Vanity Fare (11 page)

“I think it’s because he thinks I’ll be easy.”

“Is he wrong?”

The question made me get all sick inside. I hadn’t had sex with anyone, hell, hadn’t
kissed
anyone but Hugh in twenty years. Could I really go there? With Simon? It would be the most inappropriate thing I could do without breaking any laws.

“I guess I’ll have to think about it. I don’t want to sound vain, but it sure seems like he’s interested.”

Dr. Lowell nodded. “You know you’re not good with surprises, so you should anticipate and plan for any of the possible scenarios. Otherwise you might—”

“Might end up a crumpled heap on the floor.”

“Exactly.”

Oops. I hadn’t told her the most important news. Too busy thinking about Simon’s Dimples of Death.

“And my mother’s staying with me for a little while.”

I’d never seen Dr. Lowell surprised. Until now. “What? Why?”

“For a little while. She’s got—” I almost didn’t want to say it, it felt disloyal somehow. “She’s got some money problems, and she thinks she’s going to lose the house. She asked . . .”

“You’re a good daughter.”

I tried not to think of the hours I’d spent complaining to Dr. Lowell about the Woman Who Gave Birth to Me and Almost Died in the Process.

“Yeah, maybe, but isn’t it bizarre that just as I’m totally on the edge of fiscal disaster my mother is there, too? At least she’s got Medicare,” I said, envy tingeing my voice.

Dr. Lowell chuckled a little, then glanced at the clock on the table between us and edged forward on her seat. “Your assignment for next week is twofold: figure out your limits for your date, and figure out how to solve your mother’s problems so she can get out of your house. She’ll make you crazy, and I should know.” She smiled, as if to take the sting out of her words.

I rose from the couch. “Good thing you don’t make me do anything difficult, huh?”

She chuckled again. I liked making her laugh.

“See you next week, Molly.”

Tender Is the Bite

You don’t have to go insane searching for the best taste in the world. It’s not in Paris, not in Minnesota, definitely not at Princeton. It’s right here in New York City, and it is the best example of jazzy baking you’ll find: a luscious swirl of chocolate croissant, drizzled with French butter and American bourbon.

Maddening.

11

“MOMMY?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Will Grandma live here all the time?” Aidan fiddled with the zipper on my sweatshirt. We were sprawled in the living room, superheroes scattered all around. It’d been a tough day at school for Aidan—some controversy involving a girl who’d refused to sit next to him during meeting time—and I felt bad I’d been away from the house so much.

Not that he seemed to mind. My mother and Lissa were way more fun than me, a fact he’d not been shy about pointing out.

“No, honey, she won’t.” Because if she did, either I would go insane or have to move out myself. “You like having her here, right?”

Aidan slid the zipper up and down the track. “Yeah, but she can’t play as long as you can.”

“I think that’s because Grandma is a little older, honey.”

“Is she going to die?” Aidan had stopped fussing with the zipper and had turned his head up to stare me in the eyes, a look of anxiety on his face.

Open mouth, insert foot. “No, honey, not for a long, long, long, long, long—”

“Long, long, long, long, long time,” he finished. “Good, because she promised to watch that Scooby-Doo movie you don’t like next time you go out at night. When are you going out again, anyway?” he asked, an impatient tone in his voice.

“Tonight, actually.” Tonight was the night of the Big Date.

“Good.” He began rearranging the Flash and the Green Lantern on the floor, humming as he did.

“Aidan?”

He looked up, clearly irritated at being disturbed. “What?”

How should I ask this? Should I even ask this? “You know how Daddy spends time with Sylvia?” He nodded, still holding tight to Captain America. “Well, Mommy might have someone she spends time with—sometime, not for a long while,” I added hastily, “and we should talk about that.”

“Will he play baseball with me?”

I sat back on my heels. “Good question.” I doubted cricket would be an adequate substitute. “How about I make sure he is willing to try, okay?”

That was assuming a lot—that Simon and I would have a relationship, one where it made sense for him to meet my son. So the idea of a sex-fueled fling might have to be relegated to the back of my mind with the rest of my fantasies, like Hugh being forced to actually apologize for what he did to me, and that incident in high school with Mr. Callahan.

He shrugged, then looked back down at the floor. “Sure.” He picked up a couple of the plastic men that were lying on the ground and handed them to me. “Mommy, you be Martian Manhunter and I’ll be Batman and Superman and Flash and Green Lantern. You can be Robin, too.”

I took the figures from his outstretched hand. Thanks, Aidan. A sidekick and a fire-fearing hairless green guy from Mars. I guess there were worse fates.

“Okay, honey. ‘Uh, earthlings, could someone else throw another log on the fire?’ ”

“Mommy. You can’t be silly. This is
serious
.”

