Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker

Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker Page 2

by Denise Morgan

Sincerely yours

   

  Miss Raye Dawkins

   

  PS. As an astute businesswoman I have enclosed several of my business cards to distribute to your colleagues.

   

  Frankly, Raye did not give a damn where as long as they removed it.

  It was nearly a month when she had received an official document from City Hall. It had refused her request. She tore the pages savagely, and then fed it through the paper shredder. In any case, she bought a pre-made sign from George’s Hardware Store, which stated in bold, black letters, KEEP DOORWAY CLEAR, and tacked it eye level on the wall in the alcove.

  Raye watched the morning mail come through the letter slot in the door and then it snapped shut. Anxiously she rifled through the letters one by one. In amongst the monthly utility bills, were a few thank you post cards from clients, a speeding fine, and of course, the ubiquitous junk mail.

  Not even a single fricking postcard from Eric.

  Disappointed, she flung the letters in the air and they clattered around the tiered rack of accessories close to the staircase.

  A loud thuck on the ceiling made her jump involuntarily. It sounded like heavy pinking shears had fallen to the hardwood floor. Raye tilted her head to the second storey and tutted.

  Behind one of the three doors along the landing was her cutting and sewing room. Amalia Vas de, her head seamstress, and three others: Sofia, Carla and Eunice, produced custom-made clothes.

  All finished garments had a personalized label stitched unnoticeable: Dawkins Exclusive Collection.

  Once upon a time, throughout the entire week, Raye took great pride in her appearance by modelling her own bespoke business suits. She swept her hair up into chic dos’ to give off the air of respectability.

  Nevertheless, on Fridays now, she dressed similar to the perfumed Madams that ran the dimly lit brothels over on Jarvis Street. Today she wore a froufrou, low-cut white polyester blouse, which revealed her plump creamy cleavage. Her tight-fitting skirt hugged her curvaceous hips and stopped mid-thigh. Her peroxide platinum locks teased into a spectacular bouffant - in the style of a glamorous 1970’s celebrity. And her make-up, oh so very dramatic - electric blue eye shadow tailed off, Cleopatra-style, loads of black mascara, heavily rouged cheeks, and glossy red crimson on her full lips. And the office reeked of a rich, musky scent. She was dead certain when Eric arrived today and got a good look of his woman, his tongue would drool with lust.

  Beep Beep… Beep Beep… Beep Beep… Beep Beep, came from outside.

  “Oh my God! Eric!” She bolted to the front, slanted the white slat and then tutted.

  It was not Eric.

  A cantankerous driver was attempting to barge through the usual congestion. Inside the green Volvo, a pregnant woman squirmed in agony in the passenger seat.

  The boyfriend?

  Husband?

  Father?

  Brother?

  Uncle?

  Next-door neighbor - only the good Lord knew - leaned halfway out the window, hollering and waving one arm frantically.

  With his free hand, he jammed the car horn persistently making a ruckus.

  Everyone along the busy sidewalk: business people, tourists, shoppers, slowed their pace to see what was going on.

  The traffic - four-by-fours, vans, taxis - pulled to one side to make a gap as if for a blaring police car or ambulance.

  The Volvo weaved through, on the way to Toronto General Hospital, located at Gerrard Street West and University Avenue.

  No doubt, Maternity Unit.

  Now that the impromptu dramatics was over, Raye swept her gaze from one direction, then the other, hunting for Eric. To her dismay, he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Damn you Eric Mandini; where on earth are…?”

  Gooseflesh broke out along the back of arms, her hazel eyes holding such intensity.

  A dark-haired businessman carrying a black briefcase caught her attention. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Eric: tall, olive-skinned and gorgeous.

  The nearer he approached, she realized it was not him, perhaps ten years his junior.

  As she watched him pass by her shop door, she stuffed her fist into her mouth, desperately trying not to cry - just sick of the unstable state she got herself on Fridays and wished she would stop torturing herself.

  «Chapter Four»

  The pained look on her face switched to anger. She spotted Archie Wegan across the busy street, goofing off beneath the candy-red striped canopy of the Frieda’s Flower Shop. Archie was sucking on a lollipop - like Kojak the bald lollipop-sucking detective - while flirting with a beautiful young woman. Her body was lithe like that of an effeminate fifteen-year-old boy. Striking wavy red hair flowed way down her back. The sleeveless red cat suit she wore had detailed sequined trim, and halted just above her knees. Her tomato-red killer heels made her gazellelike legs appear even longer. She was overtly animated while clutching an exotic bouquet to her chest – vibrant yellow lady hellebores, tiger lilies, bougainvillea, and narcissi with yellow spider. Together, they gave off the air of a simplistic life: fun, free and careless abandon.

  Shielded behind the door, Raye ogled the attractive pair with envy. Archie Wegan, her part-time employee, was supposed to be distributing flyers to drum up business for her dress shop. The forest green canvas tote slung over his shoulder was where he kept a batch to replenish his idle hands.

  Raye had hired him because of his good looks to attract potential clients, but she wished he would quit flirting with this skinny slut in dagger heels, whatever the gender, and distribute her goddamn flyers.

  It was barely 10 a.m. in the city and, despite the hour, the hustle and bustle was vibrant, colorful and exciting. This part of town - the Fashion District - was exceptionally trendy. Far East foreigners, stylish Europeans, pompous Americans of an ethnic stew all arrived in droves to wallow in this eclectic hotspot of the great city.

  Throughout the four seasons, fashion buyers scoped the globe for cutting-edge styles - modelled on international catwalks - and introduced knockoffs to the many shops in the area. Shoppers felt compelled to gaze in awe, just mesmerized at the fashionable mannequins in display windows of modern chic shops and vintage boutiques. The inspiring clothes were nothing like the mass production in the mainstream department stores: The Hudson Bay Company, Simpson Sears, and the famous Eaton Centre on Yonge Street, which took up an entire city block from Dundas Street to Queen Street West.

  This was the main reason why Raye chose to open her dress shop: DAWKINS DRESS DESIGNS, in the vicinity, specializing in bespoke clothes right on the premises, unlike her competitors. Archie’s job was to intercept and steer business her way.

  Yet, he stood there flirting.

  Feeling a pang of jealousy increasing, Raye felt compelled to go out on the doorstep and wave Archie on his way. She took hold of the door handle to confront him when the phone rang, startling her.  Eric! It’s Eric! An inner voice taunted her with false optimism.

  On the second ring she picked up the receiver. “Dawkins Dress Design, Raye speaking,” she said, infusing a fake cheeriness to her tone.

  “Hi Miss Dawkins, it’s me, Poppy, I’m going to be half an hour late…”

  “Late!” barked Raye, twisting her plump face like an angry wasp. “Where the hell are you Poppy?”

  Poppy Zaza, a bona fide rock groupie, was her PA-cum-sales-clerk-cum-bee in-her-bonnet. Although Poppy’s tardiness was habitual, she was like a breath of spring air and a credit to the shop. She had a happy-go-lucky sweet disposition, optimistic, especially proficient with computer programs and packages.

  However, Raye had assumed, by her curriculum vitae, she was proficient in IT, information technology, but soon to discover it was with Facebook, MySpace, YouTube and Twitter.

  It made Raye laugh thinking of her own naïve stupidity. Nevertheless, after consulting chat rooms and her Facebook buddies, Poppy managed to put up a blog to promote the dress store.

  “
My dad’s in the…”

  “Poppy! Do not talk crap. When are you going to grasp the concept of being at work on time, hmmm?”

  “But my dad got arrested last night and I had to find money to bail him out this morning…” Poppy sounded distressed; but Raye believed it was part of her conniving act.

  “You’re full of shit. You overslept, probably hung over again. Tell the truth for once.”

  “I’m dead serious; my dad was picked up by the police last night…

  “Poppy, Poppy, spare me your well-worn excuses. I need you here at your desk. I do have a business to run.” Without so much a good-bye, Raye slammed down the phone, heartsick it was not Eric. “God damn it! That silly girl thinks I’m an idiot. Next time just fire her on the spot…”

  The brass bell over the shop’s door tinkled. Raye swung round to see Archie Wegan entering. He hiked his canvas strap over his unruly blond curly head and laid it on the couch.

  Raye folded her across her chest crossly. “What are you doing back already, Archie?”

  “I ran out of flyers, Miss Dawkins.” He whipped off his shades, dragging his forearm across his sweaty forehead.

  Despite her moody self, Raye appraised Archie, sweeping her gaze over his gorgeous tanned physique: toned biceps, defined pectorals rippled under an Abercrombie & Fitch yolk-yellow V neck T –shirt; knee-high Diesel jeans showed off bronze dancer’s legs, his bare feet in Peter Storm sandals, turned out arabesque like. Each time Raye laid eyes on this exotic creature, her ice-cold heart thawed a little. “That was quick.” Her gaze flicked to his face and took in his cobalt-blues eyes fanned by thick blond lashes; flitted over his two-day old stubble below those striking cheekbones, to his bee-stung lips.

  There is a God with great vision, she was thinking. “Did you dump the first batch in the garbage?” she said accusingly. “Chatting up women when you’re supposed to be working?”

  “What? No! I didn’t chuck any away! I left batches with desk clerks in motels… some in cafes and restaurants. I didn’t dump any, I swear.”

  Raye knew it was pointless trying to figure out the truth. On some days she spotted her costly flyers fluttering in the wind, on some days, they littered the sidewalks and gutters or stuck to the back of a pedestrian soles. “What about Poppy? Were you both out late last night… partying as usual in one of those Indie shindigs?” Sarcasm, thick in her tone.

  Archie gazed at his boss in confusion before replying. “Um - no.” He stole a glance over to Poppy’s desk. The can of red bull she usually sipped - instead of the ubiquitous cup of coffee or tea - was not there. “Is she not here yet?”

  “Dummy, do you see her in her chair?” was her poetic response.

  “What?” Archie’s boyish face flushed, her gaze unnerving him. “I just thought maybe she was in the bathro …”

  “Forget it!” she flapped her hand, waving him away.

  With steely blue eyes, Archie stared at his boss in amazement, gulping down his own insulting words: stupid, fat, manic, bitch.

  However, words were powerful and he knew she was already on the edge, profoundly disturbed and vulnerable. So he bit his tongue, never forgetting the daily, cruel taunts he himself suffered being an effeminate, lanky, spotty, self-conscious teenager in high school.

  The stupid, cruel taunts still haunted him: Hey fairy, don’t you like girls? Why do you walk on tippy toes, Archie?

  “Well… you know where to find the flyers. Go.” She flapped a dismissive hand once more.

  This time Archie’s brow shot up into his hairline.

  Without another word, he charged up the stairs two at a time, his yellow locks swung against his shoulders.

  «Chapter Five»

  Up until Eric had materialized into Raye’s loveless life, her entire focus was on her career. She had spent long, gruelling hours just doing the groundwork to find a decent property to set up her dress shop. The two-story building situated at 1599 Queen Street West, a brownish-brick, circa 1940 - once a pet shop emporium - was sandwiched between George’s Hardware Store and the Westside Motel, a three star flea trap. With reasonably cheap rooms, hookers and Johns took advantage of the lower prices - alongside a dying breed of travelling salesmen and pimpled-faced backpackers drifting across the vast provinces, from British Columbia to Nova Scotia.

  With an outstanding entrepreneurial spirit, Raye had approached her bank lending manager - Adam West of Toronto Dominion - with a well-thought-out business plan, requesting a commercial mortgage. After lengthy credit checks and having Brent Davis Chartered Surveyors appraised the commercial property, tying up all the loose ends, she had signed all the pertinent documents and legal papers. For operational cost: marketing, equipment and supplies, she had borrowed a substantial amount from her well-to-do parents, without having to pay exorbitant interest rates.

  Reluctantly, her parents had given her a book of pre-signed blank checks, but no pressure or definitive time to repay the loan - at least not until her business was earning a steady profit. Proud owner of the property, she had one of the rooms off the landing rewired to house industrial sewing machines. Long cutting-tables set up. Deep shelves, glass and wooden built to accommodate various threads and fabrics. Along the landing, two other doors concealed a bathroom and a storeroom. Adjacent to the top of the stair was an open-plan consulting room laid out like a bachelor studio with the rudiments of furniture: three-seated sofa, refrigerator, lamps on two side tables, a decorative Chinese screen and a glass table with a stack of fashion magazines. Outside on the olive-green awning, however, the words, PETS, FOOD & GADGETS remained. She wanted her name branded up there: DAWKINS DRESS DESIGN - printed in bold white lettering.

  After spending thousands of dollars in George’s Hardware Store, she had a word with the manager, a Mr Kellerman, about obliterating the misleading logo.

  Mr Kellerman obliged and sent over one of his employees - a fossilized geezer nicknamed, Perky Percy to carry out the work free of charge. With the late afternoon sun hot on his wrinkled neck, Raye supervised the rack of osteoporosis bones in his white painter’s pants as he balanced precariously on a top rung of a stepladder doing meticulous work. Once he shaped the last white stroke, he dropped the saturated paintbrush in the paint tin, descended the ladder and wiped his hand with a grubby rag. “There you go Miss Dawkins.” He, dragged his veiny arm over his forehead, and started to light a cigarette. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

  “OMG! My shop… my own dress shop.” Raye covered her mouth with eight chubby fingers, seeing the letters drying in the late afternoon sunshine.

  For the grand opening, she splurged out on twenty cases of Moet & Chaddon and Pinot Grigio, two of her biggest extravagances. Boxes and boxes of assorted beers: Coors, Heineken, Grolsh was delivered from a local liquor store. She had asked her best friend, Sacrine Thompson, a bona fide social-butterfly-man-eating-trollop-shopaholic and cocktail waitress, strictly in that order, to organize a service team to set up the office space and serve drinks and canapés.

  As a favor to a friend, Sacrine had agreed wholeheartedly, but turned up very late with her weekend-party-animal coterie: Virna-Lisa, Shilpa, and Georgina – all tipsy and in a joyous mood. Not one of her idle friends was waitress material and Sacrine alone would not have been able to service a crowded room much less balance a cocktail tray full of drinks especially with jostling bodies in the room.

  Raye was seething, just frantic with panic. She had expected sixty people or so and had to resort to an alternative solution. She had asked four gatecrash-young men - after word got out about free booze - to set up the room to which they obliged. They shoved two pinewood desks together in front of the wall of mirrors and laid it with copious plates of canapés, serviettes, swizzle sticks and ice buckets filled with champagne and beer.

  Raye’s sister Madison, in a figure hugging strapless black dress, had pushed through revellers on the staircase to the first floor landing and by the smooth wooden banister, she clinked her champagne flute with
her onyx ring repeatedly, “Hey guys, hey guys, can I get your attention please!”

  Little by little, the room went silent and necks craned up at the glamorous young woman on the first-storey landing. In a verbose flattering toast, Madison pointed out her sister’s entrepreneurial spirit, fierce passion, sacrifice and commitment, working effortlessly over the years. “To Raye, my lovely sister.” She smiled at her audience, raising her flute in the air, thick with marijuana and cigarette smoke. “Let’s give her a warm round of applause.”

  Everyone had obeyed. They clapped and cheered, some whistled, OTT. Raye stood amongst her peers revelling in the adulation, grinning from ear to ear. For the first time in her life, she felt loved and accepted. A proud tear crawled down one rouged-cheek.

  On cue, the lanky DJ blasted out a Calypso tune: feeling, hot hot hot, followed by Red, red wine, by Simply Red. The sensuous Caribbean beat pulsated out of four waist-high speakers. Everyone started to boogie, singing along to the lyrics.

  Raye hoped her parents were there to share her special moment. Her eyes ricocheted around the room until she found the two of them standing by the front door, nose-in-the-air, being overtly antisocial and not enjoying the party. Henry Vernon Dawkins, mid-fifties, handsome, slim with slicked-black hair flecked with grey, was once a hotshot lawyer in one of Toronto’s prestigious law firms: Dolby, Dawkins & Lambert; now an esteemed Judge –The Honorable Judge Dawkins. His lovely wife, Pascal, a French Canadian from Hull, Quebec, nee Magnon, a consummate socialite, organized spectacular events in lavish venues to raise funds for underprivileged children across the vast provinces.

  Raye knew they had opposed her career choice from the very beginning, and only turned up out of guilt and parental duty. Her mother looked regal in a scarlet v cut, evening gown, a stunning glass ruby sat center between her pert cleavage. Her glossy blonde hair combed in an intricate style. Henry looked dignified in an expensive black tuxedo and white bow tie. Both, completely overdressed while almost everyone wore denim of every description: designer label, ripped-knees, stoned-washed Levis, low slung and dirty.

  With a stoic face, Pascal took delicate sips of her champagne as though she were sipping rancid piss, or not wanting her posh lips on a flute that was not hand-polished by one of her maids … she could not tell. Pascal put the flute on the table and whispered in Henry’s ear.

  Somehow Raye suspected they were about to sneak out. She excused herself from her little huddle, appeared at her sister’s side and elbowed her in the ribs. “Ouch Raye, that hurt!” cried Madison.

  Raye pointed with her chin as the front door closed behind their parents.

  “Like two cat burglars creeping out in the night,” said Madison with a smile. “I bet they’re off to another charity ball, or a boring gallery opening.”

  The siblings locked eyes on to each other and said in unison. “Or their private box at the opera.” They cracked up, competing with the loud decibel in the room.

   

  It had been a sultry summer night like the night before, and the one before that. Queen Street West and surrounding side streets were busy as ever. The sidewalks, clustered with young men and women on their way to chic wine bars and nightclubs - heavy base drummed out of interiors. Streetcars thundered on their rails drowning out a soulful saxophonist screeching out bomb notes. Bad-assed hookers leaned through open windows and propositioned shifty Johns parked by the curb. A clot of runaway street punks laughed at a dishevelled business man stumbling into a lamppost. Junkies in a haze looked for their next fix from dope dealers while, pickpockets blended with their targets. In unfamiliar territory, Pascal and Henry Dawkins hurried back to their black Mercedes-Benz parked outside The Westside Motel. Pascal had a strained expression on her face. She exhaled dramatically by the passenger door. “Our daughter… a common seamstress! Can you believe it Henry!” she said over the car roof.

  “Cal, the terminology these days is a Fashion Designer. Raye despises the term seamstress.” Henry pressed the key fob in his hand, popping up the automatic locks. They both slipped into their respective leather seats, slamming the door and fastening their seatbelt.

