“Oh, Bill, I'm so sorry. You look upset, and I feel it's my fault, somehow. Is there anything I can do?”
“Don't worry about it. You’re not to blame.” His eyes roamed over her body and he felt the familiar reaction in his loins. “But if you really want to make me feel better…”
Before he could finish speaking, Anne Turner's hands were already tugging eagerly at his fly. A moment later, as his beautiful young secretary knelt before him, Bill Brandon forgot all about his wife.
The next time Anne made love to her employer, she smudged a bit of her lipstick on his shirt collar. A few weeks later, she discreetly sprayed a bit of her perfume onto his jacket before he went home. As expected, it did not take long for Mildred Brandon to react.
“I want to know who she is. Don't bother telling me I'm imagining things. I've been your wife for twenty-five years, and I know when you're lying to me.”
William Brandon sat on the edge of the bed, shamefaced.
“Say something,” she yelled. “Anything.”
“I don't know what to say.” He shook his head sadly. “I don't know how it happened. It just happened.”
“Are you telling me you're in love with her?” Now that he had as much as admitted it, she was shocked.
“I don't know. I just don't know,” he said.
Mildred hid her face behind her hands and began to cry.
Dinnertime at the Brandon's was usually a pleasant family occasion. That night the atmosphere was strained. The children—Paul, sixteen; Martin, twelve; and Janet, six—sensed that something was wrong.
At the end of the meal, over her peach cobbler, Janet looked at her father with big solemn eyes. “I heard you and Mom fighting. Does that mean you're going to get divorced?”
In his booming voice, Bill emphatically denied it. Meanwhile Mildred smiled bravely over the edge of her coffee cup. “My goodness, what a silly thought.” As soon as the children looked away, she discreetly wiped away a tear with her lace handkerchief.
Guilt was eating away at him. When he went home, Mildred—suffering written all over her face—followed him around with her sad eyes, the same questions ever present in the silence hanging in the air. Who is she? Did you see her today? Do you love her?
It became easier just to avoid her. He spent more time at the office, and accepted with gratitude the warmth and understanding Anne offered.
“I don't know what it is about you, Anne. I think you're a very special woman.”
“How special?”
“I've grown very fond of you.”
Anne felt her heart skip a beat. Soon, all his money would be within her grasp. “I've become very fond of you, too, Bill,” she said and smiled. Keep it light and easy. Don't push, or you'll end up pushing him away.
The more Brandon tried to decide what he should do, the more confused he became. Anne made him feel young and alive, as he had not felt in years. On the other hand, there was Mildred and the twenty-five years they had spent together, not to mention the children.
Maybe I should distance myself a bit from Anne. Seeing her all the time only made it impossible to gain perspective.
“I understand,” said Anne calmly when he told her. She allowed herself to look sad, but no more. “Take all the time you need. I'll be here if you need me.” Inside, she wanted to scream. If you think you can just dump me, sweetheart, you've got another thing coming. She deliberated about it until she found the answer. Time I gave Billy boy a run for his money. She knew just how she would do it.
The next time she noticed Alexander Ivanov walking by her office, she casually waved at him. It had long been obvious that the man liked her. Bill was about to get a good, old-fashioned dose of jealousy. With luck, she might also get some decent sex out of it. God only knows—correction—Mildred Brandon knows, what a terrible lover Bill is. I could really use a good fuck, and Alexander Ivanov sure looks like one.
“Is something going on between you and that guy?” Bill asked her one day, after noticing him leave her office wearing a particularly happy expression.
Anne looked at him wide eyed with surprise. “Of course not. You know there is nobody else in my life but you.”
“Why is he hanging around your office so much?”
Anne laughed. “I think he likes me. You must understand Bill, nobody knows about you and me. As far as Alex is concerned, I am a single girl.”
“Do you like him?” he asked, hating himself for it.
Anne thought quickly. Her answer would be very important. She had to find a way to make him jealous while seeming to reassure him. “If things were different, if I was not so much in love with you, I think he might be the kind of man I might like. But I love you, remember?”
“I love you, too,” said Brandon. He had never felt worse in his life.
* * *
Alex stepped out of the shower humming, albeit, completely off key, the words to Elvis Presley's, “Heartbreak Hotel.” He quickly toweled himself dry, pulled out a comb and a tube of Brylcreem and smoothed his hair in place while gyrating to the music in his mind. He was in a great mood. Tonight is the night. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. No need to rush. Anne wasn't expecting him until eight.
* * *
Chapter 16
Pierre Fortune's office was a tribute to a new form of art called 'POP.’ His desk was a thick sheet of glass resting on what looked like two giant cans of Campbell's Soup. His chair was a stack of Brillo Pad boxes; on the walls were large paintings of hamburgers, hot dogs, and French fries. Fortune sat stiffly on his Brillo chair and turned on the bright desk lamp. Now let’s take another look at this. He put on his small gold rimed glassed and looked closely at the Dartois painting. Hmm, the brush strokes are a bit rough, but the color, the composition, and the balance are good. Whoever this Dartois is, she's a natural. With a bit of guidance, I could really do something with her. Too bad she's a woman.
