by Nic Tatano
“That’s the whole point, grasshopper. If he won’t take your clothes off in the bedroom, we’ll show him what he’s missing. Wow, your hair looks great with the black.” She looked at her watch. “Okay, he should be there by now.”
“I’d better not end up on Page Six in this.”
“Don’t worry, this club is far away from the prying eyes of the best telephoto lens. That’s why so many celebrities are members.”
We headed out to the cabana. The beach wasn’t terribly crowded, the advantages of belonging to a club with a ridiculously expensive membership fee. (Rumor has it that children pitch Kruggerands for amusement.) It was a little odd walking through sand in the wedges, but I managed. We made our way to the red cabana, and I saw Scott was already reclining in an Adirondack chair, reading a newspaper.
He looked up as we arrived and I could tell from his bug-eyed look he was impressed. He whistled and simply said, “Damn, Belinda.”
I played dumb. “What?”
“You’re … I mean, geez, you could be a bikini model.” He couldn’t stop staring at me.
“Why thank you, kind sir.” I handed him a bottle of sun block, sat down on the edge of his chair, and turned my back to him. “Do my back. Redheads are very fair-skinned and we burn easily, so you might have to do this more than once.”
I looked up at Ariel. She winked and checked her watch. “Okay, you’re all set here. I’ve got to go meet some other guests so I’ll see you at twelve on the patio for lunch.”
“Okay,” I said, as Scott started applying lotion to my back. Well, applying wasn’t the word. He seemed to be massaging the lotion into my skin. “You’ve got great hands. If you ever get tired of the investment thing, you could be a masseur.”
“Not a bad idea if all the customers looked like you.”
He finished my back and handed me the bottle. I sat in the chair next to him and made a slow, sensual production number of rubbing lotion on my legs, stomach, and boobs, which were about to explode from a bikini top that I thought was too small but Roxanne assured me was necessary. I put on sunglasses and an oversized straw hat, then leaned back and let the sun warm my body, which was glistening from the lotion.
He wasn’t paying attention to the newspaper.
***
Lunch was served on a patio with a spectacular view of Long Island Sound. A few sailboats skimmed the calm waters in the distance and an occasional seagull flew by. The round, glass-topped tables sat under large white umbrellas, while one waiter flitted endlessly about refilling everyone’s glass of champagne.
Mrs. Baymont joined us for lunch, and Scott got on her good side by standing up and pulling out her wicker chair when she arrived. She was watching me like a hawk, smiling each time I used the proper fork. The cold lobster salad was amazing, and the other courses to die for. Personally, I wanted to gorge myself on the dessert bar, but being in a bikini I didn’t want to look like one of those idiots from Hollywood who walk around in a skimpy two piece while eight months pregnant. (I mean, seriously, have some class.) I was ready for a nap but I knew that wasn’t in Ariel’s plan. I was supposed to take Scott for a long walk on the beach.
At one point Scott excused himself to go to the rest room, and Mrs. Baymont leaned forward. “Dearie, he seems like such a fine young man.”
“I think so too.”
“But Ariel says you’re feeling a little … anxious.”
“Not exactly the word I’d choose, but accurate.”
“You know, back in the day, this was not considered unusual.”
Ariel smiled. “Mother, back in the day doesn’t exist anymore.”
Again with “back in the day.” Was Mrs. Baymont one of Harry’s ex-wives, and did that make Ariel … nah. The champagne had made me silly.
Mrs. Baymont raised one finger. “Alas, times have changed. But the art of seduction has not. I would surmise, Belinda, that looking the way you today do he would find you hard to resist.”
“We can only hope, Mrs. Baymont,” I said.
“If I may offer one small bit of advice. That is, if you wouldn’t mind accepting it from someone who was courted … ” She looked at Ariel with eyes slightly narrowed. “Back in the day.”
“Sure, Mrs. Baymont,” I said.
“Well, over the years morals have changed, but one thing has remained a constant when it comes to courtship.”
I leaned forward, as I waited for this secret handshake. “And that would be?”
She dropped her voice into one I’d never heard, one dripping with lust. “Men always want what they can’t have. Be a bit aloof, and he’ll be begging for it.”
Ariel’s eyes grew wide in shock. “Mother!”
Mrs. Baymont shrugged and returned to her normal persona. “I’m just suggesting that if this little plan of yours today doesn’t work, that perhaps Belinda might not be as … available … in the future.”
“I believe this is called playing hard to get,” I said.
Mrs. Baymont smiled. “Yes, dearie. Worked back in the day with Ariel’s father, should work just as well today.”
“You pulled this on Dad?” asked Ariel.
“I did. Always remember that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Might even make it more … ” She raised one eyebrow. “ … anxious.”
***
The rest of the day went according to plan. A long walk on the private beach, a little rolling around in the sand when we were totally alone, dinner and dancing on the veranda complimented by a spectacular sunset and cool offshore breezes. But my heart rate was beginning to rise as we grew closer to the key point of Ariel’s plan.
The band signed off at ten o’clock. Ariel moved toward us on the dance floor as we headed back to our table, then handed me a key. “Here’s your room key at the bed and breakfast across the street.”
