Pulling into the private landing strip, I don’t see a jet anywhere near. I take my cell phone out and dial Amy to give her a heads up. She’ll be happy to know that I got here before them.
After one ring, Amy answers the phone in that breathy voice of hers, “Are you with him?”
I chuckle because she doesn’t bother saying hello. “Nope. They haven’t landed. You owe me big time, you know? I should be having dinner with—”
“Yes, I know. You don’t have to shove the fact that you have sex-on-legs waiting for you at home. I get it. If I were married to that divine husband of yours, I would probably be giving you shit as well, but I need you tonight.”
“Which reminds me, I was about to call you because there has been a slight change of plans. Bruno’s assistant phoned me about five minutes ago, letting me know that only his son and wife will be arriving tonight. Apparently there was an issue with one of his top clients that only he could take care of.” She pauses, and I hear some shuffling on the other end, “Back, sorry. What else…Yes! You need to take the wife and son to dinner.”
Okay, this is so not what I wanted to be doing on my Friday night.
“Ugh, Amy! You’re killing me here! I don’t want to sit with a Stepford wife and an entitled rich child and make small talk when I could be spending it with Ben. You know better than anyone that we haven’t been in the best place lately…”
And we haven’t. Not at all. I mean, sometimes Ben and I are like friendly strangers living under the same roof; we say hello and ask each other about how our days went, but the intimacy ends there. If it wasn’t for the sex, like today’s rare occurrence, we would probably be more like roommates than a married couple. There’s an emotional disconnect growing between us, and on bad days it seems like it’ll be impossible to bridge.
“I know, Cathy. And I am sorry. If I had known this before you left, I would have sent Ryan, but hey, when you get home Ben may want a second round.”
“Seriously, Amy? I shouldn’t have told you why I was late this morning. And it’s not going to happen again. I don’t want it to happen—”
“Cathy, shut up and listen to the HBIC. Go have dinner with these people, get drunk, eat shrimp or something that’s supposedly an aphrodisiac, then go home and fuck your hubby. All your issues are because you are not getting enough at home. If Ben were my husband, I seriously would be hitting that as often as he felt like it which is apparently pretty often. By the way, I didn’t mean to pry into your business, but when you arrived late this morning you looked so flushed that I thought you had a fever. I only asked because I was concerned for my top employee.”
Okay, that was funny.
“That’s because I’m your favorite sales coordinator. And what in the world does HBIC mean?”
“Head Bitch In Charge, luvah…”
We both laugh at that. Amy, the red headed minx, is a spitfire of a woman with no shame. She is thirty-eight years old, twice divorced, and a force of nature. She has the balls that a lot of men lack, curses like a sailor, loves sex, younger men, and she uses her drop-dead gorgeous looks to her advantage...always. Seriously, that woman has perfected that swaying-your-hips-as-you-walk kind of thing.
“Alright, HBIC, should I take them to the Ritz for dinner?” I ask, smiling into the phone.
“Yes, darling. When you get there, let them know that you are Bruno’s party. They should take you right to the best table available. And please, Cathy, play nice and use those green eyes of yours with the wife. She’s probably the kind of woman who whines if her foie gras isn’t cooked properly.”
“Amy, I’ve got this. Why do you think you pay me the big bucks except to do my job, and do it right. I’m sorry I complained before. Too much going on.”
“I know, but this is a big deal, honey. Bruno just bought the chain, and I need you to be more than your usual perfectionist self. This could mean we both get promotions. And you know how I feel about your marriage. If you would just tell Ben how you feel, a lot of pain could be saved,” she says, sighing deeply.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s easier said than done, but don’t worry. I will take care of Mrs. Stepford Wife and their child as if they were my own in-laws.”
“Well, in that case we’re all good,” Amy answers, laughing.
Hearing the loud noise of engines, I turn to look at the dark sky when I see the jet coming into view, “Amy, I’ve got to go. The jet is about to land. Wish me luck. Hopefully I won’t disappoint you.”
“You would never disappoint me, girl. Go get them, hot stuff.”
Ending the call, I laugh at myself. I don’t know why Amy insists on calling me hot stuff when I’m pretty average looking; straight blonde hair, green eyes, slightly too thick lips, and a skinny body. Petite to the tee.
Robert, the driver, gets out of the limousine and comes to stand next to me. Yelling over the noise, he says, “Well, Mrs. Stanwood, let’s hope this new boss of ours is a good guy.”
I look at Robert and smile. “I hope so, Robert. We don’t want to work more than we already do, right?”
As the jet approaches us, I think back to what Amy said about not having enough sex with Ben being the root of our issues.
I wish it were that simple.
Sex is not a problem. Love isn’t either. I love Ben as much as the first time we said those three beautiful words to each other, but as each baby was taken away from my body by fate, by life, a part of me died and was buried with them in the cold-hard ground. The first miscarriage ripped a painful hole inside of me, the second one widened it, and the third just about broke me.
Time has fed that hole with inevitable boredom, monotony, and resentment towards life, Ben, and myself for not being woman enough. Enter doubt, and what you thought was an already rocky ride becomes a turbulence-ridden journey with no relief in sight except for the end.
The very end.
Doubts. They seep into your bloodstream, they plague every unused crevice inside your brain with revolving questions and no real answers. Is love a strong enough glue to put me back together again? Is the love between Ben and I strong enough to keep us together and our marriage afloat?
With this huge gaping hole inside me, and my taunting doubts as constant companions, I’m left hollow, angry, and afraid of intimacy with my own husband. Physical intimacy won’t close that gap.
After a perfect landing, the jet finally comes to a halt. I address Robert, “Well, it’s show time.” I wink at him and begin tapping my left high-heeled foot on the ground.
I hope this guy doesn’t change the dynamics of the office too much.
When the door to the jet finally opens, a beautifully dressed blonde woman appears. She is statuesque, and her body clothed in all shades of cream looks like it belongs on the runway of a Chanel Paris fashion show. Her ashy blonde hair is tightly coiled in a French bun, showcasing a lack of wrinkles all over her face. If that is Mrs. Stepford Wife, I already hate her. Behind her, comes a…
Wait, is that supposed to be the kid? I expected a puberty ridden teenager.
Oh, my.
No. There is no boy in that body. He is all man. If that is, in fact, Mr. Radcliff’s son, he doesn’t look anything like I’d imagined. For one, this blond stud doesn’t look like a teenager, at all. And two, there are no pimples on his perfect face. And well, he is at least ten inches taller than what I expected.
The man walking behind Mrs. Stepford Wife Perfect Skin No Wrinkles is wearing faded distressed jeans that hang so low on his hips you can see the waist-band of his Armani underwear as he walks, and a light pink oxford shirt with the first three buttons opened, exposing his tanned and very muscular chest.
This guy exudes confidence and sex. I bet that if I got near him, trying to catch a whiff of his scent, I would be able to breathe in what pure sex smells like. Even his leisurely walk is sexy as hell. My God.
When my eyes land on his face, I notice he is watching me with a lazy smile playing around his lips. He is beautiful. His chiseled face is the kind of perfect that belongs in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad to which thousands of girls daydream about kissing someday. But there is a deceptive sweetness in his features too; when you look at those eyes of his, you know you are in trouble.