In the last month, he had been to Montmartre half a dozen times in search of the elusive Dartois. After every one of those visits, he had sworn never to return. No one, not even this talented unknown, was worth submitting himself to the horrors of the square. The place was infested with ersatz artists. They followed him around, pleading with him to look at their ugly paintings. All those hands touching me. It's disgusting! Just thinking about it made Fortune feel queasy. He quickly reached for the can of room deodorizer and sprayed it about. The fresh smell of pine filled the air, and Fortune felt better.
He looked down at the painting again. Damn it's good. The thought of those awful, mangy, dirty, filthy people, breathing on him, touching him made his skin crawl. No! I can't go back there. If I go there again, they'll swarm all over me like flies. He shuddered. Besides, working with a woman would not be as much fun as working with a sexy new young man.
Having made up his mind, Fortune pushed himself away from his desk and strode over to the file cabinet in the corner. What about that fellow, what was his name? Jérome something or other? The man had ability, not genius perhaps, but enough for Fortune to work with. Yes, yes! That's a good idea. Besides, thought Fortune remembering the young man's cute behind. Who knows? After a good scrubbing and a decent haircut…
* * *
The sun peeked in through the lace curtains and danced on Brigitte's lashes. She stretched wearily and groaned. Time to get up, she thought regretfully, and instead, buried herself deeper under her covers. Luckily her sleep had been dreamless, but the night had still been too short. From downstairs she could hear Réjeanne moving about. In a few minutes, she would come upstairs. Brigitte moaned again. How can I face her? I owe her so much money. For months now, Réjeanne had paid for all of Brigitte's and David's living expenses. The sum amounted to a small fortune, and Brigitte was painfully aware that Réjeanne could not afford to be so generous.
Brigitte desperately needed to return to work. It will take me months to pay her back. She sighed. What was it Réjeanne always said? “No point in worrying. Something always comes up.
” Well, this time something would not be enough. What I need, thought Brigitte, is a miracle.
* * *
Brigitte approached the square and spotted Julien before he saw her. “Julien,” she called out, happy to see her friend after such a long time. It felt so good to be back. Nothing had changed in the months of her absence, and yet…
Julien looked up and smiled. Then the smile became a scowl…and a smile again. He swallowed hard, remembering the two hundred francs Fortune had paid him for Brigitte's painting. The money had long been spent. He wondered if there was any chance that Brigitte might find out from somebody else. Probably not. Fortune hasn't been here in weeks.
“Why didn't you save me my spot?” asked Brigitte, teasing. In the area where Brigitte usually set up her easel stood a young man in fedora next to a sandwich board full of colorful sketches.
At last Julien threw his arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks; left, right then left again. “Brigitte, how are you? You've been away so long; I didn't think you were ever coming back. What happened?”
“David was…” She stopped. She hated to mention the word epilepsy. People simply did not understand. For David's own good, I'd better tell no one about his condition, she decided. “David was sick,” she said, as she thought quickly. “He has a heart problem.” It was an illness that would incur sympathy.
Brigitte found a spot on the other side of the grassy knoll and set up her easel. It was good to be back, even though, she admitted to herself, Julien's behavior seemed strange. It was almost as if he wasn't happy to see her. She brushed that thought away and concentrated on more positive things. She hoped for a good day of sales so she could start repaying Réjeanne.
Soon, she was lost in her art. She mixed some vermilion and ochre on her palette and added a few drops of thinner. With a quick and experienced motion, she brushed a few small strokes on her canvas. Flowers sprang to life. Suddenly a shadow moved across her canvas.
“Brigitte?” She looked up to find Julien standing there. “I have something to tell you,” he said, nervously twisting his bérêt in his hands. He slapped the bérêt on his head and shoved a hand in his pocket. He pulled it out, holding a few crumpled francs which he handed awkwardly to her. “This is yours. I haven't got all of it right now. I'll give you the rest when I can. While you were gone, I sold one of your paintings to Pierre Fortune.”
“Pierre Fortune t-the…?” Brigitte stuttered as she recognized the name.
“You'd forgotten it by the fence. Fortune saw it and liked it,” explained Julien, shamefaced.
“H-he liked it?” she repeated, numb from the shock.
Julien nodded. “He even came back a couple of times, to find you.”
But Brigitte was not listening anymore. Tears were brimming behind her lashes. Thank you, God. This is the miracle I've been waiting for. “Pierre Fortune liked my painting.” She threw her paints back half hazardly into her carrying case and folded up her easel.
“Brigitte! Your money!” Julien called after her as she walked away.