Scott furrowed his brow. “I thought we were driving home tonight.”
“Oh, you have to stay,” said Ariel, her eyes begging. “Tomorrow’s the regatta!”
“That’s right, I forgot,” I said, turning to Scott. “It really is spectacular.” I dipped my head and looked up at him through my long eyelashes, then playfully thrust out my lower lip. “Can’t we stay? Pleeeease?”
He smiled and nodded. “Sure, it’s a little late for a drive home anyway.”
“Terrific,” said Ariel. “See you at breakfast then.”
“Thanks for everything,” I said as my eyes met hers while I tried my best not to smile like the Cheshire cat.
Of course, always the worrier, I thought, that went way too easily. He didn’t ask for a separate room, or one with twin beds.
Maybe this was it.
We picked up our bags and strolled across the street to the old three-story Victorian bed and breakfast. (Conveniently owned by Mrs. Baymont.) A cheery young clerk greeted us, looked at our key and directed us to the third floor. Scott dutifully carried both bags up the stairs.
I opened the door to our room and it was clear this was the most expensive suite in the place. Moonlight spilled in through the windows that wrapped around the room, illuminating the antique four-poster canopy bed.
Thankfully, it was the only one.
Scott still acted like this was nothing out of the ordinary. He placed our bags on a bench and flicked on a light. “Wow, gorgeous room. Tired?” he asked.
“A little,” I said, as I moved toward my suitcase and unzipped it. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”
“Yeah, me too.” He kicked off his docksiders, then began to unbutton his shirt as he moved to the window and took in the view.
I grabbed the seduction uniform provided by Roxanne, headed to the bathroom and locked the door.
I hoped that when I emerged he wouldn’t be able to hear my heart trying to escape my chest. I took a quick shower, tried my best not to get my hair wet. The warm water shot through the shower massage setting felt wonderful and relaxed me a bit. I was nervous as a virgin at an Aztec sacrifice (ironic, huh?) as I slipp
ed into the red lingerie and matching stilettos Roxanne had picked out, then teased out my hair as big as possible. A little makeup, some fresh lipstick, and I was ready to go.
I’d been in there ten minutes, but paused to take a look at the total package in the mirror.
I had to admit, I looked like a complete slut.
But, as Roxanne said, that was the whole idea.
Sensible girl was outta here for the night. I took one deep breath and opened the door.
The only light was provided by the moonlight. Scott was already in bed.
His loud snoring filled the room.
***
The sunrise was gorgeous. It had been years since I’d seen one without working, without setting up for a crack of dawn live shot. TV people know a sunrise takes two minutes and eight seconds from the time the sun first hits the horizon until it clears it. But there was no clock this time, as I took in the golden fingers of light that shot oranges and reds across the sky while the waves gently lapped the shore. The water has always had a calming effect on me.
But this time it did not.
I was the only person on the veranda at that hour, as I sipped fresh squeezed orange juice and occasionally speared a piece of chilled fruit from a bowl provided by a cheerful waiter who was way too perky for the hour.
I, on the other hand, am not a morning person, and was certainly not perky. I was confused. How did a day that had gone so perfectly end up the way it did? How a guy I seem to be so in tune with couldn’t answer the one question I wanted him to answer. A life outside the bedroom with Scott would seem to be wonderful. Inside? Who knew? Would sex be of the thong-on-the-ceiling-fan and claw-marks-on-the-bedpost variety, or the version where I counted the ceiling tiles and replayed my previous night’s story while the man on top robotically performed? Imagine being patient and then having a huge letdown on your wedding night, then having to live with that till death do you part.
The possibilities made my head hurt. And since I couldn’t sleep, I figured communing with nature might help.
It wasn’t working.
I’d been there two hours when I heard gentle footsteps on the marble floor and the familiar voice.
“Uh-oh,” said Ariel, who grabbed a chair opposite mine and looked into my face. “Don’t tell me … ”
I frowned as I shook my head.
“No lift off?”
“Hell, no countdown at all,” I said. “Mission was scrubbed.”
“What happened? I specifically got you a room with one bed and no couch. Did he sleep on the floor?”
“Oh, he slept in the bed with me. But he was out cold and snoring when I came out of the bathroom in Roxanne’s every man’s fantasy outfit.”
She reached across the table and took my hands. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.”
A single tear rolled down my cheek. “What’s wrong with me, Ariel?”
She wiped the tear away with her thumb. “Nothing, sweetie. Nothing’s wrong with you. In fact, you’re better than ever. He’s just something we didn’t expect. There’s nothing in the playbook for this scenario.”
“But we’re so perfect when we’re together.”
“I know, I can see the way you two look at each other and how well you get along. Hey, look at it this way, at least he’s not a guy who sleeps around and is cheating on you.”
“At least then we’d know if he liked sex.”
“I’m sure he will like it. At some point.” She looked out at the Sound. “You still staying for the Regatta?”
“I guess so. How would it look if I demanded to go home? I mean, he already told me where he stood. I really thought when he didn’t raise an eyebrow over the sleeping arrangements that he might bend.”
“You know something? Maybe my mother is right.”
“About what?”
“About absence making the heart grow fonder. Is he in town next weekend?”
