field for years. Do you know how delicate saffron is? Those little red stigmas are worth more than gold per ounce. She didn’t just break his heart—she tanked his finances.”
“Deliciously destructive,” Lily gave a nod of appreciation.