The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) (10 page)

BOOK: The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)
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A slight red seeped into his cheeks. Oh, my God, a blushing hunk! I always thought they were a myth. He was my ideal man, the one with the perfect everything (I didn’t get a chance to steal a glance down
there
but I’m sure it was all in order).

He looked at me with a funny expectant look and I dreaded he’d soon recognize me—then it was good night to my fantasies of having so much absolutely savage sex with him that it was shamefully greedy.

He cleared his throat. “Do you, ah—remember me?”

Shit, shit, shit
. I pretended to think, and then finally shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I finally apologized. “No.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. You were very upset. I’m not crazy about spiders either.”

You know when the floor beneath you opens and you plunge into a black abyss of shame? Multiply that by one billion. Go figure that the one time I’d been naked in public, a guy like this would see me. I’d begged him to take off my trousers, acting like an absolute psychopath, the kind who runs screaming down the main streets and you move off to one side, averting your gaze trying not to make eye contact. You know the kind. In any case, the gig was up.

“You’re…”

He grinned shyly. “The spider murderer, yes. And thanks to you I’ll have it on my conscience forever.”

Oh, dear God, please kill me now. Just swat me out of my miserable existence and get rid of me for once. I slapped my hand over my eyes, waiting,
wanting
to die. I peeked up at him through my fingers. “I’m so, so sorry…”

“Don’t be. I never thought I’d run into you again.”

Him and me both. Now for something intelligent to say. “You must think I’m a total lunatic.”

He grinned. “Of course not. Well, maybe just… original.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“So, how are you?”

“Still hating spiders. And you? Still patrolling the ladies’ rooms for damsels in distress?”
Why couldn’t I just learn to keep my mouth shut?
Now my children’s principal would always remember me not only as the woman with the big bum but the one with the big mouth. And on top of that, I still smelled like mothballs. Better run to repairs and show my human, civil side. “I’m so sorry to have caught you up in that.” Meaning between my thighs. Not that I minded. “And to have caused you such trouble with security.”

“Sorry? Naw, they know me, I’m a regular there. And I’m so glad I got to see you again.”

I swallowed, trying to play it cool as that familiar rushy feeling sent all my blood from my brain, making the rest of my body hum. I can’t even describe how his presence overwhelmed me. He was extremely tall and his body
reverberated
masculinity. All I could do was swallow and stare back at him, my mind experiencing complete shutdown, except for the memory of his arms around me as we lay (he crouched, I kicked at the spider) on the cold bathroom floor, him whispering soothing words and me trembling like Jell-O and begging him to take my pants off. I wondered if that would work today without the spider?

I remember the calming sensation of reassuring, enfolding male around me. But now I also dwelled on the thick black hair that curled past his collar, the aquamarine green eyes and the five o’clock shadow. Beautiful lips. Square jaw. Kindness. Pure male harnessed by polite manners. If he ripped off a lady’s clothes the same way he did mine, then the guy was a keeper. Someone I might have fallen in love with a thousand years ago, before my body was sexually anaesthetized by marriage, children, and everything in-between.

He wasn’t wearing a suit as principals always do, but graced a pair of khaki trousers that barely hid the thigh muscles vibrating underneath, and a dark green sweater that brought out the broad shoulders and the verdant promise in his eyes. Even if the sweater wasn’t fitted, I could tell he was lean and ripped. I tried to remember the last time I had met someone so gorgeous, and then I knew. Never.

And of all the nice outfits I had for work, and out of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, I had to choose today to look—and feel—like shit.

I pulled my magic scarf closer to my throat and my scruffy bag closer to my chest, hoping the floor would have mercy on me and swallow me up.

The temperature of my body rose considerably and I began to sweat again, making my skin so slick I almost slid straight out of my coat, like jelly from a tube, and off my chair twice. Almost. How high did this guy
need
his thermostat set? I unbuttoned my collar, then some more to clear my chest, which was swathed in layers of wool, so there was no danger in looking like I was exposing “The Boobs.” That was my sister Judy’s department. But I was still boiling.

“So
you
’re Maddy and Warren’s mom—what fantastic children you have,” he said.

