Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) (7 page)

Kat leads me past the stage, down a short hallway, to a small vestibule curtained off.  Inside, she closes the curtain.  There’s nothing in the space but a long, padded bench.  I hear the music, but now it’s slightly muffled.

“Sit down, babe.  Get comfortable.”

Comfortable?  I’m so nervous, I’m shaking.

I perch on the edge of the bench.

Kat stands in front of me and unhooks her bra, baring her perfect breasts.  I look at the ground, at her high, clear heels.

“Don’t be shy,” she says.  “If I didn’t like being looked at, I wouldn’t be doing this job.”  She smiles sweetly.

Okay.

I look up at her body.  And I feel a sense of wonder.  Even in my twenties I never looked like this.  Of course I’ve seen bodies like this in magazines and movies, but never in person.

“You can look
and
you can touch.”

I lose my breath for a moment.

She takes my hands, and puts them on her breasts.  I’m awed by the feel of her soft, smooth skin giving off heat.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

“Um, no,” I tell her.  And I’m not so sure I want to start now.  But at the same time, I am at this place because I am on a quest — a quest to do the things that have passed me by.  It’s not about what I should do, or would ordinarily do, or even necessarily have real desire to do.  It’s about experience, pure and simple.

She leans close and kisses me.  Cinnamon.

Her mouth is soft, and it feels different than kissing a guy.  Strange and familiar at the same time, and not at all wrong or weird or a turn-off.  I can’t help but think it’s bizarre to kiss and touch someone who’s being paid for it.  But if Kat finds this to be a chore in any way, she does a good job of hiding it.

I’ve never thought about a woman sexually.  But here, with Kat, it feels instinctive to want to touch and be close to her beauty.  It’s so unreal, doesn’t feel like I’m doing anything odd.  She’s as unthreatening as a flower, and as I kiss her, I thread my hands through her hair, amazed by its luxurious thickness.

She straddles me on the bench, and we’re kissing and it’s so alien to have my arms around her thin frame.  Her hands stroke my arms, then my breasts over my dress.  I feel a pulse of heat between my legs — something I didn’t feel when kissing Allen.  Something I haven’t felt with another person in a very, very, long time.  But this strange woman has flipped some sort of switch.

“Time’s up,” a man calls outside the curtain.

I jump, snapped out of the moment as abruptly as waking to an alarm.

Kat swings one leg off the bench and moves away.  With a smile, she helps me to my feet.

I follow her out of the alcove, into the main room, which now feels too bright and loud.  Sensory overload.

I’m relieved to see Justin sitting where I left him, not with a dancer, not even watching the stage.  He’s looking right at me, as if expecting me that very moment.

“How’d it go?”

I sit in the chair next to him, feeling shaky and overwhelmed.

“Can you take me home?”

“Sure.  Wait here.  I’ll get our coats.”  He pats my knee reassuringly, and disappears into the growing crowd.  I feel raw and vulnerable waiting for him, and when he returns with my coat, I practically lean into him as he helps me on with it.

Outside, South Street is bustling.  Justin casts concerned glances at me.  “You don’t have to tell me anything about it.  Just tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say.  And I do feel better.  I just needed a minute to recover – to get my bearings.

He turns on the radio, and we drive to the suburbs in something close to companionably silence.  Except there’s an electricity in the air, as if the energy of the strip club, of that girl, clings to me — my clothes, my very breath.  And now that it’s the two of us alone, I find myself fighting the urge to reach out and touch him.

It’s pitch black when he pulls into my driveway.  I forgot to leave the front lights on.

“So at least tell me this, did you have fun?” he asks, turning off the engine.

“Yeah,” I say.  “I did.  Thanks.  That was definitely…different.”  I shift in my seat, suddenly self-conscious under his searching eyes.

“I’m happy to see you’re able to be in the moment.”

“Oh?  Did you have doubts?”

“I did.  You can be a little uptight.  But I was pleasantly surprised tonight.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I was paying you a compliment.  Which, by the way, you never take very well.”

“Okay, well.  Thanks.  And speaking of paying, I meant what I said about not wanting you to pay for all this stuff.”

“Don’t worry about the money, Claire.  But now that we’re on the subject, I’m curious.  Raising a son while selling make-up at a department store?  How did you manage?”

“Wow, this conversation is taking a serious turn,” I say, not entirely comfortable with it.

“I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

“His father paid some child support.  I didn’t do it all on my own.”

“But that’s finished, right?  He’s eighteen.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“So now what?”

