That morning, David did not greet me. Not in person. He had left his credit card and a little handwritten note on the bedside table for me to find, more proof of his innocence in the notebook affair. It made me smile and gave me energy for the day.
Don’t you have an interview today?
Go make yourself beautiful—which you already are . . .
I love you.
D.
He was so charming! He’d been doing things like this for the past three months. Unfortunately, I could not fully appreciate it. Something inside me was stuck. My emotion for him did not course through me like it should. Not like it had. I thought love was supposed to last at least three years. Not three months!
WHEN I’D ARRIVED HOME THE night before, David had already gone to bed and was fast asleep. I tried to make myself as discreet as possible when I joined him under the feather-and-silk covers. But I couldn’t help tossing and turning as I replayed the night’s catastrophic events.
I couldn’t find the right words to describe the situation: my future brother-in-law had hired me to be his luxury doll behind my fiancé’s back. He had set a trap for me, and I did not as yet know why. One word from Louie to David and my future would instantly disappear like a speck of dust in the wind. My dream life: over. Maude’s miracle treatment: gone. His disgusting and completely inexplicable ruse could destroy everything David and I had planted over the past few months. And the money, which I had counted over and over in the back of the taxi, and which he had deemed too dirty to touch, had already ruined the token I had wanted to give his brother as a symbol of my love: the watch. I could not buy it for David now. It would be a constant reminder of my shame, and of the secret between Louie and me.
I could hardly believe this man’s hostility. Prior to that night, I had never met him. What had I done to him? Did he think I was just another trashy, brainless gold digger, after the family money like all the other leeches? The thought crossed my mind that David himself had asked Louie to test me, as I would imagine he tests all his new recruits in the business world. But no. I couldn’t believe such a disgusting thought . . . Not after his beautiful marriage proposal on the boat. A man capable of that kind of romanticism could not be manipulative in matters of the heart. That’s what set him apart from Louie, who obviously loved to scheme.
“Are you sleeping?” whispered a muffled voice.
It was so unexpected that I almost screamed.
As if he knew I needed comfort, he pressed his athletic torso against my back, folding my body into his and caressing my neck with his breath. “It would show off your neck better,” Louie had murmured not an hour earlier. “It’s a shame to hide it.”
Remembering his words and the feeling of his touch against my skin as he’d reached for my bun’s stray tendril, I felt an unexpected surge of heat. A ball of energy formed within me and shot from my neck down to my loins and into my backside and the fleshy folds of my sex, which quickly engorged with uncontrollable desire. Reflexively, I pressed my posterior against David’s penis, instantly waking it from sleep.
“That’s how the hospital makes you feel?” he asked quietly, his lips on my ear.
I shuddered in reply, showing uncharacteristic wantonness.
“I want you . . . Take me, now.”
“You don’t want me to—”
“Take me!” I pleaded.
He did not need more coaxing. He freed his erection from its cotton prison and planted it into me. No foreplay, no liminal rubbing. We were spooning, which limited his depth of penetration and range of movement. Its only advantage, aside from the obvious one of comfort, was that it freed up my hands to wander to the base of my pubis. I spread my fingers into a V and rubbed the mound between my legs. My breath was jagged. As my pink button swelled in pleasure, I felt myself cry out softly. It wasn’t an earthquake, but a quiet shudder rose through me. I wanted more, harder, longer. I didn’t want it to stop. And the good news was that it was all up to me. To my touch. My hand joined David’s and coaxed it over my erect nipple. He pinched it harder, sending an electric arc through my body. My back and thighs contracted. It almost hurt. I would have loved for the release to have lasted more than a few seconds. For me, it was too short.
I don’t remember how I first learned the technique to make myself come. It must have been as a young girl in my bed, facing a Depeche Mode poster and snuggled between two stuffed animals.
It hasn’t varied much since then: I start by touching my breasts. I haven’t given it that much thought, but I’ve noticed that all my erectile parts are connected. When I graze a hand over my nipples, the little pink button below always stirs. But I do not rush to touch it. I continue exploring my upper body: breasts, neck, nape of the neck . . . Sometimes I run a hand through my hair, allowing light strands to tickle my face like tiny, taunting fingers. As my crotch begins to heat up, I let my hand wander over my belly button, the curve of my stomach, and down to my pubis. I play with it for a moment, curling the wild hair around my index or middle fingers. My other hand brushes over my lips. One or two fingers dart into my mouth, where my wet tongue rolls over them.