“Yeah.”
She sat up straight and stuck her nose in the air. “Then you have plans.”
“I do?”
“And nothing specific. You just have plans. We’re gonna make him miss you so much he can’t stand it.”
“I would think a thirty-three-year-old virgin would be ready to explode like Mount Saint Helens anyway.”
“Maybe so. But let’s talk about it when we all get home.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Serena’s eyes grew wide and I could tell she’d had a revelation. “Oh my God!” She dropped her fork into her salad plate. “I figured it out!”
My spoonful of soup hovered in mid-air. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, ‘cause I sure as hell haven’t.”
“You’re the guy in this relationship!” she said.
My face tightened as I put the spoon back into the bowl. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t you get it?” she said. “You’re the guy! You’re the man! The roles are reversed!”
“Wow, you’re right!” said Ariel. “We’ve been approaching this as women, when all along we really needed to think like a guy!”
My palms went up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Roxanne took one of my hands. “Serena’s right. You’re the one who’s the pursuer.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“It makes perfect sense,” said Serena. “This is the classic ‘guy trying to be the first one who nails the virgin’ scenario. It’s more than a courtship, it’s a quest.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “First, you guys pull out all the stops giving me a makeover because I look like a librarian and act like Cro-Magnon girl. New hair, new makeup, contacts, entire wardrobe. Then you take me to charm school, during which I have to identify every frigging type of fork in a place setting while spooning my chowder from the back of the bowl. And after all that, after you’ve taken the Brass out of the Cupcake, after you’ve froo-frooed me up so much that I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror and turned me into a slutty seductress with everything but a riding crop, now you’re telling me I need to act like a man?”
“Yeah,” Serena nodded. “That about sums it up.”
“You three have completely lost your minds.”
“No, we haven’t,” said Ariel.
“So,” I said, “I’m supposed to go find my old clothes at Goodwill—”
“You’re missin’ the point,” said Roxanne. “The makeover stuff stays. You don’t have to look like a man, just act like one. It’s always the girl trying to preserve the virginity, not the guy. And it’s always the guy trying to get the girl to give it up. The roles are simply reversed. You’re the girl trying to get the guy to give it up so you can pop his cherry.”
“That’s such a genteel way to put it,” I said.
“Somewhat crass, but accurate,” said Serena.
“So what do I do?” I asked. “Demand that a man have sex with me or I’ll break up with him?”
“That would be a first in the annals of dating,” said Ariel. “But no.”
“What then?” I asked.
“I know exactly who you need to meet,” said Serena. “They’ll know what to do.”
***
I decided to throw myself into my work. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been dedicated, but I needed to take my mind off my frustration. Or, in my case, kick some serious political ass to compensate for Scott not grabbing mine.
Today’s story, I had decided, was going to be a slam dunk. It was a simple case of a government housing official dodging complaints from residents of an apartment building who’d had no water or utilities for weeks, while living in horrible conditions. Obviously the guy was covering for (and receiving kickbacks from) a slumlord who lives out of state. By law he can force the guy to make repairs and turn on the juice, but he’s been elusive.
However, the intrepid Brass Cupcake discovered that he would be eating lunch at his desk today and his secretary, a linebacker version of the Inhuman Res
ources troll, heads out to gorge herself at a lunch trough every day promptly at eleven-thirty.
Frank and I were staked out outside his office in our news car, as we waited for her to go to lunch before we struck with tape rolling.
“You got that look today,” he said, as he sipped his coffee.
I turned to him. “What look?”
“That don’t screw with me look. Haven’t seen it for a while.”
“This story just pisses me off.”
“Yeah, me too. It’s not right what they’re doing to those people.” He sat up straight as the linebacker troll emerged from the office. “Hey, here she comes.”
We waited a minute until she walked to her car and drove off, then leaped into action. Frank opened the trunk, grabbed his camera, tossed me a wireless stick microphone and off we went.
We made our way through the glass doors into a lobby that was empty except for a black sign filled with names and office numbers. I quickly scanned the thing and found our target. We moved through the lifeless government office, down the musty hallways which were exposed cinder block, but as was the case in most city buildings, were painted vomit green. Finally we reached the office. “Hiram Silver, Housing Authority” was stenciled on the glass door. The outer office was empty, as expected. We quietly entered, moved to his office door and I gently knocked.
“Come in.”
Frank hit the record button on his camera, kicked on the light attached to the top, and I opened the door.
Silver, a fifty-year-old chubby munchkin with a white beard who might have had a future as the Travelocity Roaming Gnome on retirement, stood up immediately when he saw us. “Whoa. How did you get in here?”
“I knocked; you said come in,” I said.
He moved toward me. “Get out.”
The man was maybe five feet tall, and with my heels I towered over him. I grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a shove. He landed in his swivel chair, which rolled backward until it came to a rest with a thud against a book case. I moved quickly toward him and put my hands on the arms of the chair so he couldn’t escape. “Listen to me, you little shit, you’re either going to do one of two things. You’re going to either give me an interview and explain why you don’t get a court order to help the people in Remington Towers, or you’re going to march your puny little ass across the street and get that court order.”