by Helga Jensen
As I walk along, I see a nice-looking man, who must be in his thirties. He stares at me and kind of smiles. I must be oozing some kind of positive vibe here because everyone is looking at me. It is so good for my confidence after years of Dick not even glancing my way.
They say that confidence shows and since being in New York I really think that I am finding myself once again. I am no longer someone’s wife; I am my own person and I can’t wait for my date tonight. Freedom really isn’t so scary.
With my head held high I walk in what I think must be the direction of the hotel. Although I actually have no idea whether I can walk there or not really, since I came for my appointment directly from some Banana Republic store. However, after what feels like I have walked to the moon and back, I finally reach the hotel, where I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
OH. MY. GOD. What on earth has that evil woman done to me?
Chapter 30
Turning Japanese – pass me the saké
Globules of blood are dripping down my face where I was injected with Botox, and a red rash covers my upper lip in the perfect shape of a moustache. It is not even a small, discreet moustache shape, but more in the formation of one of those handlebar moustaches. No wonder everyone was staring at me. That young bloke was not admiring me in the slightest. I should never have got so carried away in the salon. I just got talked into it all as the lady was so pushy. I have only five hours to make myself presentable before tonight. How on earth am I going to manage it? I consider telling Patrick that I have food poisoning and can’t make the date. That would be devastating though. I have waited so long for this. I finally get to see him again and now look like Frankenstein. I am so mad with myself and, of course, that wicked woman.
I search for solutions on the internet and type in ‘rash after waxing’; there must be something that can be done. As for the bloodstains, I will have to gently mop those up.
Most of the help online advises to apply a cold compress, along with medicating creams. I can’t really look for a pharmacy in this state, though, so a cold compress will have to do. From the safety of my room I call room service for an ice bucket.
When it arrives twenty minutes later, I hide behind the door and reach out my freshly manicured hand to grasp the bucket. Grabbing one of the hotel hand towels, I place lots of ice inside. Ah, that feels nice and cooling. I make one for my forehead too, seeing as that seems to look a little bit swollen.
Relaxed on the bed, with the ice bucket beside me, I can’t help but feel sleepy. I close my eyes and hope that by the time I wake up, the rash and any swelling have calmed down.
* * *
Four hours later I am woken up to a message from Sian.
Hello, lovely, how’s it going? Just wanted to wish you luck with Patrick. Think it must be almost your dinner time?? Message me as soon as you can. Obvs if you’re busy don’t worry… If you know what I mean. Hehe. Xxx
OMG, Sian, nothing like that will happen. Don’t be so naughty. That’s def more you than me!!!!
We message back and forth for a while about her fabulous engagement and then the Jamie and Megan situation, which we are both secretly relieved about.
Then I realise Sian is right. It is almost dinner time.
I had planned on spending hours getting ready, and I am shocked to see that I now only have forty-five minutes before I have to grab a cab and head to the restaurant. How am I supposed to get ready in forty-five minutes?
I run to the bathroom and see in the mirror reflection that my lip and surrounding area are still red. It is going to take me longer than ever to get ready for the date of my life if I am to disguise this rash.
I am in a panic as I swap my handbag over, look for my lip gloss, try to fling on my sandals and search for my key card to get back in. What did I do with it?
Finally, I find the key under the hotel notepad. As I open the door, something makes me turn back and make the bed. You never know, Patrick may want to come back for a coffee, or something. I quickly pull the sheet over and realise that ice has melted all over the bed, leaving it soaked through. I consider calling housekeeping to change the sheets, but if I am going ahead with this date, I really don’t have time for that right now. It will have to do. Anyway, he won’t come back, I’m sure of it.
* * *
I find a cab easily and flag it down. I am definitely not walking anywhere tonight in the sandals that perfectly coordinate with my ‘dress of hope’. I only wish that Patrick notices the shoes and not the facial eruptions. It still hasn’t subsided that much, although the copious foundation and concealer have helped a little, and my long fringe hides my swollen forehead. I can kind of get away with it, but if he kisses me and the make-up comes off, or my hair moves, then he will definitely notice something is very wrong.
