After, as he lay there completely spent, I carefully rose from my cramped position. I sent him a basilisk stare, one that reveled in my power, but announced that the moment was over.
“I’m going to bed. Please leave. No more games.”
I didn’t listen to any words he might have said. I locked myself in the bedroom, put on my noise canceling headphones, and thought for five minutes about what I had done to him. A booty call? Hardly. A hookup? Not when one person wielded total power over another, as I had just demonstrated. No, I had shown Sean a side to life that in his innocence he had never experienced. Perhaps what I had done to him might even be considered rape. I’d never asked him for a safe word, either. But I didn’t hurt him. I simply showed him a vista beyond the trivial kissing and carrying on he’d been playing at. I gave him a glimpse of what he could have had with me if he’d been willing to be my lover.
What I gave Sean tonight was my love for him, or at least, a preview of what my love with him could be. Intense. All-consuming. Passionate. I expected him to back away and stay away from now on, because all along, his intentions had been light and casual. I could do the friendzone, but I couldn’t be casually sexual where I cared for someone. His lightly bestowed caresses had wakened the tiger in me. I had shown him my fierce animal side tonight. I had given him a taste of what love with me could be.
***
The next morning, early, I received a delivery of a dozen red roses with a note from Sean.
Chapter 14
The delivery girl refused a tip. “No, no. I’ve already been tipped.”
I brought in the flowers, fearful as to what the note might contain but willing to face the consequences of my actions. I opened the cute little envelope and read the card, which contained nothing more than a handwritten bar of music notation.
I knew all those notes. I sang the bar. Of course. The end of Act I of La Traviata, when Alfredo sang outside Violetta’s house, begging her to yield to love, singing words about the ‘torture unending’ of loving without being loved in return.
Every soprano sang a lot of Traviata at the beginning of her career. It suited a girlish young voice, and it was in the top five of most popular operas. Every opera company in the world gave it. Violetta was a young demimondaine—a high-class prostitute—in nineteenth-century Paris who allowed a far more innocent suitor into her heart. Then she broke her own much more callused heart over him. In the end, she died, and his heart was broken, too, but healed by the beauty of their brief reunion.
I knew a lot about loving and not being loved in return. What did this note mean? I couldn’t be sure, but it was a graceful action on Sean’s part. Half of me hoped it was the last time we had any personal communication. The other half wanted it all.
I was hungry. So hungry. I wanted Sean and I wanted sex with Sean—or, depending on how one defines oral pleasuring, more sex with Sean. I wanted him in the worst way, and I was desperate right now for a candy bar, a pint of high-quality ice cream, and some orange-dyed cheese puffs. I’d often wondered why they dyed it that livid orange. In a binge mood, I would eat cardboard if it had enough salt and grease, so why the orange dye? I needed food, and I needed help.
I called my therapist. It was Friday morning. She should be in her office. She knew the worst about me, because I had told her everything.
She calmed me down by reminding me of where I had been a year ago and how far I had come on the road of recovery. “You’ve made incredible progress. Don’t let a big emotional issue stop you now.”
The whole world had not been watching when my near-death experience happened and I finally decided to change my life. I didn’t know if I could ever tell anyone about it, at least, not in detail. I had told my therapist. After I did, she gave me her private phone number and ordered me to call her at any hour if I felt I needed to. Any hour. I called her many times.
Part of the change was dieting to a healthy, sustainable weight. Part was learning to speak up on my own behalf in professional situations. And the third part, the most important part, was not letting myself fall for a man who didn’t love me as much as I loved him. Half of me wanted that kind of love from Sean Grant. The other half feared it was impossible to find anywhere.
