Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  “I bet that would be great for business, wouldn’t it?”

  “It should be. Vivian says I could be the next Emeril.”

  “You won’t forget all us little people once you’re a big star, will you?”

  I scratched my head and stared at him blankly. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

  Charlie smirked. “Harry.”

  After the fourth game I was down three to one and the vodka was gone.

  “I hate to even suggest this.” Charlie got up and came back with a bottle of Ouzo. “A housewarming gift from my college roommate.”

  “I’m not sure I’d consider someone who gave me Ouzo, a friend.”

  “When I got into law school, he gave me a six pack of Old Milwaukee, I actually considered this a step up.”

  I set the board up for a fifth game and Charlie brought us back two shot glasses. He poured a round of Ouzo and we toasted before swallowing the licorice flavored liquor that reminded me of the thick black cough medicine my mom used to give me.

  I winced. “Real smooth.”

  Charlie laughed and poured another round.

  “The Ouzo was supposed to remind me of the summer before law school when my roommate and I went to Europe. You know, the whole backpacking thing, staying in youth hostels hoping to meet willing young women.”

  I felt an irrational twinge of jealousy for the score of nameless co-eds I imagined Charlie waking up with, but couldn’t resist asking the question. “And did you?”

  “I plead the fifth. What did you do after graduation?”

  “Nothing as exciting as touring Europe on my back. I got a job.”

  Charlie rolled the dice and moved his white checker three places. I rolled doubles and landed on two of his checkers, sending him back to the beginning to start over.

  “So where’d you go in Europe?”

  “All over, France, Italy, Greece, the islands.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Why, you’ve been?”

  “No, but I’d like to, I’ve read a lot about them – Corfu, Mykonos, Hydra, Naxos, Santorini.”

  “You know a hell of a lot more than I did when I went there. Why don’t you go?”

  “At first it was the boutique and getting it up and running. And then, I don’t know. It never seemed like the right time.”

  What I didn’t tell Charlie was that the idea of visiting a romantic Greek island by myself, with its white washed arches and domes set against a sapphire sea, sounded about as much fun as an Outward Bound solo excursion.

  “Go, Lauren,” Charlie told me, seriously, as if it was his personal duty to make sure I didn’t miss out on the experience. “You’ll regret it if you keep putting it off. Just go.”

  That’s when I realized what was different about Charlie. It wasn’t the way he looked at me, but the way he saw me. Maybe it was something they taught you in law school, or maybe Charlie didn’t even realize he was doing it, but he held my gaze with an interest and intensity that made me not want to look away.

  In spite of the beer and vodka and shots of Ouzo, or maybe thanks to all three, I managed to even up the score at three games a piece. Charlie didn’t make a move to reset the board for another game, content to let us tie.

  “Why don’t you set the board up while I get this mess out of our way?” I stood, ready to take the empty bottles and glasses into the kitchen, when Charlie reached out and pulled me down onto the couch, where he leaned me back on the cushions and looked at me for a minute before brushing his lips against mine. I closed my eyes and let my hands run up his back, feeling his muscles tighten as he pressed against me.

  I knew where this was going, and I wanted it to go there, even if I was breaking about eleven canons of prudent dating. Here was my opportunity to prove that I wasn’t the least bit concerned about Charlie’s lack of marriage potential.

  All of a sudden Charlie pulled back. “One more game. Winner takes all.”

  We played another game, but my concentration was shot . I became acutely aware of his body, the way his jeans bunched around his thighs when he moved toward the board, the way his t-shirt fell away from his body when he leaned forward to roll the dice, even the three inch scare above his ankle when he rested his bare feet on the table.

  “How’d you get the scar? “ I asked, just in case he caught me staring.

  “Fell out of a tree when I was a kid. The bone went right through my skin.”

  I made a face. “Did you learn your lesson about climbing trees?”

  “No. But I did learn my lesson about falling.”

  The game was over quickly, with Charlie defeating me easily. Being the good sport I am, I led Charlie straight to his bedroom, where the winner was going to get justly rewarded.

  I can do this, I kept repeating to myself. Not only could I do this, but I was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  Game, set, match. Chalie won hands down. Neil who? I couldn’t even imagine that sex was ever that good with Neil, that slow and fevered and tender and aggressive.

  Afterward we lay on our sides facing each other, Charlie stroking my hair away from my face until it was fanned out on the pillow under us. Up close his eyes weren’t brown, they were golden and soft, like melted brown sugar.

  Okay, maybe I can’t do this afterall.

  “What?” I asked, curious for an explanation of the amused look on his face.

  “Emeril would be proud of your ability to kick it up a notch, but I’m actually a little disappointed.”

  I pulled away and propped myself up on my elbows. “Disappointed?”

