“Uh—Erica? We have a teensy-weensy problem.”
I sighed. “Just give it to me straight.”
“There’s a... uhm... flood on the third floor.”
“A flood,” I repeated calmly, as if she were talking about some remote, over-populated and under-fed village in some third-world country that I could sympathize with but do absolutely nothing about.
“And it’s leaking onto the second.”
“Did you see where it’s coming from?” I sighed at the blank look on her face. “Never mind; I’ll do it.”
Jackie was good with people, but she was a disaster with disasters. Me, I was good with disasters—and people that I didn’t share a surname with.
It was the boiler system. It had sprung a major leak, and there was nothing I could do but call the maintenance team and invite the guests on both affected floors to an improvised mid-afternoon lunch buffet and drinks, while the in-house laundry service took care of transferring their sodden clothing to be dry-cleaned or washed and pressed, and we upgraded them all to a superior room. On top of that, I threw in a voucher for a two-night stay in any Farthington hotel in North America, all compliments of the management. By the time I had finished my reparatory spiel, I had charmed the pants off them (their only dry pair) and the incident was forgotten. That was my job and I was amazing at it.
And motherhood? I did my damned best. The kids were always fed and read to and everything (well, not quite everything, but at least the most important things) that was natural for a woman to do for her family. I grimly pictured the list of women’s chores and compared them to men’s. Bit of a chasm there, not to say the entire Grand Canyon.
So, faced with the fact that I would never be able to check-mark all those chores, I did what I would normally do at work. Prioritize. What was more important—to clean my windows, or help my kids with their homework? To iron bed sheets (that no one ever sees anyway) or learn to play baseball with Warren (even if it meant knocking myself out and seeing stars in the process) and take Maddy to ballet classes? No contest.
And, gosh, the look in their eyes whenever I dropped my vacuum cleaner and sat down to color? Much to Ira’s annoyance, of course, because he always thought I did it to show him up, to underline the difference between Mommy and Daddy. He never understood it wasn’t about him. He never understood it was simply about making the kids feel loved, about them coming first—before Sunday brunches, before our own hobbies. I had once had a passion for painting and had been told I was good at it too. But I hadn’t painted a landscape in years, though my fingers yearned to. Every time I saw a beautiful view or closed my eyes, I could see a million things I wanted to paint, could feel a million colors exploding within me, dying to get out. But I settled for coloring and making paper dolls with Maddy.
Ira, on the other hand, sometimes, if at all, paid attention to them the first half hour he was home, but then lost interest. He was totally unaware of anybody else’s needs and he’d slowly worsened over the years. A bit like my mom in a way. These people lacked the sensitivity gene. They didn’t realize what was going on around them or if someone, friend or family, was suffering. They had never really loved, in my opinion, never sat up all night worried about someone (Nonna Silvia had told me I was never sick as a baby, so I guess that was my mom’s cue to take life easy).
As a child, every time I woke up in the middle of the night with a nightmare, it was always, always, my nonna who came to my bed with a glass of water and a lozenge, a quiet chat and finally a good-night hug. She was the only one who ever hugged me and said, “Sleep well, sweetheart.”
Sleep well, Sweetheart. I couldn’t remember the last time someone actually said that to me.
A few confused, foggy hours later during lunch, as I was writing down a list of all the bad words I knew in Italian, like bastardo and stronzo, and linking them to Ira’s name in a sort of spider-gram, I got a personal call from Mr. Foxham, the kids’ new school principal.
Shit. He’d sent out a letter to the families with a new Mission Statement against the spreading phenomenon of bullying, and what his main goals were, inviting us in to discuss whether our children felt safe, were happy, et cetera. I’d forgotten to RSVP that party.
And so, clutching the phone, I feared the worst, conjuring up images of Warren hanging from the light strips or the ceiling beams by his tie, courtesy of an older kid, or Madeleine’s dress being torn to pieces by a posse of vicious girls kicking her and her pretty pink raincoat and matching boots around in the mud.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lowenstein,” came the voice of doom, calling me by a name that was no longer mine. “I’m Mr. Foxham, Madeleine and Warren’s headmaster.”
