From the very start, she’s longed to find work, so with April half-gone already, she knows she’ll need to get that job fairly soon, because her blackjack hoard, which seemed so enormous at first, won’t last long here. Shoe repair, peanut butter, movie tickets, not to mention her rent: everything’s so expensive in New York. And she’s got to start meeting some men, too. Very soon. She ticks off the days on a bank calendar.
One damp morning after a great, brisk run in the park, Fernanda’s cooling down. The skies are an optimistic blue and the fragrance of the April earth smells … almost like home. It’s her very first Spring, as well, so, contentedly settling herself on a curved stone bench (a bench that would once have tortured her back) she’s looking at all the couples – most of them young, like her – who are holding hands, chatting, consulting maps, pushing strollers, bickering. Why bickering on this wonderful day, she thinks? What a total waste of youth. But even at this early hour, most passersby appear to be as happy to be here as she is, and she’s just closed her eyes to daydream a bit, when two men sit down on her bench, one on either side.
“Have you met my friend?” says the man to her right. He’s wearing a collared mesh shirt and khakis. His crinkly dark beard is unpleasantly dusted with what seem to be pale-yellow crumbs.
Fernanda shoots upright, one hand on her fanny pack.
“What do you mean ‘Have I met your friend’?” She looks from one to the other. “I don’t know you.”
The men grin at each other across her. The speaker nods to his friend and they slide a little closer. Fernanda’s heart begins to thump.
“Nah, I was just pranking you. We just couldn’t believe someone who looks like you would be here alone. We thought we’d chance it.”
Chance what? What does he mean?
The second man, the man with his shirtsleeves rolled up, is wearing jeans – those ubiquitous jeans – and he adds, “Yeah. It was just a prank.” His chest fills his shirtfront; his tattooed forearms ripple.
His buddy expels a great wad of gum, but a drop of spittle hangs, glistening repulsively, in his beard.
“I’m expecting my boyfriend,” Fernanda says, wondering where that came from.
She’s never liked facial hair. Never, she thinks. But maybe he’s nice despite the beard and the gum. Maybe this is how you meet men. She should just play along. And she does need a man – men – and the “friend” is sort of nice-looking. Fernanda turns hesitantly toward him and catches him ogling her breasts. He doesn’t even look away.
“You know, now that I come to think of it,” she says, kind of annoyed and ignoring his gaze, “I do know you. Didn’t I see you on Jeopardy last week? Weren’t you the one who knew that women aren’t …” she thinks fast “… attracted to Lotharios?”
“Jeopardy? What’s Jeopardy?” The beard guffaws and drops an arm behind her on the bench. He touches her hair. Fernanda leans forward.
“And what’s Lothario?” the other one says.
Not these men, Fernanda decides, standing. She doesn’t want to be here with these men.
“So long,” she says, beginning to walk away. She doesn’t look back.
“So long? So long till what? So long since we’ve been sucked off? Come back, Miss Tits.”
They slide even closer together and fist-bump and slap at each other and crow like little boys who’ve keyed the neighbor’s car.
Blown down the walk by their laughter, Fernanda hates it that they find her funny.
The beard yells after her now. “How about a threesome?”
Just then, she sees Marcia Welliver and her little dog walking towards her and, her cheeks flaming, she grabs at Marcia’s arm.
“Hi, Marcia. Remember me? Fernanda Turner? From our building?”
“Oh, Fernanda. Sure I remember you. Who wouldn’t? You’re memorable.”
She hadn’t realized how slight Marcia is. How she’s barely there. And how huge she feels by contrast. The difference in height forces her to bend even to hear her, or to talk.
“Can I walk with you?” she says quietly. “I’d love some company. I bumped into some mashers over there.”
“Mashers? What are those?”
Damn!
“Jerks, I guess. Er … assholes. Hitting on me. Masher’s a word my mother used to use. In Missouri.”