Downstairs, serious things start to happen: the index and middle fingers form a V, and I lower the natural fork over both sides. With each movement, the base of my makeshift tool hits the excited little mount. I feel it getting bigger. It is growing out of me at an accelerated pace like a magic bean. I don’t stop. I keep rubbing. From time to time, I close my two fingers, pinching my clitoris, crushing it. I imagine it to be scarlet. And then again and again. When my pleasure seems imminent, my second hand comes to action. Sometimes I move my index finger in a circular motion over my flesh, directly on the little knob, which starts to radiate pleasure. Or sometimes I introduce my finger into my vagina, where I let it wander and knead my moist interior. In response to all this, a first wave surges from my clitoris. It’s sharp and strong and crashes through my middle. A second, often followed by a number of small aftershocks, rumbles like a tsunami. Its epicenter lies deep in my loins, unfurling in opposite directions: down toward my toes and up over my chest, throwing my head back. “Oh, no, no . . . ,” I moan, before collapsing and curling up on my side, exhausted. Satisfied for want of real happiness.
Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—Except for the Depeche Mode poster, it’s pretty accurate . . . How does he know?
ENCOURAGED BY WHAT HE BELIEVED to be the product of his efforts, David quickened his cadence, and soon emptied himself into me, crying out in a way that almost sounded pained. His contractions inside me felt like a kind of reward. An encouragement.
If David had finished, that meant I had full access to my vulva and could introduce one finger then another inside my wet folds. Soon I began to feel it. Then a wave started to surge up from my belly button and crashed into the shore of my lower belly and legs. Just one wave this time.
“Nooooo . . .”
It wasn’t the orgasm of the century, but it was an orgasm, the kind I could give myself, often quickly and discreetly. Sex with David was not that different from sex with Fred or sex when I was single. In the end, I always had to count on myself, and only myself.
I had hoped things would change with my true lover, but I could already hear light snoring at my side. David was sleeping. I was tired, too. Exhausted by an avalanche of contradictory emotions. I had a strange dream in which David Garchey, Louie’s little prodigy, was wearing the same doll’s clothing as his giant penis, and kept whispering with a half-smile: “Why don’t you teach him how to make love to you? Hmm? What are you waiting for?”
I WAS AMAZED AT THE powers of the unlimited platinum credit card! After brandishing David’s that morning to half a dozen shop clerks, I felt much better. Each time I signed for him—an ultimate mark of his trust—Louie, David Garchey’s teratological work, and all the pompous speechifying on sexual education receded bit by bit. I began to forget about the threat posed by my meeting with my brother-in-law. All I could hear was salesgirl babble, like the intoxicating chant of sirens.
“That will be four hundred fifty-eight euros, please, Mademoiselle.”
“Jacket, skirt, heels, small handbag . . . Eight hundred twenty-three euros and fifty cents, please.”
“Two hundred sixty-seven euros, please. Do you have our store card?”
“Oh my, you have a lot of bags. Would you like me to call a taxi?”
“Five hundred twenty-one euros, including the fifteen percent discount on purchases above five hundred, okay?”
“Have you seen our new collection? I think you’d love it!”
Floating on my magic carpet of easy money, I could barely hear them. In just a few hours, I had scoured the boutiques of better- and lesser-known designers in a very chic neighborhood in northern Paris, the Abbesses, a triangle of sophistication bordered by working-class streets: Rue Lepic, Rue des Martyrs, and Rue des Trois-Frères. The sun was radiant, and a gentle breeze chased away any residual thoughts about the Barlet brothers.
With David’s card, clothing sellers did not see me as a shopper with money troubles at the end of the month. I was no longer that chubby girl, the size 10. I was curvaceous, like the new generation of models who embrace their bodies, and whose curves advertising now extols after decades of banishment.
All the positive encouragement made me less shy about formfitting dresses or puffy short skirts, both of which accentuated my voluptuous form. “Like a Boucher or a Poussin,” David, who appreciated classical art, was sometimes known to say.
PLACE PIGALLE IS ONLY A few steps down from the Abbesses. I took Rue Houdon, eating a greasy, dripping falafel sandwich, just how I like them. I stopped in front of a shop on Boulevard de Clichy that was much flashier than the designer boutiques I’d just visited. Blinking pink and red neon lights formed a naked silhouette that beckoned those feeling lusty. Some men pretended not to notice; others stopped and entered into a mirrored lobby.