  ”Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine our daughter working amongst this dreadful mix. It’s like a freak show out there.”

  “Signs of the times, dear… anything goes.”

  “I just wished she had done something else with her life, something lucrative, more constructive… like MED school.”

  Henry sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. He had obviously heard it all before.

  “Of course, we brought up our girls to be independent. In a few years, Madi will sit the bar, and I hope an engagement will follow to that wonderful boy, Harry Boswell. And Raye, well, she has worked hard channelling all her time and energy in attaining her dreams - she should be proud of her achievements. But we practically carried her all the way, with her schooling, the condo, and now this silly dress shop.” Pascal pressed a button on the side arm, letting in the warm night air mixed with gasoline fumes and sautéed onions from a mobile hot dog kiosk nearby.

  “Darling, if this is what Raye has decided for her future, let’s be realistic, we cannot sway her now.” Henry remained silent for a good ten seconds, then said, “To be perfectly frank Cal, she’s a grown woman; let her fuck-up her life if that’s what she wants to do.”

  “But Henry, I begged you not to give her the blank checks. Now she’s wasting money on this silly shindig for people she felt alienated by during her years of studying.” Pascal unsnapped her gold lamé clutch and took out a packet of Silk Cut. She inserted the cigarette into a tortoise shell cigarette holder. “And, where were the paparazzi, the fashion journalists, the publicists.” She lit her cigarette, inhaled hard, and then let the smoke out slowly. “Now you’re suggesting we sit back and watch her suffer the consequences of bankruptcy after we’ve invested good money into her dim-witted diluted dreams. She always despised the term nepotism, adamant about being her own boss, running her own business… financially independent. I don’t understand why we made it so easy for her?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake Cal! snapped Henry suddenly. “It was not an investment, it was a loan. We should have voiced our concerns then. It’s a bit late in the day to be backpedaling. Besides, she did give us her solemn word that she would repay us every nickel.” Henry turned the key in the ignition. “What I’m concerned about is her feeble-brained concept of targeting a specific market so early along in the game.” The engine hummed. “I think it’s a bit narrow-minded and limiting, not a very sensible thing to do.”

  “Raye may have a target market in mind, Henry, but I doubt she’d be stupid enough to turn away certain types at this stage.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right, Cal.” Henry sighed heavily and opened the ashtray receptacle. “In any case, what’s done is done.” He studied his wife’s aquiline features as she took a long drag on her cigarette, her face bathed in an orange glow from a street lamp. “It’s not about the money though, is it, dear?”

  “Well, no, you’re right, it’s not.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke and coughed into her palm. “What worries me Henry is she has never once introduced us to a young man. And every charming boy we introduced her to she turned down. We were engaged when I was twenty-one!”

  “A totally different era, Cal. Today the modern woman in the modern world is brutally independent and much more career orientated than women of your generation.”

  “Henry! That is grossly unfair. I do work!”

  “What would that be, dear?  Planning and organizing extravagant charity balls. Invite the upper crust of society across the provinces to bring along their stuffed wallets. As they cram their faces with devil on horsebacks, imbibing gallons of chilled Bollinger Blanc De Noire, you say a heartfelt speech about your campaign, your cause. And while they’re thoroughly inebriated, you kindly request their John Henry on blank checks before they bugger off to their luxury accommodations, is hardly what you call work.”

/>   “Is that your feeble attempt at witticism?”

  “Cal, we both know Raye has always been coy around boys, unlike her sister. I am sure in time she will come to realize she’s a very lonely woman and do something about it and start dating. That or damned to stay a spinster.”

  Pascal was hardly listening. “Oh, that’s so adorable”

  Not at all puzzled by his wife’s sudden change of subject, Henry followed her gaze to the sidewalk. Two Great Danes sniffed a terrified Yorkshire terrier’s privates while both dog owners exchanged pleasantries.

  “Henry, why don’t we get a dog?”

  “What! You want a dog. I thought you were not fond of dogs. ‘Slathering and always barking,’ you said.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. They seem like a great company. I can take it on my walks around the grounds.”

  “Does this mean you’re getting rid of the aquarium?”

  “Of course not Henry. Fish are therapeutic! Only I hate finding them belly-up without a prior symptom of an illness.”

  “Perhaps you should have the tank cleaned once in a while, dear.”

  “Very funny Henry. But I still want a dog.”

  “Perhaps a little Chihuahua,” he said with a mischievous grin. “You could stuff it in your purse when you go off for your afternoon spa treatments.”

  Pascal laughed aloud. “That’s what I love about you Henry, always facetious.”

  It made both of them laugh. Henry pictured the puppy in a sequinned designer cap, snapping his little head out of his wife’s designer handbag.

  He waited for a gap in the traffic, eased out, and drove west in the direction of the theatre. It did not take long before the subject of Raye had been committed to history.

  «Chapter Six»

  Fuming, humiliated, Archie Wegan shoved the storeroom door open hard with furious aggression, feeling a vein pulse in his left temple. Sunlight searing through the wide window made the room airless and hot. A stagnant smell of animal piss, cheesy feet and stale wine, accosted his nostrils.

  Archie cast his eyes around the room.

  Piled by a headless, naked mannequin were calf-high winter boots, sling backs, espadrilles, stilettos, flip-flops, cowboy boots; some charity bought, some donated - all for clients to try on with their new outfits, if necessary. There were two pet cages from the previous proprietor filled with miscellaneous items. An open case of Pinot Grigio - four of its bottles were stored in the refrigerator in the consultation room. On the windowsill, a first-aid kit and a neglected bonsai baked in the hot morning sun. Along the floor under the window sill was dozens and dozens of outdated dog-eared fashion magazines. Next to the magazines was a medium size white carton box containing the flyers he came for. He ripped the sticky tape from the carton and folded back the four flaps. Inside, two thousand flyers printed in black bold characters on white paper.

  DAWKINS DRESS DESIGNS

  Cutting Edge

  Made to Measure Clothes

  For the Fuller Figure

  Great Prices

  10% off discount with this flier

  Complimentary

  refreshments during consultation

  1599 Queen Street West, Toronto M5L 9N3

  Telephone: 416-260-8012

  Fax: 416-897-5517

  www.dawkinsdressdesign.com.oc

  Opening hours: Monday-Saturday 9-5

   

  Archie’s hand was shaking when he grabbed a generous batch of the flyers. As he straightened up, he finger combed his blond hair back over his head, his pensive gaze drifting out the wide window. Across the flat roofs, he could make out the licensed cocktail bars with bamboo and palm décor and huge decorative lamps, frequented by artsy fartsy bohemian thinkers.

  Recently, while having cocktails with Poppy in one of those bars, she had complained about Raye’s bitchy mood swings on Fridays. He had laughed when she had said the office was like working in a “fucking mortuary.”

  Archie was not laughing now feeling the effects of her bad mood firsthand. Luckily, he worked out of the office wandering about in the lovely sunshine shoving flyers into women’s hands, sometimes acting as a deliveryman, or running the odd errand for random items: boxes of wine, garbage bags, cleaning products and such. He loved his job as jack-of-all-trades, not to mention the flexible hours. It gave him freedom to pursue his dreams to become the next Mikhail Baryshnikov, a Cavalier… a Danseur Nobel… a Ballet Dancer. He was still working out which title he preferred.

  This distribution job was also easy cash in hand to contribute to his dance fees. Some of his contemporaries flipped beef burgers for chump change in fast-food joints, sweating like strayed nomads, and then showing up for ballet class smelling of grease. He wished, however, his boss, acting like a petulant lovesick teenager, would treat him with respect.

  Meanwhile, downstairs, Raye was the least bothered by her mean, childish behavior. She stood by the blinds, peering out into the busy street still hunting for Eric. Although she prided herself on being a professional businesswoman and conducted herself accordingly with her clientele, with her small staff she had no compunction about being a bully. Besides, with her poor track record with men, it would do her some good to work on her charm. If she had to count all her lovers, she could only hold up one hand extending one stubby fat finger, bar thumb.

  Furthermore, she should seriously consider men her own age, someone like Archie Wegan, instead of Eric Mandini, the elusive business executive almost double her age. But in the back of her mind the memories of her university days still troubled her - made her feel miserable. She found it difficult to obliterate the tormenting years she spent as a single student studying for a fashion degree where hundreds and hundreds of young, gorgeous men milled around her on campus ignoring her like the plague.

  «Chapter Seven»

  Raye had attended Ryerson Polytechnic University, Toronto, Ontario with a Foundation Degree in Entrepreneurship. Subsequently, she had enrolled in the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. Two evenings a week, she attended private life-drawing classes to learn the various scales of the human anatomy - of her own volition. During this entire period, she had never been on a date, hence, never once tasted the nectar of intimacy. Not even a stolen sloppy kiss from a distant cousin attending countless soirees under the grand marquees at her childhood home. In those days, her body image and self-esteem had been rock bottom low. She buried her head in her studies, but still, the raw desire to love and be in-love played havoc in the recess of her mind.

  In her sophomore year, she had hoped to change her lone-lioness ways with absolute determination. There were three eligible young men on campus, she harbored a secret crush. They had admirable attributes like her father: confident, handsome, and that masterful look: the world is my oyster look.

  With her new attitude, her goal was to form some sort of romantic bond, at least with one of them. Her chances were hopeful, she had thought. After all, just about everyone knew that her father, Judge Henry Dawkins, was rich and an important, prominent figure in the city, if not the Province of Ontario. He held the keys to their prospective futures if somehow they should find themselves in his circles.

  Despite feeling a tangle of nerves, she managed to engage in chitchat with these marked targets in various spots around campus: a drinking fountain, a queue in the library to sign out books, and once, waiting outside a classroom for the next lesson. But all that poured out of her mouth was fashion this, fashion that, or an essay due, or a mutual dislike of a lecturer. Nothing interesting outside campus life, like pop or Indie music, the club scene, the theatre, certain films, extreme sports; or getting plastered as most young people enjoyed in The Great Watson Hall.

  Later it became apparent that she had left no lasting impression because not one of the eligible bachelors gave her a second glance when they passed her in the long corridors.

  Where the hell did they get off treating me so pathetically? Raye began to despair, thinking that no decent man would e
ver care for her at her size and weight. When she witnessed college jocks groping blonde bimbos or cute petite cheerleaders, steaming up the locker rooms, she felt grotesque, fat, and undesirable. To take her mind off her pain, she hid herself away in the campus library, devouring leather-bound volumes of fashion and design books: Elizabethan, Egyptian and Japanese influence, Haute Couture.

  As the weeks came and went, she learned about yokes, piping, and the technique of marking out buttonholes, notches, darts and zip lines on delicate graph paper. She learned about the different textures of fabrics, cutting on the bias, various stitches: blind stitch, hemstitch, topstitch and how to work with headless mannequin and so on. By midterm, she had produced her first line of spring/autumn garments. Still, the twin demons of loneliness and depression soon emerged. She broke out in endless cold sores around her mouth and felt physically despicable.

  What boy would kiss that mouth? That scabbed- infested mouth.

  Each day she attempted to cover up the nasty carbuncles under heavy concealer and makeup; and sometimes dotted a scab with a black kohl pencil to make it appear like a beauty spot. She did not want anyone treating her with scorn.

  To kill time during her free periods, she wandered through the maze of bookshelves in the library and found herself in the, Mind, Body and Soul section. She picked out several books on self-help and psychology. There, in the aisle she would devour the information on the pages while she snacked on an inconspicuous treats.

  Late into the nights, there was always some party or a racket coming from dorm rooms on her floor. When there wasn’t a noisy catfight, there was unsynchronized sing-a-long to blasting rock music and people running up and down the corridor. Raye blasted her own country CD, LeAnn Rimes, Blue, trying to drown out the lively din. She’d sit on the carpeted floor, back against her single bed and sing to the sad lyrics all pitifully; drinking cheap white wine, stuffing her face with loads of junk food trying to fill the bitter hollow, the loneliness.

  As a result, on top of her puppy fat she grew chubbier than in her high school days. Romantic novels, self-help books on how-to-find-a-man were scattered about her, some pages dog-eared, some sticky with red jelly which oozed from the umpteen jam ball donuts.

  After switching off the lamp, she would lie in bed, soaking her pillow in hot tears. None of her wafer-thin peers suspected how sad and despondent she had become. They were upbeat, partying like crazy, drinking like fish in a goldfish bowl, smoking pot, snorting coke, popping Es like sweeties and, indulged in unprotected orgies – like ménage-a-trios.

  Yes, promiscuity was rife.

  The following day they would brag about their sexual exploits without a scintilla of guilt or shame.

  When suicidal impulses had become overwhelming, an inner, compelling voice urged her to see her family doctor. Dr Rohl, a little German man with his pants hiked up under his earlobes, noticed her bloodshot eyes when she had walked into his office, a high-ceilinged room, brilliant sunlight projected through the windowpane. He removed his reading glasses, regarded her thoughtfully and motioned for her to sit. “Miss Dawkins, Raye, please, tell me, what’s going on,” he had asked, even though she looked visibly depressed.

  Feeling like a neurotic freak Raye broke down before she even sat down. She could barely string a sentence together, almost incomprehensible.

  However, Dr. Rohl knew the gist of her complaint. He had treated her for depression in the past and labelled her as being manic-depressive. He prescribed Benzonal for her cold sores, and a month’s prescription of an antidepressant drug: Xanax.

  Of course the tears had dried up, but nothing could relieve the loneliness. Thoughts of never experiencing intimacy in her prime, gnawed at her beyond belief.

  What’s wrong with me? she had often thought, am I not girlfriend material.

  One time during lunch break Raye could not peel her eyes off two popular lovebirds, Camilla and Charlie, lip-locked across the jammed and noisy cafeteria. With a potato chip suspended close to her lips, Raye felt her own libido set on fire and was allowing herself to go with the feeling when a fellow classmate in skin-tight jeans, plunked herself down at her table. She held a Vogue magazine pressed to her chest, a red bull clasped in her hand.

  Raye stifled the impulse to say, get lost, you filthy whore. She glared at Amanda Becksworth with bitter envy: skinny as a Cliffside Stork with flowing honey-blonde hair. She wore makeup copious like a trashy whore and had the morals of a common whore. Her fake-tanned, breasts oozed out of a tight nylon plum-red top. Her reputation preceded her: campus slut: engaged in loveless sex and threesomes. Raye had a vivid flashback of well raised, bright, intelligent boys buzzing around her in the row of lockers - like honey bees to nectar.

  Bitch! Don’t those horny boys have lectures to go to, she would often hear herself think.

  This particular morning, something about the lovely siren did not seem right. Her solemn face did not match her ice-pink lipstick on her lips. After a bit of probing Amanda confided in Raye about her many trips to the ladies room to throw up and pee non-stop.

  “My boobs are extremely sore, really tender, and, my stomach’s bloated like a balloon. The thing is I’m always on time.”

  Raye gave her a suspicious look. “My God, Amanda! Do you think you could be pregnant?”

  Amanda glanced at the neighboring tables; certain someone must have heard her. No one was looking their way. She leaned in toward Raye. “Keep it down, will you? But yes, I think so.” She sat back casually in her chair and curled a lock of hair around her left index finger. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”

  “You could do a home-pregnancy-test,” said Raye, her voiced lowered.

  “I’m not an idiot, Raye. I’ve been to four drugstores to ask about the best kit on the market. All the pharmacists said it’s too early to detect.”

  Raye eyed Poppy; evaluating her by the reputation.

  Amanda gave her a questioning look. “What…?”

  Raye shrugged non-committal.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Mind if I ask a personal question?”

  “I know what you’re going to ask. No, I don’t know who the father is?”

  Raye half-smiled disdainfully. As if you would. You may be cute, but every guy knows you’re easy meat. Slut!

  “My dad’s going to skin me alive for royally fucking up my whole life.”

  “What about protection: Birth control pills, injections, patches… condoms?”

  “Condoms!”

  Raye nodded astoundingly. “Yeah, Amanda, condoms. You know rubber… plastic.

  “Are you joking me?”

  Raye stared at her in disbelief. “Quit goofing around. Don’t you ever use them?”

  “Like when?” Amanda leaned in closer again. “Haven’t you ever had your bones jumped… in the throes of passion?” she said without shame.

  Raye almost choked on her spit. “In the throes of passion! What about Genital herpes… warts? Aids? Chlamydia? Gonorrhea?

  Gono, who? Who ever heard of that?”

  “Dummy,” said Raye with a scornful laugh. “Not because you’ve never heard of it, doesn’t mean you can’t contract it.”

  “Oh please, I trust my instincts.”

  “Instincts! That is just so stupid.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid. I can tell, you know, if a guy’s clean.”

  “Really, eh? You can look at a guy and tell if he has the clap?”

  Amanda hiked a shoulder in don’t-give-a-shit shrug.

  “That’s just suicide,” Raye went on. “Not to mention reckless. Condoms play two vital roles Amanda: to protect you from venereal diseases, otherwise known as, VD. And! And! This awful predicament you’re in. And what about self-respect. I mean, where are your morals, your dignity?”

  “You know Raye; you are such a frigging prude!”

  “Whaddoya mean by that?”

  “Well, consider this, you are my age and no one has
ever seen you out with a guy in the whole time you’ve been here.”

  “So?”

  “So how come? Some people think you’re a lesbo.”

  “A lesbo!”

  “Yeah, you know, lesbian, dyke, pussy eater…”

  Raye drew in her double chin with a disgusted look. “Fuck off Amanda! My God, you are so vulgar! Why do you have to be so gross?”

  “Jeez Raye, don’t get your panties twisted in a bunch. I’m only repeating what I hear through the grapevine. Daw.”

  Raye had never even hurt a fly in her whole life. Now she was tempted to reach across the table and strangle the worn-out mattress.

  Amanda threw defensive palms up. “Hey, don’t strangle the messenger!” she said as if she could read Raye’s thoughts.

  “Oh, so, um, because I’m discrete about whom I sleep with, people assume I’m a lesbian? That is such a disgusting label. Besides, my personal life is personal. It’s not something I like to brag and broadcast like the rest of you guys do. My boyfriend and I, we respect each other.”

  Amanda’s green eyes glinted. “You’ve got a boyfriend! Since when?”

  “Amanda, why are you changing the subject? This is not about me.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “Do what!”

  “Have a boyfriend?”

