The Art of Kissing Frogs

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  “Right. Insanely hot. You can’t wear just any old thing on a date with an insanely hot man. Honestly, sweetie, men are rather thick. You’ve got to show them what they’re missing if they don’t snatch you up.” He let go of my shoulders and grabbed my hand, tugging me down the street. “Come with me. We’ll fix you up.”

  “Shopping?” I groaned.

  “Oh, yes.” His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “I really do not understand you, doll. How can you not love shopping? You’re a woman.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” I said dryly. “Apparently the shopping gene skipped over me.” More like shopping was an exercise in self-flagellation. I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a Spork. Still, Kev was so excited about the whole thing I couldn’t say no, so I went along, plastering a fake smile on my face and a determination not to think about the gouge to my credit card.

  Shopping with Kev was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. He swept through shop after shop like a tsunami, grabbing seemingly random articles of clothing before barking orders at the sales girls. Shop assistants who would usually ignore my existence dashed to answer Kev’s demands as if a major celebrity had dropped into their midst. I found myself shoved into a changing room and ordered to try this outfit and that one before being paraded about so Kev could see it “in motion.” I guessed just trying it on like a normal person wasn’t good enough.

  “No, no, that won’t do,” Kev said, waving at the gray dress I was wearing as if it smelled funny. “It makes you look like a big gray blob.”

  “Gee, thanks, Kev.”

  He sighed. “It’s not you. It’s the dress. Entirely the wrong cut, and the fabric is ghastly. Really, what was that designer thinking?”

  “Then why did you make me try it on?” I was a stone’s throw away from completely exasperated.

  “It looked lovely on the hanger, but I should have known better. That dress is for someone with no curves whatsoever, and sweetie”—he eyed me up and down—“In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve got curves.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Try the blue dress.”

  “Which blue dress?” I asked. “There are, like, six of them in here.”

  “The cobalt blue one. And try it with the red shoes. I think it will be fabulous.”

  With a sigh I shut the changing room door and whipped off the gray dress. My hair was a disaster from all the outfit changes, half of it gone flat and the other half sticking out in all directions. My mascara had pooled beneath my eyes in raccoon mode while my eye shadow had clumped in the crease of my eyelid. Lovely. I swiped under my eyes to get as much of it off as I could and tried to restore my hair to some semblance of order. With my luck I’d run into someone important looking like this.

  Like Adam.

  I quivered at the thought. I couldn’t wait to see him again. To hear the buttery richness that was his voice. To watch his mouth as he laughed and his eyes as they gazed into mine. Oh, lordy, I was a goner.

  “We don’t have all night, sweetie.” Kev’s voice from the other side of the door jerked me out of my reverie.

  “Yeah, give me a second,” I snapped back. I really hated shopping. Nothing ever seemed to fit right, or if it did, it made me look like a woolly mammoth. Only less attractive. Case in point: the gray dress. Kev was right. What were these designers thinking? I hurriedly slipped on the blue dress and then stopped, caught by my own reflection. I stared. What the...?

  “Kate, for God’s sake, would you hurry it up?” Kev sounded testy. “I really would like to eat dinner at some point before midnight.”

  “Coming.” I scrambled to slip on the cherry red heels before slipping out the door. “Well, what do you think?” I held my hands out away from my sides so he could get a good look.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” Kev breathed. He looked as though someone had just hit him upside the head with a newspaper or something.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I fidgeted with one of the sleeves, feeling awkward. Maybe I’d been wrong about what I’d seen in the mirror.

  “Turn around.”

  I did, wobbling a little on the heels. “Kev. Come on. Don’t keep me in suspense here.”

  “It’s a good thing, sweetie. A very good thing.” His eyes were still wide as saucers, but a smug grin began to spread across his face.

  “Yeah?” I stared into the mirror. “I look pretty good, right?”