“Oh, horndogs, you mean. Hey, I wouldn’t mind meeting a few of those. Where are they?” She pretends to look hungrily around and makes Fernanda laugh.
The little terrier – if that’s what it is – joyously noses at discarded candy wrappers and nearby shoes, then skitters back and forth beside them. And doesn’t come anywhere near Fernanda.
Marcia’s what they used to call “plain”, she thinks. In the old movies, she’d have been the girl with the “very fine eyes”. And while Fernanda hasn’t been in town very long and hasn’t been young very long, she knows, deep down, that here, in Manhattan, fine eyes won’t be enough. The competition’s tough. The competition is her.
“You know, maybe we could go out together sometime, Marcia. I don’t know my way around at all, and I would really love a guide. A friend, too,” she hesitantly adds.
She’s embarrassed by Marcia’s reply.
“I’d love that, Fernanda. Believe me, I know all the great places, and I’ll be honest, it would be awesome to go anywhere with you. I could be …” she lights up like Times Square, “I could be”, she grins, “like a lady-in- waiting to the queen.”
“Oh, God, don’t say that. You’re nobody’s lady-in-waiting and I’m nobody’s queen.”
“But I am waiting actually.” Her fine eyes are fixed on the pavement, and she’s suddenly hard to hear. “I’m waiting for ‘the one’. You know, Mr. Right? Although at this point,” she fakes a chuckle, “even Mr. Half-Right. To be honest,” Marcia looks up at her wistfully, “Mr. Warm Body will do.” She smiles, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “I’m thirty-seven years old and I look it, and I’ve been living alone for fifteen years now. Since college. Oh, and I’m a banker, in case I haven’t said so. Have I told you that?”
“You didn’t,” says Fernanda. She’s impressed.
“So wouldn’t you think, what with meeting new people all the time and being around so many men, I’d have gotten lucky already? But no.” Marcia grimaces. “And my parents are on me all the time, mainly, I guess, because I’m their only child. I’m telling you, it’s been hard.”
She gathers up the dog, lifts her to her face, and kisses her ear.
“But shit,” she says. “I guess I have absolutely no shame or self-restraint anymore, telling you all this. It’s just that you seem so – well, grown up, I suppose. Mature, I mean. Although, you know, I’ve been noticing you in the elevator and, well … I thought you looked a little lost, maybe? I hope you don’t mind my mentioning that.”
Fernanda shakes her head, her attention suddenly caught by a shuffling, stooped old woman passing them by, her arm looped through the arm of a sturdy Hispanic caretaker talking on her cellphone. That might have been her, she thinks.
“In spite of that, you always seem so – oh – together.” Marcia’s chatter brings her back. “What’s your secret?”
Fernanda is startled by the description. Does she really seem to have a secret? And it’s visible?
“There’s no secret,” she replies. “And I’m definitely not, as you call it, together. It’s probably, I guess, that I’m sometimes, um … more within myself than most people. Maybe because I don’t know anyone here?”
Marcia takes her arm.
“Well, now you do, Fernanda. And you can dog-walk with me anytime. Bean and I will protect you from, what did you call them? Mashers? Like for potatoes?”
They giggle, and before they get home, Marcia suggests the two of them go for a drink later on.
“Let’s hang out for a while,” she says. “I could really use a beautiful friend.”
It’s about to begin at last.
elegant monogrammed
&n
bsp; CHAPTER 6
His moist hand is cupping the back of her neck and he leans toward her, crooning. “Your skin is so great. Have I told you, I’ve always had a thing for redheads? Even the freckles.”
He leans back with a smile. Cocksure.
Fernanda wishes she felt flattered. She doesn’t have freckles, in fact. But ‘He’s always had a thing …’? Where did he get that? From Jason, maybe, the wild-eyebrowed friend at the next stool in this stifling bar. Jason – or was it Jaden or Jay? – probably told him this always works: that every woman – no matter what she looks like – is ready to believe she has nice skin. Or hair. Or nice anything at all, really.