“Come in, Mademoiselle. Girls like it here, too,” heckled a smooth-headed bouncer in a thick North African accent. “Come in!”
“No . . . I just wanted to see a friend of mine who dances here. Soph—”
I stopped myself. Lord knows what name she went by here. I didn’t want to compromise her anonymity.
“What does your friend look like?”
“Brunette, long, curly hair . . . with . . .” I flushed and did an exaggerated mime of her chest.
“Oh!” He guffawed, showing off his broken teeth. “But you know, my gazelle, they’re all brunettes with big tatas!”
“How can I find her, then?” I inquired as soberly as possible.
He clapped a friendly but firm hand on my back, pushing me inside.
“Go ahead, go . . . after the mirrors, take the hall on the right. You’ll see a door marked ‘Private,’ and that’s where all the girls are. Your friend is probably in one of the booths.”
I followed his directions, cursing Sophia for asking me to meet at her work. “You know, the kind of dancing that gets a man all excited before he goes home to screw his little wifey,” she had said, downplaying the job and making it sound like a female version of Chippendales.
In these hard times, she’d been forced to recalibrate her dreams. But thinking about what she did and seeing it with my own two eyes were different things. Totally different.
The dark hall was too narrow for me and my giant collection of designer shopping bags. I saw my friend through a tiny window on one of the doors. Her back was to me, and her thong was so minuscule that I didn’t even see it until she briefly turned around, just for a second, enough time for me to notice she’d taken out her two belly button rings. Her lusty hip movements looked nothing like choreographed dance, her only goal in the disco party behind the door being to show off body parts: her breasts, mouth, and bottom. From time to time, she’d press one of these attributes against the glass. A man was no doubt masturbating on the other side.
Five minutes! She indicated to me with one hand. She had noticed me.
In another one of my sex dreams, I am lying on my bed, naked, touching myself. It must be summer because it feels hot, and there’s a light mist of sweat pearling on my naked skin. I’m not wearing anything, and the fact that I’m giving in to my pleasure so freely must mean that I think the vacation house is empty.
My legs are spread, my sex wide open, and I’m using my unfailing technique: the upside-down V straddled over my aroused button, the middle finger of my other hand plunged inside, where it’s already wet. Inside, I’m burning. Despite the distance, my light perfume floats up to my nose, and I grow more excited.
But when I feel the culminating moment drawing near, I hear someone’s footsteps behind the door. The old parquet flooring creaks under the weight of someone who has suddenly stopped moving. I can almost hear the unknown person holding his breath, afraid to make a sound. Has he come upon me by accident? Has he been spying on me?
In other circumstances, I would have dressed quickly or hidden myself under the white sheet. But I am not in control. I carry on, deepening the circles with my fingers, looking for my hidden sensitive zones. I bite my lips. I won’t be able to keep myself from screaming for much longer. My sensations have been heightened by the knowledge that a man is so near, so petrified by emotion that he shivers in desire. I am breathing loudly . . . and he, too. He must have taken out his sex. He is rubbing it now, at the same rhythm as I. He is being careful not to make a sound.
I wake up just as we are about to come in unison. In my state of half-sleep, I imagine him leaving without asking questions or revealing his identity.
Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—I’ve never had that dream, but my God . . . I’ve already experienced that scene!
I WAS REFLECTING ON SOPHIA’S dance, when a red light on the booth’s ceiling started flashing. I guess it was the final count.
Ten, nine, eight . . .
Sophia turned to face me and pressed her ass up to the glass in front of the anonymous client; she closed her eyes and inserted her middle finger into her vagina as she pushed the invisible string of her underwear to the side. With her finger, she was simulating the penetration of a very different member, first slowly, then with increasing speed.
. . . seven, six, five . . .
Was that in her contract? She had to finger herself vigorously, as though she were trying to make herself come, as opposed to the customer.
. . . four, three, two . . .
She really seemed to be enjoying herself, but I had a hard time seeing her in such a degrading position. What a game of fools: a few euros for an unsatisfying fantasy. She batted her eyelashes in spite of herself. Was she really about to come, right there, a few paces from me, for that loser behind the glass?
. . . one, zero.
