That she had now turned it into a sort of Tupperware party among her friends was astonishing.
And really cool. Sandra was enjoying it. She’d really missed having girlfriends to shoot the bull with.
Last year, her Shoe Addicts Anonymous meetings had begun as a way to get out of the house and stop being such a hermit, but they had ended up showing Sandra just how very important it was to have women friends.
When it had turned into a business, selling Phillipe Carfagni’s shoe designs, that had been great, but somewhere along the way, the work had taken over the social hours.
Now they rarely had time to get together. Helene was a single mother who really seemed to prefer baby stuff to social stuff; Lorna was doing a lot of traveling to their various accounts to sell the new designs so they could save money by not paying a whole sales team; and Joss had gone and fallen in love with Phillipe and was living in Italy, serving as his inspiration and as the business’s Web mistress.
Sometimes Sandra missed the old days so much, she almost wished they’d never started the business. But she’d never admit that out loud.
But now maybe she’d have something to fill that gap. Simply by instructing these women on the secrets of being a phone sex operator, a job she knew inside out (ironically, from the time when she was most agoraphobic and never socialized).
“You really make it sound doable, Sandra,” Loreen said, sounding hopeful but looking nervous. “I’m willing to try this. But I don’t know if I have your confidence. I’m afraid I’ll choke when it comes time to perform.”
Sandra swallowed the urge to say, Me? Confident? Get real! Because she liked the idea so much, she didn’t want to disillusion them. Plus, obviously, it would have been counterproductive. Instead she said, truthfully, “Everyone’s nervous at first. At least, I was. But as long as you remind yourself that the person on the other end of the line can’t see you, you can just”—she shrugged—“ham it up.”
Loreen sat back and sipped her wine. “You’re going to have to pony up a lot more of your secrets next week,” she said, eyeing Sandra like she was holding out. “The secrets of a shoe addict.” She laughed. “That can be our code. Phone sex sounds so tawdry. Though I’m thinking maybe I can use the phone sex tips if I ever start dating again.”
“You should see Sandra’s boyfriends,” Tiffany said with what sounded like disbelief that Sandra could score a boyfriend. “At least the one I met a few months ago. Gorgeous.”
Sandra didn’t correct her. Not yet. She liked—in fact, she was amazed by—this perception of her.
“Are you still with him?” Tiffany asked Sandra. “What was his name?”
“I think you mean Mike,” Sandra said, trying to think—quickly—how to play this, since she not only wasn’t “still with” Mike, but it turned out she never had been. “No, it didn’t work out. I’m free as a bird right now.”
“So this gorgeous hunk is out there, available?” Loreen joked.
Tiffany’s face grew serious, with that expression she always had when she was concocting a plan. “You know, Charlie’s brother is in the process of getting a divorce—”
“Oh, good Lord, Al?” Sandra said, too quickly. Then, conscious that she might insult Tiffany if she accidentally revealed how much she loathed Charlie and his family, she added, “I think ‘in the process of getting a divorce’ is a danger zone. There’s always the possibility of a reconciliation.”
Tiffany considered. “I guess I see what you mean.”
“Have you tried online dating?” Loreen asked Sandra. “I know a few people who have had really good luck with Match-dot-com.”
“Did they meet normal, straight guys?” Sandra asked, cautious about men since Mike.
“Absolutely. A lot of executives and professionals are using online dating to meet people now because they don’t have the time or presumably the stomach to go out trolling the bar scene.” Loreen shuddered. “I’d rather be single forever.”
“So would you do Match-dot-com or something like that?” Sandra asked, intrigued. “Based on what you’ve seen. Or is it something that’s working for other people but you wouldn’t do it yourself?”
Loreen looked at her evenly, considering. “If you’re asking if I’d recommend it, based on what I’ve seen, yes. I don’t know anyone who’s met a George Clooney clone, but would you want to? My friends have met nice, reliable, professional guys with good jobs and health insurance, and occasionally even a sense of humor.”
“So you’d do it,” Sandra said.
“Yes.” Loreen nodded. “Yes, I would. In fact, I might. Soon.”
“As long as you’re over Robert,” Tiffany said. “Like we just said, the divorce process is a danger zone.”
Loreen’s face went pink. “Robert and I are not getting back together. And anyway, I didn’t say I was going to do it tonight. For now, I’m just planning on having sex with strangers.”
Sandra noticed that Abbey watched all of this with a serene but amused expression. It was curious how she seemed to be detached from the others, yet not disdainful or disapproving.
At least it didn’t seem like she was.
Now Abbey spoke up. “You know, I thought Robert was watching you pretty intently during Field Day last month. He didn’t seem as disinterested as you seem to think.”
Loreen inhaled sharply. “Really? I didn’t even notice. . . .” Unconsciously, it seemed, she raised a hand to her cheek. Then, as if shaking the notion off, she said, “Why are we even talking about this? The divorce is final next month. There’s no point.”
“Robert is a great guy,” Tiffany said with conviction. “Believe me, they are few and far between. Are you sure you want to give that up?”
