Plan C
Authors: Lois Cahall
…just in case
By
Lois Cahall
Introduction
He’s just inserted his key card. The door unlocks with a little click and a flash of green light. He smiles at me. “After you, Mademoiselle.” My drunken brain attempts to process what should be a simple matter of putting one foot in front of the other. But when my left foot slides forward, it slips right out of my stiletto shoe.
Technically, it’s not
my
shoe. It’s my best friend Kitty’s shoe…a black Christian Louboutin, to be specific. And I’d “better be damn sure these babies come back in one piece.” Her words exactly. First pair I’ve worn in years that weren’t made in China.
My toes find the comfort of the plush Persian carpet. Feeling temporarily grounded, I scan the room. Or is the room scanning me? After four glasses of Chateau Latour, I can’t be sure.
This doesn’t feel like a hotel room… it’s more like an apartment, bathed in soft light, looking over the gardens of the Place Vendome. Wow! Wait a second…It’s not a room at all. It’s a suite. In Paris!
Swathed in silks, woods and brocades, the place looks as though Louis XV had decorated it himself, hand-picking all the
objets d’art
. Through a set of double doors I can see the bed, prepared by the turn-down service, its king-size white linen feather pillows and gold bolsters fairly screaming, “Hop in! Let’s romp!”
“Sorry about ze room,” he says. “They had only ze executive level. Ze Windsor Prestige was booked.”
“Oh,” is all I can think to say. The mood is changing now. Rapidly. My sky dive has turned into a nose dive. Just ten minutes ago we were downstairs at the Bar Hemingway, laughing, chatting, telling our life stories. I was in the power seat, safely snuggled in a large leather armchair, running my finger along the rich wood paneling. Now I’m staring at my date, Etienne. And he’s staring back at me, his hands casually tucked in his pocket. Carved into his custom made suit, his white, monogrammed shirt opened just enough to show a peep of chest hair, he looks as though he’d stepped off the pages of
GQ
’s fall fashion lineup - French
GQ
, that is – right down to his velvet-encrusted slippers with gold scrambled-egg emblem. Sans socks, of course. His jet black hair is sleekly looped behind his ears, and he wears horn-rimmed glasses. By any standard he’s tall, dark and handsome. You might even call him sexy. But he’s just not my type.
Well, isn’t that the point? To try something different? For me to get away from the artsy intellectual with rumpled clothes whom I always pine for?
Etienne moves to the desk and picks up the telephone before turning to me. “Tu veux de boisson en plus?” he coos.
What is he saying? Is he offering me…a fish? No, that’s ‘poisson.’ Darn! I can barely stand up. And now I have to translate French?!
He tries again, the phone at his ear. “Peut-etre un peu de champagne?”
Champagne! Got it! “Oui,” I say. Oh, what the hell. One more glass.
Then, looking around for the bathroom, I try, “J’ai besoin d’un…” Is it salle de bain? Toilette? Whatever, I’d better start searching. Judging by the size of this place, I’m going to pee my pants. Except I’m not wearing pants. I’m wearing my good-luck, hot pink dress. And Kitty’s black shoes, or one shoe…which I’ve now tossed to the side so I won’t be hobbling to the bathroom. But where’s the other shoe? And why do I always have to pee? The joys of being forty. Thirst of a racehorse and the bladder of a mouse.
Etienne points me in the direction of the powder room. I curtsy and then disappear around the corner. Wait. Did I really just curtsy? Why? To show I’m a lady? The guilt must be kicking in already. Aren’t I supposed to be a pillar of American decency? Aren’t I Libby Crockett, the woman who volunteers at the shelter for those unwed teenaged mothers? Well, yes, but at the rate I’m going - lost shoes, no paycheck, a brain liquefied by drink - I might soon be sharing a cot right alongside them.
I flick on the switch and close the bathroom door. Oh, God, too many lights. Why is it the younger they are the more light they like? And he’s definitely younger than I am. I sit down on the commode to tinkle. If you thought the rest of the room was amazing you should see the bathroom. My fingers suspend over the edge of the Carrara marble.
I stand up, flush the gold handle, and move to the sink. Turning on the water, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Good Lord. Didn’t I just pay my dermatologist an entire week’s salary to get rid of those forehead lines? I look like Botox the Clown!
I reach for the Turkish towels. My friend Bebe would love these towels. Thick and plush, with a matching monogrammed robe behind the door. But Bebe wouldn’t love me. Not just now. This isn’t the example she’d want me setting for her exotic new daughter, the one who calls me “Auntie Hey Lib” in her weird Borat accent.