The room was suddenly plunged into darkness. Instinctually, I ran toward the exit as I heard her behind the chipped red door collecting the clothing she’d removed during the show.
SHE MET ME OUTSIDE, NEAR the bouncer.
“Don’t tell me you liked that or I’ll start to worry . . . but then again don’t tell me you didn’t or I’ll strangle you!” she cried, shaking me affectionately.
I had never dared ask, but I was fairly sure that her collection of lovers had included women. Who were they? What did they look like?
“I didn’t say anything!” I laughed.
The early afternoon sun was inviting. I wanted to go for a walk, in spite of all the shopping bags weighing me down. I had two full hours before my interview, and it would only take me about thirty minutes by metro to get to the studio in Levallois-Perret. Sophia’s heady perfume, a blend of floral notes and patchouli, was in contest with the enormous, steaming kebab sandwich she’d gotten as we were walking. She may have been eating like a trucker wolfing something down on the side of the road, but men still stared. She effortlessly exuded sexual availability and always drew a lot of male attention. She barely even realized it.
When she’d finished her snack, we sat down at a table in the sun in Place des Abbesses and sipped Monacos, her favorite beverage. Perhaps I was feeling a little tipsy: I didn’t waste any time in telling her about my unfortunate meeting the night before.
“That’s crazy! You have to tell David!”
“Tell him what, exactly? That his brother treated me like a princess for about ten minutes and like a tart the rest of the night? And why, you might ask? Oh, wait, I know: because I am a tart!”
Two yuppie men drinking beers and scoping their next conquests from a neighboring table looked at us with lewd intent.
“Elle, he set a trap for you behind his brother’s back. You can’t just let this go!”
“David could learn a lot about me, Soph . . . For now, he accepts me for who I am, even though I’m about ten rungs down the social ladder from him. But he’d never be able to get over that part of my past. Can you imagine what the press would say? ‘David Barlet, CEO of the Barlet Group, marries a call girl.’ ”
“Fucking shit, Elle, you’re not a call girl . . . You’re an escort, it’s totally different.”
More staring from our right.
“Oh, yeah. Try and explain that to the paparazzi!”
She glared at the two oglers, then turned back to me with a smile on her face:
“Did I hear you correctly? Did you say ‘marry’?”
“Er, yeah.” I sighed. “It happened the night before last.”
“Ooh! No feeling sorry for yourself! One of the hottest, richest men in France wants to put a ring on it—on you. So be good and don’t screw it all up at the last minute.”
My phone buzzed from my bag, cutting her off.
BDN, Urgent: Annabelle, are you available for a mission tonight at the Champs-Élysées theater, 8:30? The client will pay triple your usual rate since it’s so last minute.
Please get back to me ASAP.
Sorry, no, other plans.
I replied without hesitating. Just as I was keeping David in the dark on my employment at Belles de Nuit, so had I hidden from Rebecca my recent engagement to the famous bachelor.
As for the identity of the person who had requested the surprise mission, I was sure it was none other than Louie Barlet. Who else? He had even told me last night: “See you tomorrow.”
“There’s one thing that bothers me in this story,” Sophia went on. “How did his brother know about you?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s a regular client at the agency. Considering the girl he left with at the gallery, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Rebecca has literally hundreds of girls in her catalogue. It’s kind of a big coincidence he happened to see you there.”
“David must have shown him a picture of me . . . ,” I speculated. “He must have spotted me while browsing the catalogue.”
My phone demanded my attention again.
You turned down three missions last month. You know the rule: one more and I’ll fire you. Think about it.
I’ve thought about it.
Okay. Do you need a reminder of the amount of money I fronted you? You still owe me. Lest you’ve forgotten, YOU asked me to delay the reimbursement plan. And so long as you have not paid back every penny, you are bound by contract. I may be understanding, but my business is not a charity!
I had not forgotten. One thousand seven hundred fifty-five euros left to pay. My current savings could cover it, but then I’d have to forget about my present for David.
“Are you okay?” Sophia asked, worried.
“Yes, yes . . . Rebecca’s just harassing me.”
“Tell that old harlot to shove it!” snorted my friend. “A little pocket money from your billionaire and you can tell her where to stick it. Servant.”
Scowling, she threw an invisible leash over an imaginary minion. My rebellion against Rebecca gave her an opportunity to free herself of her own enslaved condition, at least a little, the time to have a laugh.
