Vanity Fare

by Megan Caldwell

  Stop questioning, Molly. Just start doing, and see what happens.

  “Your mussels.” The waiter placed the bowl on the table. My nose smelled the Pernod, garlic, butter, and the distinct odor of the shellfish. Except for the mussels, I liked every ingredient.

  Simon let go of my hand and reached into the bowl, pulling out the biggest shell and holding it toward me. “Here, try it,” he coaxed, gesturing toward my mouth.

  I reached my hand to take it, and he shook his head, motioning for me to eat it from his hand. I felt exquisitely self-conscious as I leaned forward.

  The mussel was just as I had remembered: awful. I forced it down my throat and reached for my glass of water, which the busboy had thankfully brought when the mussels arrived.

  “Delicious, right?” Simon said, reaching into the bowl and downing a mussel with a big smile on his face.

  “Mmm,” I murmured noncommittally.

  “You liked it, right?” he said, an aggressive tone in his voice. I bet this was how he sounded when he ordered his kitchen staff around.

  “No, actually. I like the sauce, though,” I offered with a placating smile.

  He frowned. “Mussels are one of the best foods in the world,” he stated.

  Okay, Simon the Objective. Since you say so.

  I took another sip of water. The waiter brought the wine over and presented it to Simon, who nodded in approval.

  “To us,” he said, raising his glass.

  “To us,” I echoed, clinking my glass cautiously against his.

  The wine slid down my throat all too easily, and I had to force myself to place the glass back down on the table to avoid downing it all in one nervous swallow.

  Simon leaned forward. “So. How are you doing, Molly?”

  He extended the l’s in my name, adding an almost imperceptible break in between the two syllables in his refined accent. It was deliberately, ridiculously alluring, and I felt a warmth start to spread from my belly to my breasts. So what if he ordered me around? Made me eat nasty seafood? He was interested in me, me, Molly Hagan.

  Wasn’t he?

  “Fine, thank you,” I said. I tossed my head to prove his complete and utter sexiness hadn’t unnerved me. A complete and utter lie.

  He chuckled, then placed his fingers on my arm and began to stroke my skin. Up. Down. Up. Down.

  Forget it, I was going to throw caution to the winds and have this guy on the white linen tablecloth if he wasn’t careful. The waiter came with our salads just as I was assessing how much room there was between the saltshaker and the breadbasket. Simon pulled his hand away and smiled at me like he knew just what I was thinking.

  “I’ve roughed out more of the copy, I’ll be giving it to you—” oh, God, had I just said that?—“within the next few days.”

  He speared a piece of lettuce. “No work discussion, love,” he said in a dismissive tone. I felt the warmth of my insides turn a little fiery. I was proud of the work I had done for him, and I didn’t want to be scolded, as if I were a little kid talking about boogers at the dinner table.

  “Right. Sorry,” I said, spearing my own piece of lettuce and chewing vigorously. I wanted to bite his head off for chastising me, but maybe I was being thoughtless. Maybe he worked hard. I could tell he played hard, that was for sure.

  “What are your plans for this weekend?” he asked, pushing an olive to the side of his plate with a moue of disdain.

  “My son has two birthday parties, my mother needs help with—well, she needs some help this weekend, and I have to finish the presentation I’m not supposed to discuss,” I replied.

  He pursed his lips. “Couldn’t someone take your child to those parties? I mean, I was hoping we could get away this weekend, my friend has a little cottage in upstate New York.”

  “No, sorry, I can’t,” I said, a lot more apologetically than I would have liked.

  “Well, can we do dinner Saturday night?”

  Why were we discussing the next date when we had barely begun this one? Which, except for the whole “throw me on the table and ravish me” thing was not going so well. And even though I knew I didn’t really, it still felt like I could taste that mussel. Ugh.

  “No, but if you want to get brunch while my son is at a birthday party on Saturday, we can do that. You’ll have to come to Brooklyn, though.”

  “Brooklyn, hm? Do I need to bring my passport?”

  Gee, that was original. Not. I gave him a weak smile. “No, not necessary.”