  “Of course I do!” she said untruthfully. “Why is it such a shock?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” In Amanda’s circles, they all thought of her as a lesbian - the rich, sad, fat joke around campus.

  “Why would I? Even if I do, or don’t, it’s nobody’s business. Personally, I don’t give a shit what people think of me.”

  “Mmm. So just who is he? Fletcher Mulvey?” Amanda burst out in a fit of raucous laughter, flinging her head back; honey-blonde hair flew over her chair.

  “Fletcher Mulvey!” echoed Raye, glaring at her classmate. “That beady eyed perv dork with his fly always down! The laughing stock on campus.

  Raye watched Amanda’s shoulders shake from laughing so hard.” What a little whoring bitch! 

  “Well, is it?” asked Amanda, her emerald eyes wet with tears.

  “No!” hissed Raye.

  “So who is it?”

  “Enough already!”

  “Well, everyone thinks you’re a prude.”

  “For Christ’s sake Amanda, here you are, thinking you could be pregnant, and all you’re concerned about is my supposedly Miss-goody-two-shoes-prudish-lesbo-reputation.”

  Amanda combed back her hair with her fingers. “I’m sorry… hem… you’re right… hem.” She wiped the tears from her cheek, and then reached across the table and touched Raye’s hand. “Forgive me, okay?”

  Raye pulled her hand away; a brief silence ensued.

  “As I was saying, I always warn guys to pull out, you know, before they come inside me.”

  “That’s the best line I’ve heard all semester.”

  Amanda went quiet again, weighing up how to go about her motive for joining Raye at her table. She picked up her red bull and gulped a mouthful.

  Meanwhile, Raye was dying inside, unnerved by the gossip on campus. My God, a lesbian, a dike! People think I’m a dike! That’s scandalous, repulsive!

  She glanced at the big faced clock over the cafeteria entrance: seven more minutes and her break ended. She wished Amanda would fuck off after wasting her lunch period on such a total zero.

  Nonchalantly, she proffered the bag of Pringles, a cheese and onion flavor.

  Amanda waved them away and gnawed at a cuticle.

  “Don’t worry Amanda; you’re probably late with all the stress of cramming for theory exam.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. So quit worrying.” Now fuck off! she wanted to add.

  Amanda cleared her throat and said suddenly. “I’m getting an abortion if I am. But I’m thinking of going private, see a reputable gynecologist, of course. But I have this massive student loan, I have no money… zilch. I know I can have it done on OHIP - Ontario Health Insurance Plan - I know, but it will be on my medical record for life. Well, am, what I’m trying to say is, you have rich parents right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think you could borrow three grand from them and lend it to me?” she said quickly.

  “What!”

  Amanda placed her hand gently on her arm. “I’ll pay you back, I cross my heart!”

  “Amanda, you’re crazy!”

  “Please Raye, can you please help me out.”

  “If I were you, Amanda, I’d think long and hard before terminating my baby… if it comes to that.”

  “Are you saying no? Because if you are, I’m begging you.”

  “Amanda, what I am saying is, wait the rest of the week, the month. Perhaps, everything will change by then.”

  Amanda rose angrily; her chair legs scraped the linoleum floor harshly. “So what you’re saying is, no? Is that it? Fine! Be like that!” She walked away, stopped, and then turned her head, slowly, smoothly. “By the way, Raye, it’s no big deal, other girls have experimented… you know… same sex… I have.”

  Raye made a face, as if she did not understand. “What!”

  “Pussy-licker,” replied Amanda, wagging her tongue, taunting her, trying to humiliate her.

  Raye winced, and opened her mouth to speak.

  “Ssssh,” said Amanda, holding a manicured finger to her lips. Then she walked away, over-swaying her tiny hips like a tramp. She pushed through the double doors of the cafeteria and was gone.

  “What a pathetic, stupid slut! said Raye in a stage whisper, drawing unwanted attention from peers close by. Then she had quieted her outburst. “Ask my parents for money so she can murder an innocent embryo… blood money for her idiotic indiscretions. I don’t think so?”

  As Raye popped her Xanax, that same night, she stared at her reflection in her dorm mirror, ruminating over her conversation she had with Amanda. Everyone thinks I am a lesbian! She could not bear the thought and switched to Amanda’s awful predicament. She then said aloud, “some day soon, I’ll find Mr. Right, my true soul mate. And only then will I offer him my precious gift, my virginity.”

  Not long after their little tête-à-tête chat Raye noticed Amanda had not shown up for classes or seen her anywhere on campus. Some weeks later, she heard through the grapevine that Amanda Becksworth was indeed, pregnant, three months. But, the biggest shocker of all, she was also diagnosed with syphilis.

  Pandemonium swept through the social scene. The campus editor had informed students of the outbreak in a small column of the newspaper: Ryerson Gazette. The article suggested that any person or persons connected to the said person sexually - in any way, shape or form - should get tested immediately, and where to pick up a pamphlet on venereal disease.

  Raye exhaled a long sigh of relief through her nose. She threw the article down on the table and wondered about the baby.

  Did Amanda keep her kid?

  Did it survive?

  In some way Raye felt it was a blessing she had kept her legs closed the entire time, through to graduation, without incident – yet still loveless, still sad and still a virgin.

  «Chapter Eight»

  On the grand opening of her dress shop, Judge Henry Dawkins had passed scurrilous judgment on his daughter’s target market as “ill-advised, narrow-minded and limiting - which was to cater to fat, professional, career minded women exclusively. In other words - women of generous proportions with disposable income to boot.

  Nevertheless, Raye had plausible, good reasons for her decision. She hated shopping in large department stores; always-felt clothes for the larger woman in most, if not all, were drab and unflattering - attractive as burlap sacks cluttering up rail racks. And, like herself, she did not expect her potential clients to conform to the craze of modern society by going on any stupid diet regimen, counting calories, or becoming a member of a gym any time soon - just to fit in a funky size zero.

  She also shared a
psychological understanding with these metabolically challenged women. Not only was rich, tasty foods one of life’s pleasures, but also a temporary panacea for all deep-seated ills in one’s life. Why should voluptuous women put up with frumpish, distasteful clothes - as though a punishment for their mouth-watering indulges? The lack of decent, fashionable clothes was an insult to big-and-proud women inhabiting every corner the globe.

  And she had proved her father wrong; her business strategy had worked. With months and months of rigorous advertising, networking, word-of-mouth regarding her dress shop specializing in big sizes, she got the ball rolling. Fat clients of all heights and astronomical proportions stepped through her dress shop door. The constant bell chinking over her shop door had been a Mozart symphony to her ear. In a short time, she was able to build up a decent client base, taking orders for everyday celebrations: office parties and engagements, weddings and Bar Mitzvahs, graduations and the festive seasons - designing unique, stylish clothes from scratch for these beautiful vibrant women, giving them back their dignity, their self-respect she knew they deserved.

  As time went by, a crisp cold autumn had caused people-traffic to diminish in the area and new clients had become fewer. Outside the dress shop, locals were dressed in turtlenecks, downy jackets, lambskin coats, strolling on a carpet of cherry-scarlet, burnt-orange and yellowish-brown dead autumn leaves; several twisting and swirling from the row of maples.  Even so, Raye loved her new life as a fashion designer for fat women. One day as she sat at her desk sketching a range of styles, she absent-mindedly gazed out of the window, inwardly revelling in her achievements. My God, here I am, twenty-three, and a fashion designer! Me, Raye Anne Dawkins, an entrepreneur!

  Her heart swelled up with inner pride, but, at the same time, a spiteful inner voice hijacked her happiness revealing a cruel truth, a twenty-three year old virgin, never had a boyfriend, don’t you mean?

  A hot flush had pinked her cheeks, followed by tears trickling off her chin. Shortly after, melancholy manifested itself into a deep slump. Her dour mood swings were unpredictable - a real grouch with her staff, especially Poppy her PA, across the room, an easy target to take her flack. After arriving home, she would stuff her face with Xanax and delicious dulcet food just to cope.

  A few days, however, before Halloween, she stepped off the elevator on her floor and headed down the corridor. Her eyes widened with startling pleasure when she saw a man dressed in a well-cut business suit carrying a black briefcase, unlocking the door of 706, directly across from her apartment 705. She had never seen him before. He was tall, about six feet two with dark, stylish hair, perhaps in his mid-forties.

  Finally, she could fit the gender, E. C. Mandini, according to the gold nameplate tacked to the oak door - male and gorgeous, her man living right under her nose.

  He must have been away on business, she surmised.

  On the night of trick or treat, she had purchased bags and bags of assorted sweets to dole out to the condominium kids, hoping E. C. Mandini would partake in this ritual so she could introduce herself when he came out in the hallway.

  At any rate, from six p.m. to ten p.m. - four hours of disturbance by these ghoulish, costumed creatures, not once did E. C. Mandini come out in the hallway, even when she encouraged the little monsters to ring his doorbell.

  Two days later, though, November 2nd, she saw him down the corridor again, entering his apartment around the same time she first saw him. From that day, her timing – or stalking- became impeccable forming an obsessive infatuation.

  Whatever tasks she was performing, whether it be sketching or shopping or sitting on the toilet peeing, she fell into a deep reverie thinking of him. On more than one occasion, she thought of ordering a delicious cake from the downstairs’ bakery, knock on his door and offer it as a neighborly gesture, hoping he would invite her in for a drink.

  But she lacked the courage and confidence.

  When she curled up snugly under her thick comforter, she would fantasize about having someone of his caliber in her life lying next to her and prayed for divine intervention. In days to come, Raye found herself with an eye pressed to the peephole lay waiting him, which in fact had become a heart pumping routine. She knew it was not a healthy thing to do, but she did not give two shits about her mental health.

  One cold morning she took action. Through the peephole, Raye watched E. C Mandini leave his apartment, counted: ten, nine, eight to one, stepped out into the hallway and closed her door quietly behind her. She admired his expensive haircut, his broad back in his dark business suit, his confident stride, speaking fluent Italian into his cell phone. Although she could not comprehend a single word, the timber in his accented voice, his throaty laugh, sent tingles up and down her spine.

  Dying to make his acquaintance, she had this insane urge to catch up to him and say sleazily, Hey there good-looking, wanna come back to my place tonight for a sweet slow fuck.

  Sacrine Thompson, Raye’s nympho best friend, once bragged she had expressed these exact words to a virtual stranger on the elevator. But instead of going back to her place, they rode to the roof to carry out this impromptu, sordid act.

  Even so, Raye could not build up such courage. She was reared with class, morals and dignity. What she desired was friendship, love, security, not a sleazy roll in the sack.

  On another occasion, she stood in the semi-crowded elevator behind E. C. Mandini, burning with lust. Just inhaling his manly cologne, she became dizzy with delight. However, she might as well have been invisible. Not once did he acknowledge her presence: the voluptuous brunette dressed in all white standing so close at arm’s reach.

  On another occasion she passed him in the lobby and faked a whopping sneeze, ATCHOO, hoping to capture his attention, hear him say, bless you or, gesundheit.

  Juvenile, yes, but he said nothing.

  Another time she spotted him across the residents’ car park, climbing into his expensive black BMW SUV parked right next to her puny, five-year old white Audi A4.

  However, never once had he acknowledged her coming toward him. He simply drove off up the ramp toward the exit.

  Am I too young, too fat, not his type, out of his league, what?

  Gradually she became exasperated by his blatant snobbery. Mentally she called it quits and gave up on the chase. Her stalking routine peeking through the peephole had stopped. But no matter how hard she tried to get him out of her system, she could not obliterate the snobbish son of a bitch from her mind.

  Three days before Christmas, however, fate had intervened.

  It had been snowing like crazy non-stop, gearing up to be a very white Christmas. Rooftops, parked vehicles ... streets all over the city were blanketed with five inches of powdered snow. The following day the temperature had dropped to a staggering frost biting - 32 Celsius and just as cold in the underground car park. Raye sat in her ice-cold car turning the key in the ignition, trying to get the damn thing started. Repeatedly, she revved up the engine with her kick-ass-white-booted foot, jamming on the gas pedal making a great din in the underground system.

  Out of nowhere, someone rapped on the frosted car window. She yelped and swivelled her head. When she saw his face, the face of the man she had been pining for, she almost had a pulmonary embolism.

  “Move over,” he ordered.

  As he revved up the engine, her beaming gaze swept over his face. He possessed a rugged profile under silky black hair, strong Roman nose, kissable juicy lips. She felt something latent ignite deep within her.

  Once the engine was humming, she thanked him effusively. “My name is Raye.” She gave him her cold fingers. He took them and squeezed gently. “I recognize you. You live across the corridor from me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Er, yes.” She looked into his bewitching dark eyes. I have loved you for so long, she wanted to confess. “I’m in 705.”

  “So you’re the one who bought the Petgrave’s place. When did you move in?”

  “I
moved in eight months ago. It was a gift from my parents.”

  “I didn’t realize I had such a beautiful neighbor.”

  Flattered, her cold, pale cheeks pinked. “I don’t know how I can repay you. I was just about to call a cab.”

  “It’s no big deal, Bella, I only started your engine,” he said with a hint of an Italian accent.

  “No, really, I’d love to show you my gratitude.”

  “OK, how about dinner?”

  Raye looked at him blankly, too overwhelmed to speak. “Mmm?”

  “Dinner. How about making dinner?”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding maniacally.

  “How about Christmas eve?”

  Her smile lit up her whole face.

  Traditionally, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter were spent with her family. To hell with tradition, an inner voice goaded her. “Yes… Christmas eve sounds great!”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Er, mine… if that’s all right.”

  “Can you keep this between us? My lovely wife is in the process of serving me divorce papers. She would use anything against me and milk me for what it’s worth.”

  “Sure… Yes… of course.”

  “I’m Erichio.” His smile unfurled to reveal perfect white teeth and two delightful dimples.

  “Erichio,” she echoed.

  “My friends call me Eric, Eric Mandini. And you are again?”

  “Raye.”

  “Okay, Bella, Christmas eve, your place, seven thirty.” She handed him a business card from the dashboard.

  He winked, got out and drove off in his own vehicle.

  Raye wanted to pinch herself to confirm she was not lost in a dream. His manly cologne lingering in her car, however, told her differently. For the next few days, she walked around in a daze. Raye Anne Dawkins had a dinner date with her neighbor finally.

  Was it kismet?

  Serendipity?

  Who knows?

  «Chapter Nine»

  Archie galloped back down the stairway with a stack of flyers in his hand. He did his best to ignore his boss, but he could feel her gaze on him. He slung his tote over his shoulder, arranged the wide strap for comfort, put his dark glasses on, and opened the door to exit. Outside was bustling with avid shoppers, business people, car horns and sirens, electric streetcars thundering on its rails - an intense chaotic world.

  “Archie wait…!” Without turning, he stopped halfway through the door, smoothing a blond tendril behind his ear.

  “… I am so sorry; I didn’t mean to be such an incorrigible bitch. I have a lot on my mind.”

  Archie turned around to face her. “That’s okay, Miss Dawkins. We all have our bad days.” In his left earlobe, a diamond stud winked in the morning sunlight.

  “Poppy tells me you’re in training to become a ballet dancer.”

  “Since I was seven.”

  Do you wear a pink tutu with sparkly glitter? was on the tip of her bitter tongue.

  “Howsitgoing?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Are we good?”

  “Uh, yeah, we’re good, Miss D.” Her sweet smile seemed like a peace offering.

  Archie smiled back at her weakly.

  “See ya later.” He stepped out and closed the door.

  The phoney smile vanished. “Limp wrist faggot,” she said nastily as soon as the door shut behind him.

  In her blue mood, she lowered herself in her high-back chair, hearing the hinges squeak mournfully under her weight.

  On her tidy desk , two stacks of current glossy fashion magazines: Vogue, Vanity Fair, Cosmopolitan, Grazia, Elle, and others, which she subscribed monthly for inspiration. Also there was a titanium laptop, a vintage cash register, a fax machine, a thick sketchpad and sharpened pencils. A small tray contained business cards of some clients.

  She stared at Eric’s unsmiling face in a silver framed photograph, deep in thought.

  The two of them were in a fish bar, Filet of Sole - a couple of blocks over on Front Street - having after work cocktails. Eric had one arm across the back of her chair, and she had leaned into his shoulder, grinning like a pleased puss that had just caught a big fish. A slim Polish waitress, Magena, had been more than happy to snap them, no doubt, $ symbols blinked big and bold in her pretty blonde head.

  It was the only photograph taken during their amorous affair. In no time, Raye had four copies professionally framed.

  One on her bedside table.

  One on her living-room mantelpiece.

  One she had presented to Eric on his forty-fourth birthday.

  However, after opening his gift, Eric stared at the picture, disturbed by the composition - two people appeared as though they were completely in-love. He wanted to break it to pieces, destroy it. Since his estrangement, he was not ready to make another long-term commitment to any woman. Besides, he had never expressed any feelings for Raye save for what he felt in his boxers. “Bella, this is… ah… this is very thoughtful.” He led her down the hallway into his master bedroom.

  As Raye stared at the picture, she tried to keep in control of her emotions, but her watery irises contained such sadness. Deep down, though, she had no idea when she would stop with this madness, this relentless, insane obsession. From one God-damn-given Friday to the next, it was the same goddamn preoccupation.

  Still, suffering intense pain of the heart, she set the frame down and clasped her hands just below her double chin, like in prayer. “Come on, please, if my guardian angel can hear my plea, please whisper in Eric’s ear, Raye is dying to see you.”

  «Chapter Ten»

  First Date Ever

  Although Raye’s kitchen had been equipped with the latest state-of-the-art culinary devices, her main meals were gourmet frozen TV dinners nuked at 100 watts in her microwave. And, at least three times a week she ordered greasy takeouts from various venues and had them delivered to her door.

  On the day of her dinner date, Christmas Eve, she had decided to cook up an Italian feast. Her repertoire of Italian cuisine was macaroni and cheese in freeze-dried packages or ready meals - frozen spaghetti bolognaise in plastic bags. But on this special night, powdered processed food did not quite fit the intimate occasion. So she consulted a recipe book for the bill of fare and made a shopping list with the pertinent ingredients for an Italian man’s taste buds.

  After leaving her dress shop, Raye decided to visit St. Lawrence Market over on Front street. The place was the size of an aircraft-hangar, lit by fluorescent lighting. In the past, Raye never came to shop, she just loved being a part of the milieu, impressed by the cacophony of noise. She had taken a moment to look around and listened.