What am I doing here? How did I get here? It all started at that French art show with Kitty – that’s where I met him. Then an afternoon matinee on Rue Christine the next day, dinner at Guy Savoy, a stroll on the Seine, drinks at his hotel. And did I even once think of my beloved Ben? No. How long is too long between the last man and the next man? For ten years I slept with Ben, spooning up to his backside every night before we rolled over and he snuggled me in return. He was to be my forever and for always. And this is how I heal the pain of loss. Is Etienne simply a BandAid? He seems more like a gigantic hunk of gauze.
I hear music coming from the next room. Etienne seems to be playing Cole Porter. A bit young, isn’t he? Coldplay maybe, but Cole Porter… Come to think of it, I’m a little young for Cole Porter myself, though I’m a sucker for sweeping romantic movies and show tunes. Ben always understood that. He was my chivalrous, slightly older gentleman.
Now I’m examining my crow’s feet in the magnifying mirror attached to the wall. I wonder if I’m really capable of having sex with another man. Ugh. I can just picture myself doing the humiliating “walk of shame” when we’re done. That’s when you have sex at a hotel and you wake up to find 5.a.m. staring back at you from the nightstand
clock. So you gather up your clothes and sneak to the elevator in dark sunglasses, hoping nobody sees you as you make your way through the lobby in your crumpled dress from the night before. Am I a walk-of-shame kind of gal?
The difference between Ben and Etienne is that a man who loves you
gives
you sex, he doesn’t take it. I whimper, oh Bennnnnn…
“Look, Libby,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. “Rationalize.” This Etienne’s got class. He’s got clout. He’s the hot Eurotrash son of a big corporate Euro-titan. He’s practically a prince. Prince
Charmant
! So when am I going to learn the word ‘yes’ when it comes to life’s little indulgences? Of course, Kitty would be all for this. She’d be the devil on my shoulder, egging me on. Just as long as I returned her shoes intact. Both of them.
Sounds emerge from the next room. The jingle of glasses, the cat-pad of footsteps. What will his seduction routine be? He is European. Is that so different from an American? I come to attention when I hear something pop. Was that champagne or a pill bottle cap? Isn’t he a bit young for Viagra?
I fluff my hair and smack my lips to give them au naturel color. When in Rome, right? But this is Paris. And the problem is….
He’s probably out there right now setting up the champagne flutes. It’s all so sweet. Maybe he really is the one who can finally make my dreams come true. I rearrange my dress to my knees and exhale. We’ll take this fairy tale slowly. Maybe just one more drink…
I open the bathroom door. For a moment I can barely see anything. I smile expectantly as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the romantically dim lighting. Where’s
Etienne? Oh, there he is. My eyes make out his perfectly chiseled young face. His big, slightly wolfish smile. And his – oh my God.
Etienne is completely naked. Naked except for Kitty’s strappy Louboutin, which is hanging from his um, shoe rack. He points down and says, “Here is ze slipper. And not one, but two balls...”
Once Upon A Time –
when people
had
time, for God’s sake - on the sand-washed shores of Cape Cod, Massachusetts there lived a handsome husband with his beautiful wife, Libby Beal Crockett. They had two little ringlet-haired daughters in pink, taffeta dresses that pounced up the cobblestone walk to church with them every Sunday morning. The handsome husband was a hair stylist; Libby was a journalist, and their lives were like something out of the pages of
Good Housekeeping
right next to a Betty Crocker “Comfort food” recipe.
It wasn’t until the daughters moved into middle school and became braces-wearing adolescents that Libby realized that a handsome husband who cut hair by day and socialized in Provincetown by evening might have, well, an alternative lifestyle. It was soon after that Libby’s neighbors from the village pointed out to her that her handsome husband was seen walking through town in something you’d find at Elton John’s Charity trunk show. How could she not have known that the man she married was the proud owner of a fuchsia feather boa and a pair of tight leopard velvet pants?
That’s when Libby took notice. She also noticed that her husband was turning into a mean ole ogre. The only thing missing was the bridge under which ogres live. No matter how well she scrubbed the floors and cooked the dinners, the more Libby did for
him the less he appreciated her. No matter how many sweet-smelling bubble baths she took or how many push-up bras she clasped, the more womanliness Libby projected, the meaner the ole ogre got. Until one day Libby gave the mean ole ogre the middle finger and left in search of true love.
