The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs

by Cat Kelly

  Ms. M.

  Attached please find terms of employment for your consideration.

  P

  She clicked on the attachment and printed it.

  Helena was still complaining in her ear about the never-ending, expensive requirements of the two children she'd wanted so badly that she went through four rounds of IVF to achieve. A lesson in being careful what you wish for, Bry thought.

  A pertinent topic indeed.

  She'd wanted Ben Petruska's attention for years, when she was a sweaty-palmed, spotty teenager. Now she had it.

  The attachment from his email lurked in the printer by her door. If Sandy came in she might see it. "Hel, I'll have to go, I—"

  "So who was he then? Who were you with last night?"

  "I can't talk right now."

  "Come to dinner tonight. I have to know all about it."

  That was true. Helena always wanted to know everything. Sometimes the substitute big sister act got old. The new Bry didn't have to explain her actions to anyone. And really, was it any of Helena's business if she did sleep with Ben?

  But some habits were hard to break. One disapproving frown from her sophisticated cousin could still dissolve little pieces of her newfound confidence. Recently Helena, in her usual dictatorial fashion, had told her she ought to dress less colorfully and wear flat shoes at work.

  "You won't get ahead wearing clothes that remind them you're a woman," she'd said firmly. As if she'd ever worked in an office. Ironically, Helena would scream bloody murder if anyone dare suggest she wasn't a liberated woman, yet she came out with priceless gems like that. Apparently no one had told Helena that there was more to feminine empowerment than reading Cosmo and singing along to the Spice Girls when she thought no one was listening.

  "Hel, I'm pretty sure that if I shaved my head and wore a double-breasted suit that would give me other obstacles," she'd replied to her cousin's warning.

  "I wasn't suggesting that. You do exaggerate."

  Which was further amusing, coming from Drama Queen Helena.

  "Well?" she shouted down the phone at Bry, evidently in the middle of traffic somewhere. "Can you come tonight? I'm trying a new recipe. The kids have band practice this evening and then they all go out to some dreadful fast-food place, so it'll just be me and Carl."

  Bry accepted the invitation to dinner. Maybe it would be good to get out and keep her mind off Numbnuts. Keep her from temptation. With Helena to cheerfully remind her about all his bad points she'd be in no danger of making a mistake.

  * * * *

  Carl's text blipped across his phone.

  Dinr ton. Hel coks. Seven.

  That message ought to come with skull and crossbones, he mused. Helena's cooking was usually to be avoided at all costs. Occasionally—often after a quarrel with Carl—she went to the effort of playing housewife for a few days, charring some gourmet meal on her six-burner stove. Carl liked to invite Ben, as if he wanted witnesses.

  Well, since he had a good excuse to make it an early night, it should be safe just to turn up with wine and leave before dessert. Wouldn't do any harm to try and get Helena on his good side, however uphill the slope seemed. He was a fighter and when he made up his mind that he wanted something nothing got in his way. Not even that sharp-nailed harpy.

  And there were other reasons to stay close. He always found out useful information from an unsuspecting Helena, by way of careless Carl. Things like where Bryony had just got a job, what flowers she liked and when she was going to a gallery opening.

  So he sent a text in reply.

  OK.

  The punishment he was willing to suffer for that sweet piece of ass!

  Smiling, he dialed a number on his phone and held it to his ear. Rain dashed his car window, just as it had most conveniently last night.

  "Yep?" A male voice answered. "Petruska, you ol' devil." Laughter.

  "Good job, Officer. Payment get through ok?"

  "You bet. It was in the fund account first thing. The widows and orphans oughta put up a plaque to you."

  "Hey, you did good. You even fooled me last night."

  "No problem. Next time you need a gas leak organizing, let me know, eh?"

  Chapter Seven

  The odor instantly suggested something was wrong with dinner. Unless Helena had boiled green beans with an old sock and some soap. Intentionally.

  "You need any help?" asked Bry, setting her bottle of wine on the island.

