by Tessa Bailey
And who knows when he’ll have another free evening.
Henry and Jemma’s gentle (and not-so-gentle) chiding runs through my mind. I know I should dump him. I know I cater to him. I know I accept less. But I’ve invested all these years in him. You don’t spend three years fighting your own instincts and giving in to this kind of passion only to walk away, never knowing if you were almost across the finish line.
He showed me more divorce paperwork last week. Well, a blurry photo of papers on his phone, at least. He’s so close.
Poor Joe, working so hard, and now I have nothing to do tonight. I wonder if my swan is done charging?
He might be working late, but surely he has time for a quickie. Everyone has time for a quickie, right? That’s why they’re called quickies. Short, hot, sweet—
And something.
Something is always better than nothing.
I’ll stop at the market anyway, and get him some lovely things to eat. Cheese and crackers, some fruit maybe, and one or two of those chocolate shortbread cookies he loves. I’ll make a basket, how fun! Maybe I’ll put in an IPA or two, and I can buy a little vase with a huge Gerbera daisy…
His office is closed by the time I get there, but the security guard remembers me from my days as a client. He smiles and waves me in.
I stop in the ladies’ room in the lobby. Brush my hair, add fresh lipstick.
Idea: private label lipstick line for O. Color names like cOral Sex. Branded line of lubes with hot names like O Now!
I add a spray of my lemon verbena perfume at the base of my neck, and on both wrists. I change from my street shoes into heels and smooth the tops of my thigh highs. I slip off my thong and put it in my bag.
One more spritz of perfume, under my skirt. Just in case.
And up in the elevator, to the fourteenth floor.
The door slides open. I have always loved after-hours offices. Most of the offices dark, no phones ringing or machines running, the view of city lights below. No one watching me.
Creative freedom.
Picnic basket over my arm, I head down the hall to Joe’s office, my hips swinging like a runway model. My high heels make no sound on the grey carpet. This will be a total surprise. Arousal twins with anticipation. My thighs buzz and I am so ready. As I get closer, I can hear faint music, that jazz station he loves. Another bonus of working after everyone else has gone home is putting on your own music.
My pulse races now. I love to create special moments, and this feels so much like our first time, all that desire built up for so long and finally, unexpectedly, released.
And released.
And, if all goes well…released again.
The memory of our first time seizes me as I finish the long walk down the hallway.
So beautiful it was worth waiting for. That’s what he told me.
Pretty much every sexual fantasy I ever had came true in that one unforgettable hour. Until he had to leave for a business dinner. I was the appetizer.
That was three years ago. Sex has never been quite that hot since. But tonight…
I slow as I get closer to his office, my pulse throbbing between my legs, a smile on my face as I imagine his delight at my little surprise.
Hmm. There’s a black sweater slung over the side of a cubicle. Someone must have gone home and forgotten it.
And oh, that’s odd, one black high heel. In the doorway to the conference room.
Then I’m in the doorway, peering in.
At Joe, leaning back against the enormous limed oak table. Our table.
And the girl on her knees in front of him, her head moving up and down, her hands on his hips, pulling him in, head bobbing in an all-too-familiar rhythm.
He gasps, “Honey, I’m so close.”
I can’t move.
“Baby, this was worth waiting for,” he groans.
Then he looks up and sees me, and there’s a strange kind of pause as we both process what’s happening.
I’ve had better days. The day I totaled my car in my senior year of high school? Better.
The winter day six years ago when my wallet was stolen and all my credit cards were used to buy Vuitton luggage and plane tickets to Tahiti? Better.
Every single day of my life up till today?
Better.
Chapter Four
Chloe
One month later
Carrie walks by my office door, then backs up and asks, “Hangover glasses two days in a row?”
“They are not hangover glasses, Carrie, there’s just a lot of glare in here. Morning sun.”
“Okay, whatever. Looking good, Chloe.” She moves on.
Today all of O’s corporate management team will be meeting with the investment team from Anterdec. They’re all coming here, on site, to check out the place in person and make decisions. In Boston, Anterdec is the biggest player in hospitality properties, ranging from international hotel chains to restaurants and so much more. I have to impress them. My career depends on it.
And so does impending motherhood. I’ve built up a ton of paid time off, and when the adoption goes through I’ll need all the maternity leave and flexible schedule time I can get.
If the adoption goes through, I chide myself. If.
If I just keep these sunglasses on, maybe they’ll think it’s a fashion statement? Because my eyes are so puffy, I look like Ronda Rousey after fighting Holly Holm. Worse, actually. Last night was another bad one, flashbacks and bitter tears.
And I’m slated to present the design scheme for O’s newest location in New Orleans, when all I can think about is Joe, that blonde head bobbing between his knees, and how he looked at me. A month has passed, a month of shame and anger, of self-flagellation and fury. I let myself be deluded because it was easier than facing the truth.
Which makes me human, I guess.
I still can’t believe it. He gave me a blank look, and then said one word to me. One.
“Oh.”
Just…“Oh.” Irony can be a real bitch.