“Millionaire, not billionaire,” I corrected.
“Yeah, but you should be able to more than cover your debts. Erase that bitch from your phone.”
I did as I was told and deleted Rebecca’s text message. But no sooner had I done that than another popped up with a chime on my list of unread messages.
“God, the old hag is obsessed!” Sophia cried.
“Umm, no, it’s not her . . . Shit.”
The polite, concise words on my screen were far more concerning than anything Rebecca Sibony had to say. Money would no longer be an issue in my life—a victory, considering the miserable cards I had been dealt at birth.
But you can’t buy professional recognition.
“Who is it?”
“My interview . . . It’s been cancelled. They hired somebody else. The weather girl.”
“That old cow?!”
“I know . . . But everybody already knows who she is.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t understand why you want to work for those jerks in television anyway. I think you would be amazing at a magazine.”
“Let me remind you that my fiancé is practically the ‘jerk’ in chief,” I retorted.
“Listen, I didn’t even know you were getting married until about five minutes ago.”
Sophia tried to cheer me up. Somehow, though she had spent the better part of the day dancing faceless in front of a window, she still had energy to console me.
“At least you won’t have to worry about being a Hotelle anymore.”
“A ho-what? Excuse me?”
“Rebecca never told you?”
“No . . .”
“Apparently, another girl named Elle used to work for her. She got pretty well known for ending all of her missions in a hotel room. And, you know, ‘hot’ plus ‘Elle’ equals ‘Hotelle.’ Not bad, right? I guess it stuck.”
The other girl may have been named Elle, but she sounded a lot like Sophia. A girl who sparked male desire during the day from her booth and put it out at night in a hotel room for a fee.
“I had no idea Rebecca was so creative,” I joked.
“Anyway, for you, that’s all finished.”
I wish I could have been more sure. I had really wanted the interview to go well so that I could close the door to the Josephine—and all the other rooms in the Hôtel des Charmes—once and for all. To be simply Annabelle. Not a “Hotelle.”
“Do you mind if I call David?”
“No, go ahead. Do you want me to go?”
“No, stay.”
I patted her tan forearm for emphasis. The summer had given her a really beautiful glow . . .
“Let me guess, your media mogul is really busy, right?” she said as I hung up from our brief exchange.
“During the day, yeah. But that’s what is so weird . . . He wants me to meet him at his office.”
“Now?”
“Yes, right away. He’s waiting for me.”
“Maybe he’s throwing you a press conference: ‘Annabelle Lorand, you plan to marry David Barlet, and you’re also a call girl . . . Is it difficult to straddle such vastly different worlds?’ ”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
I QUICKLY SAID GOOD-BYE AND, being weighed down by my purchases, hopped in a cab for Porte de Sèvres on the city limits. I had never been inside Barlet Tower before. The tall, scintillating structure dominates Paris’s southern skyline, and is a stark contrast to David’s taste for old buildings in his private life. Up close, it was even more chilling. I entered the main hall with its dizzyingly high ceilings.
“Mademoiselle Lorand?”
A petite, plump blonde, whose braided bun accentuated her kind of equestrian look, approached me as soon as I set foot inside. No doubt she had been waiting for me.
“I’m Chloe. Monsieur Barlet asked me to take you to his office. Would you please follow me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Actually,” she corrected herself as though her life depended on it, “he’ll meet you in the conference room. He’s with someone in his office right now.”
“Okay.”
I felt as if I had walked into a machine that was much bigger than me, and in which Chloe was probably only a minor cog and, as such, no doubt under a lot of pressure. In the time it took us to get from the elevator to the transparent door where she left me, Chloe looked at her watch at least a dozen times.
“Would you care for some coffee? Tea? Water? A cold beverage?”
“No, I’m fine. Nothing, thank you.”
“Okay. Monsieur Barlet will join you in less than”—she checked her watch one last time—“three minutes. Four max.”
“Perfect,” I said, almost laughing.
But I stopped myself, trying to imagine this poor girl’s life, in which every meeting was calibrated to the second. I realized it was like that for the man I was about to marry, too.
I sat down in one of the shiny new leather chairs on wheels and flipped through an economic journal that was sitting on a corner of the table. A shadow appeared behind the frosted window. I smelled his cologne, that unmistakable blend of lavender and vanilla, before I realized it was him. My nose was just beginning to register the scent when a voice at the doorway seized my attention:
“Elle! Here and in person! What an honor!”
