Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 (14 page)

“Yes, I’d rather not wait.” Understatement of the year. Now that I had thought about it, I couldn’t wait. I’d jump out of this car and head into McDonald’s if he kept stalling.  Du Cheval shrugged.  “I’m not hungry yet,” he said, “but I know a good place to go.  You must have worked up an appetite shopping.” I fleetingly noted this rare attempt of his to make a friendly comment, but I couldn’t focus on it. I was so full of bad feelings, and I had to get them out… at the moment, it seemed like there was only one way to do it.

The place was lovely, nothing too fancy, but elegant, with white linen table clothes and antique light fixtures. After a glance at the menu, I realized it was a steakhouse—perfect—though really, anything but sushi would have been fine.

I flagged down the waiter, trying to take deep breaths, gain some sense of control. “May I get you something to drink?” the waiter asked politely, pen poised over paper.

”Diet Coke, please,” I said. “And we’re ready to order.” The waiter nodded,
go ahead
. “I’d like the Porterhouse, side of mashed potatoes, and a side of macaroni and cheese. Would you bring some bread as well?”

The waiter nodded again. “Soup or salad to start?”

“Both. Caesar, and your soup of the day is fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

I closed my menu and sat back against my chair. Already, some anxiety had subsided, knowing the food was coming. Like shoplifting, binge eating was supposed to be in my past. And the purging that came after… I had made it through the stress of wedding planning with my mother, Brandon’s cheating, the break up, through the auction… or I thought I had. I felt out of breath.  I felt like everything was catching up with me.  It had all seemed like a bad dream until yesterday—until I spent that wonderful day with Calvin on the yacht. 
Nice, Sabs,
I thought. A good day and it all falls apart.

But it wasn’t because it was a good day. It was because it was such a
real
day. Seeing Calvin… really seeing him as a real person, made
all
of it real.

I tapped my fingers nervously against the table, finishing the Diet Coke the bus boy had brought and motioning for another.  Du Cheval had gone into work mode, I assumed, tapping away at his smart phone, probably making appointments. 

I breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter appeared with the food, unloading plate after plate in front of me. “Anything else?” he asked with a trace of humor, thinking
what more could she possibly want
? Shaking my head, I picked up my knife and fork and began cutting up steak.

I gradually became aware of Du Cheval watching me… but that didn’t slow me down.  Bite after bite of steak disappeared, and when nothing but a sliver of bone remained, I methodically dug my way through the macaroni, washing it down with generous amounts of Diet Coke.  The bus boy finally started just bringing the pitcher to the table.  The potatoes came next, and when they were gone I finished the soup. I hadn’t said a word to Du Cheval, although I knew he was now watching with something like disbelief as I demolished the food. 

I felt sedated by the huge meal, but I wasn’t done yet.  I ate the salad, barely tasting it, while I watched for the waiter. 

Finally he was back… Okay, it had only been fifteen minutes since he’d sat the food down, but I hadn’t wasted any time getting it down. 

“Can
I get you some dessert?” he asked, and his playful tone indicated that he expected me to say I was stuffed.

“Please,” I smiled.  Hm, I hadn’t checked desserts in the menu… “Do you have chocolate cake?”

“Of course,” he said, “Right away.”

He brought it quickly, no doubt thinking I hadn’t eaten for days, given my appetite.

When I finally looked across the table at Du Cheval, after shoveling the rich chocolate dessert into my face in record time, I almost laughed.  Prissy, proper Du Cheval witnessing the most personal of meltdowns on my part. He had to suspect something. Oh well.  What was he going to do? Accuse me? Then again, maybe he didn’t.  It was awe more than disgust on his face.  Maybe he just figured girls from Dallas were a different animal than the Manhattan version.

“Ready?” I said. I couldn’t have been more ready.  Far from being enjoyable, I had eaten so much that it hurt. Full to the gills had never seemed like a more appropriate expression. 
Why didn’t I order room service back at the hotel?
I suddenly wondered.
Now I’ve got to ride in the car, feeling like this.
I could barely breathe, but tried to smile. “This place was great, good choice,” I said. 

Du Cheval looked a bit
dazed. “Quite an appetite for such a petite figure,” he said. 

I shrugged, careful not to bring any more attention to the outburst. “
Dancing is rigorous.”

Back in my hotel room, I dumped the bags of new clothes on my bed and pulled the crumpled silken tank from my bra. I felt numb, slow, heavy. But not numb enough.  I’d been ignoring the overpriced junk food the hotel stocked in the small kitchenette for the past several days, but I’d ignored it long enough.  A sleeve of oreos, a bag of chips—score, a pint of ice cream!—all that and more I carried back to the bedroom.  I sat on the floor, consuming, not thinking, refusing to think. Salty, sweet, crunchy, distraction.

When it was gone, though, the wave of disgust hit me like a physical sickness.
Oh god,
I thought, my usually flat tummy bloated and painful. There were potato chip crumbs all over my lap and I brushed at them ineffectually, frantically. 

”Gross,” I said out loud, and I meant myself, not the crumbs.

What kind of person does this?
I thought, looking at the mess of wrappers in the floor, remembering Du Cheval watching in amazement as I put away enough food for three people in front of him.  I didn’t let all of the ugly thoughts forming just below the surface come out to play. I didn’t want to. I wanted all of this disgusting mess
out of me.
The feelings, the food, all of it. While eating, the food was a sedative, but as soon as the consumption stopped it was a nightmare. 