  “Yeah. I kept waiting for you to yell Bam!” Charlie pulled the covers over our heads and laughed at me. When we started to suffocate under the flannel sheets, we poked our heads out and laid there silently until both of us were on the verge of finally succumbing to an alcohol-induced sleep.

  But I had to go to the bathroom. I knew it was either now or later, in the middle of the night in a strange room where I’d probably end up accidentally squatting in a closet. I waited until Charlie’s breathing was heavy and then slipped out of bed.

  “You’re not making a quick getaway, are you?” Charlie asked, watching me in the dark.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not that easy.”

  “If I thought you were easy we would have played Trivial Pursuit.”

  In the bathroom I looked for some clues into the man in the other room. But there was nothing extraordinary, nothing that would make Charlie stand out in a room of other thirty-something men. When I was younger, situations like this were usually carefully planned. A quiet bathroom, a dainty flush, a quick tiptoe back the bed where I’d slide under the covers and lay there with my stomach pulled into my belly button and my back slightly arched – a move every woman on a beach in a bikini has attempted at some point. But there was nothing dainty about a drunk and naked thirty two year old woman trying to find her way back to a strange bed in the dark.

  Crawling back under the covers it occurred to me that movie sex was so unrealistic, so neat and clean. You never see the woman hop out of bed and make a quick retreat to the bathroom before the remnants of her encounter slide down her legs and onto the ceramic tile. The guy never needs to wipe his private parts with a pair of boxers or socks discretely left on the nightstand for exactly that purpose. Where’d they toss the liquid-filled condom so it didn’t spill all over the place? And, if these things never take place, then how come we never see one of the happy couple make a face when they inevitably roll over onto the wet spot? Real life was nothing like a Meg Ryan movie.

  “Come here.” Charlie ran his hand along the curve of my waist and then pulled me closer into him. “You’re so nice and warm,” he whispered, wrapping his body around me until I could feel the fine hairs on his chest pressed against my back.

  Even though Charlie fell right back to sleep, I couldn’t get comfortable. It wasn’t that I was physically uncomfortable, as a matter of fact, Charlie made quite a cozy sleepin
g companion. No, the problem was in my head. There were restless thoughts in there that wouldn’t give in to the temptation of Charlie’s warm skin and flannel sheets that still smelled like fabric softener.

  So if my bravado didn’t give me proof that I was a carefree woman who could have sex with a man she was attracted to without wanting more, than what did it give me? Amazing sex and a voice in my head that couldn’t figure out for the life of me why I couldn’t just enjoy the fact that Charlie wanted me here. In his apartment. In his bed.

  As much as I wanted to just close my eyes and let myself drift off to sleep, my mind wouldn’t let me. Instead I wiggled away and turned over.

  “Is everything okay?” Charlie asked, his eyes still closed.

  “Everything’s fine,” I lied.

  I don’t know why I was so bothered by his admission, I’d slept with men before who didn’t want to marry me. Shit, I’d slept with a couple I didn’t even want to know my name.

  I tried to channel the woman that Neil remembered, and she fell right to sleep.

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, Charlie was on his side with an arm resting across my stomach. As he lay there I studied his face. A night’s worth of stubble blanketed his cheeks and upper lip, creating a shadow that looked soft despite the prickly whiskers, like suede. The clean shaven guy from the night before had been replaced by a more rugged version, more Marlboro man than George Michael.

  Maybe my mid-night reservations were more a result of Ouzo-induced delirium than any true misgivings about Charlie. Watching him sleep so comfortably beside me made it easier to overlook the tiny matter of our uncertain future - not easy, just easier.

  I ran my finger lightly along the stubble and Charlie’s eyelashes seemed to shiver before his eyes opened and he looked back at me, not saying a word.

  “It’s almost seven thirty,” I whispered, figuring a lawyer must start his days earlier than the owner of a cake boutique.

  “Shit,” he moaned, his voice scratchy. “Note to self - throw out Ouzo.”

  “There’s none to throw out. We finished the bottle.”

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked, laying his head on my chest and running his hand along the inside of my thighs.

  “A wee bit queasy, but other than that, I’m still here.”

  “I’m glad.” Charlie looked up at me, his hair in disarray. “So I’d say that was a pretty successful third date, what do you think?”

  What did I think? Bed head, a full bladder, morning breath and visits from the sandman. I was no Meg Ryan. Then again, she had better hair than I did.

  I slid down under Charlie’s body until we were face to face, my legs curled around his calves pulling him closer. “Remember, some people dream of success…while others wake up and work hard at it.”

  Chapter 21

  Oliver was waiting for me when I got home. Luckily he didn’t ask me where I’d been or question why I was still wearing last night’s pants and shirt, which smelled like I’d rolled around in an ashtray before washing off in a fountain of grain alcohol. He just sat perched against my pillows looking happy to see me, his thin, frayed threaded mouth still managing to curve upward even as the ends were unraveling.