  "Oh no. It's all under control, Ms Cordon Bleu!" Helen replied with a snarky laugh. She seemed to view it as a personal affront that Bry took that cooking course in France. "You can open the bottle though. And tell Carl to turn that noise down."

  The wine uncorked, she walked through to the lounge, where Carl was sorting through his collection of old vinyl records. "She says turn the noise down. Sorry."

  He shrugged amiably and turned the giant knob on his precious Crosley. No doubt he was on his best behavior after the recent blow-out. Sometimes she wondered how he tolerated so much, but there was just no way of knowing what drew two people together when they seemed so oddly suited from the outside. Often the more dysfunctional a couple appeared on the surface the deeper the connection that held them together. Look at her parents for instance. Fifty years and still happily at battle. If anyone called peace they wouldn't know what to do.

  Idly looking through Carl's collection, pretending she knew who half of them were, Bryony tried to ignore the strange sounds and smells sweeping in from the kitchen.

  "How's the new job?" Carl asked.

  "Great."

  Like his wife, he always tried to give her advice when she hadn't asked for it. "Fitting in alright? I hear it's quite a man's world in that firm. You stand up for yourself."

  "Oh, I do."

  "Settling in to the social swing now you're back?"

  "Yep." Only Carl would say something like that to a woman who dated maybe twice a year and never went to parties if they could be avoided.

  "Helena said you had a date last night."

  "Not really a date." She felt the heat rising and moved further away from the fire.

  "You ought to join one of those online clubs. A lot of singles, like you, are doing it now you know. It's not the same as it used to be."

  Bry cleared her throat and studied the shelf of old records. "Not really my thing."

  The doorbell. Carl quickly slid a record back in its dust jacket and leapt for the door. Oh no, not a blind date. Had they set her up for—?

  Ben walked in with a bottle of wine in one hand. Wearing black jeans and a surprisingly ratty sweater over a worn, frayed denim shirt, it certainly appeared as if he hadn't known anyone else would be there. His wine was probably three times the price of hers, she thought, sullen. Even shabbily dressed he had that expensive air about him.

  Helena emerged from her steamy kitchen, looking harried. "I didn't know you were coming," she snapped at the new guest.

  Bry hid a smile, turning to the mantle and reaching for a dish of peanuts. When Helena didn't bother, she really didn't.

  "Should I leave?" Ben asked, his tone bemused.

  "Don't be ridiculous, you're here now. I just wish I'd been told."

  Carl tentatively interjected, "But I didn't know you'd invited your cousin. You didn't think to tell me, Helena."

  "How could I? You didn't answer your phone and got home late."

  "I had a meeting."

  "Of course you had a meeting. You're always in a meeting and working late." Helena's heels clipped back into the kitchen with Carl padding after her, muttering about not arguing in front of the guests.

  Since when had that ever stopped them? They liked an audience. Or Helena did.

  She offered the dish of peanuts to Ben.

  He took a handful. "Nuts for Numbnuts."

  "If I didn't know them better, I'd think they did this on purpose."

  A small grin bent one corner of his mouth. "Except your cousin despises me."


  "True. Who doesn't?"

  Dropping onto the couch he propped a heel up on the coffee table. She supposed no one had ever put the slob in his place about how to treat furniture, which was strange considering his own apartment was spotless. Clearly he spent little time there. "Did you think about my proposal yet?" he said.

  "Haven't had a chance to read the terms," she lied briskly. When in doubt, lie. Fact was she couldn't think about that contract he'd sent her without getting as steamed up as her cousin's kitchen tiles.

  "You're running out of time." He glanced at his watch. "Ten hours until you need to be at the airport."

  She walked to a chair and sat, crossing her legs. Yep, his eyes went directly there. A giddy rhythm started inside her. The origin was impossible to pinpoint. Time to get a few things straight. "What about your girlfriend?" Which is what she should have said last night, before things got out of hand.

  "Girlfriend?"

