Page 27 of The Husband Diet
He chuckled. A warm, deep chuckle, and I hung on to it as a guarantee that whatever he had to say couldn’t bethatbad.
‘Well, you’re right about that. Mrs. Lowenstein, would it be possible for you to pop round here today? Say an hour or so before the last bell? Would half two be alright? That way you’ll just be in time to take the children home when we’re done.’
What the hell were we going to talk about for an hour? How bad was it?
‘Are you going to expel them?’ I asked meekly and totally out of context, I don’t know why.
‘Oh, no, Mrs. Lowenstein. I just need to talk to you, if that’s alright.’
Actually, it wasn’t. Nothing was alright. I knew they were feeling the strain of the household, even if Ira and I were civil in front of them. It was obvious by the way that they dropped themselves at the kitchen table lately when we all got in: sullen, tired and irritable. They were starting to look more and more like Ira every day. Which was the reason I knew I’d need all the help I could get.
‘I’ll be there, Mr. Foxham.’
‘Brilliant. See you then, Mrs. Lowenstein.’ And he put the phone down.
Besides dreading what he needed to see me about, I couldn’t stand the sound of Ira’s surname next to my name anymore, I realized with a sudden panic. I mean, it really bothered me,hurt-bothered me, like salt inflicted on an open wound.
I knew Mr. Foxham was a good principal, but I’d never actually met him, which I knew was bad. I hoped he didn’t think I was a terrible mother and that the time had come for my comeuppance.
*
I got Jackie to take over for the rest of the day and drove to Clifton Street Private School (Ira had vetoed Parker, probably because it was free) with my stomach in my mouth and my heart trying to make its way out through my nostrils. I hadn’t felt this nervous since my job interview at the hotel years ago, where I sat before Mr. Harold Farthington, sweating buckets in my navy suit and silk scarf, looking like an inflatable airline hostess. I did that when I was nervous. Sweat buckets. And wear silk scarves. So really, nothing much had changed since then.
In a matter of minutes, I was ushered into the principal’s office in a state of sheer terror, clutching my scarf as if it had magical powers. I attempted to breathe normally, hoping my imminent panic attack didn’t show too much.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Lowenstein.’ He greeted me cheerfully, extending a large hand.
I held out my own shaky one and looked up at him, and my knees almost buckled as I sucked in my breath. And my tummy. It washim, my spider-whisperer! In the flesh. And me looking like crap. It was just my friggin’ luck.
I pulled my 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. Of all the nice outfits I had for work and out of the 365 days of the year, I had to choose today to look – and feel – like shit.
‘G-good afternoon, Mr. F-Foxham,’ I stuttered, still holding his hand, hoping he didn’t remember me as again that strange heat instantly settled over me.
It was like being in a healing cocoon, where nothing could ever harm me – something I’d experienced only that one time on the floor of the ladies’ room in that downtown restaurant. The feeling of being enveloped by the warmth and protection of his large, powerful body had stayed with me while I secretly fantasized about him like crazy for the past few weeks. But what was the point? He was completely out of my league.
More gorgeous than I remembered. A bod like an athlete, with shoulders so wide even I could stretch out on them for a nap, and a chest that looked so lean and solid you could use it as a surfboard.
And his eyes – the color of chocolate. It had been years since I’d been perturbed by male beauty. I mean really overwhelmed. I felt my face catch fire at the thought of him having seen me in my underwear and wished I could vanish into thin air. Now if only he didn’t rememberme, my whole life would be made.
He grinned, and I was awarded with a perfect white dazzle of a smile. He should have been in the pictures, with his athletic physique that only made him look terrific beyond bearable.
I felt as if time had disappeared. How long had he been sitting there smiling at me? Was it still daylight outside? I glanced out of his window just to make sure I hadn’t been abducted by a gorgeous alien or something, but nope – here I was, on Earth, still trying to breathe properly, my eyes still glued to his beyond handsome face and my hand still in his.
A slight red seeped into his cheeks as he let go. 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 downthere, but I’m sure it was all in order).
He looked at me with a funny expectant look as I dreaded the moment he’d recognize me and see my goodnight 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 OK. You were 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 (well, two if you count my hospital escape), a guy like this would see me.
Embarrassment roiled through my every cell as I recalled how I’d begged him to take off my pants, 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 jig was up. I could no longer hide.
‘You’re…’
