All You Could Ask For: A Novel (6 page)

I looked at Scott and saw he was stunned. He literally couldn’t move. So I went to the sheet and saw she had raised him by $5. No previous bid had been raised by any less than twenty, but here she had sloppily written “$605” and her name and that was it. When I went back to Scott’s side, he was shaking.

“Did she top it?” he asked.

I nodded. I really hoped he wouldn’t ask the next question.

“By how much?”

I told him, because I couldn’t get around it, and he turned beet red. “Brooke,” he said, “you’re the debutante, so you know about these things. What’s the etiquette here? Because if that was a guy I would punch him in the face.”

“I think that would be a bit much,” I said.

“Do you mean in this case? Or with a guy? Because if it was a guy I
would
punch him in the face.”

“Sweetheart,” I said, “you do realize we can hire this photographer for three hundred dollars less than this, don’t you?”

“That isn’t the point,” he said, and he was right. It wasn’t the point.

In the end, it turned out Pamela was at the party and saw what happened and she agreed to accept our bid as well and couldn’t have been sweeter about it. We had a drink with her that night and began a friendship that has meant everything to me. And now here I am, giggling with my friend as I explain to her that because she has shot my children and my husband and me so wonderfully, and produced four sensational holiday cards for us, now I want her to come to my house and take pictures of me naked.

We planned it for a Tuesday—as it turned out, we had to wait a few days after my waxing to allow the redness to fade. (Nothing has ever hurt like that did, by the way. I would rather deliver triplets drug-free in the back of a taxi than go through that again.) Once the children were on the bus, I set about trying to create the proper atmosphere in the house. The first decision to be made was selecting a room. The bedroom seemed the obvious choice, but ours is not the sexiest bedroom. Our bedroom is comfy and very cozy, and I love lying in bed talking with Scott with a fire going, but the bedroom is the place where we have most of our sex, and most of it isn’t fabulously romantic. Mostly it consists of quickies on weekend mornings before the children wake up, and it can never be especially spontaneous, as I have become obsessed with locking the door first because I simply cannot handle the idea of being caught in the act.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed heavily into my ear one time, “the kids aren’t at home.”

“What if Lucy comes in?” I said.

“Lucy is a golden retriever.”

“I am aware of that but she does barge in here all the time.”

“But she’s a dog.”

“I cannot have sex with the dog watching,” I said, sitting up, “it’s inappropriate.”

Since then he’s never balked when I demand the door be locked. Pamela laughed hysterically when I explained all this, by the way, and suggested the sexiest photo of all might just be me, nude, beside an unlocked door.

But so much for the bedroom. I next considered the kitchen, which is where we spend most of our time as a family, usually me cooking or puttering around and the kids eating or doing their homework at the table or curled up watching television on the sofa in the family room, which adjoins it. Scott has repeatedly told me he never finds me sexier than when I am cooking, but frankly I think that is just an effort to get me into the right frame of mind for a quickie after dinner. It often works, by the way—I’m not complaining—but I’m still not sure it’s the right room for the photos.

Neither, then, is Scott’s office. Aside from the desk and chair, the only things in there are a computer, a fax machine, a copier, a printer, two telephones, a small television monitor, and a Bose radio. There is nothing in the room that is not connected to a power cord.

The kids’ rooms are obviously out of the question, as are the bathrooms, even the master with the whirlpool tub, because if even a hint of a toilet is in the picture it ruins the effect completely. And I’m definitely not prepared to do this outside by the pool, because if my social-climbing, nosy, never-keeps-her-mouth-shut neighbor should get so much as a glimpse of my naked ass, it would be pretty much the equivalent of showing it on the evening news.

So, I am left with a really strange problem. It’s like being all dressed up and having no place to go, except it’s the opposite. I want to be completely
un
dressed. But, even in my own home, I feel as though I’ve got no place to go.

SAMANTHA

WHEN I OPENED MY eyes, the waiter with the pleasant smile was still standing before me, waiting for me—I guess—to laugh, or maybe to cry. But I wasn’t going to do either. Suddenly I felt very serious, and very certain of what I needed.

“Can you please ask the hotel manager to come see me?” I asked.

“Of course, miss,” he said. “But may I ask again, will your meal be charged to your room?”

“No, I’m not a guest in this hotel,” I said, “but I’m going to be one very soon.”

“Very well,” he said amiably, “will you be paying with cash or a card?”

“Actually, I haven’t got any money,” I said, “but I know where to get some.”

His pleasant smile was wavering. I think he thought I was crazy, and considering the conversation we were having I couldn’t blame him.

“I will have no trouble paying for my lunch, don’t worry,” I said. “I just need three things, please. I need the hotel manager, I need a telephone, and I need a glass of champagne.”

He brought me the drink first and it was fabulous, so different from the glass I’d had last night when I was drinking a toast to the rest of my life. Now, in the light of day, especially in the brilliant sunshine, it was clear how silly that had been. Not just because I had typed “FuckLarryBird” into a computer and found out my husband wasn’t the man I thought he was, but for a million other reasons as well. In the sunshine, it was clear that the only plans worth making are ones for later in the day. There’s no way to know what the next week or month or year are going to bring, much less the whole rest of your life. The only permanent thing is impermanence. This was what I came to understand right then, right there, with the sun on my cheeks and the champagne on my lips. The notion that you could actually know what you want for the rest of your life is illogical and unreasonable. The best you can do is figure out what you want for lunch.

