So much for that!
Now I think back, David James, dark as night with velvet-soft skin and a voice that made me shiver, had always been sneaky and self-focused. It was all about Dave. Any fool would have seen it coming.
It’s a painful lesson to learn, ladies. Guard your heart against men you can’t pin down. If it smells like a rat and acts like a rat, usually it’s a big fat rat. Go with your intuition. Trust your gut. A rodent can’t change his claws just as the leopard can’t change his spots.
I plump up my pillow, position it under my head, and give good old sleep a college try. Eventually I must have dozed, because the next thing I know my alarm is going off, and I am in that numb state when you’re not sure whether it’s day or night. I have to check to be sure. I have a business to run and can’t afford to laze around.
Wife for Hire, the company I own, pays the bills. I’d spent eight years in human resources and experienced the corporate world firsthand. It stinks. So one day I up and fire my boss. I use the savings from my 401(k) to set up my own company, figuring there are people like me out there who don’t have the time to clean a house or pay a bill. They need Wife for Hire and will willingly pay.
Over time I slowly build up a reputation. Today I am at the point where I don’t owe a thing. My salary takes care of my mortgage and my daughter, Lindsay’s, college tuition.
Wife for Hire is a full-service outfit. We charge plenty for our service but we do a better job than the competition. We do everything from personal shopping to renewing driver’s licenses. My team even helped one bachelor bury his mother.
I shower, gulp coffee and boot up my computer. After wading through business e-mails, I return a few calls and get into a screaming match with the bank because they’ve screwed up a deposit. I am about to check on my employees, Kazoo, Lydia and Vance, all part-timers, when my cell phone jingles.
Caller ID comes in useful for screening out people you don’t want to hear from. It’s Margot, probably wanting to rehash last evening’s events. Guilty for considering not picking up, I force exuberance into my voice.
“Hey, girl, what’s up?”
Sniffles on the other end. Not a good sign. But I should get used to this drama.
I met Margot Nanton at the gym when I was newly divorced and badly needed a friend. She was fresh out of a divorce herself, and not at all happy about it. In fact, she still isn’t. As we peddled our bikes side by side, we began talking about the difficulties of being single, and we began comparing notes about lame dates and poor sexual performance. Over time, a strong friendship developed.
“You’ll never guess what that bastard’s done now.” Margot wails in one of her trademark run-on sentences.
That bastard usually means her ex-husband, Earl.
“What’s Earl done?” I ask dutifully, preparing myself for at least a ten-minute dissertation on what a jerk her ex is.
“Bounced my alimony check. Now what am I supposed to do? I have bills to pay.”
“Oh, my.” I roll my eyes. Not that I’m not sympathetic, but this is getting old. Margot needs to move on. She refuses to find a job, and that fat alimony check is her only source of income. She’s told me she has no intention of remarrying, ever, and giving up that salary.
I listen with one ear and wisely keep silent. I have my own troubles. Margot is going on now about how Earl owes her. I’ve heard this story a thousand times, about how he talked her into quitting her teaching job when they first got married. How she became his personal slave, cooking his meals, ironing his shirts and giving birth to two children that had been taken away from her when she’d had her nervous breakdown. He owes her plenty for having an affair with his assistant—a series of assistants as it turns out.
I am tempted to say, “There aren’t any victims in love, hon. Just volunteers,” but I keep my mouth shut.
If I say that to her she’ll go ballistic.
“So what am I going to do?” Margot wails again. “How am I going to pay the mortgage?”
Better not remind her that she has more than adequate savings put aside. Monies she’s been stashing away from the days when Earl took care of everything. She showed me her portfolio once. The woman has enough to buy two houses, cash.
“What you always do,” I say patiently. “Wait Earl out. He’ll send you another check.”
“Jackson will take care of him,” she sniffs.
Jackson was her attorney.
Despite all her bitching, Margot still loves Earl. She will use any excuse to contact him, albeit through her attorney. I’m not sure Earl is exactly immune to her, either.