  The atmosphere was just electrifying.

  Vendors shouted over each other to attract the hordes of Yuletide shoppers to their stalls. Some gathered around greengrocers, selling an array of multicolored fruit and vegetables. Fishmongers dropped whole fish on weighing scales, then de-boned and gutted them. Bloodstained butchers unhooked blood-red carcasses from butcher hooks and chopped them with treacherous cleavers.

  Away from the pungent mixture of rotten fruit, dried blood and raw fish, she’d drink coffee in the Market Cafe at the far corner, or sipped a glass of Chardonnay in the Market Bar while sketching new ideas for her clients. On this particular late afternoon, she did not have time to indulge. For the first time she scurried around selecting fresh ingredients.

  At home in her kitchen, she bit off more than she could chew. For the first time her favorite appliance, the microwave, was ignored. The marble worktop, cluttered with pots and pans, bottles of herbs and spices, extra virgin olive oil and spillage here and there. “Why am I doing this?” she had yelled above the country CD playing in the background. “The holy and mighty God did not create candlelit restaurants and gorgeous French waiters in crisp white aprons on the eighth day for nothing.”

  She could have kicked herself for agreeing to cook dinner for her neighbor, a perfect stranger she knew no
thing about. So what if he was devastatingly attractive, wore designer suits, and had sensuality oozing from his gorgeous being. What does that have to do with the price of eggs?

  She wished she had suggested dinner at a public locale, a five star restaurant that she enjoyed. Surely if he could afford to accommodate an expensive condominium, he could easily afford to fly her first-class to Paris, reserve a table at the Eiffel Tower where everybody knew his name. For all she knew she could have put herself in danger, dining alone in her apartment with a greasy slime ball in designer label, or worst-case-scenario, a serial, sadistic rapist.

  “Stop it. Just stop it,” she verbalized, banishing the negative thoughts from her brain. “Martha Stewart, where are you when I need you? I am not a chef!”

  Diligently, she attempted to follow each course of the recipe to a T.

  Busy as a bee, tears slid down her face as she sliced three onions and crushed garlic on the chopping board, pureed plump tomatoes in a blender, boiled a pot of water for the linguini, tossed a salad with hand-torn basil leaves in a colander. The antipasto was a cinch: cured pork from various regions of Italy: Parma ham, Milano salami, Romana spianata, prosciutto crudo, saucisson sec, all spread nicely on a platter with chunks of soft mozzarella, avocado, slivers of onions, sun-dried tomatoes, black and green olives, dribbled with extra virgin olive oil, juices of two lemons and balsamic vinegar.

  She wondered what she would talk about. After all, she had never been on a date. She wondered if she should even divulge she was a virgin, virgin as the olive oil she cooked with. Are you certifiably crazy? an inner voice questioned her sanity.

  Through the dining room window, the snowflakes fell in heavy flurries in the pitch-black night. Once she finished setting the table, she gazed around her living room and was pleased with the festive ambiance. “Okey-dokey my gorgeous neighbor, everything is ready.”

  She checked the clock over the mantelpiece: seven thirty-nine.

  “Oh God, he’s not coming! I bet he’ll call with some lame ass excuse.” She took a deep breath to compose herself, and said positive thoughts aloud. “Get a grip, Raye. He will show up. Relax. Breathe.”

  She turned off the blue flame under the pasta sauce, lifted the lid, releasing a rich garlic steam. No sooner had she replaced the lid the doorbell rang out.

  Her heart leapt up into her throat and settled back.

  Quick as a flash, she wiped her hands on a white dish towel hanging on the oven door, untied the Kiss The Cook sloganned apron and tossed it on the messy worktop. With a critical eye, she checked her appearance in the gilt-framed mirror by the front door. A hundred bumblebees buzzed around in her stomach. “Pull yourself together Raye, he’s a mere mortal.”

  When she opened the door, her left knee went Jell-O beneath her. Eric filled the threshold with his presence. With a devilish grin, he produced a bunch of blood-red chrysanthemums from behind his back and handed them to her. They matched the red silk shirt he was wearing - the top three buttons open, revealing a matt of black hair. His black designer Jeans had no belt in the loops: a man on a mission. “Bella, a thousand apologies, I’ve just arrived from the airport.” He took her hand and ducked to kiss it. As he straightened, his dark eyes bulged seeing her sumptuous breast pouring out of the plunging neckline of her white silk blouse. He imagined his face buried in her hot, soft flesh, a hard pink nipple between his lips.

  “Bella, you look marvelous,  Bello,” he said wolfishly.

  “Thank you.”

  She stood aside to allow him in. To his astonishment, her entire living room was decorated white. Matt eggshell-white walls, pure white curtains veiled the windows from ceiling to floor. White tasseled cushions, strewn along a white three-seater sofa and two white armchairs. White lampshades on white side tables. White Sony television and white CD system. White Chinese jasmine were in a white porcelain vase on the white dining table. It was obvious his dinner-date, dressed in all white, had an eerie penchant for white. He looked down at his black leather boots on her plush snow-white carpet.

  “Bella, should I remove my boots?” was a relevant question.

  “No, please, you can leave them on.”

  “I’ll take them off… just in case.”

  “Really, Eric, you don’t have to.”

  “Please, allow me.”

  The plan in the back of his mind was to undress as soon as he walked through her door. He had come for one thing and one thing only: a quick Christmas fuck. If it had been up to him, he would skip the dinner-date ritual: the drinks, the blah blah banal bullshit small talk, the I-made-the-food-myself, and just get down to the nitty gritty: Wham Bam thank you and good night madam.

  So he crouched down, unzipped his ankle boots, removed them and placed them by the door. Watching Eric, this strange man remove his boots in her personal space had left her dumbstruck with shock. She had never been alone with any man, let alone old enough to be her father.

  As he stood up, his smoldering gaze held her hazel eyes captive, casting her under his spell as though compelling her to drop to her fat knees - right there under the mistletoe – unzip his fly and take him in her mouth.

  “So tell me, Bella,” he said, his deep voice breaking the silence. “Did you make your appointment on time?”

  Raye watched his lips move, but not a single word had registered.

  “What, sorry?” she said when she found her voice.

  “You know, downstairs… in the parking lot.”

  Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “Oh yes… yes I did.” She smiled sweetly. “Thanks to you.” She pretended to have forgotten the most memorable moment of her life; giving him the impression that so much had happened in her life since.

  A cunning smile curved his lips. He did not buy her act, not for one minute. Something in those bright hazel eyes that betrayed her vulnerability.

  “I better put these in water.” Nervously she motioned toward the sofa for him to sit. “Please make yourself at home,” and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Eric stood by the fireplace where an electric fire glowed. He gazed at the white ornaments chock-a-block on the mantelpiece. He picked one up and inspected it: a white bear made of sparkling white stone, upright on its hind legs holding a fish - a guppy in its paw.

  What a waste of good money. He replaced it, skipping his gaze about the living room again. The only touches of color were two aspidistras in white ceramic pots flanking the white bearskin rug where he stood. Abstract paintings, framed pictures of smiling faces he presumed to be her friends and family; CDs and DVDs in the tiered chrome holder; the accumulated Christmas presents with colorful ribbons and bows under the glittering white Christmas tree with its frosted lights and ornaments. Fifty or so paperback novels were arranged by size on a built-in white bookshelf. Raye had appeared in the annex off the living room, arranging the scarlet chrysanthemums on the dining table. She put the white Chinese jasmines on a little table in a recess.

  When she looked up, Eric gave her an I’m-going-to-eat-you smile. “Bella, I see you’ve got a very simplistic view of things, almost everything is white.”

  “Simplistic? No imagination? Is that what you mean?”

  “But everywhere you look… everything is white.”

  “Do you think it’s weird?”

  “I’m no psychologist, or psychiatrist, Bella, but, what your decor reveals to me is, I don’t know, some sort of purity within you.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” she answered defensively, but she was nervous.

  “Oh, nothing Bella. But I suspect you have to be very careful not to spill things.”

  “I’m hardly ever home.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes, I live alone.”

  She came and stood by the sofa, folding her arms, protectively.

  “No kids?”

  “I’m only twenty-three.”

  “Only twenty-three,” he enunciated slowly. “Bella, you say, only twenty-three, like it's too young.
In Italy most young women have husbands, at least two Bambinos… another one in the oven by the time she’s twenty-three.”

  “Oh! That’s nice to know,” she snapped, going on the defense. She already felt like a spinster left on the shelf. “But here in Toronto, most women, even Italian women, choose to nurture careers before nurturing bambabies … I mean bambeenies, tut, babies. And, maybe this may come as an enormous shock, but I unashamedly proud to say I run my own successful business. And, and furthermore, my name is Raye, if you’ve forgotten, not Bella.”

  Eric felt the swift lash of her acidic tongue.

  He loved it.

  He loved the fire in her belly. “Bella, cara, I mean, Raye. Why are you so angry? I did not mean it like that. It came out as if I’m a chauvinistic pig. I’m not.”

  Oh hell, he’s not been in my life five minutes and we are having our first argument. She retreated within herself. “No, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap, sorry. Is that where you’re from… Italy. You barely have an accent.”

  “My parents are Sicilian, from a small island called Lipari. I was born and bred in Little Italy here in Toronto… Lauder Avenue. I put on the accent when I visit Italy, you know, to fit in with the natives.” He laughed a little. “I visit my homeland at least two or three times a year.”

  “Lucky you. I haven’t been away for a while. I used to go away a lot with my parents when I was younger. Mostly skiing in Banff.”

  Eric simply could not have cared less. He touched his Adam’s apple. “Bella… how about something to drink?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Some hostess, eh!”

  “Not to worry?”

  “Rum? Scotch?”

  “Scotch, if you have it.”

  “Single malt okay?”

  “Fine.” He sat down on the sofa. “Please, not too much ice.”

  Ice? In a single malt Scotch? Mmm, she thought.

  What a fiery young woman. He had hoped she was as passionate in bed. He eyed her curvaceous behind as she poured Glenlivet into a tumbler and dropped a couple of ice cubes with a pair of tongs; ice crackled in the bronze liquid.

  Feeling like such a fool, she was tempted to put the green bottle to her lips and gulp voraciously. However, she knew he was watching her every move.

  “How was your flight?” she wanted to know.

  “All right,” he said quietly. A white album had distracted him, three inches thick, amongst a stack of sketchpads on the lower tier of the glass-topped coffee table. “A little turbulence…” He opened the cover and stared at faces of famous people: country singers, movie stars, soap stars donned in fabulous outfits. He turned page after page expecting to see pictures of her family, friends, and vacation vistas. “Er… what’s this?” he asked intrigued.

  “Oh, that. That’s my scrapbook… collages of successful people, mainly celebrities I admire... their dress sense... fashion. It’s a hobby. I’ve been doing it since I was a young girl.”

  “Do you go to the cinema and theatre a lot?”

  “I haven’t stepped one foot in a cinema in a long time. Work keeps me busy.”

  He closed the photo album. “What do you do for pleasure, to relax?”

  “Sometimes, and I mean sometimes, I go jogging with my friend Sacrine. Most of my spare time… it’s just me and my sketchpad. I like to sit in crowded places, do rough sketches, you know, work on new ideas, new designs.”

  “Surely you must have time for a social life. What about boyfriends?” He replaced the album. “Such a beautiful woman, there must be someone special.”

  Raye had expected him to inquire what sort of design she worked on; whether it was architecture, city planning, fashion, but he stayed steadfast in his train of thought - her sex life.

  What sex life?

  She wondered how he would react if he knew he was her first date ever, pure as a pubescent schoolgirl, dying to lose her virginity to him - the man of her dreams.

  Eric raised the amber liquid she offered and proposed a toast. “Here’s to becoming great neighbors.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” As they clinked glasses and sipped; Eric’s eyes never left her face. “So Raye, you didn’t say. Are you seeing someone special?”

  “You seem to have a one track mind Eric, but no, I’m not seeing anyone.”

  She looked over her shoulder and pointed. “I… I should go check on dinner.”

  As she turned to go, he gripped her arm, sensing weakness. “Please, don’t run away.”

  “I’m not running away. I’m just going to…” She felt tears moisten her eyes.

  “Bella … dimmi. Your eyes, they hold such sadness.”

  “Do they?”  Self-pity gurgled in her throat. “You know what they say; the eyes are the windows of the soul.”

  “Bella, is your soul sad?”

  She chuckled a little awkwardly. “Yes. My soul doesn’t know a thing about a thing.”

  Eric stepped closer to her, lowering his face with his slightly puckered lip. When she felt his hot breath on her lips, she turned her face away quickly. “I think I’ll serve dinner now,” and hurried off to the kitchen.

  Eric wanted to laugh. He had never met a woman of her years, so tense, so awkward, so naive… she fascinated him. He sat down and listened to her banging about in the kitchen for at least five minutes.

  Then he heard a sharp cry, then a pan lid wobbling on the floor. He jolted up to go to her, but then decided to do nothing. She was already on edge in his presence. If she needed his help, he presumed she would call for help.

  He settled back down on the sofa.

  Raye had splashed tomato sauce down her front of her clothes. Cursing herself, she rushed to the hall bathroom, stripped off her clothes down to her bra and panties and dropped it in the wicker laundry hamper under the porcelain basin. She looked into her eyes in the mirror.

  “Oh my God, he tried to kiss me!”

  She popped her head round the doorjamb and looked down the hallway.

  Not seeing him, she tiptoed quickly to her bedroom to change, her milky-white, cellulite buttocks jiggled.

  Five minutes later, just as she re-entered the living room in a sheer top and white skirt, she caught Eric checking his breath in his cupped hands.

  “Hey, there you are… what happened?”

  “A slight accident.”

  “Forget about dinner, Bella, come and sit with me.” He patted the space beside him. “Don’t be shy.”

  Raye sat on the edge of the sofa and reached for her wine glass next to the untouched antipasto.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding me. Most women find me irresistible,” he said with a haughty laugh.

  “Do they?” she said coyly.

  “Bella, cara, sit back, relax. I’m not going to bite you.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, feeling the heat of her body through the thin material of her blouse. “Not unless you want me to,” he said, grinning irresistibly.”

  She giggled, and eased back beside him.

  She felt his lecherous eyes on her cleavage and felt a jolt of panic.

  Thank God, Jo Dee Messina had stopped singing. She stood up suddenly and felt wine trickle down the back of her plump fingers.

  “Bella, you’re so nervous.”

  “Are you ready to eat?”

  “Eat?” Eric smirked raunchily at the double-entendre. “I cannot wait.”

  Unable to think of a quick repartee, Raye rolled her eyes.

  She ventured over to the music system, dropped to her knees and trifled through her vast collection of country-and-western CDs. “Do you like country music?”

  “What about a Christmas carol, Bella? Like ho, ho, ho, here comes Santa Claus.” He chuckled flamboyantly.

  Raye ignored his attempt at bad humor. She sat back on her heels, flipped CDs back and forth, in the pretext of selecting one.

  Eric looked on bewildered.

  He had expected her to slip one on, come straight back and fulfil the sexual frisson in the room. Ins
tead, she gave him an earful on the history of country-and-western music.

  «Chapter Eleven»

  After cruising through customs, Eric Mandini wheeled his luggage through the sliding glass doors of Pearson International Airport. He was wearing a dark tailored business suit and an open-neck white shirt, no tie. By his side, a tall, twenty-something flight attendant walked with a sexy sway, dressed in a fuchsia uniform and vertiginous black heels. Her lush brunette hair swung from under a dusty-rose pillbox hat.

  The two of them entered the Park’ N Fly Valet. Eric waited in a short queue, reached into an inside jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. From there he removed a Park’ N Fly ticket stub - dated back in February - and a platinum credit card. He looked over his shoulder at the gorgeous flight attendant, sitting on an egg yolk-yellow plastic chair with impeccable poise, one leg crossed over a knee, reading a glossy magazine.

  He appraised her with lecherous eyes.

  The instant he had boarded the first class cabin at Linate airport in Milan, he felt a sexual frisson between them. She had escorted him to his seat, 14B, in an empty row by the aisle and had bidden him a very nice flight with the biggest smile and flirtatious blue eyes.

  Eric had pulled out a wallet-size photo of his son, Enzo yearning to hold him in his arms. It had been five long months since he had seen him in the flesh; although he had communicated with his little man through Skype. The separation was unbearable

  “Is that your boy?” The flight attendant had appeared by his side with the refreshment mobile table.

  Eric looked up into her almond shaped eyes, her full sensuous lips. “Yes,” he said, his own dark eyes smiling lazily, “Enzo. It’s his birthday in a few days.”

  “He’s adorable. He’s a spitting image of you.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  Throughout the eight-hour flight, the lovely air steward had attended his every whim, offered him a brandy and a pillow, and then another. She even changed his headphones when he complained about the tension of the straps.

  Eric Mandini, the libidinous Lothario, loved the attention of women. In fact, he loved the attention of all women: blondes, brunettes, redheads; young, mature, fat, thin, did not matter to him. Women fell in love with his European features: olive complexion, tousled dark hair, intense dark eyes, the air of mystery, the aura of danger, the promise of wealth. Each time she walked by, Eric leaned into the narrow aisle and checked out her lithe figure. He fantasized her pert ass chewing gum under that rose colored skirt.

   

  “Mr. Mandini. Mr. Mandini, sir!” a voice behind the counter brought him back to now.

  Eric spun round to see the ginger-head clerk behind the counter wearing a nauseating-brown uniform, baring his crooked nicotine-stained teeth at him.

  “Glad to see you again, sir. How was your trip?”

  “Good Benny. Very good.”

  Eric proffered the stub with his credit card and Benny took it. He pulled open a filing cabinet and flipped through a few folders. He withdrew the pertinent documents. “Just sign here, sir, and I’ll have your keys with you pronto.”

  Eric signed the form while Benny retrieved his BMW keys. “I had my man give it a once over not long ago.” Benny handed Eric the keys, credit card and receipt.

  “Thanks Benny.” Eric palmed him a couple of crisp hundred-dollar bills. “See you soon.”

  Bowled over as per usual, Benny shoved the bills deep into his pocket; his excitement had him doing a two-step sideways little jig.  “Thank you, sir. You have a nice day now, sir.”