It’s been a busy month, between social workers and lawyers and adoption agency workers arranging for paperwork for the adoption, and Joe turning into Joe Blow, for real.
I have accomplished a lot.
Block Joe on my cell? Done
Block Joe on Facebook? Done
Block Joe on email? Done
Call locksmith to change locks on my apartment? Done
Those were easy. Done on day one. He spent the next three weeks creating ways to contact me, from new accounts on OKCupid (yes, my profile’s still there…) to leaving messages for me at work. Carrie’s a reliable gatekeeper, though she’s recently taken to answering the phone in fake foreign languages whenever “Private Number” appears on caller ID.
One hundred percent success rate in guessing the caller’s identity.
Joe tweets, Instagrams, Facebooks under false names, calls my office, texts, and tries every way he can to weasel his way back in. Why wouldn’t he? It always worked before. Can’t blame him for that.
But I can blame him for plenty of other behavior.
The hard part came later, though, when the shock wore off and the anger really set in.
I couldn’t sleep last night, so at three a.m. I got up and collected the following items:
• Tee shirts, 3 (two Princeton, one Coldplay concert which we attended together but he couldn’t take the souvenir home)
• Boxer shorts, 3 pair
• Princeton sweatshirt (okay, you went to an elite school, enough already). Here I had a weak moment. I admit it. A whiff of his French cologne made me bury my face in the sweatshirt and sob. The moment passed.
• Running shorts, one pair
• Nike running shoes, one pair
• Socks, two pair
• Shaving kit
• One tube of athlete’s foot cream
• One half-used bag of floss wand picks. Joe was obsessed with periodontal disease. He would pick his teeth after eve
ry meal, even if we were watching a show.
• All the carefully chosen birthday and Christmas gifts I have given him that of course he couldn’t take home, including the small, signed Picasso etching of a cat that was his Valentine in February. Joe gave me my cat last year. He said she reminded him of me because she was so sleek.
I took a long, hard look at the cat. No, she stays. It’s the boyfriend that has to go.
It all made quite a big pile.
On second thought, I put the Picasso etching back on the wall. Let’s not be crazy.
There is an actual service that will come to your home and just get rid of it all for you. If you can’t bring yourself to part with his frayed boxer shorts—because he used to do that adorable little dance in them, or because you are hoping he will come back for them and suddenly realize you are his One True Love—you (or your best friends) can hire a team to come to your house and exorcise the demon.
NeverEver will go through your closets with you, gently pull each object from your clenched fingers, pack it up, remove it, and burn the appropriate herbs afterwards. If they could prescribe Xanax, I would have called them.
I did briefly consider selling some of it on Never Liked It Anyway, which I never thought I’d have a reason to use. After a breakup, you can go to their website and sell the crap your ex gave you. It’s monetized revenge and purging. A client told me about it.
It’s brilliant. But who would want Joe’s half-used bag of floss wands?
Don’t answer that.
Instead, when I felt myself losing heart, I just whispered, “This was worth waiting for…”
Except it wasn’t.
“Oh.” He really just said that.
Asshole.
I took the box of Joe’s crap and mailed it to his house this morning on my way to work. Now I have more closet space. Good.
All good.
No—not good.
Better.
* * *
If I never see another conference table, it will be too soon.
Much of my job requires me to stand in front of small groups of people and present my ideas for environments that are appropriate, completely unique, and undeniably beautiful. Spaces that no one could have imagined and no one ever wants to leave. Spaces that can be created on-time and on-budget. And thanks to O’s enlightened mission, spaces that are environmentally sustainable, actually contributing to our natural resources.
All while being sensual, female-empowered, and high-value. (That’s O, not me, although I’d like to think the same descriptions apply.)
These presentations almost always take place around conference tables.
Sigh.
Seated around O’s table right now is Anterdec’s investment team, along with O’s directors and senior managers. Their meeting will last all day. According to the agenda, I am here to walk them through the concept for O NOLA. But I also have a short pitch of my own to make. A way for O to bring pleasure to women who deserve more of it. gO Spa.
“Good morning. I’m Chloe Browne, design director for O. This is Carrie, our junior designer. She’ll be helping me today. Carrie, could you start by lowering the shades a bit? It’s very bright in here, and I want to be sure everyone sees our vision clearly.”
I also want to be sure no one sees me too clearly.
Have I told you my theory of successful design presentations?
First rule: be absolutely confident in the work you are showing. The design is the star.
In keeping with this idea, I am wearing a sleeveless black linen shirtdress. Silver hoop earrings, silver bracelets. My hair is tied back. Simple and neutral, nothing to distract from the work.
Second rule: be absolutely confident in yourself.
So I am wearing my power underwear. Does that make you think of Wonder Woman? Supergirl maybe? Their superpowers are different.
What I have under my dress now gives me the delicious power of knowing a secret. No one else in this room would guess that I am wearing a black mesh corset, structured with boning that holds me tight and pushes my breasts against my dress. They can’t see the tiny matching thong, or feel how it runs between my legs and up. Only I know.
Joe used to know, too. Which made it so much hotter.
No no no! I can’t think about that!