Margot has issues all because of a troubled childhood growing up in a household with no father figure. There’d been one string of uncles after another coming through that house. Some of those uncles had molested her.
I forgive her a lot and ignore the ricocheting moods. She is like a yo-yo hitting a high one minute and rock bottom the next. The medication she is taking is supposed to keep her stable. In my humble opinion the most recent prescription isn’t working.
“What if I show up at Earl’s condo and confront him and his latest?” she moans.
“Not a good idea. You’ll be violating your restraining order and you’ll get arrested,” I answer dryly.
Earl had been forced to request a “no contact” order after Margot broke in and tore up his place. She’d driven by one day and seen a sporty Volkswagen convertible Beetle out front. The kind the twentysomething crowd likes. She’d ended up with a fistful of the assistant’s hair in her hand and did some serious damage to Earl’s watchamacallit.
“Guess what? Dave called me,” I say, hoping to take Margot’s mind off her own worries.
“Bastard!
It is Margot’s favorite word. “Betcha anything he got dumped. You don’t need some guy on the down low.”
I think the same but don’t need to hear it. Today is another day and I am still giving Internet dating a try, which means there are more where he came from. I refuse to go down the horrible road of depression and recrimination. I truly believe if you fall off a horse you get back on and ride. And if push comes to shove I have Max Porter; charming and irresponsible. He takes care of my physical needs and then some. The problem is Max isn’t around that often.
When I finally hang up I decide to go in search of the stray cat that lives in my backyard shed. I’ve been feeding Bo Jangles for over two years and I haven’t seen him for almost a week now. I hope nothing terrible happened. Maybe another family is feeding him and so he abandoned me.
I wander down the block, stopping to exchange a word or two with the mostly-stay-at-home moms and the retirees living on my street. The town I live in, Malverne, is a quaint little hamlet not far from New York City. It’s a throwback to the sixties and people still say hello. Homes are nestled on quaint tree-lined streets and there’s a town center with a restaurant, bakery, newsstand and bar.
I rustle the hedges and call, “Here, kitty, kitty. Bo Jangles, where are you?” Puffs of smoke curl from my mouth. It isn’t officially winter yet but it sure is getting here fast.
“Are you looking for your cat? Mrs. Ingram?” Jessica, the terror of the neighborhood, asks.
“Bo Jangles isn’t my cat,” I explain. “He’s a stray. He’s a big old marmalade-colored cat with one eye missing. Have you seen him?”
Jessica’s eyes widen. “No. But if I do see him I’ll bring him to your house.”
I thank her, knowing it would never happen. Bo Jangles isn’t about to let a stranger get close to him. Even after two years we still maintain a respectful distance from each other.
One hour later, all I’ve succeeded in doing is tiring myself out and looking disheveled. I trudge back to the house, work on payroll and pay my bills online. After that I check my personal e-mail to see if anyone new has surfaced on the dating site.
Internet dating is something I’ve come to kicking and screaming. If you’re a busy person, finding a mate the conventional wa
y just isn’t going to happen. The good ones are usually married or gay.
After mourning my dear departed husband a suitable time, I put myself back into circulation. And, no, I’m not a widow, my ex left one day to find himself and never came back. He claimed the responsibility of a wife and child was too much for him. During this search for self he managed to hook up with a woman who needs him. And he doesn’t seem to mind her three children.
Margot is the one who’d convinced me to get back into the game. She’d browbeaten me and suggested Internet dating, calling it not only anonymous, but an endless candyland of men. It’s a numbers game, and if you hang in there long enough, there’s bound to be a custom fit, she said.
I come from the days of the classified ads so this isn’t entirely foreign. Just new technology to master, and coded messages to decipher. And here I am, six months later, practically a pro, toggling between three dating sites and getting more and more disillusioned by the canned profiles that say nothing.