Patrick is as punctual as ever. As soon as the cab pulls up, I see him waiting there. I like that he is so punctual. Another perfect quality of his.
‘Wow, you look ravishing,’ he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
Ravishing, ooh, I’ve never been called that before.
I laugh nervously.
‘So do you,’ I manage, even though I am not sure you should ever call a man ravishing. Ruggedly handsome, or something, but not so sure about ravishing.
I have to say that I am not used to compliments and so don’t really know how to handle them, or equally, how to give them. Gosh, what do I say next?
I am so incredibly nervous tonight. I could, in fact, be even more nervous than on our first date. What happens if he asks to sleep with me tonight? Do I do it? I mean it is very early days, but if he was to be my future husband and he is dying, then it is not like it is a one-night stand, or anything. Does dating etiquette even apply if someone doesn’t have long left? I push these questions out of my mind. I am sure the Spanx things I am squeezed into will decide for me anyhow. I don’t think they can be removed, even if I wanted to remove them.
‘Shall we get a drink in the lounge first?’ asks Patrick politely.
I could certainly do with a drink to calm my nerves, so I quickly agree.
I also have to confess that I am not looking forward to eating in front of him due to my choking phobia. Plus, I am a bit of a nightmare when I see nice food as I have no self-control. I gulp it down as fast as I can and make a complete pig out of myself, which may explain my phobia. What if I can’t control myself with the restaurant’s legendary black cod? Perhaps I should order the sushi and then I won’t touch anything and can tell Patrick that I am watching my figure.
The waiter comes along and asks if we need a menu; however, Patrick says we don’t need one as he knows the menu off by heart. I am fine with that and am happy for him to order, as I would take almost everything on the menu, apart from the sushi, if I had my way.
‘Shall we order the black cod?’ Patrick asks.
‘Oh, yes, sounds delicious,’ I say. Now he’s going to see me for the glutton that I truly am.
‘Rock shrimp tempura?’ he asks. Oh no, all my favourite dishes. I love shrimps.
‘So, tell me about your day,’ says Patrick, sipping at his expensive glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
‘Sorry, can I get some lemonade for this?’ I ask the waiter as he darts past. I am mortified, but I can’t drink the expensive wine straight. It is a bit strong for me. I can see by Patrick’s face that he is a bit shocked by my uncouthness.
‘Oh, um, sorry. Where were we? Oh, my day. Umm…Yeah, it was okay. I found a salon, got some waxing done…’ As the stinging has subsided, I realise that I had forgotten about the redness for a while. I pull my hand to cover my mouth self-consciously. I do hope he hasn’t noticed any remaining telltale signs.
Patrick grins. ‘Woah, nice. Did you get a Brazilian?’
I am horrified. I didn’t even know guys knew about these things. Though, fortunately, he didn’t say anything about getting an upper lip waxed, so can’t have noticed that. I suppose Brazilians are more socially acceptable than lip wa
xes nowadays.
‘Oh, um, no, um, not at all!’ I say flustered.
‘Well, I coulda waited until later to find out, but a guy’s gotta ask,’ he says, laughing.
The tone has suddenly changed. All the pleasantries have gone out the restaurant window and it quickly becomes apparent where he thinks tonight will lead to.
‘More wine, please,’ I shout to the nearest waiter.
I need more wine than ever before. I cannot do this sober. The thought of having sex with someone who isn’t Dick is so frightening. I know I must do this if I am to move on. I really do need to have sex with someone new, as scary as that sounds, but…
I practically grab the wine from the waiter, pour some lemonade in and glug it down in one.
‘Are you nervous?’ Patrick asks.
‘Is it that obvious, Patrick?’ I smile.