  “Great, then. We’ll figure out the details later.” He hauled his napkin off his lap and wiped his mouth. “I’ve been reading the most amazing book,” he said.

  “Fiction?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “This fantastic tale about two business adversaries who create a world defined only by logic and reasoning.”

  “A romance, then.”

  “What?” He gave me a puzzled, slightly annoyed, look. “No, not a romance.”

  “Who’s it written by?”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “No idea. I picked this up at the airport because Fortune was sold out. The last time I read a book was at university,” he said proudly. “I’ll lend it to you when I’ve finished.”

  “I’m not really big on logic and reasoning books,” I said, smiling. “I read a lot of romance, and of course, the classics, although lately my reading taste is more Jane Airhead than Jane Eyre.”

  “What?” he said, this time clearly annoyed I was making another joke he didn’t get.

  “Never mind.”

  “Well, I’ll lend it to you nonetheless, and you can tell me what you think.”

  I think I don’t want to read books recommended by someone who never reads, I thought. I think I would prefer to make my own decisions, thank you, whether about food or my weekend plans or books.

  The waiter returned, bearing our salad plates away with him. There were fewer customers than before, so a few empty tables dotted the landscape and the noise was less obtrusive. I looked around at the walls, which were done in an Italian fresco style, with deliberately faded paint and paintings of Renaissance women wearing gold clothing. It was very homey, and if it weren’t quite so loud, very comfortable.

  I sighed and leaned back in my chair. The wine definitely made my back feel better. Simon had pulled his BlackBerry out and was scrutinizing it, so I didn’t have to drum up conversation. I looked at some of the other couples, wondering if any of them were on dates, or were married, or, God forbid, about to get divorced.

  I spotted her first. Her blond hair was pulled back into one of those low chignons Vogue had always raved about when I had a subscription. I could see the long curve of her neck where it rose from a column of dark rose silk. My stomach tightened. I looked past her, past her graceful hands making a point, past her aquiline nose I could just see in profile to him. He was wearing a sparklingly crisp white shirt, an equally white T-shirt just showing underneath. His face looked tan, as if he had spent some time in the sun recently.

  They looked like a fabulous, successful couple. I wanted to throw up.

  Just then, he caught my eye, then gave me a tentative wave. I exhaled and waved back. Simon noticed the motion, then followed the direction of my eyes and saw them also. He turned back toward me. “Who’s that with Sylvia?”

  “My husband,” I said, then quickly grabbed the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. Then registered he knew Sylvia, too. Of course he did. The woman sure got around.

  “Oh. What does he do again?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Sylvia does like a successful man,” he said in a dry tone of voice. I wondered if he had dated her, too. She turned and waved, a light flit of her fingers, as if she were a queen and we her subjects. She gave Simon a raised, knowing eyebrow, then smirked at me.

  I felt like I was thirteen again and the prettiest senior girl had just told me I was wearing high-water pants and I was too fat.

/>   Hugh said something to Sylvia and stood up, beginning to move toward us. She just clutched the back of her chair and continued staring. I smoothed my sweaty palms on my pants and swallowed.

  “Nice to see you, Molly,” Hugh said. He gave Simon an inquiring look.

  “Hugh, this is Simon Baxter. Simon, Hugh.” They shook hands and gave each other appraising stares. I knew I was biased, but I thought Simon fared better in the stare department than Hugh did. Maybe it was because I’d seen Hugh naked.

  “You’re with Sylvia, then?” Simon asked, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head up to talk to Hugh.

  “Yes, how do you know her?”

  Simon chuckled, threw her a quick glance, and looked back at Hugh. “Let’s just say I’ve known Sylvia for a while.”

  There was so much left unspoken; did he mean Let’s just say we’ve slept together and we’re both more beautiful than you? or was it more like She tried, but wasn’t able to make anything happen? or what?

  I was guessing that maybe the “or what” was me being paranoid. I mean, just because Sylvia knew John and knew Simon before didn’t necessarily mean they’d all slept together.

  Oh, ugh, not at the same time.

  I needed to stop thinking about all this. When had I started living in Peyton Place?