***
All Friday morning, Franco and I rehearsed the final act of Tosca very intensely. It was a pitiful act. Mario knew he would soon die, and he sang about how he suddenly realized how precious life was just when he was about to lose it. That aria always brought down the house. Of course Franco and Herr Kaufmann debated the musical phrasing here and there, and Richard got in his licks in the afternoon. My role was easier. As Tosca, I was full of hope and a desperate kind of happiness. I had a tender reunion with Mario, and then I confidently coached my lover about how to fake dying when the firing squad shot their blanks. Only they weren’t blanks. The squad left us, and I told him it was safe to get up. But he couldn’t answer, because he was dead after all. Scarpia had cheated me, just as I had cheated him. As his henchman, Spoletta, and more police came after me to arrest me for murder, I raced up the steps to the top of the building and threw myself off, shouting that Scarpia and I would meet again before God.
My part in Act III was more athletic than artistic, although again, Puccini had me changing my moods over and over in a very short period of time. Febrile excitement at first, joy at reunion, then a kind of professional confidence as I instructed Mario how to pretend to die, and then the horror of learning the truth of his death.
Franco and I had the act down. We were dismissed. Neither the maestro nor the director needed us on Saturday. Or maybe it was the warming spring weather. An entire empty weekend stretched ahead of me. What should I do with it? I’d better find something, or the lure of the bakery, the doughnut shop, or the grocery store could overcome me. Or Sean, who in my mind was like all those shops rolled into one. He hadn’t been around for rehearsals today because I’d killed him in the prior act. But he also might be avoiding me.
I called Claudio. “Does anybody need a soprano? I’ve got nothing to do this whole weekend and I’m not in the mood to visit Fort McHenry.” The nearby War of 1812 monument site wasn’t likely to soothe my aching feelings.
“Don’t you ever rest?”
“I have to keep busy. I guess I could go back to my apartment in New York, but I still wouldn’t have anything to do and who needs the extra travel?” It was either do something or eat and mope. Or eat and mope and then eat some more. Because I didn’t expect Sean to contact me. I expected him to stay a professional, friendzone distance away from now on.
Claudio called me back fifteen minutes later as I was in a cab heading for my condo. He had an offer from the Federal Concert Opera in Washington, DC. The scheduled soprano had come down with a cold or possibly spring allergies. Could I fill in? I could sing anything I chose.
“Absolutely,” I told him. “I can do some Verdi and even a bit of Puccini. But don’t tell me it’s tonight. There’s no time to rehearse with the orchestra or to find a gown. I didn’t bring one with me.” Also, the concert gowns I had back in my New York City apartment, except for the one I’d just worn at the Merrill Gala, were too big for me now. I hadn’t done a concert the whole winter, but I’d lost twenty pounds. That was an entire plus size.
“Can you find something in Washington?”
“Absolutely. There are lots of one-of-a-kind gowns in the boutiques catering to all those congressmen’s wives and foreign dignitaries’ wives. Not to mention female members of Congress and judges.”
“I can probably get you a dress allowance in addition to the fee, considering what short notice it is.”
“We’re already soaking them for transportation and meals.”
“Reasonable expenses,” he reminded me.
“It’ll depend on the gown. If I find something really expensive, I might need financial support for it. I’d be willing to split the costs because I can use it again if the event isn’t being televised.”
�
��No, you can’t,” he said, with an air of forced patience because we’d had this discussion before. “Everything gets online, legally or otherwise. You’re too famous for that trick now unless you wear a basic black number and change the neckline or wear some fantastic necklace that draws attention away.”
Claudio came from a family of designers and was very conscious of my need to dress like a diva to make an impression. His advice was sound, as always.
Which was how I ended up abandoning my Baltimore condo in a hurry. I hopped on the next train to Washington, DC and texted Diana I was coming. She lived in a townhouse with a guest room and I finally had time to see her for more than a few hours. Diana was single for the weekend. An executive with a professional psychiatric association, her job seldom involved travel, but her significant other was a globe-trotting journalist and was out of town.
We sat in Diana’s cozy den that Friday night and I poured out my heart about Sean. “Thank heavens I remembered you’d be here. Not only do I need something to do this weekend, I also totally need to vent. If I hadn’t gotten away from Baltimore, all my neuroses would have taken over, and my addictions, and the next thing I know I’d be smoking and drinking and having sex with strange men—not the strange men I work with, more’s the pity. At least I have something in common with them.”
