Page 25 of The Husband Diet
‘Are you alright?’ I asked in a ragged breath. ‘How did it happen?’
Paul shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. It’s not broken, just badly sprained. A sex accident. Carl and I slipped in his shower this morning.’
I raised my eyebrow. I’d never had sex in the shower in my life. Just ordinary bed sex, while it lasted. I wondered if Paul could sense my envy.
He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and said, ‘No, Erica, you’ll never have sex in the shower until you find yourself a new man.’
I stared at him. He was right. Not only was I not having sex in the shower, but I also wasn’t having any sex at all.
‘You look more frazzled than usual,’ he observed. ‘What’s up?’
It took a minute to sink in as my mind was still focused on the steamy showers I’d never had, and then it dawned on me. ‘Paulie, I’ve just met the man of my dreams.’
Paul nearly jumped out of bed, but his elastic cast stopped him. He slapped his hands together, his eyes mischievous and excited. ‘You’re kidding me! What’s his name?’
I stared at him blankly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, what does hedo?’
I thought about it, but could only remember the sensation of pure protector, like in the romance paperbacks I used to sneak behind my chemistry books. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’tknow? Can you at least describe him?’
Before his overwhelming beauty, the sensation of manliness and kindness came to mind. ‘Tall. Dark. Soft, loose black curls A deep, soothing voice. Big hands. Lean body but strong.’
‘Oh, great, that’ll help. You’ve just described half the male Boston population. The gay one, mostly!’
I shrugged helplessly.
‘Well, how did you meet him? Tell!’ Paul urged, getting as comfortable as he could, considering he was anchored to the bed.
But I was already back on Earth, anchored and grounded to my own reality. Hell, I had kids and already one failed marriage. I couldn’t afford to fantasize about the first hunk who tore my clothes off.
‘It doesn’t matter. I met him. And I’ll never see him again. That’s why he’ll always be the man of my dreams.’
Paul’s eyes popped out of his face. ‘You didn’t get his number? Have I taught you absolutely nothing?’
I shrugged again. All I knew was that he’d enveloped me in such a way, making me feel protected and not silly for my fears. He’d taken control of the situation, but not so I’d feel like an idiot, which I should have. But he’d been understanding, not judgmental. If I’d been single, and younger, and beautiful, and confident, I’d have found a way to meet him again, even if I had to canvass every door in Massachusetts.
Maybe somewhere in this city at this very moment, a woman was opening her front door to him, arms wide, and I envied her. I’d never know his name. But I did have his jacket to remember him by. Or, if I were my sister, Judy, I’d track him down and bump into him ‘by chance’. He’d be charming, protective, kind, passionate – a real alpha male like you see in romance books. He’d be practically perfect. And then, like Ira, he’d get sick of me, start sleeping with someone else and break my heart.
For years, as I was growing up, I’d longed for the dates, the first kiss, the first time, the ‘oh my God, my period is late’. All the things I’d seen in my friends’ lives. The works. But of course then, there was no danger I’d ever get pregnant unless someone up there took pity on me and sent me the Archangel Gabriel on a mission.
Some of us aren’t destined to find love. I’d missed my love boat. But at least I had two children I loved to pieces, Paul, a great job and a lovely house. The rest, well, maybe in my next life.
10
Home Truths
The first thing I did when I woke the next morning was sneeze. My throat itched and my nose was dripping. Shit. I couldn’t afford to get sick. I dragged my butt out of bed and took a hot shower to chase away the microbes and I was fine – until I stepped out of the shower. I don’t know how I managed to get dressed, because my head was so heavy and my bones screamed in pain at every movement.
Shivering, I opened my wardrobe and winced. I’d forgotten to pick up my work suits at the dry-cleaners. All I had in the house were some sundresses I hadn’t worn since before I’d got pregnant with Maddy and some jeans from before I met Ira. Apart from the pants that hunk had torn off me, my only other good jeans were in the wash. None of those fitted, so it was either one of my old track suits or a brown suit that consisted of a wool dress and matching coat that never fit me. And even if it did, it would made me look like a sack of turnips. Marcy had brought it back from France and I’d hated it on sight but never had the courage to throw it away. Why? you may ask.
Because Marcy (who has the key to our place) systematically goes through my closet to throw out things she says are absolutely horrid and that I shouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Can you imagine that? Needless to say that she got rid of more than two thirds of my closet in one visit. At first I was shocked. Then I was angry. Then I was resigned.My mother would never do that, you may be saying out loud while shaking your head, but come on, don’t you know Marcy yet? Don’t you know that couture is more important than nurturing your own children?
We were practically specular. Where she was hopeless, like cooking and nurturing, I shone. Where she was polished, like social events, couture and beauty, I was grubby and careless.
Anyway, back to the sack-of-potatoes suit I swore I’d never wear even if I did lose weight. One lesson I’d learned was never say never. I took a step closer. It was my only solution right now. Did I smellmothballs? Yep, another contribution from Marcy. But I had no choice but to see if it fit. If it did, I was home free. If it didn’t, it really was going to have to be my track suit. Maybe if I kept to my office all day, no one would notice.