“You’re working the odds,” Margot always reminded me when I wailed about what my life had come to. “The more darts you throw at a board, the more likely one will hit the mark.”
She is one to talk; though she’s working at it, she still hasn’t found Earl’s replacement.
I hear a plaintive meow coming from the vicinity of my backyard. Bo Jangles. The main man in my life has come home.
I leave the computer on and bolt for the back door. My adopted cat, looking bedraggled and road weary, as if he’s been in dozens of fights, is standing in front of the shed that is his home; even his good eye is drooping.
“Bo Jangles.” I hold my arms wide. “Where have you been?”
A hungry meow greets me.
I go back inside and get a can of cat food from the cupboard. I plop it in his bowl, and set it down on the steps of the patio. Then I go back inside and wait, pressing my nose against the glass pane to see what he will do.
Not three minutes after I’ve retreated, Bo Jangles limps toward the step and makes short work of his food.
I feel lighter now as if a huge burden has been lifted. My attention turns back to the e-mails and profiles I’ve abandoned. I have to be a masochist to do this, I chide, expose my heart to the walking wounded, the unable, the unwilling and the more-than-a-tad-bit confused. In the cyberworld hearts are disposable and love makes you an easy hit. Fun means willing to have sex.
I return to the profile and photo of someone who’s new. I am now a pro at deciphering truth from fiction. Six feet tall usually means five foot seven with lifts. A few extra pounds means fat, and professional can mean anything from stock clerk to dog trainer, take your pick.
This latest calls himself Big Jim. Go figure whether he is describing his weight, height or equipment. I strongly suspect it’s the last. He says he’s in real estate. And he’s written me a reasonably amusing e-mail with no misspellings. That in and of itself is a big plus.
I shoot back a quick answer and return to reading my mail. The next guy calls himself Flyboy. He and I have been trying to get together for weeks but our schedules aren’t coinciding. Plus, he’s canceled on me last minute one too many times. I hit the delete button and zap him into cyberspace.
The next e-mail is from a man whose screen name I recognize. Ted is from Alaska and is a military type. By location alone he should be GU—geographically undesirable—but I am willing to give him a try. He and I click on a lot of different levels and I use him as a sounding board.
I shoot off more e-mails, dissect a profile or two and decide I need to focus on the job that keeps a roof over my head and food in my mouth.
I read more e-mails but this time they are all business related.
One client needs me to buy a wedding gift for his boss. I don’t consider that urgent since the wedding is weeks away. Another wants a masseuse to come to her home, so I make an appointment and set it up for tomorrow. Businessmen, probably my best customers, need their bills paid. I put that at the top of the list.
And as usual there is an assortment of mundane requests: pets to be fed, plants watered and vehicles needing servicing. The more tedious chores I farm out to my student part-timers.
Just as I am finishing up, the phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and grab the receiver. It is Lindsay, my college-age daughter.
I adore that child, though she is an expert at trying my patience. Even so, we are more like sisters than mother and daughter.
I immediately go into “mom mode.”
“Hey, baby. Watcha doing?” I coo.
“Studying, Mom, always studying. I need a favor,”
I square my shoulders and wait for the request. The bank of Roxanne Ingram is always open.
CHAPTER 3
“I need money,” my daughter whines.
What’s new? I roll my eyes. Lindsay always needs money.
But the sound of her voice makes my lips curve into a smile. It always does. I live for this child. It’s been me and Lindsay against the world for a long, long time. We’ve taken care of each other through the bitterness of a divorce. We’ve survived, thrived and managed to become best friends.
“How much this time?” I ask.
“Five hundred bucks.”
“Five hundred bucks! That’s a lot of money. What’s going on, Lindsay? Be straight with me.”
My nineteen-year-old rambles on about a ski trip her friends are taking. They are planning on flying to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. As far as I am concerned the outing doesn’t constitute an emergency, but to someone Lindsay’s age missing out is a major calamity.