  Round two with Charlie had been just as enjoyable as round one, even if we slowed down a couple of times to keep last night’s Ouzo from making an unwelcome morning appearance. When he put me in a cab and kissed me goodbye I was even feeling quite good, if you didn’t count the dull pounding in my temples and a bad case of dry mouth.

  But as the cab got closer to home the same sinking feeling that had crawled into bed with me last night decided to accompany me in the back seat of the taxi. And by the time I walked through my front door there was no denying that the churning in my stomach wasn’t just a mixture of margaritas, beer, vodka and Ouzo shots, but an unlikely combination of pleasure and remorse.

  I’d taken one on the chin for independent-minded women everywhere and ended up feeling like the Playboy centerfold who claims to love the political writings of Socrates and Plato. Without the perky breasts, of course. No matter how many times I told myself it didn’t matter, no matter how illogical my feelings toward Charlie were, I’d been fooling myself.

  Granted, at the time crawling under the sheets with Charlie seemed extraordinarily easy, even effortless. And there was no denying that when I was bent over the side of his bed I was more concerned with whether the neighbors could hear the headboard smacking against the wall than whether or not Charlie was reconsidering his stance on marriage. Even though sleeping with Charlie seemed to change everything, it really didn’t change anything. And it definitely didn’t change the fact that Neil had walked into the boutique and practically held up a sign that said I’m your man.

  “What do you think?” I asked Oliver as I sat on the bed and unbuttoned my shirt.

  True to form, Oliver remained quiet. He always was the strong silent type.

  I stood up and continued undressing in front of the mirror, looking for evidence of Charlie. But instead of fingerprints or hickeys, all I could find was a satisfied smile on my lips and a worried look my eyes.

  Even if Oliver wasn’t any help, one thing was clear. I needed to take a shower and get to work. And I had to figure out a way to wipe that smile off my face. The last thing I needed was for Maria to make a comment about my post-coital glow.

  I noticed the commotion in front of the boutique when I was a block away. Two police cars and at least four white vans were parallel parked, and three police men were standing on the sidewalk talking into their walkie talkies. My heart started beating fast and my eyes immediately looked for signs of a raging fire. I ran right past Starbucks toward the ambulances. But when I reached the boutique I saw that it wasn’t walkie talkies the men were lifting to their mouths, it was cups of coffee. And the spheres on top of the vans weren’t sirens, they were satellite dishes. And the logos on their side panels weren’t from Mass General, they were from TV and radio stations. And that’s when I really panicked.

  I pushed past the cluster of reporters loitering around the doorway smoking cigarettes, and entered the boutique.

  “Lauren!” Vivian cried, rushing over to me. “Where have you been? The press conference starts in fifteen minutes.”

  Vivian, Bradley Potter and a woman I assumed was from the publicity department were all dressed in dark business suits, which pretty much matched the somber look on Maria’s face as she watched me through the window in the kitchen door.

  Vivian looked me up and down. “You’re going to have to hurry if you plan on changing your outfit.”

  I hadn’t planned on changing. I hadn’t planned on standing up in front of twenty reporters in my Levi’s and Nike baseball shirt, either. I had to think quick.

  “But this is what I usually wear in the kitchen when I bake.”

  Vivian waved the publicist over. “Lauren thinks we should show what she looks like when she bakes instead of making her look press-ready.”

  The publicist nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. We make her look accessible, like she just stepped out of the kitchen after measuring the ingredients for a cake.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed, but the publicist just gave me a sidelong glance.

  “But that doesn’t mean she has to look like she had a rough night drinking. Let’s get some make-up on her.”

  I’d averted the fashion police, but I still had to face Maria.

  The reporters were filing into the boutique and taking seats in the rows of chairs Vivian had rented for the occasion. I wound my way through the growing crowd with their pads of paper and mini tape recorders, and met up with Maria in the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?” Maria demanded.

  “It’s just a little press conference.”

  “Little? That Vivian and her crew were here at seven o’clock this morning rearranging the boutique. On a Friday. We have cakes to prepare for tomorrow, or did that small detail escape your mind?”

  “Th
ey’re not coming into the kitchen, and they’ll be out of here as soon as it’s over.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You forgot.” Maria shook her head at the tile floor.

  “I’m sorry, I should have told you. My bad.”

  “You need to get your act together, Lauren.”

  “I said I was sorry. Now where can I find a clean apron?”

  “An apron?”

  “They want me to look like I was just in the kitchen baking.”

  Maria went into the back room and returned with a neatly pressed white cotton apron. “You didn’t tell me this book was a work of fiction.”

  I took the apron and shook it out, smoothing the folds. “They’ll be out of here in an hour, I promise.”