His hand slips down her bare back and slides proprietarily around her ribcage. Where it sits damply, like it thinks it belongs.
“What do you do?” he asks. “I’ll bet you have a great job.”
Lord, his smile is lovely. Is he?
“I’m kind of new here. I don’t have a job yet.”
Leaving that moist hand in place, he draws himself up to what looks to be six feet plus, and for the first time regards her with actual interest. “What kind of job are you looking for? Something to do with customer relations, I’ll bet.”
Should she be bristling at the belittling undercurrent there? Or was that a compliment? It’s because I’m good-looking, she thinks. Hot. “Hot.” She keeps having to remember that word.
“I’m hoping for something in the art world, maybe. But I don’t have a lot of experience, so maybe a receptionist or something.”
“No kidding! That’s so cool.”
She’s not certain what’s “cool” about being a receptionist, but she’s not displeased that he’s pleased. And she should try not to be judgmental. She needs him. For the baby. (Not for himself, she’s pretty sure.) Because she’s very much under the gun now.
The hand urges her closer and she makes herself relax. This is what she’s been waiting for, after all. This is why she’s been sitting here on this tiny barstool on this unseasonably warm April night. This is why she and Marcia put three other bars behind them before settling on this one on Lex. Why they’ve been hanging out for the last hour or so, just sizing up the men from their table by the wall. Why she’s settled on this one, actually. On maybe-handsome, not-too-smarmy, age-appropriate … Ben? Who’s pressing her nearer right now.
It’s starting. She hunches her shoulders protectively.
“Why don’t we go somewhere?” he whispers. “What did you say your name was again? Fern?”
Well, why would he remember?
“No, Fernanda.” Her voice sounds fainter and tighter than she’d intended. Could he hear her? The music is pure red noise, the speakers are too near. She forces herself to smile, brightly, expectantly, suppressing the sickening stuff. He’s tall, but so is she. They are eye to guileful eye.
“Where do you want to go? My place? Yours?”
Fernanda spins on the stool (a weird flash of memory there) and searches for Marcia, still at their table and more than relaxed, apparently, with two not-half-bad men and a girl she doesn’t know. Laughing, and waving one braceletted bare arm at a waiter, Marcia looks to be way past the loosening-up-with-wine stage and well into what she’s confided is her favorite: shots of red-headed-slut. Which is what Fernanda’s about to become.
But that’s the plan, isn’t it? Since that lethal drink with Randi. Since she got here last month. Since earlier today, when she agreed to go out for drinks. She’s been waiting for this. Because she needs to find Him, really. Or have the baby, somehow. Without having the sex? That would be perfect, she thinks, because she’s just met him. (And does a bar actually constitute a “meeting”?) Because she doesn’t know him. May not even like him at all.
Though it’s looking a lot like she’s going to have to do the sex.
“Hey, Fernanda.” Marcia’s seen her and called across the room in that chirpy soprano that’s much the worse for wear just now. “Who’s that with you?”
“It’s, um … Ben. Isn’t it?”
She’s turned back to him too quickly, scraping her chin against his stubbled cheek. “Ooh. Sorry!” she laughs. Flirtatiously?
Ben. Yes, that’s right. Who’s handling her like she’s already his.
His right hand, the one clutching the tepid Corona, comes briefly into view. Olive skin with curling hairs – and even the knuckles are hairy. He’ll be hairy all over, she thinks. Unless he shaves. Marcia says that some men shave.
“Yeah, Ben.” He puts his lips to her bare shoulder.
“We’re leaving now,” he calls across the room to Marcia. “Fernanda will see you tomorrow.”
Abruptly, he’s kissing her mouth, and his tongue – abrasive, hot, alien – is pushing so easily past her lips, and like some eyeless worm, is searching out her own.
His tongue, his tongue is in her throat!
