I wanted to run through the list for him as quickly as possible. I was a pro at this after nearly two years. Tennis, skiing, yes, rock climbing, no, marathons impossible, can't jog anymore due to bad left knee after minor ski accident the year before, but nothing major, no hang gliding, no small planes, fear of heights, a little sailing, gourmet cuisine C—, new sheets, decent nightgowns, wine, no hard liquor, fatal weakness for chocolate, a little Spanish, rusty high school French sneered at by most waiters. The rest he could see for himself. And perhaps, if pressed, Roger would offer a reference. No serious relationships in two years, God had it been that long, but a lot of incredibly mediocre dates in a lot of very ordinary Italian restaurants, and a few really great French ones. Lonely divorcee seeking … what? Seeking what actually? Seeking who? … Man in crisp white shirt and clean khakis, with navy blue blazer over his arm, Ralph Lauren tie in pocket. And what exactly were “bionics”? I wasn't sure, and I was embarrassed to ask him.
He tried to explain it again on the way to the Ritz for a drink, after the Louvre. It sounded pretty good when he offered. He said he had once stayed there, with “friends,” but didn't elaborate further. I assumed a torrid affair, which gave me something to think about in the taxi. In spite of a certain openness, there was nonetheless an aura of mystery about him. And something very sexy. Just the way he moved, and talked about things. The questions he didn't ask. The answers he didn't offer. At the Ritz, he ordered a martini, and told them how he liked it. Sapphire gin. Very dry. Straight up. Two olives.
By the time we left the Ritz, it was nine o'clock, and we had been together for ten hours. Not bad for a first date. Or was it? What was it? It was nothing. I was a little drunk on white wine, and he was terrific. We ate oysters at a bistro in Montmartre, and I told him about Sam and Charlotte, and the nose pierce. I even told him about Roger and the scene on the satin chairs, and his telling me he didn't love me.
Then it was his turn. His wife's name was Jane, and they had parted company after she had a two-year affair with her doctor. They were living together in San Francisco, and Peter didn't look particularly upset when he said it. He said the marriage had been dead for years before that. I couldn't help wondering if that was what Roger had told Helena. Or did he have to tell her anything? I'm sure Helena had never sat around eating oysters with Roger in Paris or anywhere else. They had probably gone to discos, or cheap motels, so they didn't have to talk to each other. Peter also mentioned his son, and that he was crazy about him.
We got back to the hotel just before midnight, and rode up in the elevator in silence. I had no idea what would happen or what I wanted, but he solved the problem for me. He said good night, told me he'd had a great time, and he was leaving in the morning for London. I told him it was wonderful meeting him, and thanked him for dinner. It was an interlude, a moment in a lifetime, and as I closed my door and looked around I told myself that guys in white shirts and khakis were a dime a dozen. But not like this one. For some reason, he seemed unique. And he was. I knew it.
Peter Baker was a rarity, a gift, a unicorn in today's world. He seemed like a normal person. A nice one. I could already feel myself being led into the Colosseum, blue lace underwear and all, although today I had worn the pink ones. I wasn't sure what I expected from him, what I wanted, or what he did. More than likely, nothing. But he'd said he would be back in New York, and would call me. No chance of that, he hadn't asked for my number, and it was unlisted. Besides, I was going to be in the Hamptons with the children. And I had already been in and out of the Colosseum. I had been eaten alive for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And Roger had gotten the best parts before that. I was no longer sure what was left of me, or if he cared. In fact, I was sure he didn't. I was convinced of it as I undressed, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. It was so warm, I didn't even bother to wear a nightgown, and there was no sound from the next room. Not even snoring. Utter silence, until the next morning, when he called me.
“I called to say good-bye,” he said easily. “I forgot to ask for your number last night. Would it be all right if I called you?”
No. It would be terrible. I would hate it. I never want to see you again. I like you too much already, and I don't know you. Hearing the lions roar in the background, I gave him my number and then prayed he would never call me. The jerks always call, but never the good ones.
“I'll give you a call when I get back to New York,’ he said. “Have a great time with your kids.”
Have a nice life, I said to myself. And to him I said, have a great time in London. He said he would be working, and would be going back to the States via California. At least he wasn't boring. He was employed. He appeared to be supporting himself. He liked his son. He didn't seem to have a problem with his ex-wife. He had never been in prison or jail, not that he was willing to admit to anyway. He was polite, pleasant, sexy, intelligent, well behaved, handsome beyond belief, and nice, or so he seemed. Obviously a sicko.
Chapter Three
Roger dropped the kids off at my hotel with a look of immense relief the day after Peter Baker left for London. I had been to the Rodin Museum by then, and every boutique on the Left Bank, and bought a lot of clothes I wasn't sure I'd know what to do with. They were sexy and young and tight, and I felt a little hesitant about them, but decided that if they didn't work out, I could always pass them on to Helena, or Charlotte when she grew up.
The children looked great when they arrived. Charlotte was wearing pale pink nail polish, instead of green, and had settled for a second pierce in her ear, which seemed to satisfy her lust for self-mutilation, temporarily at least. Roger looked exhausted. He barely said hello, when he ran out the door, waving vaguely and saying he had to meet Helena. She had stopped to do some shopping at Galliano, and he was going to meet her there. In thirteen years of marriage he had never shopped anywhere with me. Not once. Helena seemed able to elicit things from him I had never even dreamed of.
“Dad's weird,” Sam announced, throwing himself into a chair, with a Mars bar in one hand. They had paid two dollars for it at the Plaza-Athenée, where Roger and Helena were staying until they left the following morning for Florence.
“No, he's not,” Charlotte editorialized, checking out the new things in my closet. She glanced with interest at the white miniskirt with the see-through blouse with the white denim pockets carefully placed where it counted. “He's an asshole. You're not going to wear that, are you?” She looked contemptuously at me. Welcome back, Charlotte.
“I might, but you're not, thank you,” I said, happy to see her after her month away. You couldn't even see the double pierce, and the earring she wore in it was tiny. “You shouldn't say things like that about your father.” I tried to look disapproving, but it's hard to fool her.
“You think he is too. And Helena is still a bimbo. She went topless all over the south of France, and it drove Daddy crazy,” she said, grinning broadly. “She picked up two guys one day at the pool, and Dad said next year they're going to Alaska.”
“Do we have to go too?” Sam looked worried.
“We'll talk about it later, Sam.” It was one of my stock answers, and seemed to serve the purpose at the time. He finished the chocolate bar, without destroying the furniture, miraculously, and we headed out for the afternoon. I took them to all the places I thought they'd love, and they did. And when we went to the Deux Magots that afternoon, I thought about Peter Baker, and wondered if he'd ever call me. Part of me hoped he wouldn't. Falling for anyone again would be too painful. But another part of me hoped he would call.