Disgusting little greedy fat pig,
I thought. Stealing and gorging myself, god. I thought of Calvin’s beautiful face, his generosity, the thousands of dollars’ worth of beautiful clothing sitting on the bed…
Styles for my petite frame, yeah, right, Du Cheval,
I thought, knowing I was bloated with at least five pounds worth of just food right now, and would gain a pound or two in fat by tomorrow. If I let myself.

Sure, vomiting was disgusting, but I couldn’t be more disgusted than I already was.  And it
was
relief.  Purging my aching body of that traumatizing amount of food. Getting the ugliness out. Or at least, trying to get it all out.

Numbness set in and my tears ran dry as time passed. Five minutes? Fifteen? An hour? I had no idea.  I sat up suddenly, needing to shower.
Pull yourself together, Sqbrina,
I thought. 

I scrubbed off under the hot water, keeping my eyes closed.  Not thinking. Refusing to think. I barely recognized the hotel room when I came out. Wrappers everywhere, the pile of unfamiliar clothes on the bed… I set to work straightening up, then curled up on the bed with my phone. It wasn’t too late to call Chloe, and I didn’t want to be alone with myself right now.

“Sabs! How are ya?” she asked.

“Um, I don’t know. I’ve been better… I had a bad day… with food… and stuff.”

“Oh, honey.” I heard the sympathy and the disappointment in her tone. She knew exactly what I meant by a bad day with food. Chloe kept her slender figure by being a health food nut, and she’d always worried about my bulimic tendencies.

“Are you alone there now?” she asked. “Where’s Calvin?”

“Yeah, I’m at my hotel alone.  I mean, I’m okay now, it’s all over with, I just needed to hear a friendly voice I guess. Ugh, Chloe! Why the hell do I do this? I never feel better afterwards!”

“
Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she said. “That only makes it worse.  I wish you wouldn’t do that, too, but honestly I’m surprised it hadn’t happened already, what with the whole wedding thing. You’ve been keeping it together really well, considering all the stress.”

This was true, I realized.  Yes, I’d acted out today, but I’d held up fairly well during all the turmoil in my life lately.

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“See? You get so caught up in feeling bad about yourself sometimes, Sabrina, you can’t see the big picture.  Cut yourself some slack, babe! Are things going good with Calvin?”

“Yeah, they really are… we’re still just getting to know each other, really.  I see him tomorrow.”

“And I bet after that food nonsense today you’re totally exhausted, huh?”

“I am,” I said, realizing that I
was
exhausted. 

“Listen up, Sabrina, you make yourself a cup of hot tea—I’m sure there’s tea and a microwave in your room? And get your comfiest jammies on, and get some rest! Don’t think about the bad stuff, okay? Just look forward to seeing that good looking new man of yours tomorrow!”

I couldn’t help giggling at Chloe’s bossiness.  “Yes, ma’am… Oh, god, I haven’t even asked how you are! I’m an awful friend!”

She chuckled. “Don’t you worry about me, Sabrina, I can look after myself! Things are great here.  Call me again as soon as you can!”

“I will,” I said.

Even after that I remained numb.
I climbed into bed, but even though my body was empty and my head
felt
empty, the tears came anyway.  That was okay as long as I was numb enough not to think.  I let the tears come out, wanting to feel emptier.

But you can only shut off your mind for so long. I wanted to do the whole day over again.  Calvin had tried to do something kind for me, and I’d messed it all up, even if no one but me knew.  Hopeless, gross,
broken
Sabrina. 
No wonder Brandon didn’t care that I waited for him. If Calvin knew what I really am, he’d never have bid a penny, let alone treat me so kindly. 

Thankfully, once the thoughts started coming back, I was too tired to fight off sleep. 

Chapter 8

I took a final look in the mirror. Pleased, I smiled at myself—just the effect I was going for. I’d spent an hour beneath the hotel bathroom’s fluorescent lights, wrapping my hair around my curling iron until it sprang into thick buoyant waves. The wide-legged black linen pants I wore hugged my hips perfectly, their deep pockets reminiscent of the retro seventies style but fashionably modern. I wore a lacy lavender camisole, plunging v-neck, under a soft, knit, button-up cardigan. The lace peeked out from the sweater, making the look sophisticated but subtly suggestive. It was as close to classy traveler as I would get.

When Calvin called earlier this morning, his husky voice sounded relaxed and warm, so different from how he’d said good-bye the other night. “Have you ever been to Chicago?” he asked.

“Never,” I answered. ”
My best friend’s aunt lives there, so she’s been. She invited me one summer, but I—” I realized I was rambling nervously. “—I couldn’t go. She says it’s amazing,” I finished lamely.

“It is,” Calvin said. “You can see for yourself. I have to go for the evening, and you’re coming with me.” His easy control of my schedule seemed natural to him… and increasingly natural to me. “I’m picking you up at four.”

I spent the entire morning packing, changing my mind four times about what to bring. Nervous energy buzzed through the room, sending me into a tailspin. I hadn’t seen Calvin since he’d dropped me off after our day on the Hudson, and the expectation was driving me crazy. On the yacht, I’d managed to ignore what had happened the previous night in his study—his hands between my legs, his mouth on my neck—trying to pretend that the tension was only in my head. But in the last few days, I’d been replaying the scene in my mind, unable to get it out of my thoughts, the feel of his body against mine seared into my brain.

I still couldn’t read him, didn’t know whether he felt the same pull of attraction when we touched or whether I was just a name on a contract.
He had to feel it
, I told myself—the urgency in his tongue, the intensity of his stares as he slammed me against that bookshelf. His intensity had been incredible… as if he were on the verge of losing control.  Seeing such an eminently controlled man like that gave
me
a feeling of power.