Headmaster? Right—I forgot he was a Brit. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. Memories of my homeroom teacher, Miss Briton (who was actually Australian) talking down to me in her crisp accent surfaced, and in a single moment I relived the worst years of my school life.
I felt my own diction tighten accordingly. “Yes, good morning, Mr. Foxham. Is there a problem?”
A pause. Oh, that deadly pause where I saw at least one of my kids lying lifeless…
“No, no, they’re quite all right, Mrs. Lowenstein. Warren’s sitting a math test at the moment and Madeleine is doing art, her favorite subject.”
I exhaled in relief. The personal touch hadn’t escaped my notice. They were always nice to you before delivering the blow.
“Warren didn’t cheat, did he? I told them a million times it’s better to get a C that’s yours than someone else’s A.”
He chuckled. A warm, deep chuckle, and I hung on to it as a guarantee that whatever he had to say couldn’t be that bad.
“Well, you’re right about that. Mrs. Lowenstein, would it be possible for you to pop round here today? Say an hour or so before the last bell? Would half-two be all right? That way you’ll be just in time to take the children home when we’re done.”
What the hell were we going to talk about for an hour? How bad was it?
“Are you going to expel them?” I asked meekly and totally out of context, I don’t know why.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Lowenstein. I just need to talk to you if that’s all right.”
Actually, it wasn’t. Nothing was all right. I knew they were feeling the strain of the household even if Ira and I were civil in front of them. It was obvious by the way they dropped themselves at the kitchen table lately when they got in. Sullen, tired and irritable. They were starting to look more and more like Ira every day. Which was the reason I knew I’d need all the help I could get.
“I’ll be there, Mr. Foxham.”
“Brilliant. See you then, Mrs. Lowenstein.” And he put the phone down.
Besides dreading what he needed to see me about, I couldn’t stand the sound of Ira’s surname next to my name anymore, I realized with a sudden panic. I mean, it really bothered me, hurt-bothered me, like salt being inflicted on an open wound.
I knew Mr. Foxham was a good principal, but I had never actually met him, which I knew was bad. I was a terrible mother. And I was now going to get my, as the Brits say, comeuppance.
* * *
I had Jackie take over for the rest of the day and drove to Clinton Street Private School (Ira had vetoed Parker, probably because it was free) with my stomach in my mouth and my heart trying to make its way out through my nostrils. I hadn’t felt this nervous since my job interview at the hotel years ago where I sat before Mr. Harold Farthington sweating buckets in my navy suit and silk scarf, looking like an inflatable airline hostess. I did that when I was nervous. Sweated buckets. And wore silk scarves. So really nothing much had changed since then.
In a matter of minutes, I was ushered into the principal’s office in a state of sheer terror, clutching my scarf as if it had magical powers. I attempted to breathe normally, hoping my imminent panic attack didn�
�t show too much.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lowenstein,” he said politely, offering his hand, and instantly a strange heat settled over me, like I was in a healing cocoon, where nothing could ever harm me—something I’d experienced only once before. Precisely on the floor of the ladies’ room in a downtown restaurant. The feeling of being enveloped by the warmth and protection of his large, powerful body had stayed with me. Well, truth be told, I’d been fantasizing about him like mad for the past few weeks.
And here he was again, even more gorgeous than I remembered. A bod like a football player, with shoulders so wide even I could stretch out on them for a nap, and a chest that looked so lean and solid you could use it as a surfboard. Crap. Just my friggin’ luck. And his eyes—the color of the ocean in winter—green with a hint of blue and gold. It had been years since I’d been perturbed by male beauty. I mean really overwhelmed. I felt my face catch fire at the thought of him having seen me in my underwear and wished I could vanish into thin air. Now if only he didn’t remember me, my whole life would be made.