Loreen’s expression faltered, slipping into a moment of sadness before returning to normal. “I don’t think it’s entirely up to me.”
“If you have doubts, maybe you should talk to him before it’s too late,” Sandra said, unable to stop herself from giving what seemed like obvious advice, even though she was the last person in the world to speak with authority on the subject of romance. “Not that I know the situation or anything.”
“It’s always best to do what you can before you know it’s too late,” Abbey agreed. “Just in case there’s a chance.”
“There’s no chance,” Loreen said, calmly but firmly. “The relationship is like shredded paper at this point. I don’t think we could find all the pieces to put it back together even if we both tried.”
“I understand that,” Abbey said.
“Well, I don’t,” Tiffany said. “The old pieces didn’t work that well anyway. Start with a brand-new clean sheet of paper.”
“When you’re out of paper, you’re out of paper,” Loreen said, stretching the metaphor a little too thin. “Am I right, Sandra?”
Sandra pressed her lips together. She didn’t believe love was gone until both people felt nothing, but what did she know? She’d never been married; she’d never even had a real long-term relationship. So she could hardly speak with authority to any of this. “So . . . switch to card stock? . . .”
“Ha!” Tiffany clapped her hands. “Perfect! It’s stronger anyway!”
“Let’s change the subject,” Loreen said. “Next week? How about Monday, so we don’t have to wait a whole week to get moving on this.”
“Good idea,” Tiffany agreed.
“Same place, or do you want to come to my house?” Loreen glanced at Abbey. “Or yours?”
“I’m not sure this is the kind of discussion that should take place there,” Abbey said with a wan smile.
“Oh.” Loreen’s face went pink. “Right. Obviously. So what do you think, Tiffany? Monday? My place?”
“Works for me,” Tiffany said. “Sandra?”
“You’ll have to tell me how to get there, but sure.”
“I’ll pick you up,” Tiffany said. “It’s settled.”
Sandra didn’t object, regardless of the fact that she felt out of he
r league. It was enough, for now, that they all believed she was some sort of smart, experienced woman who knew the Ways of Men.
They’d learn the truth later, no doubt.
Chapter
8
Loreen and Abbey’s perception of Sandra as some sort of sex goddess continued to flatter Sandra. It was the first time anyone had ever thought she might have the edge over Tiffany for any reason.
Tiffany still seemed doubtful about Sandra.
And maybe she was right.
Here Abbey and Loreen thought she was this dating machine, with guys sniffing after her because of her amazing sexual knowledge and prowess (obviously not because of her Tiffany-esque looks), and the truth was she hadn’t had a date in . . . Lord, she didn’t even want to think about how long it had been.
She couldn’t let them know what a failure she was with men—that would invalidate everything she was teaching them.
So what she had to do—what she’d been thinking about for a while anyway—was get a date. Maybe truth would somehow spring from fiction.
So a few nights later, Sandra gathered her nerve, put on her favorite Bruno Magli platforms, with the butter-soft pearlized beige leather uppers, and sat down at the computer and pulled up Match.com. It wasn’t her first visit to the site, and most of them—like tonight—took place around midnight, when she should probably know better than to dive into potentially emotional territory.
But if she didn’t do it now, she’d probably never work up the nerve to do it in the middle of the day.
Plenty of people did this; there was no shame in it these days. In fact, there was never shame in finding your soul mate.
The shame she feared was the shame of being . . . disappointing. The shame of seeing her date’s face drop from hopeful expectancy to horror and then, if she was particularly unlucky, pity.
The pity was the worst.
Stupid girl, did you really think you could fool me once we met? It’s one thing to act charming behind the anonymity of your computer screen, but surely you realize I can see you now.
Sandra stopped that line of thought. It was stupid. Unfair, both to herself and to her prospective dates. No one would be that cruel. At least no one she’d communicate with enough to decide she’d like to meet him.
She was the one who was making her weight a problem.
She turned her attention back to Match.com and started to fill out the extensive questionnaire.
Female.
28–34.
Nonsmoker.
Social drinker.
Libra.
Go to church occasionally, usually just on holidays.
When the questionnaire got to “physical build” she had to choose between slightly overweight but willing to work it off with the right person and no answer. Now, it was theoretically possible to add the Magli heels to her height and come out normal (though on the voluptuous side). The problem, of course, was that after meeting her, anyone might have the idea that no answer was more honest than slightly overweight but willing to work it off with the right person, because of that slightly, and then she’d just have that whole look of disappointment and pity thing to deal with.
So she put the questionnaire on hold and switched over to Zappos.com, the world’s greatest shoe site. Last week, Zappos had begun carrying the Carfagni fall line. Seeing the shoes she’d helped bring to the United States in glorious color on Zappos made her heart sing.
This called for a celebration. Every time.
She ordered a pair of Carfagni gilded slides, just to support the team, then switched over to the Manolo Blahnik page. She’d been a fan of the designer since well before Sex and the City because, at just over five feet two, Sandra needed serious heels. And heels needed serious comfort.
And that translated to confidence. If there was ever a time she needed confidence, it was now.