  Eric picked up his black briefcase by his feet and walked toward the nubile flight attendant. “Are you ready to go?” He glanced at her gold badge as not to confuse her with the many women he flirted with. “Stephanie?”

  “Ready when you are, Mr. Mandini.” Her Colgate smile, lightened her unlined oval face.

  “You can call me Eric. My father is Mr. Mandini and he’s eighty years old and crouching.”

  Stephanie laughed prettily. “Ok… Eric. Yes, I’m ready to go.” With his hand in the small of her back, he led her to the elevator to take them to the multi-storey car park.

  “No one to meet you, Eric?”

  “I’m a big boy, Bella. I can drive myself home,” he said being his elusive self.

  “I meant a wife, girlfriend.”

  Eric’s voluptuous neighbor, Raye, popped into his mind, then out again in a flash. “No, no one knows I’m returning today. When is your next flight out?”

  “It’s only an overnight stay, I’m afraid. I fly to the Caribbean… Barbados… in the morning.”

  “That’s a pity, Bella; I thought we could spend some time together. When do you return to Toronto?”

  “I can’t really say. My flight plan changes without notice.”

  “Are you staying close by?”

  “Yes. The Hyatt Regency.”

  He drew her closer to him. “You could stay with me tonight. I could drive you back in the morning. I promise I’ll get you here on time.”

  She fluttered her long black lashes. “I would love that.”

  Good. No games. Eric liked her quick response.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Do you like Italian?”

  “Italian food or Italian men?” she said flirtatiously. “I can eat both.”

  Eric threw back his head and laughed an indulgent rambunctious laugh. The mere thought of procuring women so easily caressed his massive ego.

  As the elevator glided up to the car park on level six, Stephanie said, “So Eric, what exactly is your business?”

  He squeezed her soft, manicured hand. “Why don’t we discuss it over lunch?”

   

  «Chapter Twelve»

  First Date development

  On Christmas Eve, Raye had served dinner around nine o’clock. Eric sat down at the dining table set romantically for two. Through the glass window he stared out at the panoramic view of apartments across the way. Candy-colored Christmas lights glowed and winked in far-off windows. There had been a cocktail party in one; dinner parties in two others. There were children animated and laughing on a lower floor. His own balcony faced north, which overlooked a vast stretch of green where the night vista was a black abysmal space.

  “Great view,” he said, seeing Raye’s reflection in the paned glass moving about in the kitchen.

  “Personally, I would prefer the ocean… or a mountain view,” she said, preoccupied. She came and sat down with a chilled bottle of Chateau des Charmes.

  “Are you always this quiet?”

  “I’m a bit nervous about dinner.”

  “Bella, I’m certain it will be delicious.” Eric sniffed the steam swirling up from the chunky red sauce on his plate she had put in front of him. He kissed his fingertips. “Hmm, this smells fabulous.” He picked up his fork and spoon and twirled the linguini. Only he was not hungry for food, his hunger was for ribald sex and his impatient instrument was growing painfully in his tight black designer jeans.

  “Bon appétit.”

  Eric laughed. “Buon appetito! I’m Italiano, non Francese.”

  Raye laughed, a little embarrassed and she changed the subject quickly. “Sorry, more Scotch? Or would you prefer some wine.”

  “Wine would be nice.” Eric drained his tumbler and held his wine glass as she poured.

  Was he accustomed to such service? Not once had he offered to assist her in the kitchen, nor bothered to pull out her chair as she sat.

  As the hour slipped away, the four glasses of wine had loosened Raye’s tongue, becoming garrulous. Between mouthfuls of linguini, she spoke proudly of her dress shop and her intentions of expanding in other areas of the city.

  But Eric hardly listened, and said not one word about himself.

  All the while he gazed at her, watching her sensual lips move. All he could think of was the moment when he would lead her down the hallway to her bedroom and fuck her senseless.


  Then, quite suddenly, Raye fell dead silent, gazing at her plate, toying with bits of food with her fork. “Eric, how come you’ve never said hello to me before, you know, out in the corridor?”

  Eric wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Really? I passed you in the corridor?”

  “Many times.”

  “How could I have missed such a beautiful woman?”

  “I felt invisible as the wind, a ghost.”

  Eric clasped her plump fingers across the table. A high-voltage shot up her arm. “Bella, can you forgive me?”

  Raye pouted, and said nothing.

  “Bella, I’m here now, together.”

  “Yes, together,” she said, hazel eyes glinting.

  Eric played on her vulnerability. He stood up and led her by the hand into the living room and they sat on the sofa. “You seem a bit tense. Come, turn round. I’m told I give the best massages.” An ideal opportunity to get her juices flowing.

  Raye felt the knots in her shoulders loosen under his strong Italian fingers, working up to the nape of her neck and then down again across her shoulders again. “Are you lonely Bella?”

  She hesitated, weighing up her thoughts, not sure whether to confide in him. “I guess you could say so.”

  Eric gestured for her to turn round and held her hazel eyes captive for a moment. Then he leaned toward her, brushed his lips against her hot cheek, her lips, kissing her tenderly. “Give me your tongue,” he whispered.

  As the kiss grew hungrier and hungrier, almost tickling her tonsils, he fondled her breast. “I want you,” he whispered, moving to her ear, probing her earlobe with his wet tongue.

  Raye recoiled, giggling, falling onto her back on the sofa.

  Worked every single time. He fell upon her, kneading her groin, her thigh with his bone-hard erection. He pushed her leg apart with a deft movement of his knee, slid a hand under her skirt and moved her panties to one side. He felt the soft fold of her flesh under tufts of soft hair.

  Raye gasped, breaking their kiss. However, he found her lips again as he expertly slipped two fingers deep inside her tight wetness, her heat and moaned long in her hair. He lifted his hips, unzipped his fly, pushed his jeans down and released his throbbing cock. “Do you want me?”

  “Eric no, I can’t,” she whined, wiggling her body away from his probing penis. “I can’t.” How could I have sex with a virtual stranger? He has gone too far already. “Eric… please… stop.”

  “Bella. I want you. I want you now.”

  “Eric. No. Please. I can’t. I do not know how to do this. It’s my first time.”

  “I’ll be gentle.” He probed with his erection but kept missing.

  “Eric, stop,” she said, meaning it, “really, stop.”

  Eric had stopped abruptly. He stuffed his flaccid penis back into his underpants, pulled up his jeans and zipped it up in a hurry.

  He shot a glance at his watch. The time was 22: 55. The night was young and he knew a string of beautiful fit, mature women willing to put out on Christmas Eve. Just a naïve child!

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pull down her skirt to preserve her dignity. “Listen Bella, I better go.” Eric headed to the front door, his shirttail hanging over his jeans.

  “You’re leaving!”

  “Yes, I have some business to attend to.”

  “On Christmas eve! We had a date…”

  “Bella, I promise we’ll get together soon.”

  “Perhaps in the New Year?”

  “Cara, of course, the New Year.” He snatched up his boots and, without putting them on, he pulled the door open and walked the three or four steps to his front door.

  “I would love that,” said Raye brightly. “See you soon!”

  Eric let himself into his own apartment without even so much as a backward glance.

  Raye closed the door and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her brunette hair was sticking up all over the place, her blouse dishevelled.

  She covered her mouth and giggled.

  For the first time in her life, she felt sexy and desirable. “Somebody wants me, finally.”

  In the New Year - their second date - Eric had escorted her to the theatre, and then they had drinks in a trendy wine bar afterward. On returning home, they kissed briefly in the corridor before they entered their respective doors.

  On the third date, they dined in a fine restaurant, where Eric smothered her in charm; spoke a few romantic words in the native tongue.

  In the candlelit ambience, she gazed into his eyes and fell under his magic spell. When they arrived home that night, Eric led her into his apartment.

  Raye had surrendered her virginity in his king size bed.

  It was the greatest moment of her life.

  After that, their respective front doors were like revolving doors to hotels. The two of them crept back and forth across the dimly lit hallway to fuck like rabbits wearing out the bed springs. And when Enzo spent weekends with his mother in Oakville, Raye spent nights in Eric’s bed, never feeling self-conscious of her roly-poly belly or cellulite, thighs and buttocks. She had become his domestic goddess, cleaning his apartment, washing dishes and doing laundry. In the evenings, she would order takeaway dinner from an Italian Bistro.

  Whenever Enzo returned home during the school week, some nights Raye babysat the snot-nosed boy in her own home. Some mornings Eric picked up Enzo in the mornings just hours before school without an explanation. A few times she had to drive the boy all the way to Adam Beck Public School when Eric did not show up at all. She resented it, but did not complain.

  Although Enzo brought out her maternal instincts, she feigned to be more than happy to baby-sit him, but really, she wanted to wring his neck to stop his incessant whining and throwing temper tantrums. Being an only child Eric had spoilt him rotten by the time he could walk.

  Whenever Eric arrived home from his many business trips, he showered the boy with the latest game consoles, gizmos and gadgets on the market out of guilt for being absent.

  In the meantime, Eric felt discombobulated by her constant presence in his private space. He felt as though more was expected of him in return. Although he liked his voluptuous neighbor, he had no genuine feelings for her whatsoever. Yet the situation suited him: a cost-free housekeeper, babysitter, a spare key to her front door - the sex on tap was the icing.

  Snuggled up in bed next to Eric, Raye dropped hints about Enzo living with his mother on a permanent basis. She entertained thoughts of becoming his wife, making their own babies and stopped taking her birth-control pills. She consulted umpteen pregnancy kits for the blue line in the plastic pen, sub rosa, of course.

  While Raye had been on the front page of their relationship, Eric had been on a back page, the end. When father and son were alone Enzo cried incessantly about the new woman in his dad’s life. Eric hated to see his son so distraught. After a year or so of allowing Raye to masquerade as his wife, playing up to her ridiculous charade, his interest in her had already reached its sell by date, or rather, dump by date. As far as he was concerned, their one-sided relationship was over. But Eric found himself boxed in a corner. He could not rid himself of Bella so easily. Bella lived directly opposite across the corridor.

  «Chapter Thirteen»

  Raye snapped the Globe and Mail newspaper out in front of her. In the article, Devon Jim Smith, Ontario’s most influential fashion critique had written a harsh review on a fashion show she’d seen in Montreal, Quebec, just last week. But as much as she tried to focus on the text, her mind drifted. She reflected on the tense scenario between herself and Eric leading up to the St. Valentine’s Day. They were both lying on their backs, their skin slick with sweat on the soiled, rumpled sheet, exhausted after an explosive orgasm.” Eric.”

  “Yes, Bella.”

  “Have you decided how we’re spending Valentine’s Day?”

  Eric cursed in Italian in his head; a topic he tried to avoid for weeks. And she kept hounding him
about it and getting on his last nerve. He swung his legs out of bed and sat bent over on the edge. He wanted to say truthfully, you are a nice woman Bella, but you are confusing casual sex for love.

  Gently Raye touched his damp shoulder blade, a finger playing with a nasty scar like an old bullet wound. “Eric, it’s only two days away.”

  He stood up, pulled on his black Calvin’s, knowing she had won. “Okay, dinner,” he said dully. “Here, say nine o’clock. No. Make it eight.”

  “Oh, Eric, that’s great! I cannot wait.” Oh how she loved him so much.

  On the contrary, Eric did not feel the same. He pulled on his black denim, zipped it up in an angry haste, then yanked a blue pinstriped shirt from a wooded hanger, amongst crisp well-laundered shirts in the walk-in wardrobe. “Listen,” he said doing up his buttons with his back to her. “Can you let yourself out,” and stormed out of the bedroom.

  “Yes, but, where are you goi…” Raye heard the front door slam. She wondered why he would invite her over if he had elsewhere to go. She thumped the bed with a fist, and then said almost immediately, “Oh! He’s gone to get Enzo.” She collapsed back onto the bed and beamed profusely.

  Finally, she had a date set.

  When St. Valentine’s Day had rolled around, Raye left Amalia, her head seamstress, in charge of her shop and visited her regular beauty salon in Yorkville, an upscale area in the city. In the space of six hours, she had a full body message, a full facial, a pedicure and manicure. And, on the spur of the moment, she had her brunette hair bleached to a platinum blonde. She had asked her regular stylist – the witty and effeminate Rupert, donning black nail polish - to put her hair up in an elegant chignon with tendrils coiling to her cheekbones.

  At home, she dressed in an outfit she had designed and stitched personally: a plunging V-neck white silk dress, hugging her voluptuous curves. After applying makeup and injecting pearl earrings in her lobes she blasted herself with a musky perfume, then inspected her reflection in the long mirror and liked what she saw looking back at her: pleasantly plump and absolutely gorgeous.

  At eight o’clock on the dot, she crossed the corridor to Eric’s apartment, pressed the doorbell and waited. She had a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot in one hand and a little valise of which contained her toiletries and a provocative baby doll number to slip into later.

  Eric opened the door and said, pleasantly shock, “Bella, you’ve changed your hair!” He flicked a perfunctory gaze toward the elevator bank.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Cara, Bello, like Marilyn Monroe.” He kissed both cheeks and she inhaled his cologne becoming the horniest woman in the city, a city full of many lovers this special night.

  “I must say, you look very handsome yourself.”

  On entering Raye was flabbergasted at how much effort he had put into the evening. There was no evidence that Eric was a single dad of a spoilt, boisterous boy. Everything was neat and tidy and all toys - model trains and trucks, Super Smash Brothers Nintendo; Tomb Raider Eidos; varied DVDs -were stored away.

  A Tomaso Albinoni CD played low in the background. There were bunches of fresh flowers on two ornate side tables, leaving a sweet smell around the room. At least two dozen scented candles enchanted the room. The dining table was dressed in a crisp linen tablecloth, cut-crystal glasses, bone china, polished silver, starched napkins. There were silver platters of appetizers: assorted cheeses and salami, sun-dried tomatoes, stuffed vine leaves marinating in a garlic sauce, a sliced loaf of focaccia, bruschetta, grilled ciabatta, gherkins, and a bowl of stuffed olives.

  Her tongue drooled. “Oh, Eric, this is beautiful… so romantic.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  Eric, however, had hired a catering company for the job. In fact, he does so for special occasions. Even when he himself returned home, he too was mesmerized by the sheer elegance: an intimate dinner for two.

  Raye sat on the sofa, sniffing a long-stemmed rose while Eric popped open a bottle of Pol Roger cooling in a sterling silver ice bucket by the dining table.

  He beckoned her over and she sat down at the table. “Happy Valentines, Bella,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Happy Valentines Eric.”

  With the tulip glass to her lips, Raye’s gaze fell onto a red velvet gift box by the crystal vase in the center of the dining table.

  An engagement ring. She beamed and heard wedding bells chiming in her ear.

  Eric sat down at the table. “I made your favorite, Veal Parmigiana and Linguini Alfredo, but first try the antipasti.”

  Raye pictured his naked hairy butt peaking out under his apron. “Sounds delicious, I cannot wait.”

  Eric was acting quite peculiar, pensive, even; the muscles tightened in his jaw line as he picked at the antipasto with his fork. Whenever Raye had asked a question, he would only answer in one or two words, monosyllabic mostly, not meeting her eyes. But most annoying, he kept pulling up his left cuff to peak at his Rolex; as if he had to be somewhere else or expecting his true dinner guest.

  As they chewed in awkward silence, Raye studied his smoldering expression. Then, Eric said finally, “Bella, Raye, I have something very important I want to say.”

  Raye stole a quick glance at the gift box certain he was going to propose marriage, offer her the ring, get down on a bended knee and ask her to marry him.

  Her heart thumped violently. “Yes, Eric. What is it?” hazel eyes glistening.

  The long dramatic pause was unbearable. A drum roll played in her head.

  “I’ve been thinking about our relation …”

  “Daddy? I’m hungry.”

  Eric and Raye turned their heads to see a sleepy-eyed boy dressed in cotton pyjamas, plunking himself down on the sofa.

  “Enzo, go back to bed, sweetheart,” commanded Raye. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  Ignoring Raye, he said, “Dad? Can I have something to eat, please?”

  “Back to bed Enzo, I’m speaking to Raye.”

  “But dad! Can I have something to eat first?”

  “Go to room Enzo,” said Eric firmly. “Now.”

  The stubborn boy did not budge; he started to bounce on the sofa in defiance.

  “Let Aunty Raye take you to bed,” she offered maliciously.

  “No! I want my daddy to take me to bed.”

  Eric excused himself, took his son by the hand and towed him down the hallway. Enzo looked back over his shoulder, poking his baby, lizard-tongue at her.

  Raye felt the blood in her veins boil she couldn’t stand it. She wanted so much to smack his tongue back in his head.

  Eric rejoined her after several minutes, but he was up and out of his chair more than she cared to count. Up and down the hall, attempting to quiet the boy down.

  “Is he alright now?”

  “Well, look, children and going to bed, it can be a nightmare sometimes.”

  Raye was dying to say, no … you spoil him. For Christ’s sakes man, exercise your parental rights. Give him a good cuff round the ear. That will teach him. Instead, she laid her hand on his softly. “I’m sure he’ll fall asleep soon if you just leave him… really.”

  She had been dead wrong. Enzo kept calling out from his bedroom, his mission apparent: sabotage the evening. Each time Raye heard his whinny, pestering voice, she smiled tightly at her Eric, but cursed violently inside her mind. The little brats’ shenanigans were ruining the sensuous mood.

  “You know what,” said Eric abruptly, dropping his napkin on his barely soiled plate. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Let’s call it a night.”

  His words sucked all the air from her lungs.

  Raye picked up her napkin and wiped the extra virgin olive oil from her lips. “Eric, but we’ve barely touched the antipasti,” she laughed tensely. “And what about Linguini Alfredo, I haven’t eaten him yet.”

  “Raye, I’m sorry,” said Eric, holding the back of her chair. “But my boy… he needs me.”

&nb
sp; Eric picked up her things and maneuvered her by the arm to the front door.

  The touch sent electric bolts sizzling throughout her body. She wanted to grab his head and press his lips to her warm cleavage. She wanted to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, drop to her knees, take his dick in her mouth and suck it. She wanted to make love to him all night long, on this beautiful St. Valentine’s night.

  He wanted her to go!

  “Sorry Raye,” he had said, proffering her valise and handbag. “Some other time.”

  I could really torture that little imp. She had a wicked, irresistible urge to nudge Eric aside, march down the hall into Enzo’s bedroom and wrap her meaty fingers around Enzo’s scrawny neck. “But Eric…” she said, holding his wrist in a death grip. “… you said you had something to say… something important.”