“Too much, it sounds like.”
“Yeah, maybe Sean is a sex addict, too, without the emotional attachment. He always seems so light and happy.”
Diana smirked. “I’d probably be happy if I was getting off with a new woman every night.”
“I may be doing him an injustice,” I said. I took a sip of my pretend mimosa, which was big on orange juice and ginger ale instead of champagne. “Then again, maybe not.”
Diana lounged on a suede couch while I sat on a large upholstered chair. “You’re a lot older than him, right?”
“Six years.”
“He’s probably still in the player stage. You’ve moved on to the ‘Save yourself before it’s too late’ stage.”
“Thanks for nothing. Although you’re right. He’s maybe twenty-nine, if that.”
“A baby.”
“A sexy, hot baby. Now that he’s had his booty call, though, I’m done. Life’s too short.”
Diana put a hand on mine. “Somewhere out there is a man who will see how special you are and love you for it.”
“I can only hope. So far, I’ve been wrong every time.”
“You gave too much. You let them dictate the terms.”
“And then I begged for crumbs, don’t forget,” I said. I played with my bracelet, a silver bangle. A nervous gesture, but no calories were involved. I had to learn to become conscious of all my nervous habits. If I wanted to keep a habit, like playing with bracelets, I should be aware of what I was doing. I wanted to shed the bad habit of picking lovers who didn’t love me.
I said, “I wish I could settle in one place, but then again, I don’t. I enjoy the constant travel. It’s the loneliness that bugs me.”
“By now, you should have a routine to cope.”
“I do, but if anything upsets me, if I get stressed over the performance or over some man, or whatever, the loneliness sends me to food.”
“You’ve lost a ton of weight. You look great.”
“Thanks. But I’m still big. And it’s hard. When I binge, it’s like I’m an alcoholic who drinks cheap, screwtop booze. Anything will do.”
Diana was silent a moment. “You told me you were seeing a therapist. How’s that working?”
I didn’t mind telling her how my therapy was going. Diana already knew all my secrets. “Pretty well. But I can’t call a therapist at all hours to talk me down from my cravings.”
“Didn’t she tell you to call her anytime?”
Shamefaced, I said, “She did. But I just can’t. I’ve got to lick this myself, not lean on somebody.”
“How about a buddy from a twelve-step program? They’re anonymous, so you wouldn’t have to fear being publicly exposed.”
“I’m not ashamed of seeing a mental health therapist. Nobody should be.” I grimaced. Me in crusader mode. “I’m ashamed of my compulsion to overeat.”
“It’s not getting better?”
“I make up a zillion rules and reasons for not touching my favorite binge foods, but I always go back to the binge. It triggers relief from stress. It’s the fastest way I know to tamp down the awful feelings.”
Later, I did text my therapist, who called me. I talked some more about my conflicted feelings for Sean, about my tiny little efforts to speak up for myself professionally, and about my continuing love affair with the lowest form of food: snacks.
My therapist suggested I explore my feelings for Sean more carefully. “I’m hearing something new in your tone of voice. You sound different. Maybe he’s going to be important to you in some way.”
Tactful of her not to suggest it was true love at last. How could it be true love unless the feeling was returned? Without reciprocal emotion, it was obsession, and must be quickly snuffed out before it started messing with my life, creating foolish patterns of behavior. The problem was, I didn’t want to suppress my feelings for Sean. I wanted to luxuriate in them and in him. Unfortunately, I didn’t believe he wanted the same thing from me.
I could be a temptation to a man. I was a woman of experience. I knew how to please a man. I was discreet, which men who had sex with curvy women appreciated. They didn’t mind being outed as having had sex with some hot babe, but sex with a big girl? Not so good for the reputation. Plus, we curvy women had the reputation of being desperate. We were an easy score, supposedly. In the bedroom, sometimes being overeager to please led to sordid encounters.