  The woman staring back at me was a virtual stranger. Instead of fat and frumpy, I saw slinky curves that would make the angels weep in envy. Instead of ghost pale, my skin was a soft glowing alabaster that begged to be touched, and my eyes had gone from a rather ordinary bluish gray to an almost lavender blue. How was that even possible? Even my hair looked richer, more vibrant. I wondered vaguely if they’d done something special to the mirrors.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Kev sounded a little choked up. “You look good enough to eat. That man is never going to know what hit him.”

  Mr. Negativity

  SOMETIME RIGHT ABOUT smack dab in the middle of my dating frenzy, I found myself sitting in another coffee shop on another afternoon. It was yet another online thing, and there’d been a few of what I considered red flags, but I’d told myself to give the guy a chance. I had to stop being so picky. And besides, he was Irish. I loved an Irish accent.

  He was late, which was irritating. When he finally showed up, he looked nothing like his photo. Apparently it had been taken from a particularly good angle, as it hadn’t shown his triple chins. Also, he may have been a rugby player at one point in his life, as he claimed on his profile, but he certainly was in no shape to play now. I had no problem with overweight guys. I’d dated men of all sizes before my marriage and after its breakup. What I had a problem with was lying. I’d had enough of that with my cheating louse of an almost-ex-husband. Did these guys really think I wasn’t going to notice seven fewer inches or one hundred extra pounds?

  Give the guy a chance, I told myself over and over. Everyone tells white lies, right? Everyone fudges a little to make themselves more appealing. Do you want to end up alone with twenty cats? Remember, you’re allergic to cats. I forced a smile. “Hi, I’m Kate.”

  “Brian.” The cheek kiss was sloppy and overly wet, and I caught a whiff of something from his clothes that told me they hadn’t been washed recently. I desperately wanted to wipe my cheek with a napkin. He dropped his backpack into the seat across from me with a thump. “Oh, good, you’ve got a coffee. Be right back.”

  Brian vanished toward the front of the coffee shop without bothering to ask if I wanted anything else. Since he was over thirty minutes late, I did. My coffee was nearly gone, and I was feeling peckish. Why did you wait? I lamented as I subtly wiped my wet cheek on a napkin. Thirty minutes is way too long to wait around for some guy. You are such a pushover.

  Still, I smiled when he returned and made polite conversation despite his lack of courtesy. Unfortunately it did not get better from there.

  “So, um, what sorts of television and movies do you like?” I asked, remembering he’d listed that on his profile and figuring it was a safe topic. “Do you watch science fiction?”

  “Only idiots watch sci-fi,” Brian proclaimed, loudly enough for half the shop to hear. “And Doctor Who? What’s up with that stupid show? You’ve gotta have half a brain to watch that crap.”

  “Oh, really.” Science fiction was one of my personal favorites and I was a huge Doctor Who fan. Both were things I’d listed on my profile. “What do you watch, then?”

  “I only watch sports. Nothing else worth wasting time on telly these days.”

  “Uh-huh.” I wanted to ask why he’d marked “movies” and “television” on his “hobbies” list if he only watched sports, but I refrained. I’d never been very good at being confrontational, although I really wished sometimes I could be.

  For the next hour, Brian ranted against everything from reading (and its pointlessness) to the government (English; apparently the Irish
government was perfect, which made me wonder why he bothered living in London). I would have given just about anything for a roll of duct tape.

  “You travel much?” he asked, slurping his coffee. A bit of the brown liquid sloshed over the sides of the cup and dripped onto the table. I resisted the urge to wipe it up. Brian didn’t seem to notice.

  “Not as much as I’d like,” I said, eyeing the spill as it spread slowly across the table in a tiny, sticky puddle. “I’ve been to Paris a couple times, and I did recently visit a friend in Northern Ireland. It’s lovely there.”

  What followed could only be considered a diatribe of racial slurs and insults against the Northern Irish. I was so stunned, I literally couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Forget duct tape. Nothing short of a shotgun would do for this asshole. Since I didn’t have one (not to mention I don’t look good in yellow) I figured the best thing to do was leave before I did something stupid. Like throw the rest of my coffee in his smug face.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, standing abruptly.