  “Oh, yes… ah…”

  “Daddy!” called Enzo at the crucial moment.

  “Raye, please, can you leave.”

  “Eric, why are you being so cold, god damn it?” she snarled, eyes ablaze. “Are you mad at me and you’re not telling me. I can come back once he’s settled. Just come over and get me… or… or just give me a call. We can re-heat the dinner in the microwave.”

  “I’m sorry, Bella, really sorry.” At that moment, Eric’s cell phone rang in his jacket. Eric fished it from his pocket and checked the caller display screen. Yesinia (club), read the screen. His dark eyes shone with excitement. “Look, I’m sorry, I must take this. Some other time, alright.” He ushered her out in the corridor, shutting the door in her face.

  Flabbergasted, curious, furious, Raye pressed her ear to the door, hearing his seductive voice. “Bella, cara, where are you?” A short pause. “Can’t wait.”

  Raye could not believe her ears. On the edge of tears, she let herself into her apartment and stalked to her kitchen. She took a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, pulled out a chair and sat down.  “Who was that on the telephone?” She banged the table with a fist. “Damn you Eric! I should have taken my champagne with me. God, I hope the cork sock you in the eye.”

  After downing the entire bottle of wine, Raye crawled onto her bed in her St. Valentine’s Day outfit and hugged the perfumed pillow to her head, stewing in her own juices. One hot tear rolled over her powdered nose, chased by another. A vision of Eric making love to that other woman, made her jump out of bed, and hurry into the en suite bathroom. She was violently sick in the face basin.

  She waited for the next purge.

  When the moment passed, she had rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water over her face.

  The following morning, Raye sat behind her desk going through a series of sixty emails on her PC. Just moments ago, she had ignored Eric’s gold icon envelope on the screen; still seething about the way he had ended their dinner date so abruptly. She was not interested in any lame ass apology. Only she could not help herself. She clicked on the icon and, her eyes grew wider and wider.

   

  From: [email protected]

  Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2011 7:38:16 AM

  To: @[email protected]

  Subject: VD

  Sorry Raye, we must end this… I must end this!

   

  Forgive me, Eric.

   

  She had to read it three times before it sank into her brain. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock. Instant hot tears flashed down her cheeks. “Is this what he wanted to say last night? He was going to break up with me… on St. Valentine’s Day!”

  Choked up with rage, she highlighted the text, pressed the delete button, and the rejecting words vanished from her PC screen.

  It’s not real; it’s a hoax, a bad joke.

  Raye stood up suddenly knocking over the lukewarm Latte. The milky brown liquid had splashed the laptop, seeped into the edges of her magazines and dripped on the hardwood. She made no effort to stop the carnage. She stood very still just watching, as if paralysis had set in.

  Seeing the drama unfolding, Poppy clamped her hand over her phone’s mouthpiece. “Miss Dawkins, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?”

  Raye stared at Poppy like a mute, as if she had swallowed her tongue. Then she said several seconds later. “Ah… nothing.”

  “You sure… you should see the look on your face!”

  “Can you ask Amalia to lock up later?”

  “Of course… but…”

  Raye had bolted from the shop before she broke down in front of her PA.

   It was a bitter-cold mid-February morning and she had left without her coat, scarf, and winter boots. The sidewalk was wet with thick slush, but that did not stop her. At a quick space, she turned the corner on Duncan Street, colliding with pedestrians with their coat collars turned up against the wind. However, she was oblivious to the cold, her hazel eyes ablaze, her whole body hot with fury.

  “How could he do this to me? Why?” she cried, still brushing against people not caring about the funny looks they gave her. She thought Eric was the one, her Prince Charming, the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with, and now he had dumped her like waste without warning.

  She felt a hand clutch her shoulder. “Raye!”

  Her heart thumped seeing the polished black shoes splashed with salted sludge. Slowly she raised her head, hoping they belonged to Eric.

  It was Mr George Kellerman from George’s Hardware Store next door to her dress shop. He had become her friend and building maintenance consultant – fixed her bathroom plumbing and dripping taps - ever since she had bought the place. “Oh, Mr. Kellerman,” she said, dragging strands of hair from her mouth. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Raye, what’s going on?

  “I I can’t…” She broke loose and on and on she went block after block for fifteen minutes or more, heading nowhere in particular. Sometime afterwards, she ended up in a deserted, junk ridden alleyway around old Chinatown. She bent over and gagged without bringing anything up.

  She fled the alley and hailed a taxi back to her office. She’d burst through the office door, grabbed her purse, headed back out and jumped back in the cab, not caring about her own car parked in the back. She was too distraught to drive.

   At her desk, Poppy Zaza frowned hard in surprise, witnessing the manic scene. I swear the woman’s on acid.

  Traffic had been slower than a funeral procession. Raye stared out the window, not hearing a word from the loquacious taxi driver.

  It was almost six o’clock when the cab dropped her at the entrance to her building. Up on her floor, she rang Eric’s doorbell to confront him face to face. She needed an explanation.

  She knocked.

  Rang the doorbell.

  Knocked again, and waited.

  She knocked.

  Rang the doorbell, knocked again and waited.

  When she had received no reply, she gave up, and turned slowly to her own front door opposite. On entering, she was startled to see a white A4-sized envelope shoved under the door, on the white carpet. She picked it up and turned the envelope over in her hands, studying it.

  No name.

  No address

  Nothing.

  Just blank.

  With trembling hands, she ripped it open and nearly suffered a major coronary. Inside, there was no note, just the duplicate key she had given Eric to enter her apartment.

  «Chapter Fourteen»

  A little before ten o’clock a.m., the bell above the shop door tinkled. At last! It was Poppy, the dressmaker’s feisty twenty-one year old tardy PA. She was wearing a baby-blue halter-top and a micro-mini jeans skirt suitable for sunbathing in the local park. She removed her earphones, expecting her boss to chew an ear off. However, Raye continued to read the paper without acknowledging her.

  Poppy stuffed her Dicsman in her bulky blue handbag. “Hi Miss Dawkins… sorry I’m late.”

  Raye raised a palm, but not her head. “Don’t want to hear any more ludicrous excuses.”

  Poppy shrugged one skinn
y shoulder, too hungover to care. She stooped to scoop up the strewn mail on the floor. Sneakily, Raye looked up from under her blue eyelashes and was immediately disgusted to see an inch cleft of Poppy’s tanned ass peeking above her the waist of her skirt.

   “It’s a boiling hot out there,” said Poppy straightening, while shuffling through the envelopes, one by one.

  Raye glared at her from her glossy strawberry-blonde head to thin ankles adorned with silver chains; iridescent pink toenails peeked out of high-heeled blue sandals.

  So that’s why you’re wearing that obscene itsy-bitsy outfit barely covering your skinny behind. Did you pilfer the outfit from a Barbie you cuddled as a child?

  Pure white trash! I must remember to put uniforms on my list.

  When Poppy looked up from the mail, Raye lowered her eyes to her the newspaper.

  “Your mail madam,” said Poppy, her breath reeking of stale gin. She placed the mail on her irascible boss’s desk, but Raye ignored her. “Wow! You look awesome, Miss Dawkins! I love that outfit on you. Is it one you designed yourself?”

  Still, nothing. Raye moistened a fingertip and turned the page.

  Poppy knew one way of buttering up to her boss. “Hey, Miss D, a new bakery has just opened up on Duncan. They’ve got amazing jam ball donuts with your name on it. I can take a few bucks from the petty cash…”

  Raye looked up, simmering like a pressure cooker. “Sorry, what?” She gazed at Poppy’s sparkling aquamarine blue eyes, where a silver ring adorned the left eyebrow. Her skin was flawless, except for a cluster of freckles across her upturned nose. Hooked through her navel of her bare taut midriff was a gorgeous garnet ring. She was the type of nubile sex kitten the male species adorned an arm with, and would impale themselves on shiny sabers to lose such a trophy, despite any irritating foibles.

  “Jam ball donuts; do want me to get you some?”

  “Can you just do the follow-up calls,” snapped Raye, unable to contain her anger.

  “Don’t pop a vein, Raye!” Poppy snapped back, her cheeks scarlet red. “Who the hell pissed in your cornflakes? Jeepers, don’t have a conniption.”

  “Do not get lippy with me, Ms Zaza. I could fire your ass for insubordination. So do not undermine my authority. I am your boss, your superior.”

  “I was only trying to be nice.”

  “Nice! I expect you to be nice to clients,” Raye lashed back querulously, her hazel eyes radiating fury. “And you’re late. You’re always late on Fridays. I am so sick and tired of it. Go do the job I pay you to do.” Raye snapped her paper angrily and resumed reading the article.

  Poppy opened her mouth to defend herself, and then shut it quickly. She felt as though she was clinging onto her job by her red fingertips. Only last week, while Raye stepped out, an overweight sour-faced woman walked into the office to find Poppy on the phone and smoking. The potential client had expected Poppy to hang up, answer her queries immediately. However, while Poppy spoke into the mouthpiece, she held up one manicured finger signalling for her to wait.

  A phony smile twisted the sour woman’s mouth. She casually browsed the rack of accessories with colorful lace, ribbons, silk threads, zips, press-studs, fancy buttons, needles and a few handy sewing kits. When she realized the PA was going to be a bit longer, the vexed woman, bulging at the seams of her pink floral-print dress, reeking of mints and mothballs, plunked herself down on the sofa. She fished a handkerchief from her purse, dabbing sweat on her forehead while eavesdropping on Poppy’s bubbly conversation.

  I love you too babes, giggle, giggle. I can’t wait. Clinton! Evil giggle. You are so dirty!

  Quickly it became clear that Poppy was engaged in intimate dialogue.

  The disgruntled woman hefted herself up from the sofa with effort, and stomped out of the office. Later that afternoon, the woman rang Raye to make a formal complaint, threatening to take her business elsewhere.

  Raye apologized profusely, offered a whopping 25% discount toward a new outfit. As soon as she hung up, she glared at Poppy across the room reading the latest copy of, Classic Rock, Iron Maiden, on the cover.

  “You stupid, stupid girl,” she said fuming.

  Poppy’s head jerked up from the editorial, shocked by the sudden outburst.

  “What did I do?”

  “What did I say about personal calls? When valued clients walk in, you drop everything and tend to them at once! Above all, what is my rule about smoking in the office? I thought I made it clear there was to be no smoking anywhere on the premises. If you want to smoke, you do it out back or on your lunch break. I cannot have client’s new outfits reeking of smoke.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Yeah, but nothing. Stick to the shop policies!” Raye’s voice pricked with hostility. “This is your final warning.”

  Poppy said nothing. If she did not need money to fund her busy social life, she would have told her boss where to stick her stupid job, slamming the damn door on her way out.

   

  Poppy strolled over to her own desk, staring at Raye’s reflection in the wall of mirrors. She muttered something under her breath. Sounded like, “fat, miserable cunt.”

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  Poppy settled at her desk and began the follow-up calls, speaking politely to a client into the phone.

  At last, Raye too got down to business. For the next forty-five minutes or so, she mentally computed the details of her financial profile: bank statements, earnings, expenditure, wages and petty cash for the last quarter. Her resources were dwindling and the overheads were killing her. And she refused to sponge additional funds from her wealthy parents. Whenever she complained business was sluggish hoping they would offer financial support, her mother took some sort of sick pride in making her critical opinions known quite eloquently.

  After an hour or so passed, she closed the accounts book listlessly, shoved it in her handbag. She decided she might as well talk to her loan officer, Adam West, in the Nova Scotia bank in the city center, about the prospects of further funding. She would then pop into Popeye’s close by and have a quick snack.

  “Poppy, I’m just going  to the bank to speak to Mr West about finances. If a Mr Mandini should come by, can you please tell him to wait, I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Sure. Is everything okay? I know it’s been a slow couple of months. I’ve been thinking of ideas of how we could increase profit...”

  “Poppy, don’t worry. I won’t be letting anyone go if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll sort everything out.”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you like me to bring you back something to eat? A super size Big Mac, with fries and a chocolate milkshake?”

  “No thank you. Miss D I have an apple.”

  Eleven fifty six am. The shop bell tinkled and three young ladies with triple chins, perspiring profusely in their off-the-rack business suits, bumbled in for their 12:00 o’clock appointment. They were insurance adjusters employed by the firm, Macmillan Inc., housed in one of the many skyscrapers three blocks away. They eyeballed Poppy from head to toe in her skimpy outfit as she made apologies for the dressmaker’s absence.

  After introducing themselves, Jackie Pearce, Donna Stash, and Cathy Poole. Poppy shepherded the women up the stairs - all three panting slightly - to the open-plan consultation room. As personal assistance, a part of her job description was to give the highest level of personal service to exclusive clients while the boss was away.

  From the fridge, she offered a complimentary bottle of white wine, and poured into three bulbous wine glasses. She put another bottle in an ice cooler, then went behind the Chinese screen to set up for her task ahead.

  The three women sipped their wine, quietly pleased with their surroundings. The walls were painted duck-blue matching the single-ply carpet. On the glass, rectangular coffee table was a vase of lovely Freesia. Next to it was a thick white portfolio containing Raye’s designs for client’s perusal. A 14” hi-f
i plasma screen TV mounted up high, muted, showed a classic tennis game of Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi at the finals at Wimbledon. There was a purified water unit with paper cups in a holder.

  Poppy came from around the screen and pulled a blue fabric tape measure from around her slender neck.

  “Ms Pearce, would you like to begin?”

  “Yes, sure. We were given these flyers by a lovely young man.” She handed the three flyers to Poppy. “Are we still entitled to 10 % off?”

   “Yes of course,  I’ll put it in all your notes. And his name is Archie. Isn’t he gorgeous.”

  “Not my type,” said Ms Stash frankly.

  That’s alright, you’re not his type either; he’s gay. “Ms Poole, Ms Stash, you can have a browse through the dressmaker’s portfolio; Ms Pearce, come with me please, I’ll take your measurement.”

  Obediently, Jackie Pearce removed her off-the-rack-jacket and stood on a two-tier wooden platform behind the Chinese screen. She wore a peach tunic over a floral flair skirt. Poppy instructed her to raise her elbows - red with psoriasis - and wrapped the tape around her huge knockers, around the circumference of her giggly belly, a whopping 48 inch waist, working her way to her hips, a staggering 50 inches, then jotted down the info on a notepad.

  In the meanwhile, the other two fat ladies, - ignored the stylebook - gobbled down two hot dogs, each, intent on piling on the weight. They washed it down with Pinot Noir, refilling their wine glasses when empty and freely helped themselves to another bottle, clearly afternoon alcoholics.

  A long, guttural belch filled the silence.

  The fatter of the two women, Ms Stash, offered her apologies, patting her chest as she did so. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  Poppy and Ms Pearce came from behind the screen, smiling.

  “Is there a little girl’s room?” asked the burping Ms Stash.

  Poppy stifled a laugh at the oxymoron. “Yes, just halfway down the landing.”

  “Be back in a flash.” Ms Stash struggled with her bulky form from the deep sofa. Politely Poppy proffered a helping hand. Ms Stash took it, pulling Poppy’s waif frame down on top of her, a cricket leg strapped in blue pumps jutted out into the mid air, her face buried in Ms Stash’s huge bosoms

  “Oh my God, so sorry Ms Stash,” said Poppy pushing herself up.

  Ms Pearce helped Poppy to her feet.

  Poppy tugged down her skirt and composed herself.

  The three, bubbly women burst out laughing in unison.

  Poppy felt deeply humiliated, her face reddened. Three fat bitches from devil’s kitchen

  «Chapter Fifteen»

  Adam West had refused to service another loan for Raye based on the financial figures she had presented him. He advised her to see him again when the sales figures had improved substantially. But frankly, Raye was not too concerned about Adam West and his unreasonable appraisal, she had more pressing matters on her mind.

  From the bank, she went shopping for a suck-up birthday gift for Enzo Mandini and bought two of the latest gadgets on the market.

  Back at her desk now, Raye had last month’s utility bills, payroll, expenses, bank statements and her accounts ledger opened in front of her. As she entered the numbers on the spreadsheet, the figures started to swim before her eyes and fell into a reverie, savoring the memory of being nestled in Eric’s arms, tonsil licking and moaning with utmost pleasure. But as some buried truth emerged, the image flitted away in an instant.

  Her eyes shot open.

  She wondered if Poppy had caught her as she drifted off. Certainly not a good example to set in front of her staff. She looked over to see Poppy absorbed in a magazine in front of her. Then she said in an angry whisper. “He’s not coming today! Not next Friday, nor the one after that, so drop…”

  Raye heard thud of footsteps on the first-storey landing. She watched an energetic young woman descending the staircase two-steps at a time. When she reached the bottom, she slid up to her desk in her pink cotton socks as though on a skateboard, her flaming-red pigtail swishing around her pale neck when she halted.

  “Miss Dawkins, please tell me I’ve good legs!” On tiptoes the young woman hiked up the fraying hemline of the sleeveless shift-dress, mid-calf, exposing pink fat knees. “Amalia, that fuddy-duddy assistant of yours thinks this is way too short. What do you think? I want to show them off!”

  Raye leaned forward, studying the woman’s shapely milk-white legs. “As a matter of fact, Ms Bojanic, you have lovely legs.”

  Raye came from around her desk and took the red pincushion from Ms Bojanic’s chubby hand; at least fifty shiny pinheads impale the shiny silk. “Feeling a bit risqué, Ms Bojanic?” She crouched down in front of her client, smoothed a tendril of hair behind her ear and adjusted the hemline. “Stand as straight as you can.” She ran several Bobby pins along the orange polka dot fabric. “How’s that?”

  “A tad higher.”

  “A bit evocative, don’t you think, Ms Bojanic.”

  “Not at all. I’m young. I can get away with it.”

  “As I said before, I’m here to please.” Raye altered the hemline, sticking Bobby pins along the border. “Don’t forget to recommend my expertise, my meticulous care to your co-workers, friends and family.” Raye paused for effect, looking up at her client. “By the way, do you have any friends?”

  Ms Bojanic threw back her head and laughed, her gummy pink laugh resounding in the lofty office.

  Raye fake-laughed, masking her inner turmoil.

  Across the room, Poppy’s face registered boredom, having to listen to the women’s small talk. She rolled her eyes, hearing them cackle over Raye’s stupid joke.