  "The woman who left a message on your phone this morning. And her blonde hair in the hot iron in your guest bathroom, Numbnuts."

  "Oh, you mean Phil?" He sprawled on the couch, one arm along the back cushions.

  This was priceless. He was going to make out that was a man? "I don't know the name. Apparently they didn't think they needed to leave one on the machine."

  "Philippa," he said carefully, "is not my girlfriend."

  Ok. So what was he going to say next, she mused. Make out he had a long lost sister? Sexy step-mother who sometimes came over to do her hair?

  "We've slept together yes," he admitted, surprising her with his frankness. "There is nothing permanent between us and never was. She uses my apartment occasionally when she's in the city."

  Probably something he'd told women many times. She dug her hand into the peanuts again.

  "You know I'm not a virgin, right?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking wryly.

  "No kidding."

  "And I know you're not. So there, that's over with."

  "Just like that?"

  "Why not? See, it's simple. Don't wonder, just ask." He pointed over his shoulder at the kitchen. "Like those two. It would save them a lot of trouble, but what do I know, being a perennial bachelor?"

  Bryony took a napkin from the table and wiped her salty fingers. He did have a habit of making everything seem easy.

  "If you'd asked me yesterday, I could have told you," he added. "No current girlfriend." Suddenly he hitched forward, sitting on the edge of the couch. He lowered his voice, although there was no need with the argument in full swing in the kitchen. "In any case, it didn't bother you too much last night and I know you saw that flat iron in my bathroom before we—"

  "Shut up. I didn't know what to think." Another lie. She was going directly to hell with no passing "Go" and no collecting two hundred.

  "And this trip to the Bahamas is all business. I told you, Mulligan, I want you for my assistant. We won't be lazing about by the pool, sipping frozen cocktails, Chubbs. It's a work trip. That's all" He sat back again with a hefty sigh. "I don't know where you got any other impression." Cocky grin.

  "The terms of that contract you sent maybe?" she replied, curt.

  "Really?" His grin widened. "I thought you just said you hadn't read it yet?"

  Fuck.

  Fortunately, Carl returned with the wine and glasses on a tray and there was no need to reply. She felt Ben's eyes watching her, his laughter almost touching her across the short distance. Smug horse's ass. But yes, he'd caught her out and it was pretty funny. Now he knew she'd read the document he sent her.

  What he didn't know was that she'd made a few amendments to it. One tap of a button would delete it, or send it back to him. She just hadn't decided yet whether she wanted to play another round of his game. So far they'd got away with it unscathed, but next time around there would be a winner and a loser; it was inevitable.

  * * * *

  Interesting. She thought it necessary to fib, which meant she didn't know what to do about the offer. If she'd already decided to turn him down she wouldn't try to hide the fact that she'd read his contract. Hope sprung through his veins like a drug, brought him up, gave him energy.

  She sat across from him at dinner. It was a small, square table and their knees almost touched.

  "So you're off on another of your trips tomorrow, Ben?" Carl asked, tucking bravely into something that looked like a rolled up grey blanket.

  "Uh huh. Just a few days."

  "Somewhere sunny no doubt, while we're all suffering minus degree weather here in the city."

  "Grand Bahamas."

  Resentful silence fell over the dinner.

  "It's just business," he added. "Not like I'll get to enjoy the weather."

  Helena took a chug from her wine glass. "I guess you're going in the private plane. Never have to get pushed around at airports like the rest of us."

  "It's just a second-hand Boeing 727. You can get one for under four mill these days."

  Carl coughed into his napkin and Helena finished her wine in one gulp. Bry was watching him across the candles, her eyes shining with amusement. "I don't think you even know what you just said do you?"

  "What?"

  Only Carl attempted to explain. "You live in a whole other world, Petruska," he muttered, shaking his head.

  "No, I don't. I'm in the same one as you are."

  "Some of us," Helena snapped, "don't have four million to spend on anything."