  “So soon?” He seemed disappointed.

  It hadn’t been soon enough in my book. “Sorry, stuff to do.” I didn’t bother thanking him for the coffee—he hadn’t bought me any. I hustled out of the shop as quickly as possible, not even waiting for him.

  I was halfway to the Tube station when my phone chimed. I rummaged around in my bag, fishing it from its dark depths. It was a text from Brian.

  I really enjoyed meeting you. Wanna do this again or leave it as it is?

  Maybe he wasn’t such an idiot after all. He’d obviously realized I wasn’t into it. I sent a quick text back.

  I think we should leave it as it is.

  Too bad. I really did love an Irish accent.

  Chapter 7

  ALL DAY FRIDAY I WAS a mass of nerves. I couldn’t stop thinking about Adam and our upcoming date. I couldn’t focus on anything and found myself fidgeting so much Deb took to throwing wadded up balls of paper at my head. It was clear I was driving her crazy to the point that when I asked if she would mind me leaving work early so I could get ready for my dinner with Adam, she practically shoved me out the door. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was being nice or because I was driving her nuts. Probably the latter, but either way, I took it.

  The ten-minute ride from Bond Street to Notting Hill Gate felt like it took ages. I barely noticed the other people crowded tightly into the car. The minute the doors slid open, I was out and up the escalator, dashing past the smiling attendant with barely a wave. The walk from the station home felt even longer. I was letting myself inside the building when my phone rang. My heart sank as I saw the caller ID. In seconds my stomach was roiling.

  “Hello,” I said as I started up the stairs. I needed to get into my apartment as fast as I could.

  “It’s Gavin.”

  My almost-ex-husband. “Yes, I know. What do you want?” It came out a little more blunt than I meant to sound, but I was trying desperately to hold on to sanity as I ran up the next flight of stairs.

  “Hey, I’m just calling to check on you. See how you’re doing.” He sounded offended, as if I were somehow the one in the wrong. “You’re still my wife.”

  I wanted to scream, “No, I’m not, you asshole. I stopped being your wife six months ago when you left me for that woman.” But I didn’t. I took a deep, calming breath. Not that it worked. My stomach was still pitching like the sea in a hurricane. I shoved open the door to the flat and dashed down the hall to my room, pushing my way past Kev.

  “I’m fine, Gavin.” I tossed everything but my phone on the bed before dropping to my knees in front of the toilet. The stomach pitching was getting worse. I needed him to go away now.

  “I have the right to check on you. I worry about you, you know.”

  He was a big fat liar. He didn’t worry about me. He didn’t care about me. He never had. He’d said so himself the day he threw me out of the house so his Brazilian bimbo could move in. As far as I was concerned, he had no rights at all. But I couldn’t say any of that. Not if I wanted to stay on his good side. And I needed to stay on his good side if I wanted him to help me get my permanent residency.

  “Like I said, I’m fine.”

  “Work is going well?”

  “Yes,” I bit out. I braced myself against the toilet seat. Why did he keep talking?

  “Good. Good. I just got a raise.” There was the distinct tone of bragging in his voice. “Another ten thousand a year.”

  “Oh.” What else was there to say?

  “You seeing anyone?”

  “No.” No way in hell was I telling him about Adam. “What do you want?”

  He sighed. “Come on, Kate. I’m just trying to be nice. You think about filing yet?”

  So that was his ulterior motive. By “filing” he meant our divorce. “It’s another year and a half before we can file. You agreed.” British law required a couple to be separated for two years before they could file for divorce unless there was domestic violence involved or someone cheated. Although I could have filed without a problem, doing so would have put the legal status of my residency in a precarious position. I wasn’t ready to leave England. Not yet. I loved it too much.

  “Yeah, yeah, and like I said, I’m fine with that. Just making sure. Juliana and I are doing great, by the way,” he said, completely ignoring the fact that I hadn’t asked. “We’re so in love. Just got back from Aruba. Talking about having kids.”