  Ms Bojanic eyed Raye’s inappropriate attire. “I can tell you’re off to a transvestite convention after work,

  Miss Dawkins,” snorted the young lady. “I wouldn’t be caught dead dressed in drag if you paid me. And what’s with the awful beehive.”

  “What’s so awful about it? Big hair is back in.”

  “Says Amy wino Winehouse!”

  Poppy suppressed a snigger behind her can of red bull.

  Quietly affronted, Raye went behind her desk, consulted her appointment book and penned a final fitting for the feisty young lady.

  “Thanks Raye, said Ms Bojanic and went up to the sewing room. Ten minutes later, Ms Bojanic said goodbye and left the dress shop.

  Raye closed the spreadsheet page, gathered up the bank statements and receipts, and closed the account book with a decisive thud. Her gaze landed on the notes Poppy had placed on her desk, regarding the three plump women’s measurements and detailed specifications. She had included the type of materials, photograph of styles, and preferred designated time of completion. But Raye could not even contemplate or concentrate on new work just now. She stared at her watch: 4:16 p.m. If Eric was coming today, he would have been here by now.

  Suddenly she clutched her stomach, frowning.

  She stood up and headed up the staircase holding onto the banister all the way to the top.  As she walked along the landing, she heard contagious laughter erupting over the whirr of sewing machines. She opened the door and popped her head in the sunny room, which highlighted the deep shelves housing colorful bolts of fabrics and fibers: cotton, chenille, chintz, silk crêpe, lace, denim, brocade, taffeta, gingham, chiffon, mohair, laces, viscose, acetate and plenty more textures; except thick fabrics like tweed and corduroy.

  On an oblong Formica table were swatches of color-coded charts, hooks & eyes, tailoring chalk, assorted buttons in clear jars, pinking shears, pattern cutters, brass buckles, and zips, bands of elastic, bias binding, and thimbles: rubber and metal.

  On an upper-shelve were spindles of threads and spools of shiny ribbons in a variety of colors. Bits of material and broken threads carpeted the linoleum floor. Amputee dummies draped in half-finished outfits. Next to a several girdles on a rail there were completed garments marked ‘finished.’ Some neatly folded in swathes of tissue paper and placed in boxes of
different shapes and sizes. Then tied with satin, cherry-red ribbon along with the client’s names.

  “Hello ladies.”

  “Hello, Miss Dawkins,” the seamstresses chimed, almost in unison.

  “Amalia, are we on target?”

  “Yes, Miss Dawkins, we have four bolero jacket to complete for costume party,” she said in broken English. “Then we go next week workload.”

  “Great!”

  “Anything wrong, Miss Dawkins?” asked her head seamstress, curious. “You looking very pale.”

  “I’m okay, Amalia,” she said mendaciously, feeling the ripples of nausea.

  Raye left the room, clutching her stomach. She gripped the banister and closed her eyes, waiting for the feeling to subside. She then entered the fully fitted bathroom and locked herself in. Ugly noises filled the space as she puked acidic bile into porcelain basin. She slumped on the closed toilet seat, dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears.

  “How could I have been so naive, so stupid? Why did I sacrifice my virginity to the first man without playing the field? Why was I so desperate? God, I feel like such an idiot.”

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  “One minute,” she called out.

  “Are you okay, Miss D?”

  “Yes, Amalia, I’m fine. Please, go back to work.”

  Raye pushed her emotions deep inside her, ripped wads of toilet tissue and blew her nose elaborately.

  She stood up and stared at her face in the mirror. Blue mascara streaked down her plump, pale cheeks. She cannot believe what a pathetic young woman she had become. She wiped away the blue stains with toilet paper and rinsed the foul taste from her mouth. She dried her hands in a bath towel, flushed the unused toilet, took a deep breath, to compose herself, and then left the bathroom, as if nothing happened.

   

  «Chapter Sixteen»

  Poppy heard the toilet flush, then footsteps creaking along the landing. “Gotta go babes, the bitch is coming back… bye babes.” She put the receiver down and picked up her emery board.

  As Raye descended the stairs, calm and composed, she looked over at Poppy under the pretext of buffing her red nails, blowing away nail dust, emery board poised in the air to resume filing.

  Who does she think she’s fooling? “Who was that on the phone?” she asked, at the bottom of the stairs, and approaching the front door.

  “Oh, Mrs Watson,” said Poppy untruthfully. “She’s dropping by tomorrow with her daughter. She needs a cocktail dress for a birthday party coming up.”

  Raye was hardly listening. Through the blinds on the door, a spiked-headed brunette couple smooched on the doorstep. She watched with a mix of envy and anger. Three quick raps on the pane caused them to disengage lips, startled.

  Raye shooed them away with a quick wrist.

  As the afternoon sun warmed her face through the pane glass, she imagined Eric emerging from Frieda’s Flower Shop, dodging traffic toward her office with furled flowers in hand. Outside the flower shop now, a small group of Oriental tourists huddled over an opened city map. When they moved on, they exposed a macho type businessman in a navy pinstripe suit peering in the display window.

  Raye’s heart thumped in her chest inexplicably. The only fathomable reason was he fitted Eric’s description: tussled black hair, broad shouldered in his business suit. She thought there was a good chance it could be him. The businessman turned his head abruptly and waved to someone along the busy sidewalk.

  Raye followed his gaze. About a hundred yards away, a sporty young man weaving through the human traffic and waving back. He had on a mauve hooded sweatshirt; a lilac duffle bag slung over one shoulder. As the gap closed between them, they hurried into each other’s embrace and kissed deeply, as if they have not seen each other for ages, oblivious to the many inquisitive eyes. They entered the flower shop, laughing in sync.

  “Damn it!” Raye struck the door frame with a clenched fist. “Flaming faggots!” she said sotto voce. “Fucking queers!”

  She turned to find her PA scrutinizing her.

  “Sorry. It just seems every establishment out there is thriving except mine.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Dawkins, business will pick up soon.”

  Raye gave her PA a half-smile. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, Poppy.” She stared at the telephone on her desk, willing it to ring. Actually, the thing barely rang all day. She wondered if Eric had tried to call and could not get through. Was there a fault on the line? Had Bell Canada disconnected it for non-payment of bill?

  She picked up the receiver.

  Listened to the long flat dial tone.

  And slammed it back down.

  Poppy jumped involuntarily.

  “Sorry.”

  Raye sighed magnanimously, restless and frustrated. She felt a headache coming on, a dull, relentless pain spreading across her forehead. She pulled out a bottle of niacin from her handbag, shook two into her palm and swallowed with her own spit. “Poppy you can take off. I can manage here.”

  “But it’s not even closing time. Plus, I’ll feel guilty, turning up late then leaving earl…”

  Raye raised a palm. “Go before I change my mind.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

  Poppy half stood and tugged down the hem of her skirt. She fluffed up her hair in the mirror behind her, and then inspected her makeup. “Did I tell you about my new boyfriend, Clinton?”

  “No, you didn’t mention him.”

  “He’s the lead singer in a new group, Urban Rock Redemption. They are fucking amazing! They’re playing at the Dragon’s Den tonight. Would you like to come? Archie’s coming.”

  “No, not tonight. You guys have fun,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Don’t worry, we will.”

  “How did you meet this new boyfriend?”

  “Clinton? At a fringe gig,” said Poppy happily. “He spotted me in the audience and winked at me. I was shocked when one of his hangers-on’s came over to my table and handed me a backstage pass. We hit it off just like that. Like it was meant to be. He’s my rock.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  Raye rummaged through handbag again, pulled out a prescription vial and popped two Xanax in her mouth. She chewed them like candy, forcing them down in a big gulp.

  Poppy was astounded. The amount of pills her boss popped during office hours, she suspected she was constantly high on painkillers affecting her mood. She believed one day she would take an accidental overdose and keel on her face in front of her. “Wow! Isn’t it bitter?” said Poppy, wrinkling her nose.

  “What?”

  “The pills”

  “I’m used to it by now. You’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning, right?”

  “On time, I promise.” Poppy recalled the handsome man that had sometimes dropped by on Friday’s all those months ago. At first she assumed it was her father, the judge. But she suspected the way Raye drooled over him, she detected he was her lover. “So what are you doing tonight?”

  As a cardinal rule, Raye never discussed her own private life with her staff. However, in this instance, she did not want to come across as a pathetic twenty-five year old with no love life - just a boring, routine shop life. Therefore, she broke the cardinal rule to save face. “I have a date,” she said untruthfully.

  Poppy studied Raye’s face while fixing her Mp3 speakers in her ear. “Get outta here, really. Someone new? Or is it the same guy…” Poppy’s smile faded when Raye turned away, feeling she would break down and cry in front of her PA.

  Poppy placed her hand gently on her meaty shoulder. “Miss Dawkins, I’m sorry. Did I say something to upset you?”

  Raye brushed her hand off. “Poppy, I’m okay, alright,” she said harshly. “Just go!”

  God, I cannot stand you! popped in Poppy’s mind.

  She stuck out a juvenile tongue at her neurotic boss with poor social skills and quickly escaped the morbid dress shop.

 
 

  «Chapter Seventeen»

  On sultry summer evenings such as this one, nine to fivers stuffed themselves in trendy cocktail lounges relishing happy hour. An ingrained mentality of the working-class in the great city of Toronto: work damn hard during the week; play even damn harder on the weekends, forging true romance and budding friendships. Raye, however, never arranged to meet anyone after work or do anything spontaneous like accepting Poppy’s invitation. Since Eric packed a suitcase and vanished off the face of the planet, DAWKINS DRESS DESIGN had become her entire life. She had cut herself off from her friends, from any sort of fun, virtually becoming a couch potato, saturating her liver in wine; waiting for Eric Mandini to show up, like that chap, Estragon, in Samuel Becket’s Book: Waiting for Godot.

  For the past twenty minutes or so, Raye sat chock-a-block in rush-hour traffic, rammed in the four-lane grid of Eglinton Avenue. The two Xanax had kicked in, calming her nerves. With her dark glasses on, her obsession with Eric caused her to play her little find-and-seek game, flicking her gaze from one gas-guzzling vehicle to another hoping to spot him in his BMW four-by four.

  Deep down, she knew the exercise was futile.

  Forty minutes later, back in the solitude of suburbia, she turned right onto Scarlett road to La Rose Avenue. Erected at the corner was her luxury high-rise condominium, a thirty-five storey, white-brick building boasting candy-blue balconies. Every day it seemed out of nowhere, another luxury condominium shot up from the ground like a rocket, yellow cranes jutted up sporadically in the blue skies. The neighborhood was clinically clean; practically crime free, family orientated but also accommodated the fast and upcoming Neo-tech aficionados - Bill Gates offspring’s: dot.com millionaires. Residing here also were lawyers, doctors, bankers, and even Raye’s overly ambitious best friend, Sacrine Thompson, a beautiful, extrovert cocktail waitress.

  After another futile, frustrating, disappointing Friday, Raye was dying to get upstairs and pop open a bottle of wine, most likely two, to drown her sorrows, soak in a warm soothing bath then go to bed and forget about Eric… until the following Friday. She drove into the circular drive of the premises and down into the underground car park where designer metal slept: Mercedes-Benzes, Pontiacs, Jaguars, Ferraris, Range Rovers, Porsches, Volvos, mustangs and a few kick ass motorbikes. “What!” Raye did a double take when she spotted a familiar vehicle. “Ohmigod, ohmigod.”

  Alarmed, panicked, flabbergasted she weaved her white Audi A4 around thick concrete bollards - bollard after bollard, and then swerved into her designated spot: L17. She jammed a foot on the brakes before crashing into the concrete wall. She killed the engine and glared at the black BMW four-by-four she had parked along side. “Oh-My-God! Eric’s back! He’s back!”

  Her lips quivered and then she broke down in tears. The moment she had been waiting for all these months had come. But they were endless months of self torment, pretending nothing had changed between them, pretending to be oblivious to the succinct email he had sent her: Sorry, we must end this… I must end this… forgive me, Eric.

  Deep down inside she still refused to accept Eric had ended their relationship. Perhaps if he had given her the opportunity to ask why, even a chance to lose her dignity, to plead and beg for a second chance, a reconciliation, perhaps she would have had closure if it all had been done face to face. However, he had ignored all communication even hand-written notes and countless love poetry dripping with passion slipped beneath his front door.

  Raye found a tissue on the dashboard and blew her nose hard. Hearing heavy footsteps, her heartbeat quickened. She reached for a clean tissue, removed her sunglasses and, in the visor mirror carefully wiped away a blue smudge under her eyelids.

  “Oh no! What if it’s Eric on his way to his car?” She checked her side view mirror for him.

  Not seeing any sight of him, she gathered up all her things from the passenger seat, climbed out of the car and locked it. She walked to the rear of black SUV and read the personalized license plate: P298 ECM.

  A lump caught in the back of her throat. “God, it’s really his BM.”

  She scoped the vast space to see if anyone was coming.

  She was alone.

  She held the car key like a weapon, ready to strike the vehicle and do criminal damage when the slam of a car door stopped her from keying the black paint-job in a frenzied manner.

  She took in angry breaths through her nostrils and let the air out slowly, collecting herself. She started toward the elevator bank and pressed the up button, trembling like a leaf. This was how it had been after he had dumped her, petrified of running into him. She pictured herself breaking down in uncontrollable tears, tongue-tied and dribbling like an idiot.

  The metallic doors slid apart.

  Thank God.

  It was empty.

   

  «Chapter Eighteen»

  After her evening pilgrimage to the Jean’s bakery, Raye headed along the seventh floor corridor, carrying a box of delicious donuts in one hand and Enzo’s birthday present and handbag in the other. A billion butterflies fluttered about in her stomach making her feel queasy. Her eyes were focused dead ahead, praying she would make it to her apartment without running into Eric.

  Not right now anyway.

  Not in her dejected frame of mind.

  After passing 708, 707, she reached her apartment, 705, and stared at his brass nameplate adjacent to her front door.

  706

  Mr. E. C. Mandini.

  The initials should stand for Elusive. Coward… cockroach, even, ran through her mind.

  Every day she arrived home, she was reminded of him, the only man she had ever loved living so close, tormenting her. She had hoped he would have had the decency to move away - relocate to a different province: Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Northwest Territories; a different country, even: Juneau, Alaska; Machu Picchu, Peru; Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, or just drop dead - keel over and die already.

  With trepidation, she put her ear up close to his door, listening, straining to hear any movement, anything.

  She heard nothing.

  She found herself sniffing the air by the crack, but there was no scent of anything. Perhaps he was jet-lagged and sleeping. But she could not care less if he was on his deathbed. Go on! Pound on his door, wake him up, the indignant voice urged her. Demand a plausible explanation for his callous rejection, without frothing at the mouth. What gave him the right to treat you like muck on his shoes? You cooked for him. Did his dirty laundry. Baby-sat his stupid kid. Do it now!

  Are you stupid? another voice countered. Sacrifice my dignity again.

  Raye made the universal obscene gesture of contempt at his door: a stiff middle finger. She fumbled for her keys in her handbag.

  As she put the key into the mechanism of her own door, a desperate optimistic thought occurred to her. What if Eric had convinced the super to use his master key to gain entrance and, filled her living room with her favorite flowers, and with a sweet note expressing his regret and apology.

  Fat chance, came back a quick reply.

  Even so, Raye pushed her door open ever so slowly, walked into her living room and looked around expectantly.

  It was exactly as she had left it this morning.

  Disappointment filled her.

  She pressed the play button on the answering machine, desperate to hear his voice. Of the few messages from clients, the dentist office, dry cleaners and Sacrine, not one was from Eric. She sighed and reached for the remote.

  She flicked on the flat screen and set the remote down on the table. In the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of Chenin Blanc from the refrigerator, a wine glass from a cabinet, a corkscrew from a drawer, and carried them into the living room.

   She kicked off her shoes, collapsed on the sofa and popped the cork with professional ease. Sacrine, a sommelier, had shown her how. She filled her glass and took an indulgent sip to steady her nerves.

  For half an hour, she stared blankly at the
TV screen, her mind working furiously on how to win her man back into her life.

  So where is he?

  Did his ex wife pick him up?

  Did they drive to Oakville for Enzo’s birthday party?

  Is he in the residence bar upstairs?

  She thought of retouching her hair, getting a bikini wax, a manicure, and pedicure. “Oh my God… after all these months… Eric’s finally ho…”

  Raye’s head snapped toward her front door. Booming laughter erupted out in the corridor. The throaty male laugh sounded so familiar, sending a rush of adrenaline throughout her entire body. “Isn’t that, Eric?” Carefully, she set the wine glass down on the coffee table and cannon bolted to the front door.

  On tiptoes, she spied through the peephole. Seconds later and all the blood drained from her face. “Oh God, no, Eric!”

  She watched as he passionately kissed a dark-haired woman while hiking up her leg against his hip, fondling her pert bottom.

  Beautiful, tall, athletic.

  Rage gathered up inside Raye like a violent storm and washed over her. You slut! You whore! You stinking floozy! screamed the rampant words in her head. “Eric… you fucking bastard,” she whispered aloud.

  Go out there and face him, an inner voice commanded her.

  With aggressive movements, she fluffed up her hair with both hands in the foyer mirror. “Should I?” she asked her reflection. “No… you can’t!”

   On tiptoes again, like Peeping Tom, she watched her former lover engaged in foreplay, playing out in slow motion in her mind.

  What nerve!

   Is this a deliberate torment?

  Is he taunting me?

  Saying, sit back and enjoy the show.

  Down the corridor, the elevator dinged. The young woman tried to wriggle herself free of Eric’s groping hands. “Eric, stop,” she said in a breathy, hot whisper, “let’s go inside.”

  “Bella, I want you right here, right now,” he said, overflowing with lust.

  “I want you too Eric but, but not here. Let’s go inside your apartment.”

  Eric kissed her lips to stifle her complaint, but she turned her mouth away, and looked down the long corridor. “Eric, come on, your neighbors. This is embarrassing.”

  With his arms around her lower back, he ran his tongue along her slender neck, tasting the salt in her skin. “Forget about the neighbors.”

  Behind the door, Raye’s cheeks burned with anger. “Forget about the neighbors!” she whispered. “That’s exactly what you did. You forgot about me.”

  Just then, as if telepathic, Eric stopped suddenly, sensing a presence. He shot a fierce glare at the darkened peephole of Raye’s door.

