The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)

  “About the divorce,” we said in sync as I nodded knowingly. The little shit had ratted me out to Julian as well.

  “I don’t want you to be sad, Erica…”

  I looked up at him. His eyes were kind and understanding, almost urging me to let myself go. And suddenly I was too tired to keep it all bottled up inside. I felt the tears come in a gush of shame. I tried to stop, but I wasn’t very good at anything these days.

  “It’s so difficult to pretend everything is okay,” I sniffed, and he nodded.

  “Nothing is easy, Erica. But you’re doing a great job.”

  “Yeah, I’m doing a fan-bloody-tastic job,” I snorted, and sniffed loudly into a tissue, but soon needed another one to blow my nose. Julian leaned over and handed me the tissue box on the coffee table. God, what a sight I must have been, with my track pants, T-shirt, red-and-white-striped socks and wet ponytail on the top of my head.

  “You’re not alone, Erica. Paul loves you like a sister and I am here to help you in any way I can. And…”

  I blew my nose and looked up at him hopefully.

  “… good news. The parents are not suing, provided you foot the medical bills. Billy admitted he was bullying Warren.”

  I blew my nose again and sputtered in relief, “Oh, thank God! You’re a good principal, Julian. Thank you so much.”

  “I have to intensify recess watch. Billy had been badgering him about... us for some time now. I must make my mission statement clearer.”

  And speaking of being clear. “We have to stop these... rumors,” I breathed. “About us. I can’t see you anymore. For my children’s sake. And for our reputations.”

  Julian lowered his eyes. “We’re not doing anything wrong, Erica,” he whispered.

  “I know,” I whispered back. “But I don’t want anybody else to get hurt. I’m very grateful to you and what you’re doing for the kids, but this is where I take a step back.”

  He took my hand, still not looking at me, and, sighing, nodded. “Erica... I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble. But please remember I’m just a phone call away. Whether you need help from the school or a shoulder to cry on.”

  “Okay. And… I’m extremely flattered for all the time you’ve dedicated to me. You’re very generous and selfless,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that we were sitting on my sofa, holding hands, our thighs touching, only a ‘yes’ away.

  “Selfless? No, lately I’ve been extremely selfish, thinking only about happiness, and not worrying about others. Forgive me, Erica,” he whispered as he took my hand and brought it to his lips, his thick black lashes lowered. I watched as he kissed my hand, his beautiful mouth on my skin, and I almost melted from the scorching pleasure that ripped through my insides without warning.

  He closed his eyes briefly, and then shook his head. “Call me if you need to chat,” he urged as he stood up. “I promise to behave.”

  I nodded and followed him to the door. He gave me one last look, concerned but at the same time sexy. I leaned against the door, smiling like an idiot as he waved and drove off. Next time I was yanking him back in and making love to him until the school board issued a search for him.

  “How come you’re seeing so much of Julian?”

  I turned to see that Ira had pulled up, just in time to see Julian driving off. “Are the kids having problems at school?”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Of course it wouldn’t remotely cross Ira’s mind that Julian might be attracted to me. I almost wish he was my lover—he was definitely excellent lover-rebound material. He was built for sex, that guy, with a smile that’d take your panties off in one go. I loved the way he looked at me, and the way he spoke to me— the opposite of this jackass here.

  There was no way I was telling him that Warren had given me and the school a few problems. Not this time. Ira would only give the little guy a hard time, and now that things were okay, I didn’t need a major regression.

  “We’re just keeping a closer eye on the kids, that’s all.”

  “Good. They’re good kids, aren’t they?” Ira grunted, already having lost interest as I ducked back inside as he pounced on his mail, which he tore open and read avidly.

  “Yes,” I agreed, happy we were managing a conversation. “Julian’s coaching a Little League and Warren’s in it. He’s great.”

  Ira kept on reading for a while, a smile forming on his lips. Then he dragged his eyes away from the letter and looked up. “Yeah? That’s great.”

  This was the longest conversation we’d had in weeks. When I got to Tuscany we wouldn’t have to converse with him at all. He’d be a long-distance, forgotten memory. The thought made me shiver all over with delight.

  Chapter 19:

  Losing a Friend?

  I told Paul about Warren hitting Billy Blackmoore.

  “You can’t blame the kid. You must be hot news all over the school.”

  “What?” I said, panicking. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I hoped that we were never really a topic of conversation. I didn’t know many other mothers and the few I knew were acquaintances—not people who would pull me aside and discreetly warn me I was regarded as the school slut. But if this episode was anything to go by, we were in shit. Deep shit.

  “Erica’s in love with the pri-inci-pal,” Paul sang as he painted my toenails, each one a different color. I had a high ponytail and my cow jammies on with my matching stuffed-cow slippers by my side that even had ears. Or where they horns? If only my fearful hotel staff could see me now.

  “And the principal’s gonna get fi-ired because he can only keep it in his pants for so lo-ong!”

  “Sto-op,” I said, slapping his arm, giggling. But the thought of Julian warmed me from the inside, like a glass of brandy. Not that I ever drank any. Paul and I were wine freaks, especially Italian wines, which he brought back from Italy in copious quantities despite the fact that I always got it for free from Dad’s Italian Gift Store.