  He’d never taken me on holiday. He’d always said it was a waste of money. As for kids, he’d told me the minute he got a ring on my finger he didn’t want them and if I ever got pregnant, he expected me to “get rid of it.” Like that. So cold. So unfeeling. A complete one-eighty from what he’d claimed before we got married. My dreams dashed on the hard rocks of reality. “Listen, I’ve got to go, Gavin.”

  “Sure, sure, we’ll talk later. Maybe get together and have lunch. For old time’s sake. That would be nice, right?”

  “Sure.” When hell froze over. “’Bye, Gavin.” I hung up before he could say anything else, then promptly leaned over and threw up what was left of lunch. My stomach heaved until it was empty, and tears ran down my face to mingle with the snot from my nose, and then it heaved some more.

  “Kate.” It was Kev, kneeling behind me in the World’s Tiniest Bathroom. “Oh, sweetie, you’re a mess. Come on now.” He reached over and flushed the toilet before helping me to my feet. He turned on the taps. “Rinse your mouth and wash your face.”

  I did as I was told, rinsing out my mouth before splashing my face with the icy water. Then he handed me a bottle of mouthwash. I swished, gargled, then spat. When I was done, Kev guided me gently toward the bed.

  “Okay, luv, tell Auntie Kev everything.” He sank down beside me. “It’s not that gorgeous man you’ve got a date with tonight, is it? He didn’t cancel or anything?”

  I shook my head. “No, we’re still on. It was my ex-husband. Well, almost ex.”

  Kev’s eyes narrowed. “What did that asshole want?”

  I hadn’t told Kev everything. I’d only told him about Gavin leaving me for another woman. I hadn’t told him about the lies, the verbal nastiness, and the fact that he’d literally thrown me out of my own home. “Um, well, he calls every couple of months to ‘check up’ on me. At least that’s what he says.”

  “Uh-huh.” I could tell by Kev’s tone he didn’t buy that for a second.

  “Mostly he likes to rub things in my face...like that he got a promotion at work or he and his girlfriend went to Aruba on holiday.” Or that they were planning a family.

  “In other words, he wants to show off how much money he’s got while you’re struggling financially,” Kev snarled. He kindly didn’t mention my romantic issues.

  “Yeah. And he likes to remind me we’re still married.”

  “Girl, why don’t you just tell him where to get off? Just divorce his ass. You’ve got grounds. You don’t need to put up with his bull.”
>
  I shrugged. “But that’s just it. If I divorce him, I’ll have to leave London, and he knows it.”

  Kev frowned. “What do you mean?”

  I curled my legs under me and laid my head on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around me in a brotherly way, if my brothers had ever been the demonstrative type, which they weren’t. I let out another sigh.

  “The way the law works is we have to be married for three years before I am eligible to apply for permanent residency in the UK. If we divorce before then, I get thrown out of the country.”

  “Even though he’s the one who cheated on you, left you?” Kev was outraged. “That’s just wrong.”

  “I know, but that’s the way it is. It doesn’t matter because, unless I file for divorce based on infidelity, we have to be separated for two years anyway. By the time those two years are up, I’ll have been here more than long enough. And he can’t apply on grounds of infidelity because he’s the one who left, so he has to wait for me to agree. Nothing he can do, so he likes to call me up and remind me we’re still married.”

  “So he knows he can push your buttons. You throw up every time?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much. It’s always what happens when I’m really stressed. I have to be nice to him, or he could report me to the Home Office. Tell them we’re not together anymore. Then they could kick me out of the country anyway.”

  “Asshole.”

  We sat there for a while, both quiet. Then Kev pulled away, holding me at arm’s length. He looked me straight in the eyes. “Sweetie, you do realize something, right?”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “Gavin doesn’t hold all the cards. You do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he clearly wants something from you, otherwise why would he call?”

  “I have no idea.”