  But they still spent everything they earned and more. Apparently he wasn't supposed to do that. He was supposed to sit on his money and pretend he didn't have it, hadn't earned every fucking cent. No one handed him anything; he'd worked for it all, but people still resented it, still hated him for it. They called him lucky, when luck was nothing to do with it.

  Suddenly Bry asked her cousin, "So how much does prep school tuition cost these days for Rory and Randal?"

  Carl answered immediately, his lips tight, eyes burning into his dinner. "Claremont is thirty thousand a year now. Each."

  Helena looked up. "But we always said the children's education was important no matter what it cost."

  "Yes." Her husband sighed deeply. "We did. Neither of us thought it would be sixty thousand a year though, did we?"

  Brief silence.

  Bry remarked calmly, "I suppose we all spend our money on what matters to us. Whatever it is. I know its a trite comparison but, it's like me and my shoes. No one thinks they're worth it either, but I do."

  He could hardly believe his ears. Mulligan had just come to his defense. It had to be by accident.

  "As an accountant, you ought to know better than waste your money on shoes," said Helena, pursing her shrewish lips, missing her cousin's point entirely.

  "Everyone has to have one failing," Bry muttered. "At least one." Ben caught her eye and felt a very warm wave lapping at his insides. He didn't even mind the foul taste of Helena's food anymore.

  "So what's going on in the Bahamas?" asked Carl.

  He thought for a minute, watching Bry nibble at a piece of bread, remembering how her lipstick tasted. "Hmmm. Not sure yet. That remains to be seen."

  * * * *

  Ben left early, using the excuse that he had to pack. Bryony made no move to leave. She settled in one corner of the sofa and sipped coffee as if she had all the time in the world. If he expected her to leap up and rush out, he'd be disappointed. No doubt the women he usually hung around with took hours to pack for a two day trip. Not Bry.

  If she decided to go.

  When Helena got up to fill the dishwasher, she offered to help, but was immediately told to stay where she was. Carl followed his wife, probably aware that even thought she claimed not to require assistance he wouldn't hear the last of it later if he took that at face value.

  Ben was right, she mused. A lot of their cousins' troubles could be stopped if they simply communicated honestly with one another.

  Once Helena came out of the kitchen again she would no doubt start pumping her with questi
ons about last night and Carl would do his part. She'd be cornered with no one else around to deflect the bullets. Maybe it was time to go after all. Setting her coffee cup on the table, she rose and approached the kitchen to say her goodbyes. The dishwasher had just started up.

  "She assured me they didn't," Helena was whispering, "and I believe her. She's too smart for him. He likes big tits and small brains."

  "But he asked me about her favorite flowers and he's always had the hots for her. I could have sworn they left the gallery together."

  Bry's heart dropped to her knees.

  "Well, you're wrong. Again," Helena exclaimed under a sharp, scornful breath. "If he ever looked at her it's because she's the one woman he'll never have. Must drive him insane that she's not interested. She's way too sensible to fall for his tricks and your cousin knows it."

  Wait a minute. Back up. Ben Petruska had always had the hots for her?

  "When he found out she was back in town he pestered me for days to find out where she was working."

  "And you told him!"

  "He got it out of me. I don't even know how. We were talking and suddenly it slipped out. You know how he is, wily as a fox."

  "Yes I know how he is and I don't want him around my cousin."

  Abruptly Bry decided to make a dash for it. She'd think of a good lie for Helena tomorrow and face the music then. Tonight she had to get home and think. Was it possible that Numbnuts had somehow set this up? From Carl he'd found it where she worked, so it was no accident that she got sent to Leonato's yesterday. That sly, devious little....

  Chapter Eight

  The plane was de-iced, ready to go. Ben delayed in the lounge overlooking the tarmac, wanting to give her a little extra time. Just in case.

  "We'll lose the window if we don't go now, sir," the pilot warned him.

  "Ok," he replied reluctantly, scraping splayed fingers back through his hair. So she wasn't coming. He'd made a fool of himself. Get over it, Petruska. Other fish in the sea.