So a few clicks later, she had three pairs of shoes and one pair of retro kitten-heel boots on the way to her, via two-day express, and she had bolstered her confidence enough to go back to Match and give her honest answer.
If someone was going to be disappointed in her, then he could go straight to hell. She was going to answer this thing the way she felt, not the way she thought someone else felt.
She took a breath and filled in the form. To hell with it.
Slightly overweight but willing to work it off with the right person.
Brian was at the church, Parker was probably in the school cafeteria eating one of the many variations of pizza that seemed to show up on the menu daily, and Abbey was dappling Parker’s white buttondown shirt from Easter with a Tide stick in her laundry room when the phone rang.
She’d been waiting for this call even while dreading it, so when it came, it was almost a relief.
“Hey, babe.”
“How did you get this number?” she asked Damon, though the point was moot. He’d gotten the number, now he had it, so what else mattered?
He just chuckled. “You’re listed, sweetheart. It wasn’t hard. Got to be able to get ahold of the preacher if there’s a preacher emergency. Hey, is he there? I’d like to have a chat with him.”
So he knew who Brian was and probably assumed—rightly so—he was a peaceful man who wasn’t going to be a threat to Damon. Unless the situation called for it. “Sorry, he’s not here. Would you like to leave a message?”
Damon laughed again. He understood her. She’d give him that: he’d always understood her. “Nah, I think I’ll just settle for you. So how’s the collection going?”
“Collection?” She knew what he meant.
She was right. “My money. Nine g’s. I’ve decided to give you a break and make it nine g’s. You’re welcome.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Well, now, you might want to start thinking about getting it. Because I’m not kidding around with this. I’ll break your fingers one by one if I have to. Oh, and fingers? That’s a metaphor.”
Oh, crap. This was bad. She knew him well enough to know this was bad. “Metaphor, huh? Where did you learn such a big word?”
“Metaphor,” he restated. “Meaning I don’t mean I’m going to break your fingers; I’m going to break all the things that matter to you, one by one. Is that big enough for you?”
Something about the way he said it ran fear through her veins. It was one thing for her to stand up to him, especially if it was twelve years ago and she didn’t have anyone to feel responsible for besides herself. But it wasn’t twelve years ago, it was now, and this son of a bitch was scary.
“Almost big enough,” she said, trying to maintain her sardonic tone to keep him from realizing how truly nervous he made her. “As is always the case with you. Still, I get your point.”
There was a long silence during which she knew he was digesting her insult and deciding what to do with it. But she also knew him well enough to know that he was more interested in recouping supposedly lost money than exacting personal, emotional revenge on someone and risking losing said lost money.
“So where’s the money?” Damon asked, getting down to business just as she knew he would.
“Ask the police.”
“You didn’t call the police.” There wasn’t even a shade of uncertainty in his voice. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“No?”
“Mm-mm. From what I gather, you don’t want anyone in your little church to know what you used to do. Dealing drugs, sexing for bucks—” He gave a hard laugh. “—blowing cops to get out of charges. Man, you were lucky I kept you around as long as I did.”
She swallowed hard. Thank God Parker wasn’t here. Thank God no one was here to pick up the phone, or stand nearby asking for Oreos and overhear what Damon was saying.
Would she deny it?
Could she deny it? Any of it?
“So I’ll ask you again, where’s the fucking money?”
“I’m working on it,” she demurred. Play it cool, play it cool, don’t let him know he’s gotten to you. “
How does that grab you?”
“It grabs me right in the nuts, how do you think it grabs me?” he said. “What, do you have the law involved?”
She gave a snort of fake laughter that she hoped he’d think was real. “You think I want to pay a lawyer to get rid of the likes of you? No thanks. I’m working on coming up with some equitable payment that will get you off my aching back, okay? In the meantime, why don’t you give me a number where I can call you when I’m ready?”
“Oh, and you’ll just do that, huh? Call me when you have my money?” She could imagine the dark scowl that tightened his features. “No thanks, sweetheart. I’ll give you a little more time, and a few more warnings, then I’m going to take something from you that will make up for what you took from me.”
His words struck terror in her heart. What kind of warnings? What did he think she had that could “make up for” his “loss”? Damon had never had a proper sense of proportion, so he’d probably end up aiming for her heart, thinking it was equivalent.
She had to come up with money for him. Much as she hated the idea, and even though she’d given the necklace away years ago, before she had anything like a family or even a single loved one to protect, now she had to recoup that loss—karmically taking away from charity—and give it back.
The very thought made her ill.
But she knew if she showed fear, if she showed any hint of vulnerability at all, Damon would up the ante, and she couldn’t afford the ante as it was.
“Damon, you know damn well it’s not like I can just go to the ATM and get that kind of money.”
“You could give me the necklace.”
“I told you I don’t have it anymore.”
“That’s what you said.”
“Do you think I’m lying?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth and was glad he couldn’t see the way her hand shook as she held the phone to her ear. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
“I know you better than you think.”
Wrong. “Then don’t you know that if I had it, I’d give it to you just so I’d never have to see your vile face again?”
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