Before I left the house, I
grabbed my notebook and spent my subway time making notes on the essay I had to write for the teachers’ program application. It was hard not to be completely negative, and by the time the train got into Manhattan, I was really mad at myself. There was a lot I was doing right, and I had to stop being drawn to the negative. It wasn’t productive.

I crumpled up the paper and began a list:

1. Making plans for the future
   
2. Raising Aidan on my own
   
3. I haven’t cried for at least a week
   
4. Still have health insurance
   
5. Money coming in, with more promised
   
6. Great friends
   
7. About to go on date with British hottie
   

Not bad. I got off at Forty-second Street, walking with a confidence I
did
feel. That was cool. Simon was already there, and his white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he saw me.

When I saw him, I simply could not believe my luck. He was just spectacular.
And
he was going to buy me dinner.

“Thai’s good for you, right?” It wasn’t really a question. Which he proved by talking more right away. “I like slumming it with ethnic food on my own time, there’s only so much Le Bernardin you can take. Plus the pastry chef there despises me.” Simon took my arm, and we walked in silence to a brightly lit storefront down the block. He strode ahead of me and pushed the restaurant door open.

Even without Lissa’s help, I was able to find something to wear. I’d settled on wearing a brown scoop-neck sweater with black embroidered flowers near the bottom. I’d actually worn a skirt, too, which had a little flare to it. Black, of course. I’d thought about wearing the ridiculous heeled shoes I’d bought in a mad frenzy at the last Barneys warehouse sale, but then immediately had visions of toppling off the heels onto the sidewalk while Simon looked at me, aghast and mortified such a clumsy, oxlike creature was his date. I settled on some black pumps I’d bought for a wedding. They had heels, at least.

My mother didn’t care a damn about my choice of footwear, she was just thrilled I was going out with someone with a penis. Not that she’d used that precise wording.

Aidan was waxing rhapsodic on the various powers of Pokémon when I left. He barely noticed when I said I was going, he was too busy explaining the differences between poison and psychic types. Mom noticed, and replied to my “good-bye” by crossing her fingers. “Good luck, honey!”

With what? Enticing some man to my bed? Not falling on my face? Making it through one conversation without revealing I was an idiot?

I bet my mother was mulling over all three. Always nice to know your mother is on your side.

The hostess sat us at the far end of the restaurant, farthest from the door. I plopped my purse on the floor next to me, then took the menu from her outstretched hand.

“Singhas for both of us, please,” Simon ordered, taking the menu. She nodded, then left.

Thanks for asking what I wanted, bucko. At least when Nick had done it, he’d found out what I wanted first.

I unfolded my napkin and placed it on my lap. He leaned back in his chair and laid his menu on the table. “What a week,” he said.

I took a sip of water. “Why?”

He grimaced, then picked up the menu and opened it, shielding his face from my view. “Nothing, really. Complications, mostly.” Did that explain what had happened with Natalie?

“Ah.”

He flashed me that killer smile. “So what do you feel like?”

Um, I wouldn’t want to say right now. “Why don’t you just order? I’ll eat anything but a whole fish. I hate having those eyes staring at me.” I knew he wouldn’t listen to what I wanted anyway, might as well save time.

He chuckled from behind the menu. “No whole fish. Fine with me.”

The waiter came over, two big brown bottles of beer on his tray, which he poured into the two tall glasses on our table. Mmm, beer. Almost as good as coffee.

The waiter looked inquiringly at Simon, who folded his menu closed.

“Yes, we’re ready to order. Tom yam gai, beef Massaman curry, pad thai.” The waiter took our menus and nodded in approval.

Simon picked up his glass and lifted it toward me. “Cheers.” He took a sip, and I watched his throat move as he swallowed. He noticed me looking, gave me a sly grin, then gestured toward my glass. “It’s customary to drink to a toast, my love.”

I scrambled to grab the glass. God, five minutes on the date and I’d already screwed it up. I drank a tiny sip of the beer. Yum.

“So, tell me about you.” Again, it wasn’t a request, but an order. I guess being a culinary superstar did that to you.

I shrugged. I saw his eyes track the movement of my breasts underneath my sweater. I shrugged again, just for the powerful thrill of it. “Not much to tell. I live in Brooklyn with my son, I am between careers right now, I do freelance work for John, I am addicted to coffee and romance novels.”

“Where is your ex-husband?”

“Still husband. Divorce is in the works,” I admitted. “He’s here, lives in the Financial District. He’s a lawyer.”

“Ah. He was too boring for you, then?”

I picked up my glass. “Look, I really don’t want to spend time discussing my marriage. I mean, it’s just a little recent to talk about.” I took another sip, a bigger one this time. “Tell me about you. How did you get into baking?”

“Luck, I guess. My mum was a good cook, but a god-awful baker. I have an awful sweet tooth”—here he gave me a glance that was this close to a leer—“so I started playing around in the kitchen.”