  “What would you do,” Paul said with a cute Kermit the Frog-like burp, “if Julian rang the doorbell right now and wanted to take you upstairs?”

  I stopped munching on a mini Mars bar and stared at him, then slapped his shoulder. “Why is it always about sex with you? First of all, he doesn’t even like me—not the way you think, at least.”

  “He do-oes,” Paul insisted. “Believe me, I know when I see a horny guy, and he’s super-horny for you.”

  “Horny for me—Julian? Yeah, sure, in a science-fiction movie or The Twilight Zone.”

  “Really—say you could make a wish and it happened.”

  “Oh, so we’re talking Fantasy Island stuff, then?” I didn’t have to think about it, but pretended to.

  “That is the worst impersonation of someone thinking I’ve ever seen,” he said disgustedly. “Admit it—you like him too. A lot more than you think.”

  “If I admitted that,” I whispered, and he leaned closer.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d have to kill you.”

  Paul stomped his feet and said, “I don’t care; I know you’d sleep with him! Oh, Erica, he’s so the guy for us.”

  Could he be right?

  It was late, the kids were asleep and we were watching some oldies. Paul’s choice was Sooner or Later.

  “Okay,” he said. “You take Julian—I’ll take Rex Smith. Man, I looove him.”

  “He’s not gay, Paul. Actually, he’s a real ladies’ man. Didn’t he find out he had a son years ago?”

  “Imagine that—finding out you have a son somewhere. That would freak me out,” Paul said with a nod as he guzzled down some wine.

  “If you’d slept with a woman I’d be freaked out too,” I informed him, and Paul took another swig of his wine, swallowed and suddenly went serious.

  ”God, I still mis
s Carl after all these years, you know?” He sighed, and I stared at him. Ages and battalions of men had gone by since Carl.

  “What do you miss about him? You always used to say he was boring.”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. I just do. Life is a bitch without someone to love. Without a family, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. “I have you.” Which was true. No matter how many lovers I found, I would always be happy with Paul, the—albeit gay—man in my life. As long as I had him, my safety net, I’d be fine.

  “I wonder what he’s doing now?” I asked about Carl.

  “Probably still writing scripts. He was good. Maybe I’ll be costume designer for one of his movies one day. We’ll look into each other’s eyes and realize we made a big mistake splitting up.”

  I was still staring at him. In all the years I knew him he had never got sentimental, except for when Warren and Maddy were born. God, you should have seen old waterworks then. He couldn’t pick either of them up without bawling.

  “Oh, Paulie.”

  “I’m so lucky to have you, Erica. You’re my family,” he said flatly. “And I love you.”

  “Sweetheart,” I whispered. “You’ve had too much to drink. Let go of the cask now, before you keel over.”

  He stared back at me with his large dark eyes and burst out laughing and soon, for no reason at all, we were rolling all over the floor in hysterics.

  “Okay, I confess,” I managed between my cackles of delight. “If Ricardo Montalban put a lei around my neck and said Welcome to Fantasy Island, I’d immediately say, Point me to Julian!”

  “Ha! I knew it! No woman can resist the shoulders on that guy!” Paul shrieked in triumph. “And have you seen his hands? They’re enormous. I say, let’s make a toast to his hands and what he’ll soon be touching,” Paul giggled and jabbed me in the ribs. And so we made a drunken toast to Julian’s hands with our empty glasses before reaching for another bottle.

  * * *

  The next morning at work, the ringing phones sounded like Quasimodo had gone berserk on the church bells of Notre Dame. Between my ears. Damn the wine.

  Clutching my temples, I looked around for Jackie, who was nowhere in sight. Sighing, I distractedly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Lowenstein?”

  Not for long, I wanted to answer. I glanced at the display. It was an external line. Someone must have asked for me specifically.

  “Yes?”

  “A friend of Paul Belhomme’s?”

  Aw, crap. The bastard had tried to set me up with another one of his rare heterosexual friends again. “Er, yes?”

  “We have your number down as his emergency contact. There’s been an accident, ma’am.”

  I gripped the receiver. “Is he all right? Where is he?”

  A heavy silence fell, and then I knew.

  “He had a car accident.”

  My knees buckled and I hit the chair hard. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it?” I pleaded, as they all do.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Paul. Last night he was painting my toenails, and now he was dead. Oh, Paul.

  “Ma’am?”

  I sat up. “Yes. Where am I going?”

  “Boston County Medical Center.”

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  I don’t remember how I got there, except that I was in an elevator going down to where the morgue was located, according to all the blue signs on the walls. And I suddenly gagged. Paul. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face seeing Paul’s lifeless body. But if I didn’t, who would? I was his best friend. The only friend he’d want here.

  I pushed down the frog in my throat as the elevator doors pinged open. The entire floor was tiled white, just like you see in the movies, and all around was a stench of decay smothered in bleach. I pictured him, lying flat on his back, eyes closed, and clamped my hand over my mouth, swallowing the bile of my despair and approaching the woman in the white coat sitting at a desk.