“What do you mean, now what?”

“Are you going to work at the make-up counter for the rest of your life?”

“Until I retire, yes.”

Justin seems to contemplate this.  “Okay,” he says finally.

I shake my head.  Whatever.  “Well, like I was saying, next time it’s on me.”

“Fair enough.”

I watch him pull out of the driveway.  And I stand there, alone in the dark, watching long after his car is out of sight.

*** ***

It’s a rough morning at work.

I’m running on adrenaline left over from last night, and every face I do is sultry and dramatic, inspired by Kat and her fellow night crawlers.

Unfortunately, the Suburban Square clientele do not want to look like strippers.

“I think it’s a bit…much,” my customer says, looking into the hand-held mirror.

She’s right.  But it was fun to play around with deeper shades, to go for something bold.

“I’ll tone it down,” I say quickly, pulling Q-tips and translucent powder from my bay.  I quickly undo my strokes of genius.  I remove almost everything until she is wearing just a matte neutral on her eyelid, bronze liner, and a rose petal gloss on her lips.

Sometimes I wish I could spread my wings a little and have a little more freedom.  I didn’t admit this to Justin in the car last night, but my dream — when I allow myself such indulgences — is to be a freelance make-up artist.  I haven’t thought about it in a year or two, but now the itch is back.

My phone buzzes in my front apron pocket.

I turn away from the customer and check the incoming text.

Meet me tonight at The Four Seasons. In the lounge.
11PM

I tap back. 
I have my book club tonight.

Don’t even tell me it goes past
10:00
. Nice try. Oh, wear the garters. Just a suggestion. Not trying to get all Christian Grey on you.

I smile and text back,
What do you know about Christian Grey?

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Patti lives in one of those old stone houses that rarely come on the market, the ones built in the late 1800s that have small bathrooms and odd interior arches but charm you can’t replicate in new construction.  It was her parents’ home, the house she grew up in.  They gave it to her when they retired to Florida.

It’s a five minute drive from my place in Bryn Mawr.  Everyone in the book club lives within ten minutes of each other.  Some of us are better at hosting than others, and lately it’s been falling to either Patti or myself.  Tonight, it’s her turn.

“Don’t you look nice!” she says, opening the door.  I hand her a tray of brownies and a bottle of Chardonnay.

“Thanks,” I say, kissing her on the cheek, though I just left her an hour ago at the store.

I know I’m overdressed in my black pencil skirt and white blouse and shoes with a two-inch heel.  But none of my friends know this is just my first stop of the night.  In three hours, I’ll be sitting with Justin at The Four Seasons.

Once again, finding something to wear tonight was frustrating.  I managed to squeeze into a skirt I haven’t been able to fit into in at least three years.  Somehow, I’m losing weight.

I have no idea how I’ll sit through our discussion of Ann Patchett’s
State of
Wonder
, even though I loved the book.  A month ago, the discussion would’ve been the highlight of my week.

How quickly things change.

Jen, Mila, Anne-Marie, and Karen are already here.  I’m surprised — I thought I was early.

Everyone except for Mila, who runs a waxing salon, has worked at Macy’s.

“You look amazing,” Anne-Marie says, jumping up from the couch and hugging me.  I probably do look slightly better than I did last month.  Lately, I have more interest in pulling myself together.  But the way she says it, it has more to do with reassuring me because of my health issue rather than my actual appearance.  It’s one of the many minor irritations that have flared since telling my friends about my diagnosis.

Another is the way they tiptoe around certain topics.  I thought we were all excited to read JoJo Moyes’s
Me Before You
.  Then at the end of last month’s meeting, Jen decided it was “too depressing.”  This, from a woman who once selected the memoir
Perfection,
by a woman whose husband dropped dead and left behind a trail of the affairs he’d been having their entire marriage.

“Thanks,” I say.  “I can’t believe I’m the last one here.  You guys are usually the stragglers,” I say to Jen and Anne-Marie.  I sit on a chair closest to the food and take a handful of grapes.  Crossing my legs, I feel the pull of the garters.

I think about Justin’s text, suggesting I wear them.  The fact he knows what I’m wearing under my clothes is more than a little thrilling.

“What’s that smile about?” Karen says.  Everyone is looking at me.

I cover my mouth as I chew.  “Was I smiling?” I say behind my hand.

They look at each other.

I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but there is a weird vibe in the room.