‘I want you more than anything right now, Amelia. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
He looks straight into my eyes, and I melt yet again. Yes, I have to do this. I am ready. My heart is on fire. He wants me more than anything? Does that include winning the lottery, or a multimillion-dollar polo match? Does he want me even more than that scrumptious black cod or the saké that is in front of us?
‘Wow, I’m flattered. You really do say the nicest things, Patrick,’ I say.
Patrick picks up a tempura shrimp and leans across the table.
‘Here,’ he says seductively.
I open my mouth and bite into the shrimp.
He fed me a tempura shrimp! I am definitely ready to sleep with him.
Chapter 31
The hotel – the time has come
I did quite fancy the blueberry cheesecake, but Patrick said there was only one dessert we would be having tonight and it was not on any menu. I see what he means as we can hardly get into the hotel lift before his hands are everywhere.
He suggested my room, since his apartment is a mess and he hasn’t had time to organise his cleaner due to his recent trip. I suppose that is fair enough and we should make the most of the hotel room.
We are hardly through the door before he pulls me passionately on the bed and I land on top of him.
‘What the hell?’ screams Patrick, feeling around him.
‘Oh, yeah, an ice bucket tipped and oh, um…’
‘Jeez… Let me take my pants off, they’re soaked,’ he says.
Gosh, he is so direct.
Oh, he meant trousers. I keep forgetting they call trousers pants in the US. What do they call pants then? So many cultural differences, goodness.
As he removes his trousers, I decide that now might be a good time to rush for a quick pee and get the Spanx off before he discovers them. This gives me the ideal opportunity to sort myself out whilst he deals with the wet patch.
‘Just need the bathroom, sorry.’ I excuse myself and lock the door as quickly as I can in case he starts rummaging for towels, or anything, to help him clear up.
I breathe in as I struggle with my underwear, hoping that this technique may assist in their removal. Why, oh why, do these have to be so hard to get on and off? I am desperate for the toilet, as I haven’t been able to go all night and, with my bladder, it has been extremely uncomfortable. I don’t know if it is the Japanese saké but lifting one leg up is proving to be very difficult. I smash straight into the toilet seat as I roll down the tiniest bit of underwear and I think I am going to wee myself.
‘Are you okay in there? What you doing?’ comes Patrick’s American drawl from the bedroom.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you,’ I shout.
Stuff it, I will have to cut them off. Discovering some nail scissors in my toilet bag, I cut down one side even though the material is superstrong. There! I did it. I cut through my pants and pee at the same time. Oh my, the relief is indescribable.
‘Come on, I’m waiting,’ shouts Patrick.
Finally opening the door, I see him lying on the bed. Completely naked. Oh gosh, I don’t know what to do. I haven’t seen a naked man for… oh, I don’t know how long. Yikes.
Still in my dress, I attempt to hold in my wobbly bits and try to push my boobs out at the same time as I walk towards him. He gets up and starts kissing my neck. He puts his hands through my hair. I pull my fringe from him and tidy it up a bit.
He is completely in charge as he takes control and hoists up my dress. Thank goodness I managed to take the underwear off in time.
‘Ooh, I like it,’ he says as he moves his hand further up my thigh. I hope he doesn’t think I have been like that all night.
‘Oh, I was wearing underwear earlier… I just…’
‘Shh, stop talking, my baby…’
He strokes me in a way that I can’t even move. I want to kiss his neck and work towards his chest, but I am too transfixed by his touch. All I can do is relax my body and ensure that I remember this feeling forever. He is certainly nothing like Dick, who only cared for his own pleasure. The kisses are getting harder and more passionate. He tastes of the earlier Sauvignon mixed with saké. I finally manage to use the energy I can muster to return the kisses. I kiss along his beautiful chest; it has just the right amount of hair. He really is quite amazing, even his body hair is perfect! Every inch of him is perfection. His abs, his thighs, his arms. I guess it is from all the polo he does. I want to keep on kissing his body and never stop. I put my hands through his thick dark hair. It is so silky and smooth and smells so fresh, like he has stepped out of the shower, even though he has been out all evening. Finally, he puts those big strong arms around me and lifts me onto him.