“Hello, miss.”

The voice came from behind me, a different voice this time. It wasn’t the waiter; it was a handsome, older man in a white blazer. He had the same amiable smile as the waiter but a much deeper voice and an air that suggested he was very much in charge. He seemed European, perhaps Spanish.

“My name is Eduardo Marquez. I am the hotel manager. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I didn’t say anything for a minute, largely because I loved the sound of his voice. He sounded exactly like that character in the movie
The Princess Bride
. I just wanted to sit silently in the warm glow of the sun and luxuriate in the sound of his baritone.

“Miss,” he said again, and I could tell he was about to lose his European cool, “I was told you wanted to see me. Now, what can I do to be of service to you?”

I sighed deeply, gathered my resolve.

“Well, Mr. Marquez, it sort of goes like this: I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon at the Four Seasons, but it turns out my husband is fucking a woman who works for him, which is horrible in so many ways, not the least of which is that my father thought all along he was an asshole and now it turns out my father was right, which if you knew my father you’d know is almost as bad as finding out my marriage isn’t going to last a week. But the good news is, I’m over it. Over it, and over
him
—it just took a little time and a little thought and I accomplished both of those on my way over here. So all I really need now is a phone so I can call my father and we’ll have my marriage annulled, and then I’ll enter the next available triathlon here on the island and stay in your hotel to train for that because you have the best fruit I have ever tasted. Then after I finish the triathlon I’ll move back to New York and go back to my job in television, and if I never meet another man that will be just fine with me.”

I wish you could have seen the look on Eduardo Marquez’s face: it was the most delightful combination of skepticism and awe I can ever recall. I’m sure he thought I was either full of it or insane, or maybe he thought I was both, and either way it made no difference to me, because I was so wonderfully certain that I was neither.

“Well, miss,” he finally said, adjusting his tie, “perhaps the first thing I could do is bring you the telephone you asked for.”

“That would be great,” I said, and I reached out to shake his hand. And when we shook, I put my other hand over his as tenderly as I could. “Thank you very much for your help.”

He bowed a little, and backed away slowly. I took the opportunity to drink my champagne, which continued to feel great going down. But now I also wanted something healthy, a smoothie or protein shake or even some green tea; I had work to do. Training would have to begin immediately. I looked at the waves breaking on the beach and suddenly I yearned to be in the water. I would have dashed into the ocean right then if I wasn’t so sure Eduardo Marquez would have a conniption if he came back to find me gone.

Then I started to think about Robert. What would he find when he got back to the suite? How exactly had I left it? I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t packed anything; my clothes, jewelry, makeup, toiletries, they were all still there. He would probably return to find me out of the room and think nothing of it, think I just went for a run or a swim or a stroll on the beach. He’d be a little surprised I hadn’t left a note, or texted him with my plans, but he certainly wouldn’t be anxious. Maybe he would get into bed and lounge, waiting for me to come back so he could pat me softly on the butt, which is his signal that he wants to have sex. I could picture him now, lying in the bed, stripped to the waist, reading a newspaper, waiting for me. How much time would pass before he became concerned? Maybe that time had already come. Maybe he was out looking for me right now. Maybe he was asking hotel staff if they’d seen the athletic-looking blonde he’d checked in with. The first thing he’d do was call my phone, and wait for the connection, which would take a little extra time on the island, and then he would hear “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas somewhere in the room, and since he knows that’s my ringtone he’d know I left my iPhone behind, and that’s when he’d become concerned. Because
that
would be completely unlike me. He’d go through my things next, and find I’d also left behind my bag and my backpack, with my wallet and passport and driver’s license, and I think what he’d think then is that I’d been kidnapped; taken, literally, from the hotel room, because I would never venture even outside the door without any of those. That thought brought another smile to my face.
Fuck him.
Let him be worried. Let him contact local authorities to report a missing person. Let him call my family and ask if they’d heard from me. In fact, let
me
have talked to my father first; let my father be the one to tell him the marriage is over. No one would enjoy that more than Dad would and he’d do a great job of it, he’d put all the “motherfuckers” and “cocksuckers” in the right places. He’s very good with those.

“Miss, here is a telephone, property of the hotel. Any charges you incur can be added to your bill at the end of your stay.”

It was Eduardo Marquez; he’d snuck up on me. And there was something different about him now, something softer—or at least less suspicious. His smile seemed less forced, less rehearsed. There was something very pleasant and charming about him.

“Thank you,” I said, and took the mobile from him. “I’m very much looking forward to staying here.”

Then I took several deep breaths, filling my lungs until they ached in a way they hadn’t while I was running those eighteen miles. The salt in the air was invigorating, and made my mind feel crisp and sharp. I dialed without looking at the digits, and then I took one more deep breath before I hit
send
.

“Hi, Dad, it’s me,” I said when he answered. “I’m having sort of an unusual day.”

KATHERINE