He grinned, and I was awarded with a perfect white dazzle of a smile. He should’ve been in pictures, with his athletic physique and five o’clock shadow that only made him look terrific beyond bearable.
I felt as if time had disappeared. How long had he been sitting there smiling at me? Was it still daylight outside? I glanced out his window just to make sure I hadn’t been abducted by a gorgeous alien or something, but nope—there I was, on Earth, still trying to breathe properly, my eyes still glued to his beyond-handsome face.
A slight red seeped into his cheeks. Oh, my God, a blushing hunk! I always thought they were a myth. He was my ideal man, the one with the perfect everything (I didn’t get a chance to steal a glance down there but I’m sure it was all in order).
He looked at me with a funny expectant look and I dreaded he’d soon recognize me—then it was good night to my fantasies of having so much absolutely savage sex with him that it was shamefully greedy.
He cleared his throat. “Do you, ah—remember me?”
Shit, shit, shit. I pretended to think, and then finally shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I finally apologized. “No.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. You were very upset. I’m not crazy about spiders either.”
You know when the floor beneath you opens and you plunge into a black abyss of shame? Multiply that by one billion. Go figure that the one time I’d been naked in public, a guy like this would see me. I’d begged him to take off my trousers, acting like an absolute psychopath, the kind who runs screaming down the main streets and you move off to one side, averting your gaze trying not to make eye contact. You know the kind. In any case, the gig was up.
“You’re…”
He grinned shyly. “The spider murderer, yes. And thanks to you I’ll have it on my conscience forever.”
Oh, dear God, please kill me now. Just swat me out of my miserable existence and get rid of me for once. I slapped my hand over my eyes, waiting, wanting to die. I peeked up at him through my fingers. “I’m so, so sorry…”
“Don’t be. I never thought I’d run into you again.”
Him and me both. Now for something intelligent to say. “You must think I’m a total lunatic.”
He grinned. “Of course not. Well, maybe just… original.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So, how are you?”
“Still hating spiders. And you? Still patrolling the ladies’ rooms for damsels in distress?” Why couldn’t I just learn to keep my mouth shut? Now my children’s principal would always remember me not only as the woman with the big bum but the one with the big mouth. And on top of that, I still smelled like mothballs. Better run to repairs and show my human, civil side. “I’m so sorry to have caught you up in that.” Meaning between my thighs. Not that I minded. “And to have caused you such trouble with security.”
“Sorry? Naw, they know me, I’m a regular there. And I’m so glad I got to see you again.”
I swallowed, trying to play it cool as that familiar rushy feeling sent all my blood from my brain, making the rest of my body hum. I can’t even describe how his presence overwhelmed me. He was extremely tall and his body reverberated masculinity. All I could do was swallow and stare back at him, my mind experiencing complete shutdown, except for the memory of his arms around me as we lay (he crouched, I kicked at the spider) on the cold bathroom floor, him whispering soothing words and me trembling like Jell-O and begging him to take my pants off. I wondered if that would work today without the spider?
I remember the calming sensation of reassuring, enfolding male around me. But now I also dwelled on the thick black hair that curled past his collar, the aquamarine green eyes and the five o’clock shadow. Beautiful lips. Square jaw. Kindness. Pure male harnessed by polite manners. If he ripped off a lady’s clothes the same way he did mine, then the guy was a keeper. Someone I might have fallen in love with a thousand years ago, before my body was sexually anaesthetized by marriage, children, and everything in-between.
He wasn’t wearing a suit as principals always do, but graced a pair of khaki trousers that barely hid the thigh muscles vibrating underneath, and a dark green sweater that brought out the broad shoulders and the verdant promise in his eyes. Even if the sweater wasn’t fitted, I could tell he was lean and ripped. I tried to remember the last time I had met someone so gorgeous, and then I knew. Never.
And of all the nice outfits I had for work, and out of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, I had to choose today to look—and feel—like shit.