I look around the table. Some familiar faces, some new.
Andrew McCormick is here, and oh my. He’s the new CEO of Anterdec, and O has been one of his special projects since the beginning. I wouldn’t mind being his special project, but…
Amanda Warrick. She just joined Anterdec as assistant marketing director. She was here once before, unofficially, shopping us for a bachelorette party for her friend. I gave her group their tour. I’ve heard rumors that she is Andrew’s girlfriend, but if so, they’re keeping it very quiet.
Wait. Amanda… here before… shopping us…that mystery shop report…
Alarm bells begin dinging.
“Hey, Chloe,” she says with a wink. I smile back, projecting serenity.
To the right of Amanda is a seriously handsome man. Serious, and handsome. He looks the tiniest bit familiar? A bit older than me? I meet his eye and smile.
In a purely professional way, of course.
He looks down at his phone, frowning slightly.
Hmm. Usually when I smile at a guy, he smiles back. But usually my eyes are not swollen to the size of hard-boiled eggs.
Sigh.
I turn to my presentation. Everything was pinned up before I left the office yesterday. One long wall of this room is covered in white linen, just for this purpose. All the fabrics we’ve selected for O NOLA, the samples of wood finishes and paint colors, squares of carpet, and photos of furniture options are displayed in groups.
And I immediately see that two of the fabric samples have been pinned in the wrong groups. I step over to the wall and re-pin them, reaching up high over my head.
Glad I caught that before I started presenting.
A side table holds materials too big or heavy to pin up, like stone and marble samples, ceramic tile, a faucet, a sconce. There is a stack of folders for everyone, with floor and furniture plans and of course all the estimates, budget sheets, and timelines.
Carrie distributes the folders, and they automatically open them and begin flipping through. All except The Frowner. He’s looking at my chest.
So I look at my chest.
Which, of course, makes everyone watching me look at my chest.
My secret power isn’t secret anymore… two buttons of my shirtdress have come open.
Black mesh corset on full display, one pink nipple fully visible.
I pull my dress together. I wish I could pull myself together. My face is bright red, and red is not in the O corporate color palette.
“This is not the presentation I had in mind,” I blurt out. “Normally, when I set out to give clients something they’ve never seen before, it’s not quite like this.”
Amanda starts to giggle, so infectiously that I have to join her. Everyone else follows, and the formality in the room evaporates. Suddenly they’re all on my side, except for The Frowner.
Is the guy made of stone?
“Did you get that corset here?” asks a blonde woman. Diane. Diane…something. She’s in accounting. Severe face, hair pulled back in a tight bun, smile twitching her nose.
Amanda asks, through laughter, “Does it come in large?”
Of course I did. Of course it does.
One hour later I have finished giving my virtual tour of the new O. I have passed around fabric samples so that everyone could feel for themselves just how luxuriant a fire-retardant material can be. I have given a very short course in sustainable woods, and explained that the ash for O’s custom cabinetry is sourced only from accredited plantations. And, of course, I have justified every dollar to be spent.
Everyone seemed to love it. Except The Frowner, who now clears his throat.
“Chloe, I’m Nick Grafton. I handle
branding for Anterdec properties. It’s critically important for a new brand like O to carry the same recognizable image throughout all locations. Can you tell us a bit more about how your design will do this while at the same time bringing in the unique atmosphere of New Orleans?”
Even seated, I can tell he’s a tall man. All the time I spend with seven-foot-tall Henry has skewed my perspective a bit, but Nick must be over six feet. His hair is thick and a little on the long side for a corporate guy, light brown with a hint of silver. I admit it: I have a total weakness for long hair. Not man buns, but a little over the collar… something to grab and maybe pull at intimate times…
Ice blue eyes.
But what really gets my attention is his dark navy blue suit. Crisp shirt. Cotton madras plaid tie. When you spend every work day surrounded by mostly naked men, a fully-dressed guy gets your attention.
Sexy. Makes you wonder what’s underneath.
Not that I’m objectifying him. Ahem.
Did he say his last name is Grafton? My turn to look closely at him. My first boyfriend—we’re talking high school here—was Charlie Grafton. Not an unusual last name, though, right?
His question is easy, really. I answer, he thanks me, no one else has a question.
I signal Carrie to lower the room lights. Showtime.
“O is never ordinary,” I begin. “We’ve created another O for you, and I think it’s our most exciting space yet.” The faces around the table are mildly surprised, not expecting anything else from me.
I click a button to lower the screen and another to start the slideshow.
“This is our first gO Spa.” I flash to a picture of a full-size RV. “This vehicle could be the beginning of a fleet. In every city where O has a presence, the gO Spa can go beyond the physical location. The gO Spa can be booked for private parties and weddings. It can travel to concert venues and theaters for services to big-name performers.”
The next slide is an interior view of the gO Spa. Three small showers. A bank of four hair washing and styling stations. Small closets filled with curated professional clothing.
“But it has another important purpose. The gO Spa is how O will give back to the communities that have welcomed us and made our success possible. A way to demonstrate our commitment to the idea that peace and pleasure are vital to everyone.”