* * *
Twenty minutes later we are snuggling in bed. I am curled up into his arms with my head on his chest. I don’t ever want to let go. Maybe he is my perfect future husband.
‘I think I was in love with you the first time we met,’ Patrick says.
‘Wow, really?’ I had never believed in love at first sight before.
‘Yup, seeing you for those five minutes I knew you were different to any of the American girls I hung out with. You were special,’ he says, stroking my hair.
‘Oh, Patrick. I wish I’d called you when we met. I made such a big mistake. We missed out on all those years together,’ I say.
‘We’re together now, that’s what matters,’ he replies.
He kisses me on the lips, and I start to melt once again. He is so good.
‘I was surprised you remembered me when Sian and I searched for you,’ I say eventually. Maybe one day I could tell him the truth about it being Sian who was the person he spoke to on that initial phone call, but now doesn’t feel the right time.
‘I knew it was me you were looking for right away. Then, when you explained about the red thong in the taxi, yeah… Well, I was so pleased to hear that story of how we met. I was surprised it took you so long to call though. But, hey, the red thong. There aren’t many girls with that story.’ He laughs and starts nuzzling my neck. ‘Hmm, that thong. Are you ready for round two?’ he asks.
‘Oh, yes, I am so ready,’ I whisper back into his ear.
Chapter 32
The hotel room – waking up with a sex god
Patrick is so perfect that he doesn’t dribble in his sleep. His mouth isn’t even open. He just lies there like some kind of angel with his lips gently pressed together.
I have been watching him now for at least ten minutes, desperately trying not to wake him up. While he sleeps, naked beside me, I study his body. I search for signs of his illness, but on the outside there are no indications that educate me further. Who am I to know what is going on inside his lovely body though? Life can be so cruel. How can an illness ravage such a perfect man?
I could watch him sleep all day. However, I have to drag myself away from him, as I must ensure that I have natural-looking make-up on before he wakes up. I cannot have him see me first thing without make-up. It will be different once we are married, as then it will be too late for him to change his mind. For now, I must always be as
perfect to him as he is to me.
Peering in the mirror I see my upper lip is still red, but half of my face is too, so I can blame it on the stubble rash which is good news.
I put on the make-up as quickly as possible in case he wakes up. However, twenty minutes later and he is still sleeping like a baby, albeit a very beautiful one. I know that I said I could watch him sleep all day, but I didn’t literally mean it. I start to get a little impatient as I want to talk to him and have another of his fantastic cwtches.
I clang a coffee cup against another on purpose – that should do the trick.
He starts to stir as I bang about the coffee maker.
I have no idea how he drinks his coffee, so I try and make a guess.
‘Hey, sleepyhead, time to wake up,’ I say, handing him the coffee cup.
He groans a little and I realise that he is not a morning person. No wonder he is always up so late.
I pass him the cup, careful not to spill any. He takes a sip of coffee and spits it out all over the bed.
‘What the fuck! Did you put milk in this?’ he asks, opening his eyes dramatically.
Oh no, so he obviously doesn’t take milk. This is awful; I have slept with him and I don’t even know how he takes his coffee. It serves as a reminder that I still don’t know everything about him.
‘I’m so sorry, Patrick. I had no idea how you liked your coffee. I tried to guess. I take milk so… I just assumed…’
‘This is serious, Amelia. I’m lactose fucking intolerant. You could have killed me.’
‘Um, no, I wouldn’t have killed you. I’d have given you a bit of an upset stomach, perhaps.’ But then I remember his mystery illness. What if I had killed him? I feel horrendous.
‘Do you need an EpiPen, or anything?’ I ask helpfully. ‘Is there something I can get you?’