  “Excuse me?” I choked and she stood up, her face grave.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as if she had known him. But she hadn’t been that lucky to have him in her life. I swallowed again and clenched my fists to stop them from shaking.

  “May I see him?” I asked.

  “Of course, whenever you’re ready.”

  I huffed and wiped away the sweat from my forehead. Oh, Paul…! Why did this happen to you? Why did you leave me?

  You know the saying, Only the good die young? How true was that? Can you think of someone here that should’ve gone way before everyone else, someone I’d been sending off for years in my fantasies? It served me right. All this time desiring Ira’s death and karma came round to kick me in the ass, taking from me the adult I loved the most in the world, more than my own siblings, more than my own parents.

  Paul had been everything to me—my friend, my brother, my maid, my cook, my image consultant, my therapist, my life coach, my babysitter. Had he been straight, and assuming he desired me, I would’ve never needed anyone else. And now, this gem of a man was gone from my life for good. How was I supposed to go on without him? How could anything ever be bearable from now on?

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m ready.” Which was so not true. As she beckoned me to follow her, my legs turned to rubber and I swayed. She turned to take my arm.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  Of course I’m not okay! I wanted to scream. My best friend is dead and I’ll never talk to him again!

  But instead I squared my shoulders, took another deep breath and nodded. She nodded back and we approached The Drawers.

  She lifted the sheet as I bit my lower lip to keep from screaming.

  I screamed.

  “That’s not Paul!”

  She stared at me, then at the old man on the slab. “Not—who?”

  “Paul!” I screamed. “Paul Belhomme, my friend!”

  She quickly covered the body with a whispered, “Oh, my God, aren’t you Mr. Smith’s daughter?”

  “No, I’m not! Where is Paul?” I screeched, my whole body shaking, unable to understand what was happening.

  “Just one moment, someone must have misplaced him,” she said, her eyes darting everywhere.

  “You mean to tell me you’ve lost him?”

  “What’s his name again? Paul?”

  “Paul Belhomme! B-E-L-H-O-M-M-E!”

  She gave me another quick, apologetic look as she rifled through her files and then finally picked up the phone as I slammed the flat of my hands against her desk.

  “Where the hell is he?” I boomed.

  “He must be in the new morgue. Just one moment, please,” she pleaded with me, on the verge of tears herself.

  I closed my eyes and began to bawl. “I don’t know anything about a new or old morgue; all they did was tell me to come—”

  She raised a hand to shush me and I almost grabbed her by the lapels to give her a good shake. They’d lost Paul and now she was shushing me?

  She put the phone down. “They’re getting back to me in a few moments. I’m so, so sorry. Can I get you some coffee, Mrs. Belhomme?”

  I slumped into a chair and let the tears roll. Even in death he was being mistreated! Why couldn’t people respect him for what he was? He was gay. A wonderful, loving gay man who was my anchor. My lifeline. And my lifeline had died in a stupid, stupid car accident.

  I couldn’t catch my breath, wiping at my tears as they appeared, but they were too fast to keep up.

  The phone buzzed and she pounced on it, but missed her mark as she tripped over the cord and fell under her desk.

  “Ow, ow...” she moaned.

  I leaned over the desk and peered down into her face. “Are you oka
y?”

  “Yah,” she whispered and I stepped over the killer cord to help the poor thing up. Her nose was bleeding like bloody Niagara Falls.

  “Here, hang on to me,” I said as I lifted her bodily (she was practically the size of Yoda) and gently placed her on a chair and pulled out some tissues from my bag. I twirled two tiny bits and gently wedged them on the inside of her nostrils like I always did with Warren’s nosebleeds. “There you go, how’s that?”

  Yoda looked up at me in total misery, her eyes as red as her face. “Blease doh’d tell addybuddy. It’s by first day here and I really deed dis job.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. This day couldn’t have got any worse now.

  The phone on her desk rang and we turned to stare at it, or rather, cower from it. Paul. Where the hell had they put him? “Shall I answer if for you?” I offered, seeing as she sounded like she was talking from the bottom of the ocean.

  “Do, blease dod’d!” she cried and threw herself on the phone as if her life depended on it. “Yes?” she breathed and listened. “Yes. Where? I udderstad. Thack you.”

  “What?” I glared at her as she put the phone down, deadly pale. Paul was already dead—what the hell could be worse?

  “He’s dot here,” she whispered.

  “Not here?” I whispered back. “What do you mean?”

  “He bust be in adother borgue.”

  Another morgue? I stared at her, trying to make sense of her words. “What? How many morgues are there in Boston?”

  “Several. Are you sure it was Bostod City Borgue and dot the Boston County Borgue?” she asked, trying to be helpful.

  I stared at her as my mind began to clear. “Why, which one is this?”

  “Dis is the Bostod City Borgue,” she answered apologetically. “Baybe he’s at the Bostod County Borgue?”

  Did I detect hope in her voice?

  I fell into the chair again, my hands wrapped around my head. This was a nightmare. Not even death was simple anymore.

  “Baybe I could call for you, save you the trip?” she suggested politely.

  “Why, you think he’s taken the bus home?” I snapped, and she blushed and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry for being a bitch but you understand, right?”