Fernanda steels herself not to pull away. And rabbit-still, she lets him explore her mouth, her teeth, the smooth insides of her cheeks. But now she’s aware of some stir of forgotten response. Warm. Familiar. Vaguely uncomfortable. Very warm. She doesn’t move.
Can’t.
Ben breaks off now to stand, and pulling her brusquely to her feet, snakes her through the crowd, through the open door, and out onto the breathless street.
“We’ll go to my place,” he tells her, his bar voice sounding loud out here. “You’re okay with Brooklyn, aren’t you?”
Brooklyn! She doesn’t want to spend the night there, wherever Brooklyn is. How will she get back to the city? And, oh God. If Ben really isn’t Him, are there taxis in Brooklyn?
“Um, no. I don’t mind. That’s fine.” Fernanda proffers her hand.
A long, libidinous cab ride later, she’s relieved to find that he lives in a place much neater and nicer than she’d expected a single man’s apartment to be. Good-sized, to tell the truth, with high ceilings, tall windows, a scatter of oriental rugs, and just visible below the skirt of a corduroy sofa, a pair of jockey shorts. From the last time, she thinks. He’s kicked it under there, expecting to bring someone home.
Ben closes the door soundlessly and turns to her.
“Want a drink first?” His voice is thick.
“Do you have any red wine?”
She feels herself trembling.
“Do I have red wine? For you, I have green wine, blue wine, orange wine, whatever you want.”
“I’ve never seen another woman like you, you know that?” he calls to her. “And not just me. You walked into that bar and every guy in the place got hard.”
Fumbling with the corkscrew, he moves to the kitchen doorway and stares. He clears his throat.
“How’d I get so lucky? You’re a goddess, Fern. A rock star. You know that, don’t you?”
She knows that.
He pours wine into two huge goblets.
But then, he’s not actually bad-looking either: wavy hair with a neat old-fashioned part, long eyelashes, the suggestion of a dimple … only one.
I think I might like him.
Actually, I do like him.
This might be nice after all.
The heat of his eyes is scorching her breasts. His gaze drops to her endless legs, bare and milky pale, and she watches, entirely detached, as his eyes move appreciatively up, and up again, and focus finally on the increasingly hot place where her hands rest protectively in the folds of her skirt.
Depositing the wine and glasses on the countertop, he crosses the room to press against her hard. They fall together on the sofa’s oh-so-yielding cushions. And he’s all over her. Hands, mouth, hips.
Fernanda is stone.
I can’t do this I really can’t do this no I don’t want this no who is this man and do I even like him no I won’t go through with this.
But her body – this alien body – likes it. Loves it, actually. It’s telling her it doesn’t care if she likes him or feels a little sick or is remotely ready for a baby-making thing. Fernanda feels herself panting and quiveri
ng and wet. It’s an incredible shock, because how can her body be ready – for a man who’s a perfect stranger? What about love? The only word that allowed this when she was a girl? The love she was offering her soul for? Not even a mention.
And yet she’s kissing him back really hard, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding her hand inside. It’s hot there, and hairy. She guessed right. And she’s not totally sure, but she thinks she just – wants it.
They rise to their feet, intertwined.
“Let’s take our wine in the bedroom. It’s nicer in there and we can just stretch out.”
Adjusting her skirt and distractedly smoothing her hair, Fernanda follows him to where a lordly bed, all pillowed and fluffed, takes up the whole of the malodorous room. Mildew? Sweat socks? Bedbugs? But the bed looks clean, and she’s gladdened a little by the light coming in from the single, street-facing window as she lowers herself gingerly to its edge, taking care not to muss the duvet.
Ben returns to the living room to retrieve their glasses and sets them on the bedside table. Standing over her, pressing his legs tight against her knees, he starts to unzip his fly.
It’s a BJ.
Marcia told her about it.
She leans away.
I don’t know even know what he does, she thinks, what his work is, what movies he likes, not to mention diseases. Do I have to swallow?
But Ben’s in a hurry. He unzips his jeans and drops them to his ankles.
Catch 26 Page 9