  “So, Hugh,” I said, grateful for once to have highly developed conflict-aversion skills, “are you taking Aidan to that movie he wants to see? He said he had asked you about it, but if you don’t want to take him, my mother said she would.” Maybe she’d have to pawn that crystal swan that kept almost slipping off the table to afford the tickets. Hey, a bright side!

  “Yeah, I’ll take him.” Hugh barely glanced in my direction, though, probably too busy wondering just how Simon knew Sylvia.

  Simon leaned back in his chair. “Well, Hugh, Sylvia looks as if she’s been alone quite long enough,” Simon said, arching an eyebrow in Sylvia’s direction.

  Hugh nodded. “Molly, talk to you later. Simon, a pleasure.”

  He scooted back to their table as though Sylvia were holding an invisible leash. Simon gave me an inquiring look. “Molly, I would have to say your taste in men was not always as exceptional as it is now.” He chuckled a little at his own wit.

  I stabbed a piece of pasta instead of replying. He was gorgeous, but did he have to be so darn smug?

  Even the cappuccino didn’t improve my mood. There I was, Molly Hagan, having dinner with possibly the most beautiful man I’d ever seen outside of a movie screen and I was annoyed. With him. With me for being with him. With him for knowing her, no matter how he’d known her. With the other him for being with her now.

  Gah, it was enough to make me wish I were better at geometry, there were so many triangles flying around.

  When we left the restaurant, I was full, but not satisfied. It wasn’t raining anymore, so we strolled along Fourth Street for a bit in silence, me wondering if I should try to go home and sulk by myself, Simon probably wondering if every passerby was as aware of his beauty as he was. Chances were good they were.

  He stopped in front of an imposing door with a lizard on it. There was no sign or anything, just dark red velvet curtains covering the windows. It had been a très trendy bar back in the day, and I was surprised to see it was still in business. Most trendy places ultimately ended their life cycle, giving way to another, equally glamorous spot. Kind of like recycling a wife, come to think of it. Sylvia was obviously the new improved model.

  I was the Edsel. The Pinto. The Corvair, although I was definitely safe at any speed.

  We walked into the darkened room. The requisite stunning hostess sat us at one of the small, round tables in the very farthest corner of the room. I was betting Simon was a lot happier at his positioning here than at the restaurant. You had to lean the menu close to the tiny flickering candle to read the small print, it was that dark, and I had to stop myself from exclaiming about the prices, like some rube. Or a mom from Brooklyn.

  The waitress came over, another model-thin beauty with cocoa-colored skin and a dress cut so low as to be R-rated. When she leaned over our table to place the napkins, she was definitely in X-territory. Simon grinned, while I couldn’t help but stare. You wouldn’t have thought such a thin woman would be so . . . ample.

  “What can I get you?” she asked. Simon didn’t even bother with the menu. And he definitely didn’t bother asking me what I wanted, either. At least he was consistent.

  “Two sidecars, please.” She nodded and took our menus.

  “It’s got brandy and Cointreau,” he explained as she left.

  “I’ve had it before,” I said tersely. Did he think I was a rube from Brooklyn, too?

  He slid his chair closer to me so our knees were touching. I could feel his breath on my cheek. He moved even closer and kissed my ear. It tingled. Traitor.

  “I’m very glad I met you, Molly,” he whispered, just before licking my ear. My body started to sizzle. He was less annoying when he wasn’t talking.

  I turned my head and gave him a quick kiss. He leaned forward and captured my mouth, pressing his lips against mine with a sure intensity. I felt my bones melt a little. He put his right hand on my rib cage and began to rub my side, moving his fingers in circles. His hand was perilously close to my breast, but not yet on it. My breasts began to throb, as they seemed to want nothing more than for him to put his hands right there.

  His mouth tasted like wine and those chalky white mints that he’d tossed in his mouth when leaving the restaurant. I felt his stubble against my cheek while a few strands of hair tickled my nose.