“Keep it,” she answered over her shoulder as she rushed away, her red hair swinging with the rhythm of her long strides. “And wish me luck.”
* * *
Chapter 17
The antique, gold-leafed, four-poster bed was draped in heavy silks and brocades. Above it, the ceiling was mirrored, as was the wall behind it. Across the room, Anne sat at her dressing table, studying her reflection in the ornate gilt-framed mirror. She picked up her eyebrow pencil and deftly drew short, feathery lines in two precise arches. Then, with a brush, she carefully painted on Melon Pink lipstick. She stood back and studied the results. Good! It was important that she look gorgeous. If not for her beauty, she could never have gotten this far.
Anne Turner put down the pencil. She scrutinized her reflection in the mirror and arched her brow. Perfect. From her cosmetics bag, she pulled out a perfume atomizer and sprayed the inside of her wrists and her cleavage with Chanel #5. Then as an afterthought, she sprayed the inside of her palm, reached down into her panties and rubbed the scent on her pubic hair. Now she was ready.
At eight o'clock sharp, the bell rang from the lobby. Alex Ivanov had arrived. A few minutes later, Anne stepped out. She was a vision of beauty. Her dress was a black off-the-shoulder creation with sheer sleeves. Her blonde hair fell in a perfect flip just above her bare shoulders. She looked up and smiled. Alex was dazzled.
“I made reservations for us at Margarita's. I hope you like it.”
“I'm sure I will,” she said huskily, and Alex read a hundred meanings into those few words.
Margarita's was a small Italian restaurant that specialized in homemade pasta served al dente and opera sung live. Small, gingham covered tables brightened the otherwise stark room.
The service was friendly, but somewhat unusual. Talented wait staff doubled as performers as they went about their regular duties. Sometimes in the middle of service, they would stop and become whichever opera character was theirs for the evening.
As he poured the wine, the portly steward sang in a luxuriously deep baritone. In the corner, a pianist provided background music. Tonight's feature was La Traviata.
Alex watched Anne during the meal. She ate with hearty enthusiasm, a quality he liked to see in a woman. In his experience, a woman’s appetite at the table was a clue to her appetite in bed. He hoped to find out if the old adage proved right in Anne Turner's case.
“So tell me,” she said, somehow managing to make it sound suggestive. “Who exactly is Alex Ivanov?”
He chuckled. “Are you sure you want to hear my entire life story?”
She leaned forward and whispered. “I love a good bedtime story. Maybe we should keep it for later.”
Alex nearly dropped his fork. This girl was hot. He grinned. “I like to do other things in bed than tell stories.” He launched into his prepared monologue. He told the story of a bright kid from a hard working widowed mother who sacrificed everything to send him to college. When told properly, it could almost move a girl to tears. Then he went on to talk about his fierce ambition. He spoke so passionately that a girl felt drawn into his dreams until she believed they were her own. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried, Anne Turner was not playing into his hands the way others had. Rather than disappoint him, it only made him want her more.
“Just a bit ambitious, aren't we?” Anne looked at him mockingly. Alex loved it. Here was girl who was not fawning all over him. It felt refreshingly different.
“Are you seeing anyone else at the moment?” Alex found himself holding his breath.
“I take it you mean seeing, as in dating?”
“You know very well what I mean.” He looked into her and her eyes held his breath for a moment. Alex felt a hot rush of desire rush through his body.
“I don't see anybody else here but you and me.”
* * *
Alex paid the driver, helped Anne out of the cab, and walked her to the door. She turned to face him. She brought her mouth inches from his and teased him with her eyes. “Alex, I want to thank you for a truly wonderful evening.”
“I had a wonderful evening, too. Maybe we can do it again sometime.” He waited until he could not anymore. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”
She laughed a low deep laugh and handed him the key to her apartment.
Inside the apartment, she showed him through the rooms. “Here is the living room.” She opened the French doors. “And here is the dining room.” She moved on and he followed her.
“Very nice,” said Alex, impressed.
“Thanks. The bedroom and bathroom are over there. She waved vaguely down the hall. “And this is the kitchen. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
Alex watched as she took a bottle from the refrigerator and expertly popped open the cork. Bubbles skittered along the walls of the narrow, thin goblet, dancing in the pale golden liquid. She handed him a glass.
“To us,” he said and took a sip. He put
his glass on the table and pulled her toward him. She offered no resistance. “I've been looking forward to this all evening,” he said.
She backed away from him and smiled knowingly. “Only all evening?” With practiced ease, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. “Now, why don't you show me exactly what you were looking forward to?”
* * *
Afterward, Alex lay contented, looking up at the mirror on the ceiling. Next to him on the bed, Anne was on her stomach, her tapering waist and round buttocks reflected above. “Nice view,” he said, and turned to plant a kiss on her bare shoulder.
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