As opposed to me. “Mr. Foxham—”

“Please call me Julian. After all, we’re acquainted outside the school.”

Meaning he’d seen my underwear. I wondered how many other mothers he was acquainted with. I nodded. “Okay. I’m Erica, then.”

You know those plastic conference chairs, the ones for skinny people, where the only direction you can go is downwards unless you plant your ass right in the center and your feet firmly on the ground? At the moment it was the only thing keeping me off the floor.

I looked like a bag lady perched on the edge of a bridge, ready to jump, with no make-up (not that I wore much of it these days) as I fretted with my fingernails, conscious that I’d chipped one while backing out of The Farthington parking lot in my haste to get here. Nail polish was a no-no because it would only be yet
another
deadline I’d have to meet. I was a total mess. And my hair—my arch-enemy—was in its usual facelift-tight bun. I knew I looked like a harpy.

Mr. Foxham—
Julian
—noticed my uneasiness but pretended not to. Oh, he was very smooth. And all this time I’d been pining over someone I thought was a normal guy, not a professional parent-basher.

What the hell’s wrong with my children?
I wanted to blurt out as he professionally assessed me behind a friendly smile. With horror, I felt myself sliding down my torture chair again, and scrambled back up into my coat that stood stiff of its own accord, planting my feet firmly on the carpet for purchase.

This could not be good. Something, I knew, was very wrong, and, as fate would have it, then Spider Killer, such a good-looking specimen who so obviously had it together, was going to give me news that would shatter my world…

“Erica,” he began, and I involuntarily said, “Uh-oh.”

He smiled, and let me tell you, it was such a sight. White teeth sparkled back at me through dark red lips, supported by a square chin. And despite his effort to shave that morning, I could already see the dark stubble shadowing his cheeks.
Tell me what’s wrong, damn you!

“Coffee? Tea?” he offered. A basket case by now, I shook my head, wondering whether I would fall apart from the effort.

“Right, let’s not dally any further. Please forgive my bluntness, but, in total confidentiality, is everything all right at home?”

There it was. My stupid act of hysteria had returned to bite me on the ass. And then, to top it off, it happened. I slid off my chair, landing at his feet with a thud.

In an instant he was kneeling at my side. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay?
My husband has a lover and we’re divorcing. I challenge anybody to be okay.

“I’m fine,” I snapped as he moved to haul me up, tears of humiliation pricking the backs of my eyes. I hoped he hadn’t caught a whiff of my dingy Eau de Mothballs. In one swift movement that surprised even me, I lurched back to my feet on my own, saving the remains of my dingity. I mean, my
dignity
.

For good measure, I treated him to my famous evil eyeball, but he didn’t flinch either. It was official—I was starting to lose my touch.

“Now,” I said shrilly to the man who’d seen my Plus-Sized thighs, “Can you please tell me what makes you ask such a
shocking
(I delivered the word with a strict Brit accent, just to show him I was no less) question, let alone pry into my personal life?”

It wasn’t me, Erica Lowenstein, the lousy housewife talking, but Erica Cantelli, my brave, haughty alter ego, the bitchy hotel manager, the one who kicked ass and was never talked to without paramount respect. And
boy
was she mad now.

Julian was thrown for a split second, but recovered fantastically. And with such class. “Erica, it’s not about your personal life per se. It’s about the children. They are showing signs of abnormal behavior and we’re just concerned.”

“Concerned? I see,” I answered, having regained composure and possession of my wits. I didn’t care if this gorgeous guy was Mr. Universe himself, he had no right to—to pry into my soul and bring out all the things I was doing wrong.

“I’m not trying to pry into your soul, Erica. I’m just worried.”

I looked up at him in horror as I realized I had spoken my thoughts. Did I also say the Mr. Universe part? Aw, to hell with it all. I didn’t give a damn anymore about anything. I was just tired and wanted to go home to Madeleine and Warren. And a cartload of aspirin.

Mr. Foxham—Julian—had not returned behind his desk, but lingered with his butt on the armrest of a nearby chair, facing me.

I sighed. This guy was like a hound with a carcass. And he wasn’t letting go of it. Better get it out, if it helped the kids. “I’m not—exactly in the best place at the moment,” I managed.