I pull out my copy of the book from my bag and put it on my lap.  “So, did we love this, or what?” I say.  The usual protocol is that the hostess opens the discussion, but with everyone just sitting there staring at me I can’t wait for Patti to get back from the kitchen.

Apparently, I am alone in this sentiment.

“We should wait,” Jen says.

I feel them watching me with concern.  I’m about to tell them to snap out of it when Patti walks in with my brownies on a colorful ceramic plate and the opened bottle of wine.

“Patti, I tried to get the conversational ball rolling but no one wanted to start without you.  Do you feel the love?”

“Most definitely.”  She plops on the couch.  Everyone reaches for a brownie.

“I’ve been doing Paleo all week, but fuck it,” Karen says.

“How can you eat all the meat on that diet?  Your cholesterol will go through the roof,” Mila says.

I get impatient when the conversation turns to diet, exercise, and the latest cover story of
Us Weekly
.  I love my friends, but I also really like talking about the books.  I know Patti does, too, so I give her the Get the Ball Rolling glance.  Besides, I have to be somewhere tonight.

I open my handbag and take a quick peek at the time on my phone.

“So, before we get started on, um, the book,” Patti says.  I look up.  Everyone is staring at me.

“What? Sorry.  I spaced for a minute.”

“I was saying before we start on the book, we want to talk to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Patti says.  Everyone nodded.  “We’re concerned about you.”

Oh god.  Not this.  Not now.  Not tonight.

“I know you are,” I say slowly.  “And I appreciate that.  But this is totally treatable, you guys.  I told you, I have a plan and it’s going to be fine.  I appreciate your support.”

“But you never talk about it,” Mila says.

“Yeah.  How can we be supportive when you never bring it up.  Ever.”

“It’s not normal.”

“Or healthy,” says Karen.  I look at her sharply.  I’ve known her the least amount of time, and don’t need her chiming in on this.

“Jesus.  What is this, a book club, or an intervention?” I say, slumping in my chair.

“Look, hon.  It’s perfectly normal to get into a state of denial.  That’s why you need other people to help you deal,” Anne-Marie says.

Am I avoiding the reality of my health situation in some way?  I don’t think so.  I have a game plan, and I’m going to see it through.  There’s nothing I can do about it right this minute.

But there is something I can do about another aspect of my life that isn’t so healthy — and hasn’t been for a very long time.  I run my hand along my leg, feeling the metal catch of the garter strap through my skirt.

I look at Patti.  “Did you start all this? Because you, of all people, should know I have this under control.”

“We’re concerned you’re not dealing with this…emotionally,” Patti says.

“You’re not letting yourself grieve,” adds Anne Marie.

What?  Who are they to tell me what I’m feeling or not feeling?  I stand up, shaking with anger.  “I’m not upset enough for you?  Is that it?  You want to see tears?  You want to hear that I’m scared?  Fine.  I’m scared.  You want to hear I’m angry?  Yeah, damn right, I’m angry.  You want to know how I feel?  I feel like I’m losing my body at the point in my life I want to actually use it again.  Happy now?”

They stare at me, shocked into silence.

And they are even more shocked when I walk out.

“
Thanks for meeting me early,” I say to Justin.

“No problem.  We just have to pace ourselves.  Can’t have you getting too loaded before the big event.”

He’s busy perusing the wine list at The Lounge, a dark, wood-paneled bar and restaurant at The Four Seasons in Center City.  A fire burns in the fireplace, and the room has a warm, seductive vibe.  I love expensive hotels, and in Philadelphia, it doesn’t get more expensive than this.

“Noted,” I say.  Though all I want is to get drunk.  I know my friends are good-intentioned.  But I need them to back off, and they’re not taking the very obvious cues making me wonder if they are doing what’s best for me, or what makes them feel most useful.

And then there’s the work stuff.

“So, what’s got you so in need of a drink you want to meet two hours early?”

I sigh.  “Everything.  One of those days.”

“I’m listening,” he says.  And the amazing thing is, I know he really is.

“Work is so frustrating.  I tried pitching my boss the idea of bringing in a line of organic cosmetics.  I’ve seen this trend of women asking me if Chanel polish has formaldehyde and DBP in it — two very toxic chemicals.  Or asking about vegan lipstick.  And I didn’t pay that much attention until I started reading about cancer prevention, environmental factors, all that.  So I tell my manager, and she shoots me down as if it’s the world’s dumbest idea.”

“She just said no?”

“She said not enough women care about that stuff to devote floor space.  She was completely dismissive.”