  Stephanie followed his gaze, then looked back at his stern face. “Eric, what is it? What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Is someone watching us?”

  “I donno. I think so.”

  Slowly Stephanie turned her head and looked back at the darkened peephole.

  Numb with fright Raye remained absolutely still. She neither inhaled nor exhaled. Even so, she could hear her heart beating fast. Do not move, an inner voice warned. The peephole will lighten and they will know for sure you’re watching.

  “Bella, it’s nothing. Let’s go inside.” Eric picked up his briefcase, patted his jacket pocket for his keys, unlocked his door and escorted the flight attendant into his sunlit apartment.

  He slammed the door with his heel.

  Raye gasped for breath as if she had just emerged from under water.

  Feeling a wave of nausea, she hurried into the bathroom, bent over the enamel basin and barfed up her guts for the next minute or so.

  An ugly gagging sound filled the space.

  She straightened and stared at herself in the mirror. A string of saliva drooled from her lower lip to her bosom. She used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. In an instant, a switch inside her head revealed the succulent gourmet foods crammed on the shelves of her refrigerator. In the kitchen, she reached for the package of sausage rolls in a crispy light crust, ripped open the package and gorged her face, her cheeks puffed out as she did so. “You two-timing, hurtful bastard,” she cried. Pastry flakes flew out of her mouth as she spoke. “I’ll get you back. I swear I’ll get you back.”

   

  «Chapter Nineteen»

  Raye stared blankly at the fuzzy white snow on the TV screen, tears dripping off her chin helplessly. Over six hours had elapsed since she’d witnessed Eric cavorting with another woman out in the corridor. The sight had turned her whole world upside down and her hopes of fighting for him had diminished. Her spirit was broken. So far, she had downed three bottles of wine, gulping glass after glass, trying to numb the awful ache in her heart. Accompanying her spell of doom and gloom, a country-and-western song played in the background. The lyrics, full of lamentation and melancholy, plunged her further into despair.

  All of a sudden she stumbled to her feet, accidentally whacking her shin on the edge of the coffee table. The pain should be enormous, but she did not feel a thing. Inebriated to the eyeballs, she staggered down the hallway to the kitchen. It seemed she had taken leave of her senses, because she turned on the oven knob without activating the ignite button. She opened the oven door, dropped to her knees, and stuck her head inside the dark belly, imbibing the natural gas; but not enough to assist her in her fatal objective. Before she could asphyxiate herself, she began to cough and splutter, and fell back onto her rump, crashing into chair legs, toppling it. She landed partially under the table.

  “Oh God! Help me God. Help me,” she cried out.

  In a clumsy heap, she kneaded her swollen, pink eyes with her fists and knuckles, hacking violently. She crawled over to the oven, managed to switch off the methane gas, and then gripped the worktop and pulled herself up. She leaned heavily over the kitchen sink, groped for the cold tap and cupped her hands under the cold stream, splashing her eyes, frantically, quickly discovering gassing is not an effective way to die.

  In spasms of coughs, she groped her way back down the hallway like a blind without a cane, collapsed on her on the sofa and conked out.

  The newscaster’s voice brought her to consciousness.

  Monday? What happened to Saturday? Sunday?

  Lying flat on her belly, Raye lifted her head off the white cushion slowly. A sharp pain throbbed through her temples. She could smell a faint odor of gas diffusing in the air as she gazed at the awful mess on the coffee table. Amongst the empty wine bottles were crumpled snotty tissues, Xanax, an empty donut box, a sewing box, and a vial of aspirins had spilt on the glass top. There were countless clippings from old newspapers and celebrity magazines, a pair of latex gloves and a tube of glue.

  Her chubby hand shook as she fumbled up three tablets and threw them in the back of her throat. She washed them down with stale tepid wine.

  She looked up at the clock over the mantel. Five past nine!

  There was no way she could go into work in such a state. Besides, her mind was not on designing dresses; her mind was set on vengeance.

  Raye dialled her office and Poppy picked up.

  “Poppy, good morning,” she said, adopting a businesslike edge to her voice.

  “Good morning, Miss Dawkins.”

  “Can you hold down the fort today?” she enunciated carefully, trying not to slur her words.

  “Uh, sure, Miss Dawkins. Is everything okay? I called you on Saturday, but all I got was your answer phone.”

  A brief silence ensued as she tried to recall the phone ringing off the hook. Her gaze landed on two empty bottles by the leg of the table, screwed up white paper tossed aimlessly around the carpet. “Just a bit under the weather. A bit of a stomach bug. Anyone in this morning?”

  “Yes, Mrs Peck. She’s speaking to Amalia about alterations. And there’s a follow-up approving the sketches in the consultation room. A Mrs Patricia Barjarow, the interior decorator and her daughter Chloe. Remember them; they came in three weeks ago?”

  �
��Oh, yes, please, express my... hic .... sorry... my apologies. Allow her to choose the fabrics…”

  “Amalia’s a few steps ahead of you, Miss Dawkins. Mrs Barjarow came in on Saturday and chose the fabrics, the buttons, the embroidery stitch for the lapel… everything!”

  “Good. Have Amalia take their measurements again. Most likely they’ve gained or lost a few pounds.”

  “Don’t worry Miss Dawkins; we’ll take care of everything.”

  “Poppy I knew I could rely on you, the both of you. Thank you.”

  “No problem. I hope you feel better soon.”

  Raye hung up and leaned back into her sofa, exhaling loudly.

  What a set back!

  Raye had missed her ritual Sunday lunch with her family yesterday. And no show at work on Saturday. Deep down she knew she should be out there striving to debut her autumn/winter collection for Toronto Fashion Week in October, the venue, the Metro Convention Centre. Hire plus-size models from model agencies to showcase her bespoke clothes. Hire a publicist to promote her range of clothes in fashion magazines and newspapers. Negotiate lucrative contracts with fashion houses and fashion buyers. Instead, she was hiding out in her apartment like a wounded lioness in her lair, inconsolable over her ex. She was depleted, physically, mentally and morally. Not only had she uncorked the bottles of wine she had uncorked a dark side of her brain.

  She was not herself anymore, no longer Raye Anne Dawkins.

  Something deep inside her had snapped, revealing a different personality.

  As another hiccup escaped her throat, she snapped on a pair of protective gloves and flexed her ten fingers.

  She picked up a pair of scissors from her sewing kit and continued where she had left off.

  For the next forty-five minutes or so, she searched through newspapers, pausing to take sips of her wine, slowly and methodically, cutting out printed text and pasting it on blank A4 paper. Curling, from the sport section and Club, from the society pages were her hardest finds.

  After finish cutting and pasting, she dragged her arm over her brow, then over her top lip. She flopped back against the sofa and admired her handcrafted handiwork. “Oh God, what the hell am I doing?” She sat up abruptly and peeled off the latex gloves. “No! Don’t back out on me now,” she scolded herself, sick of playing the victim role.

  That bastard needs to know, once and for all, what it’s like to have one’s heart broken into pieces, ripped out and dripping with blood.

  The burning desire to inflict excruciating pain on her ex lover fuelled her. She set aside the note and gathered up the newspapers and magazines, some pages shredded like confetti. She slipped the scissors randomly between the folds and placed them on the lower tier of the coffee table.

  “It’s payback time. All I need is an accomplice.”

  As Raye walked by the kitchen, she stopped mid stride. She could hardly believe what she was seeing: water gushing from the cold tap - made her want to pee badly - the overturned chair, the oven door wide open. She went in and turned off the tap, shut the oven, and picked up the toppled chair. Aghast, her gaze darted around the marble worktop trying to find evidence of what she had roasted. Amidst the microwave, toaster, coffee maker, paper towel holder, she saw no evidence of any evidence of cooking.

  Attempting to gas herself had escaped her memory.

  Wavering in front of the bathroom mirror Raye looked grimly at her pitiful reflection. Bloodshot eyes were caked with indigo and blue-black makeup; matted platinum hair clung to her scalp; pink-rimmed nostrils dried with snot, the disgusting cold sore.

  Yuck!

  Her sexy outfit, the one she wore to her office on Friday was filthy as a bag lady: wine-stained, crushed and damp from perspiration.

  Her bursting bladder distracted her utter disdain.

  As she sat down on the toilet, peeing copiously and noisily, she felt a throbbing pain in her right leg and raised it to see a nasty thick red line across the shinbone. She strived to think of how she got it, but she had no memory.

  After flushing the toilet, she stripped off her soiled clothes and stepped under the powerful jet. Hot tears sluiced down her cheeks, feeling a plethora of emotions: abandonment, hurt, angry, empty, betrayed, jilted.

  After towelling herself down, she stuffed the damp towels in the wicker laundry basket along with her dirty clothes and carried it to the bedroom. There, she yanked the bedclothes from her bed and stuffed them in too. Two pillows tumbled off onto the white shag carpet without a peep.

  Sitting at her ornate dressing table, she stretched her lower lids and dropped Visine into her red eyes - to clear up the telltale signs of crying.

  After camouflaging the cluster of red bumps on the corner of her mouth, she applied foundation, eye make-up and blow-dried her platinum blonde hair bone straight. Without a single stitch of underwear on, she dressed in a provocative white silk blouse, revealing a lot of cleavage and a white tulle skirt.

  She reached for a bottle of perfume and squirted behind her ears, on both wrists and by her crotch. In her strappy white four-inch heels, she admired herself in the mirror, striking several sideways and backward poses, swaying and trying to keep her balance. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Back in the living room, she chugged a full glass of wine, picked up the note carefully, slipped it in a jiffy sandwich bag - a transparent plastic bag - and plunged it deep into her cleavage. With the laundry basket resting on one hip, she peeked through the peephole to make sure the coast was clear.

  She pulled the door open and closed it quietly. For the first time since Friday, she left her apartment under the pretext of going to wash her clothes in the laundry room. She wavered down the long, dimly lit corridor like a drunken trollop.

   

  «Chapter Twenty»

  The jilted dressmaker staggered pass the communal laundry room with not even a sideways glance. She reached a door branded JANITOR, on its shiny brass plaque. Through the half-open door, she could see the janitor down on one knee working on a metal contraption. And for some strange reason opaque dark glasses obscured his eyes. Raye recalled the very first time she had ever laid eyes on him. It was back in February, several days after Eric’s cold rejection and was consumed with malicious spite and revenge. On her way to her dress shop, she had suddenly stuck her hand through the bodies of other residence on the elevator and pressed L to the lobby. When the doors slid open she’d stepped off and, there he was, James Taylor Pandolfi, aka JP, mopping the marble foyer. A cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling up around his squinted eyes.

  To size him up, Raye skulked by the letter-box bank nervously, pretending to retrieve her mail. He was built like a bull from bench-pressing heavy weights in prison courtyards - with the aid of anabolic steroids, no doubt.

  And his reputation preceded him. With no respect for authority, JP was one of Toronto’s menaces of the modern day. He was forever shoved up against a bonnet of a squad car, frisked thoroughly, then had his wrists handcuffed behind his back and thrown in the back of the cruiser. And, his rap sheet was long and random: notorious drug dealer, assault with a dangerous weapon, bitch-slapping hookers, credit-card fraudster, vandalism, handling stolen property, gunrunner, and acts of gratuitous violence like road rage, drunk and disorderly had been just a fraction of his criminal activities. His biggest offense had him banged up for five years for smuggling a large quantity of narcotics through customs after arriving back from Bogotá, Columbia. He had been previously arrested for travelling under a fake passport, which drew the attention of the airport officials.

  After leaving her dress shop that same evening, she downed a bottle of white wine in St Lawrence Market wine bar, then drove home and parked in her designated spot in the underground car park. Instead of heading straight up the elevator to her condominium, she headed through the service entrance to the janitor’s room. She had introduced herself, not knowing exactly what she wanted from a career criminal, obviously mentally ill. But there was nothing worse in
all of humanity than an obsessed woman scorned.

  Fuelled by drink again, she pushed the door wide open until it hit the wall and struck a drunken pose in the doorway. The janitor, wearing a royal-blue jumpsuit, similar to the regulation orange he wore in maximum-security prison, looked up, startled. Whenever a tenant required a kitchen sink unclogging, or a squeaky door oiling, or a toilet unblocking, or a leaky tap fixing, they were required to put it in writing or fill out a maintenance form and contact the superintendent directly. Not just turn up at the janitor’s door.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Have you forgotten me already?”

  The janitor’s bushy eyebrows furrowed as he examined her plump face.

  “Fuck me, Raye, is that you?”

  She nodded without a reply; a floozy half-smile spread across her face.

  The janitor licked his chapped lips lasciviously, seeing the voluptuous young woman standing there like a Las Vegas showgirl; a washed-up one that had let herself go. How could he possibly forget her lewd behavior those months ago, slurring her sad love story, asking for his help?

  Never in his wildest dreams had he expected someone of her class, her ilk, entering his sordid life. Now, here she was again, leering at him suggestively.

  “So, you’re back.” He stood up from his knees revealing random paint and black engine oil stains, on his overalls; both underarm, wet with sweat. He strode toward her and pecked her cheek. “Good to see you again, sweet cakes.”

  “You’ve been on my mind, lately.” The strong smell of alcohol oozing from her breath, her pores, assailed his nostrils.

  “Have I now? So where have you been hiding?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Howsit going, sweet cakes?”

  “Peachy!” she whispered bitterly.

  “What was that?”

  “Mmm? Oh, nothing.”

  The janitor led her by the hand like a child to his worktable, cluttered with smut magazines and empty beer cans which he recycled as ashtrays.

  A single hiccup escaped her throat.

  “Boozing so early.”

  “I’ve been indulging a little.”

  “What’s the occasion?” He sat in his swivel chair, pulling her closer to him.

  “Do I need one?” she said, inhaling his malodorous odors.

  With her dignity and pride saturated in booze, she lifted a leg and straddled his lap. The chair squeaked painfully under their weight. He looped his hands around her waist. “You’ve filled out a bit.”

   “Charming, you make me feel so fat,” she slurred sulkily.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He gripped rolls of flesh in his hands. “I like it. Something to hold on to.”

  Up close, his hot breath was kicking; a mixture of cigarettes and rotten teeth and it made her feel queasy. She suppressed the urge to gag, reminding herself mentally: on a mission Raye. She removed his dark glasses, set them down on the Formica-topped desk behind him, draped her arms around his pit bull neck and gazed into his drug-glazed red-eyes.

  “Are you here to seduce me again?” he wanted to know.

  “Seduce you?” She held his face and kissed him on the mouth, tilting her head this way and that for several seconds. JP closed his eyes and returned her kiss, tasting the wine on her lips. He forced his tongue deep into her mouth, kissing her greedily. She could feel his erection growing harder beneath her.

  All of a sudden, Raye broke free for air feeling nothing but utter disgust.

  “Seduce you. What do you think?”

  JP locked eyes with hers. “How come you only come to see me when you’re drunk?” he asked, his mouth smeared in magenta and gleaming with saliva.

  “So shoot me.”

  “So shoot you,” he repeated baffled, not knowing that she was in a meltdown.

  His gnarled fingers found its way between her warm inner thighs, crawling up her bare flesh until he touched a mesh of black hairs.

  He bit his lower lip seductively. “Going commando, I see.”

  She gasped as he slipped a finger deep inside her, then two, thrusting her slowly, all the while holding her gaze. “Your cunt is so wet, so hot.”

  She grabbed a firm hold of his muscular arm to stop.

  He chuckled. “You little cock teaser.” He removed his hand and sniffed his fingertips. “It’s not even noon and you’re pissed already. Don’t you got a business to go run?”

  “You’re not exactly straight.”

  “No bullshit about that. But at least I’m at work.”

  With his grimy fingers, he unbuttoned her blouse, releasing her large milky breasts, like udders, inches from his face. He squeezed her warm flesh between his fingertips. “I want you to come see me more often.” He ducked his head and sucked a firm cherry nipple. “I love your tits,” he whispered as he did.

  She threaded her fingers through his limp, oily hair as he sucked voraciously, noisily. “JP, have you considered my proposition?”

  “What proposition was that again?” He moved to the other nipple, circling his tongue in slow a motion, drooling with saliva.

  “Don’t pretend JP, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about… kidnapping the Mandini boy.”

  He looked up at her stern, serious face. “Ah, come on, sweet cakes, not again.”

  “JP, I know it was a difficult decision to make back then, but he’s back! Eric’s back in town. He came home on Friday.”

  “Yeah, but when you realized he went away, you stopped bugging me about it, you kept your distance. And just like I told you them months ago, I can’t get involved with shit like that. I’m on parole, remember.”

  “Oh pluh wheeze,” she said with a sultry pout, sounding like a five-year-old. “I’d be completely grateful if you did this for me.”

  “Sorry sweet cakes, I thought you gave up on such a bad idea.”

  “Is Jimmy Pandolfi scared of getting caught?” She pinched both his cheeks, gazing into his eyes. “Is that it, big man?”

  “Heck no.”

  “Then come on baby. No guts, no glory!”

  JP did not intend on getting involved in her risky business, but he goaded her, hoping she will offer herself on a platter as she did back then. “What’s in it for me again?”

  “Sexual favors.”

  “Lick my balls to prove it. I loved it when you licked my balls.” He unzipped his fly, releasing his rock-hard cock and wrapped her warm fingers around it. “Take care of him now,” he said, jerking his bushy dark brows up and down.

  Just as before, Raye was astounded by the girth in her sweaty palm.

  “Patience big boy, patience. First, you’ve got to say you’ll do it. Say yes… please”

  “Oh, com’mon sweat cakes…”

  “JP, just think. When will you ever have such a nice chunk of cash?”

  “Probably never.”

  “So do this for me… please.” Raye pushed out her lower lip and batted her lashes.

  “Kidnap is not my expertise, sweet cakes.”

  Insisting to get her way, she placed her hand around the shaft of his penis, and jerked it slowly. Premature semen seeped through the slit on his pink helmet.

  “Ooh, you’re such a cock teaser.”

  Raye flicked her tongue like a rattlesnake. “I promise I’ll take care of JP junior later.” She extracted the jiff plastic from her cleavage, slipped it out with her fingertips, unfolded it carefully, and waved it in front of his nose.

  The janitor drew his chin back, knitting his brow. “What’s this?” He read the cut-out text; a montage of black text pasted on the A4 paper. His expression changed to a look of shock, his brows furrowed hard.

 

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