Ever since her father left us, I’ve tried my best to give that child everything she wants. But a ski trip sounds frivolous and a little decadent. I was almost thirty years old before I went skiing, and most of the time I spent on my back.
“Please, Mom,” she cajoles.
That child knows how to play me. She knows that plaintive whine will get her anything she wants.
“Okay, I’ll put up half if you find the other half,” I say, relenting. “Ask your dad for a contribution.”
“I already did. All he says is black kids don’t need ski trips.”
She is right. Kane can be a real ass at times. Successful as he is, he still carries around an oversize chip on his shoulder. Kane is a mortgage banker.
“How badly do you want to go?” I counter, and prepare to hear the litany that is sure to follow.
For fifteen minutes I listen to how difficult being a college student is, and hasn’t she made the dean’s list every semester?
That guilting gets her another fifty bucks.
“Okay, I’m done. Better call your father.”
No sooner have I hung up, the calendar on my computer beeps, alerting me to an appointment. Mr. X, my client is hot. His international flight is scheduled to land in an hour, and I’ve promised to pick him up at JFK airport. The man is out of the country more often than he is in, but his business is regular and he pays me well.
At first I used to send limousines to pick him up, but one evening he flew in unexpectedly from Rome and called me, desperate. No taxi for him. I couldn’t find a limousine on such short notice so off to the airport I went. I won’t leave a customer stranded.
Mr. X was waiting outside the customs area with a large Gucci garment bag draped over one arm. A Smarte Carte piled high with matching luggage surrounded him. And as usual he was hidden behind expensive dark glasses.
After I’d gotten him settled in the Land Rover, he flashed those pearly whites at me and handed me a box of Bacci.
“This is for you,” he said in that continental accent of his.
Feeling as if he’d just handed me the winning lottery ticket, I drove him into The City and dropped him off at his brownstone in the tony silk-stocking district of Manhattan.
I was being paid triple my going rate for being so responsive on such short notice. After that little episode, X always requested that I picked him up personally. Only a fool would say no. I can
’t afford to turn down that kind of money. Besides, I am curious about him and he makes my insides quiver. There is something about a black man who flies all over the globe, speaks with an accent and pays his bills with a corporate platinum American Express card that gets your attention.
I don’t know what X does for a living but I do know he has some bucks. And I do know that I am spending more and more of my waking hours fantasizing about him. Full-blown, X-rated fantasies, mind you. The kind that make a woman wet.
Sometimes I will picture myself lying under X’s hard nut-brown body, his long, tapered fingers stroking my back. I’ve envisioned those eyes behind the shielding sunglasses, burning into me. And if I concentrate really hard I can feel X sliding in and out of me, whispering words that are meant for my ears only. I know he speaks a number of foreign languages. I have heard him on the phone.
Sometimes he goes to it in a rush of Italian. At times he converses in Spanish, at other times French and there are others he speaks that, frankly, I don’t have a clue.
Just thinking about Mr. X is making me orgasmic. Hell, who needs Dave or some battery-operated device when I have X? One “bella,” in my ear and the whole world literally stops.
I’ve been told every woman needs a fantasy lover, and that failing, a back-up man, or should that be the plan? You should have a man who worships you, and another who knows exactly how to hit your G-spot. If they can both keep an erection even better, and if their mouths and fingers are synchronized, you’ve died and gone to pig heaven.
Is it so absurd to think I can get everything I want? No harm in trying. The Internet helps you meet people that you never in your wildest dreams ever would meet.
I am going to be late. Not a good thing. I pride myself on being reliable and dependable. These are all qualities that make Wife for Hire stand out from the rest.
Hopping into the Land Rover, I stomp on that accelerator and take off. I make good time until I get to Queens. The Belt Parkway has bumper-to-bumper traffic and by the time I inch my way to the airport entrance, I am spitting and snarling. It must be some nasty accident ahead.
Hook, Line and Single Page 2