I bet he did. Bet he still did, too. He splayed his fingers out in a wide gesture. “Not much else to tell. Never married, live in London, travel a lot, work hard, play harder, and have developed a fascination for smart women of a certain age.” He gave me a meaningful look. I’d seen more subtlety on Saturday morning cartoons.

The waiter arrived with the soup, thank goodness, before I had to think of a reply that didn’t ask him what he meant by “certain age.” I wasn’t a goddamned cheese.

I glanced at him in between slurps. He even dazzled on close inspection. He was wearing an emerald green turtleneck sweater that was cut slim so as to hug his lean form. And, of course, the sweater matched his eyes. I’d noticed he was wearing black pants again and those pointy boots.

So why wasn’t I slavering at the prospect of getting cozy with him, as was clear he wanted? Lust aside, it just didn’t feel . . . right.

I felt like his motivations weren’t right, either. “How long are you in New York?” I asked.

He pushed the bowl away and took a long swallow of beer. “A few more months, at least, until we get the shop open. I really like the ideas you’ve generated, by the way.”

“Thanks. I’ve done a lot of work on them, and I’m excited to work with Nick on integrating the concept with the design.”

“But I don’t want to talk about work tonight.”

“Ah.” Molly Hagan, Mistress of the Interjection. “Well, tell me what you like about New York.”

“What’s not to like? Bars that are open all night, the restaurants, the diversity, the women.” He leered again, only on him it was honestly pretty sexy.

I felt myself weakening a little. Would it be so bad to be easy? At the very least, I’d be able to discover if he was just as suave in bed. Certain parts of my anatomy insisted he had to be, and were equally insistent we all find out for sure.

“I wish I could take advantage of more of what New York City has to offer,” I replied. “Until recently, I didn’t have any child-care options, and my son is not so fond of staying up all night drinking at some Lower East Side bar. Much as his mom would like to.”

“Where do you live?”

“Brooklyn. Park Slope, specifically. It’s like the Village, only without the tourists and as many tattoo parlors.”

“I’ve never been to Brooklyn. But I’d like to, sometime.”

“Mmm. You should visit.” Was that too vague? Not vague enough?

The waiter set the steaming plates of food down in front of us. It had been so long since I had eaten out at a restaurant—diner time with Nick notwithstanding—that I focused on the food, savoring the spicy, sweet pad thai and the rich flavor of the curry. Simon was equally engrossed, spearing bits of beef on the end of his fork and sliding them into his mouth. He caught my eye and licked his lips.

There really oughta be a law against that kind of behavior.

“This is excellent, Simon, thank you.” I sounded like a schoolteacher. A prim, missish schoolteacher.

“You’re welcome. I like giving stay-at-home moms a reason to get out.” He signaled for the waiter, who came right over. “Two more Singhas, please.”

I looked at my glass, startled to discover I’d somehow drunk almost the whole beer. I shrugged, lifted the glass, and drained it. Might as well have fun while I was wrestling with my sense of self-esteem.

“I have got to say,
you have the most gorgeous eyes.” It was several hours, and several beers, later. Simon and I had gone from the Thai restaurant to a nearby bar, a place with suitably illicit dark corners. We’d discussed movies, politics, the differences between American and British culture, and how successful he was.

Conversation slowed as the drinks flowed. Now he had his hand on my knee and I knew he wanted to kiss me. My conscience and I had decided we’d go to first base. I leaned forward.

There is nothing quite like that first kiss.

Simon’s mouth tasted like beer, and desire, and confidence. He didn’t waste any time using his tongue, either, and I found myself responding. With alacrity. His hand moved from my knee to my waist, and his other hand clutched my back, kneading it in rhythm to his tongue.

This was nothing like Hugh, thank God.

Thank goodness my conscience and I had an agreement, or I would’ve found myself draped on the table underneath him.

I eased back slowly, lifting his hand from my waist and holding it in mine. He gave me a long, lazy smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“Shall we go somewhere?”

I put my hand against his chest.
Do not get distracted by imagining how his skin would feel
. “I think that’s moving a little fast.”

He grasped my hand, the one against his chest, and moved it so it was over his nipple. Which was hard, probably as hard as mine. I closed my eyes, willing myself to stay strong.

“I’ll move as slowly as you want to, love,” he said. His words brought all kinds of images to mind, and I swallowed. I pulled my hand away from his chest, hoping he wouldn’t see just how much regret tinged my actions.

“Thanks. Listen, I should get going. I’ve got my son at home, and—”

“I’ll take you home.”

“No, don’t bother, I’ll get a taxi, it’s not that—”

He stopped me with another kiss. This one was softer, gentler, the perfect “good night” kiss.

Maybe my instincts were wrong. Maybe he did like me for me.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.” He handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “For the fare. When are you free again?”

Not “I’d like to see you again,” or “What night is convenient for you?” or even “Can we see each other again?” He really was that confident. Of course, given those eyes and those curls and that body, not to mention incredible pastry skills and that much money, why shouldn’t he be?