What I’d done to Sean last night was very different. It was a bold move, the kind that in the past I wouldn’t have dared to make for fear of losing the man I wanted. Today, I wanted to be stronger in romantic relationships. I wanted to protect my feelings. I was willing to trample on Sean’s if necessary, although I winced at the idea that perhaps I had been a user or an abuser. Perhaps I had the same difficulty showing restraint when it came to sex as I did when it came to food. Every day was a new day, one day at a time.
***
Saturday morning, Diana pulled her car out of her garage and drove me to the best little shops that stocked one-of-a-kind gowns. She said, “For political events or state dinners, every gown has to be unique. Even the international diplomats here don’t necessarily run over to Paris or Milan to pick up the latest designer items. They shop at these small places, or in the special boutiques in the few big department stores left.”
As the shopping trip dragged on without any scores, I regretted that the DMV—what the cool kids called the DC, Maryland, and Virginia metro area—wasn’t like New York, where stores were intensely clustered and we could pick a neighborhood like Tribeca and power shop and see it all. We had to check out nooks and crannies in the city, and then strange little suburban spots in Northwest DC like Spring Valley, which Diana called “a haunt of the conservatives.” Then she took me to Virginia, to old guard Alexandria, and to the trendy part as well.
I did not have fun. I hated shopping in stores where everything was too small for me or was meant for the mother of the bride. Beige. Pastel blue. The colors were okay for a blonde, but they didn’t make me stand out the way I should for a concert because the cuts were uniformly matronly. No skin showing whatsoever. By the time we hit a super upscale mall deep in the Virginia suburbs, I was ready to cry.
“I haven’t lost enough weight,” I moaned. “I’m still a fatty and nothing fits. Plus I’m exhausted, and I need lunch. I have to be at the Federal at four o’clock without fail to rehearse with the orchestra, and we still haven’t found—oh, wait a minute.” I finally saw a dress to complement my blondness and my roundness. We were in a tiny designer boutique in a corner of a major department store. The plush little room had just one rack of glittering gowns. Several Louis Quinze chairs and a sett
ee for customers made the statement that these were special gowns at special prices. “If only it’s big enough.”
Diana checked the dress over. “Faboo color. Fuschia with a hint of burgundy. Complex and unusual.” She held it up against me. “Goes with your skin tone. Try it on.”
I went into the private dressing room in an agony of hope. The dress slipped over my head and settled like a cloud on my hips. Despite how round I still was, the gown was perfect. I pranced outside to show it to Diana. “What do you think?”
She nodded. “Score. Nice décolleté neckline. Shows off the girls. You’ve got quite a pair to show off.”
I laughed at that. Diana was rail thin, always had been. She didn’t even need to wear a bra. “That’s me, va-va-voomtastic.” I checked myself out again in one of the mirrors. The dress showed off my neck, shoulders, and breasts, and then draped in a classic manner, in at the waist, out at the hips, and belled to the floor. The emphasis was up top, where I had two large assets.
“Hooray! Done!” I cried.
A saleslady discreetly appeared, and we bought the gown. I didn’t even wince at the number of digits on the price tag.
We left carrying a stylish garment bag that was a major cut above the plastic bags provided in ordinary stores. A little more shopping and we’d be finished. The mall was a good place to hunt up shoes. That part went fast. As for my nails, they were perfect from last night. I could do my own hair or the dresser at the concert would. But I could not find costume jewelry to go with the gown. We had run out of time. While Diana drove us back to the city, I called Claudio in hopes he could arrange for a local jeweler to provide a real necklace. It was short notice, but Claudio texted me back by the time we reached Diana’s townhouse. He’d found a jeweler who would meet me at the venue and post a security guard for the evening, too. All I had to do was tweet whose jewels they were, and the loan would be free. What a deal.
Friendzoned Soprano (Singers in Love Book 2) Page 11