I pulled my magic scarf closer to my throat and my scruffy bag closer to my chest, hoping the floor would have mercy on me and swallow me up.
The temperature of my body rose considerably and I began to sweat again, making my skin so slick I almost slid straight out of my coat, like jelly from a tube, and off my chair twice. Almost. How high did this guy need his thermostat set? I unbuttoned my collar, then some more to clear my chest, which was swathed in layers of wool, so there was no danger in looking like I was exposing “The Boobs.” That was my sister Judy’s department. But I was still boiling.
“So you’re Maddy and Warren’s mom—what fantastic children you have,” he said.
As opposed to me. “Mr. Foxham—”
“Please call me Julian. After all, we’re acquainted outside the school.”
Meaning he’d seen my underwear. I wondered how many other mothers he was acquainted with. I nodded. “Okay. I’m Erica, then.”
You know those plastic conference chairs, the ones for skinny people, where the only direction you can go is downwards unless you plant your ass right in the center and your feet firmly on the ground? At the moment it was the only thing keeping me off the floor.
I looked like a bag lady perched on the edge of a bridge, ready to jump, with no make-up (not that I wore much of it these days) as I fretted with my fingernails, conscious that I’d chipped one while backing out of The Farthington parking lot in my haste to get here. Nail polish was a no-no because it would only be yet another deadline I’d have to meet. I was a total mess. And my hair—my arch-enemy—was in its usual facelift-tight bun. I knew I looked like a harpy.
Mr. Foxham—Julian—noticed my uneasiness but pretended not to. Oh, he was very smooth. And all this time I’d been pining over someone I thought was a normal guy, not a professional parent-basher.
What the hell’s wrong with my children? I wanted to blurt out as he professionally assessed me behind a friendly smile. With horror, I felt myself sliding down my torture chair again, and scrambled back up into my coat that stood stiff of its own accord, planting my feet firmly on the carpet for purchase.
This could not be good. Something, I knew, was very wrong, and, as fate would have it, then Spider Killer, such a good-looking specimen who so obviously had it together,
was going to give me news that would shatter my world…
“Erica,” he began, and I involuntarily said, “Uh-oh.”
He smiled, and let me tell you, it was such a sight. White teeth sparkled back at me through dark red lips, supported by a square chin. And despite his effort to shave that morning, I could already see the dark stubble shadowing his cheeks. Tell me what’s wrong, damn you!
“Coffee? Tea?” he offered. A basket case by now, I shook my head, wondering whether I would fall apart from the effort.
“Right, let’s not dally any further. Please forgive my bluntness, but, in total confidentiality, is everything all right at home?”
There it was. My stupid act of hysteria had returned to bite me on the ass. And then, to top it off, it happened. I slid off my chair, landing at his feet with a thud.
In an instant he was kneeling at my side. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? My husband has a lover and we’re divorcing. I challenge anybody to be okay.
“I’m fine,” I snapped as he moved to haul me up, tears of humiliation pricking the backs of my eyes. I hoped he hadn’t caught a whiff of my dingy Eau de Mothballs. In one swift movement that surprised even me, I lurched back to my feet on my own, saving the remains of my dingity. I mean, my dignity.
For good measure, I treated him to my famous evil eyeball, but he didn’t flinch either. It was official—I was starting to lose my touch.
“Now,” I said shrilly to the man who’d seen my Plus-Sized thighs, “Can you please tell me what makes you ask such a shocking (I delivered the word with a strict Brit accent, just to show him I was no less) question, let alone pry into my personal life?”
It wasn’t me, Erica Lowenstein, the lousy housewife talking, but Erica Cantelli, my brave, haughty alter ego, the bitchy hotel manager, the one who kicked ass and was never talked to without paramount respect. And boy was she mad now.
Julian was thrown for a split second, but recovered fantastically. And with such class. “Erica, it’s not about your personal life per se. It’s about the children. They are showing signs of abnormal behavior and we’re just concerned.”
The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) Page 9