“Look, it could be the best idea in the world, but it’s not
her
idea.  So it’s a no-go.  Corporate Politics 101.”

I sigh.  “You’re right.  I know you’re right.  But it never used to be that way in our department.”

“Ever think of doing something different?”

I nod.  “I’ve had this fantasy about going freelance — just being a make-up artist, not selling.”

“You should go for it.”

“I need the health benefits from the store.”

A cocktail waitress appears at the table.  She has black hair and a burgundy dress and while she is very professional and smiles at both of us, I see her interest in Justin.  For once, he doesn’t seem to notice a woman “throwing it” at him, as he likes to say.

He orders his usual vodka and I order a glass of white that costs as much as the entire bottle I took to Patti’s.

“Well, there might be ways around the health coverage issue.”

“I can’t think about that right now.”

He nods.  “I get it.  But when you’re ready to start talking about it seriously, let me know.”

“Why?”

“I might know someone who can help.”

I can’t imagine who or what could help me in that department, and I don’t want to think about it anymore.  “So what’s the big event tonight?  Don’t you think I should be clued in?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” he says with a wicked little smile.  “You look hot, by the way.”

“Thanks.”  The truth is, being around him makes me feel more attractive than I’ve felt in a long time.  When a woman hits forty, it is very easy to feel invisible.

“Did you wear the garters?”

“Yes,” I say, heat rushing to my face.

“How did you manage to talk about books for hours knowing that under that skirt you’re dressed to be undressed?” he says.  His words, or maybe the way he delivered them, makes my stomach jump.

“Let’s not talk about the book club.  Just another headache today.”

He raises his eyebrows.

I sigh.  “I know my friends mean well, but they’re driving me crazy with their so-called support.  They think I should be talking about how upset I am, and that’s not what I need.”

He nods his head.  “I hate that,” he says.  “And then you feel shitty for not talking to them, and then it’s just another thing for you to feel bad about.”

I look at him, surprised.  “Exactly.”

“I mean, I’m guessing.”

“No, sounds like you’re talking from experience,” I say.  “Are you?”

“No.”  He looks at me when he says it, but his eyes are cold, closed off.  He’s lying, but what am I going to do, push him to talk?  That would be hypocritical.

The waitress brings our drinks.  We settle into silence.  I’m not going to bring it up again, but I really want to know what nerve I touched.

“You never told me what it was like.  With the stripper,” he says, leaning forward and putting his drink on the small circular table between us.

“I didn’t?”

“Nope.  What exactly did you two do in there?  I’m only asking because I need to know if we can cross more off the list than just going to a strip club.”  His smile is playful.

I’m tempted to tell him.  I want him to see me in a sexual light — even just for the duration of this conversation.  I have no illusions that he’s interested in me in that way.  But he’s asking, so I’ll tell him.  Why not? Maybe I can get him a little hot and bothered in the process.  A challenge I’m ready for.

“Well, I sat down on a bench and she stood right in front of me.  Really close,” I say.  He nods, sipping his drink.  “She took off her bra.”

I take a sip of my wine, pausing for effect.  “And then she told me I could touch her.”

I see him swallow hard.  I don’t say anything else.  It’s nice to be setting the pace for a change.

“And, um, did you?”

I nod.  “Yeah.  I touched her breasts.  And then she kissed me.”

He shifts in his seat.  I wonder if he is getting aroused.  The thought of him getting hard because of what I’m telling him gives me a rush.  “And how was that?” he asks, his voice low.

“Amazing.  Her mouth was so soft.  I played with her hair, her breasts.  And she started touching me, over my dress.”

He’s staring at me now, his eyes intense.  My heart pounds.  I don’t know if I’m turning him on, but I’m definitely getting worked up myself.

“I wish I’d been there,” he says, his eyes locked with mine.  Does he mean to watch?  Or to touch her, too.  Or…me?

I wonder if he’s hard.  Hell, plenty of women would reach out to feel for themselves.  But that’s not what this is about.  Not what
we’re
about.  I have to remember this.  No matter what, I can’t lose sight of the fact he’s just my tour guide.  That’s all.

His phone vibrates on the table.  He checks it.

“Finish your drink,” he says to me.  “Show time is starting early.”

I gulp my wine, realizing I’d convinced myself this was all he had planned for the night — just sexual banter between the two of us.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

He slides a key card across the table.

“The room number is on here.  Go upstairs.  Let yourself in.  Walk into the bedroom.  And then just go with the flow.  Can you do that, Claire?”

I don’t know.

The key card rests on the table between us.