He nodded sympathetically. “Problems?”

“Just stressed and overworked. I’ve got so many responsibilities I’d have to be a schizophrenic to handle every role in my life and not go crazy. Does it show that much?”

He chuckled and bent to look into my face, but really looking inside my head as if to see how many personalities lurked inside me. “No. It’s just the way the kids talk about you. You are their heroine.”

I grinned back, sitting up a bit higher. “Hmm,” I said, trying not to sound too impressed, although my whole life had just been made in this one sad, but unexpectedly glorious, moment.

“If they had to choose between their dad and their numerous moms, it would be you any day—every single one of you in there.”

So not only was the hunk sympathetic, he also had a sense of humor. Big deal. “Ah, I’m not sure I would try to encourage this kind of confession from a pair of kids, Mr. Foxham,” I drawled softly, back in the saddle.

He looked at me squarely with those light-green-blue eyes, and the hair on the back of my neck rose. Jesus, imagine if he reached out and
touched
me.

“It was something they revealed spontaneously. I didn’t elicit it. No one did. Here, have a look.”

I glanced at the sheets of paper put in front of me, recognizing Madeleine and Warren’s writing. I read Madeleine’s first. Her literacy levels were superior to her age, I’d been told time and time again. But still she was a child with a child’s thoughts. I smiled at the colored sparkles all over the page.

My mom she works for a hotel for lots of nasty people but picks us up from school on time and bakes us a cake and make us supper never in a hurry to finish our evening bath when we talk and laugh then she tucks us into bed she doesn’t read us bedtime stories from a book no sir, she tells us about the weird people she meets every day and she even makes their voices and makes us laugh.
(There was a smiley face instead of a period)
My friends say she’s big, but to me she is a star. I love her better than my dad who yells at her you’re too fat and ruins his life. I hate my dad. Maddy Cantelli.

Whoa. The story of my life spread out for the world on one scribbly page. I let out a storm of air, trying to catch my breath at the same time. The result was that I was choking on my own saliva, and Mr. Foxham—Julian—had to give me a smart smack on the back. First, he rips my clothes off, now this. Our encounters were destined to be physical. Which, on any other day, would’ve sounded very promising, at least in theory.

“Better?” he asked, offering me a glass of water, which I took gratefully, downing it in one swig.
Maddy Cantelli.
She had used my maiden name, forsaking her own last name.
Jesus.

“She gets the punctuation from me—or lack of it,” I tittered, clearing my throat, my eyes still watery from my close encounter with asphyxiation. “You see, I go on and on, even when I speak, just like I’m doing now, you see. And the surname? That’s my maiden name, and this is just one of her many Italian moments,” I continued, flashing him one of my brilliant pseudo-smiles. “I’m Italian, you see, and she always wants to hear about Italy. She hates the name Lowenstein. So do I really, but that’s the way it is,” I finally sighed, stealing him a hopeful glance. He wasn’t buying it, of course.

“So you’re Italian? So am I. I mean, my mother was.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Not that she’s Italian—that she’s no longer—”

Julian waved it away. “My adoptive parents are English. My real mother was Italian.”

So that was where his Mediterranean looks came from. I was fascinated. Somewhere there was a woman who had abandoned her baby. Oh, if only she could see the man he’d become. I shuddered at the thought of abandoning either of my kids.

“Oh. Well, we Italians are a bit—well, you know. Original, to quote you. But we’re good, solid people.”

He smiled. “I would like to retrieve my roots, learn to speak Italian, drink in the culture, cook.”

All things I could do with my eyes closed, but there was no way I was offering to spend time with him. I had enough problems of my own.

He cleared his throat. “So, Erica—the contents of the letter—are they true? Is there a problem at home? Please forgive me, but you know, we are—”

Worried, yeah. No shit. Here I was, sitting like a little schoolgirl on detention as this guy tried to stick his nose in my family business. And he actually expected me to pour out my soul to him in one go—all the pain and hurt and humiliation I’d been through because my husband saw me as a walrus and I always imagined killing him. Consequently, to keep my family together, I had to jump through hoops day in, day out. How dare he question my love for my children—the reason I lived.

BOOK: The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)
4.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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