Louie Barlet was pressing his hands into the knob of his cane and looking at me intently. His suit was just as close-fitting and elegant as the one he’d worn the night before. My chest seized, and my breath grew short. I must have resembled a dead fish, or some other such unappealing creature, because his smile grew wider and his usual look of disdain disappeared. Instead, he put on the affable expression he’d had on when we’d first met.
Could I trust his good-natured appearance? Had he tracked me here after I’d refused Rebecca’s request to meet him tonight?
I walked over decisively and planted myself so close to him he couldn’t escape my questions.
“What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?”
Apparently, he was enjoying this uncomfortable and almost laughable situation. His presence, which seemed even less called for here than at the gallery the night before, infuriated me. And yet he acted so intently self-assured, as though each one of his cells knew it had a legitimate reason to be here.
“I think I was clear when I said no,” I railed. “I am not available tonight. Nor any night, for that matter.”
“But I understood that from the start.”
At least he was admitting to being behind my latest invitation. I was steaming, and had to resist the impulse to wring his neck or unbalance his bad knee.
“So . . . So why did you follow me here?”
“I did not follow you, I promise.”
“Liar!” I boomed. I was having difficulty controlling my anger.
“Calm down. Chloe just told me you were he—”
“There you are, you two!”
David’s cheerful voice sauntered into my bubble of anger, which instantly popped, leaving his arms to wrap me in measured warmth.
“At last you meet. I’m delighted.”
Everything was “splendid” or “delightful” for David. If he wasn’t using overly enthusiastic adjectives, it was probably because he found the situation mediocre or, rather, terrible. In this moment, he seemed sincerely happy to see the two of us together.
Louie faked jubilation and shot me a look to do the same.
“One might say, yes.”
“That’s my horrible older brother!” David joked, nudging shoulders with his sibling. “He’s also Barlet Group’s director of communication.”
“Director of . . . ,” I stammered, horrified.
“Our one and only . . . but he’s also the very best, and by a long shot.”
It was clear David’s excessive enthusiasm irritated Louie. And yet, in the presence of his brother, Louie showed a reserve that sharply contrasted with his attitude from the night before. An employee’s respect for his boss? Or that of a prodigal son for his successful brother?
The CEO turned to his right and asked in a professional tone:
“Now, if you don’t mind . . . I’d like to speak with Annabelle. Privately.”
“Of course.”
Louie nodded obsequiously, looked at me in a way I couldn’t read, and finally disappeared into the hallway, the shadow of his long silhouette flickering through a play of light over the immense glass panels.
I can make out Louie Barlet’s protruding, muscled ass through the light fabric of his tight pants. I want to grab it, squeeze it, maybe even bite it, and . . .
Anonymous, handwritten, and unfinished note, 6/6/2009—No comment!
“DARLING?”
“Yes?”
“Sit down, please.”
I sat and found myself facing David for the first time in the position of a docile, good wife.
“I’ve thought a lot about your interview and everything . . .”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“Yes, let’s do talk about it. I spoke with Luc Doré this afternoon. He’s in charge of what goes on air at BTV. He’s been wanting to add a culture segment to his evening programming. Our current Thursday night prime-time show isn’t working. I’ve had my foot on the brakes about it, but I just gave him the green light.”
Brakes. Green light. The way he talked, you’d think David’s job was as simple and carefree as a game of Mille Bornes. A game that he always won, of course.
“And?” I pretended I hadn’t seen his cards.
He grabbed my hand.
“And, Mademoiselle Lorand . . . I should say Madame Barlet . . . I am pleased to announce that in a few weeks, you will be hosting the new general culture show on BTV. It will be called Culture Mix.”
“Are you joking?”
“Not at all. I got your demo tapes from your school and showed them to Luc. He was really excited about them.”
“But, David . . . I’ve never done a show in my life!”
“So you’ll do like ninety-nine percent of television hosts: you’ll learn on the job.”
He took his hand back and stood up. His internal Chloe-clock must have alerted him to another meeting.
“It’s a provisional title, of course . . . If you don’t like it, you can change it. I’m afraid I have to leave you. I’m already ten minutes late. We’ll talk about it tonight at the house.”
My husband had just changed my life more than I could have ever dreamed. And my boss had just left without a good-bye, much less a kiss.
Sigh. They were both the same man.