  Simon was a lot better-looking than Hugh. I spent a few seconds imagining Hugh kissing Sylvia, giving her that wide-open mouth treatment I’d secretly thought was kind of drooly, and not in a good way. I hoped Hugh and Sylvia were both thinking how much better-looking Simon was.

  I snapped my thoughts back to what was happening here and now. I hadn’t made out in a bar since college. He sucked my tongue and bit my lip and my body reacted as though he’d set it on fire.

  God, this was fun. And naughty. And fun. I was grateful for the trendy darkness. I doubted anyone else could see us, that is, until I heard the clink of glasses. The waitress! I pulled away from Simon, jerked his hand from my body, and pulled myself up primly in my chair. She bent over our table and placed the drinks down. They were in squat lowballs, and I could smell the liquor even from where I was sitting.

  Before I could take it, Simon took my glass and handed it to me, holding his as well. “To the start of something wonderful,” he said softly. He clinked his glass against mine, then raised his eyebrow and took a sip. I did, too. The chilled sweetness slid down my throat, a marked contrast to how heated my body was. It tasted decadent and sensuous.

  I put my drink down and regarded Simon. How could anyone get tired of looking at him? Even in the dark, his eyes were almost glowing, like a cat’s, and as I looked at him, he darted the tip of his tongue across his lips to capture an errant bit of moisture.

  I thought of Dr. Lowell as I leaned forward again and lowered my eyelids. I kissed him this time, deliberately licking his lips with my tongue. I trailed my fingers down his arm and placed my other hand on his knee and squeezed, gently. He groaned in the back of his throat. Dr. Lowell would be so pleased at my . . . inappropriateness.

  It felt good to be so in control. To do something that was for me, with no ultimate goal beyond pleasure. I had no illusions about me and Simon; even if he weren’t just here for business, he and I were clearly too different to forge a real relationship together. As for forging a casual lust? I thought we were doing just fine.

  “You’re someone to take home to Mum, you know that, don’t you?” he murmured, starting to nibble my ear again. I froze.

  Take home to Mum was not casual lust. Take home to Mum intimated I was a safe, solid choice, not a dangerous obsession. Damn it, I wanted dangerous, not parent-approved.

  “Too bad your mum’s across the
Atlantic, then, hm?” I said, trying to gloss over the subject without saying just how execrable an idea I thought it.

  He removed his mouth from my earlobe and gave me that wicked grin. I felt a slow burn slide all the way down to my toes. “She’s here, actually,” he said.

  Oh. Here. Oops, so much for casual glossing. “Ah. Just for a visit, then?” I said, hopefully.

  “No, she lives here. On Park Avenue and Eighty-sixth Street, with her third husband. He’s American. I’m staying with her.”

  “Ah.”

  “She hasn’t liked many of my past—the women I’ve dated, but I just know she’ll love you.”

  I had to ask. “Why didn’t she like them?”

  He shrugged. “They always end up butting heads about something or another.”

  And I would do the opposite, because I’m a spineless, conflict-averse coward. Oh, Simon, you do know how to sweet-talk a girl.

  He moved toward my lips again, but I held my hand up between us. “I think I’ve got to get home, actually,” I said.

  “You’re doing it again,” he said with a scowl.

  “Doing what?” I said with a disingenuous smile.

  “Running away before things can get . . . interesting.”

  Did that make me a cock tease? Because honestly, I’d never even come close to being accused of being one, and if I were, that’d be kinda cool in a coldhearted female kind of way.

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with things moving so fast.”

  “Why not? You’re over age—aren’t you? You’re free, or almost free, and Molly, you are the most amazing kisser, and my imagination is going wild thinking what you’ll be like in my bed.” He said that last part in a lowered, husky tone that almost made me toss my scruples to the wind and go home with him. Almost.

  I let out a deep breath. “Simon, thank you. I just can’t.” I reached beside my chair and picked up my purse. I drained my glass and placed it carefully back on the coaster.

  I kissed him on the cheek, gave his knee a last, regretful pat, and stood up. Whoa, that cocktail was lethal. I held on to the back of my chair for a little support. He stood, too, but I waved him back down into his seat. “No, please, stay a while. I’ll grab a cab just outside.”