They leaned into each other, kissing madly. He held her with both hands, cupping her jaw, controlling the movement of her head, rotating it to the left and right, inhaling the kiss. She’d laced her fingers behind his neck, loving the feel of his skin. His skin! It wasn’t particularly hot or soft. But it was alive with an energy that made touching him exquisite. His skin was one more mystery about him, like being from Maine, and being an actor, and his long silences. The kissing went on and on. She couldn’t stand for it any longer. She had to lie down.
He broke the contact and whispered in her ear, “You like the pickpocketing?”
She said, “Yes.”
“I can also take off all your clothes without you noticing a thing.”
“Show me,” she said.
Chapter 13
Tuesday, October 29
3:33 P.M.
“Peter Vermillion? This way, please,” said the fetching nurse. Was she a nurse? he wondered. Did nutritionists, who weren’t really doctors, hire trained, licensed nurses? Hardly mattered. She was sweet and cute, and obviously ate well. He could tell by her tasty body. How many women could pull off the white polyester uniform and look sexy?
He followed the nurse through the waiting-room door, down a white-walled corridor and into a small examination room with a table, a chair, a sink, a scale, and several cabinets. The inner sanctum of nutrition. The locked compartments under the sink had to be where they stored the supplements, the pricey powders in cylindrical plastic tubs. Within five minutes of the consultation, the nutritionist would start hawking. He reminded himself that cynicism might not be helpful in this process.
The nurse said, “Please remove all your clothes and put on the gown.” She pointed at a cocktail-napkin–size square of paper on the exam table.
“This?” he asked, picking it up. It unfolded into a tissue-weight tunic that was designed to fit the body of a junior-high-school anorexic.
She said, “Hmm, that might be a bit snug. Let me look for something larger for you. Meanwhile, why don’t you get undressed and I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”
The doctor? Doctor of what? Not an M.D., thought Peter. Maybe the nutritionist had earned a Ph.D. in the philosophy of snacking.
Peter stripped. He hung his suit on the hook of the door. He folded his shirt, socks, and undershirt and placed them in an orderly pile on top of his shoes. The boxers would stay put. He wasn’t baring his ass along with his soul to this guy. Peter had summoned a great deal of courage to seek help to change his eating habits. Ilene didn’t know about this. He wanted to keep it a secret. When he did lose weight, he wanted her to be impressed, surprised, grateful. If she knew he hadn’t done it on his own, it might not have the same impact.
He’d made the appointment a few days after his embarrassing encounter with Peggy McFarthing at Grand Central. She was a nutritionist. Although she was emotionally unstable that day, she didn’t seem like a scam artist or whack job. He asked Jane to get referrals for nutritionists in the area. Preferably—unequivocally—a man. Jane made an appointment for him with Eric Belittler at an office only a few blocks south on Madison from Bucks. Jane assured him Belittler came highly recommended.
Peter climbed up on the table. He looked around the room for something to occupy him while he waited. Nothing. Not a single copy of Eating Fit or Cooking Light. He circled the space with his eyes for the tenth time. They kept returning to the scale, black and imposing. He wondered if the nurse automatically reset the weights back to zero after a patient stepped off. What mortification to know that the next person in the examination room would see what the previous one weighed. With bravery and determination, Peter approached the scale. He stepped on it defiantly. An inanimate piece of metal wasn’t going to intimidate him. Unless it was a gun. Or a knife. Or a lead pipe. Whatever, the point was that he would face off with the scale. Face it down. Down to the ground.
Thunk. The silver pointer slammed upward. So he didn’t weight zero pounds. He pushed the bottom measure from zero, past 50, 100 and 150 to rest in the 200 slot. The pointer hadn’t budged. He began moving the upper measure, past 5, 10, 15. At 223 pounds, the pointer dropped a hair.
He stepped off the scale: 223 pounds. He never would have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. He figured he weighed 200—210 tops. He was a big-boned man, just an inch or two under six feet tall. Peter exhaled deeply. The cold, hard metallic slap of reality was what he’d needed, and now he had it. Maybe Ilene was right. He was close to the danger zone.
Now he felt jumpy. Uneasy. He sat back on the table, his feet dangling. That felt ridiculous, so he hopped off. Restless, he checked the unlocked cabinets above the sink. Sure enough, as he’d suspected, Peter found tubs of Metabofire and Protein Blast, and chromium picolinate. The plastic containers were priced. For sixteen ounces of Metabofire powder: $56. Protein Blast: $78. Chromium picolinate: $109. What was he getting himself into?
Peter decided, then and there, that he would get dressed and get the hell out. He’d seen the number on the scale. That was motivation enough. He’d think 223 whenever he reached for something fattening. And he’d stop. The pounds would melt off, and he wouldn’t have to burn through hundreds of dollars in the process.
Peter had one leg in his trousers when the door swung open. He looked up to see a woman with curly brown hair, black-rimmed glasses, upturned breasts (even under the white coat, they stuck out like they had something important to say). He’d caught just a glimpse of her, though, because he’d instinctively tried to turn away in his one-leg-in, compromised position. In shifting, he lost his balance and fell to the floor in a jumble of trousers and near nudity. Who the hell was this woman? Didn’t she know how to knock? He untangled himself and rose to his feet, holding his pants against his underwear, his pulse slamming in his ears. He closed his eyes and clutched his chest, gripping what had to be a pre-heart attack.
She said, “I’m sorry to startle you…” she had to pause to check the name on his chart. “Mr. Vermillion? Peter?”
He opened his eyes and took a look at her. “Peggy Mc-Farthing?”
She smiled. “What a surprise to see you here! You should have told the nurse that you know me.”
“I was expecting Eric Belittler,” he said meekly.
“My partner. He’s out of town at a convention in Switzerland giving a paper on ephedrine. I’m taking his appointments this week.”
“My secretary, Jane, made the appointment. If I’d have known that this was your office…”
“You wouldn’t have come?” asked Peggy. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Peter. I was only seeking clarity when we spoke at Grand Central. I won’t cry on your suit again. Scout’s honor. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
“Maybe I should wait for Belittler to get back from Europe.”
She said, “You’re a busy man, Peter. You’re here now. I promise you that my credentials are as good if not better than Eric’s. Please sit down and we can start the consultation.”
Jane was in deep trouble. You could start at trouble, drive all night, and still not reach where Jane would be when he got back to work. “Don’t you see that there’s a conflict?”
She said crisply, “Please don’t question my professionalism.”
Resigned, he said, “How do we start?”
“Why do you feel you need a nutritionist? You’re an educated man. You know which foods are healthy and which aren’t.”
He said, “I’m seeing this as an experiment. To join forces with an expert. To have a supportive partner.” A supportive partner? Sounded like he needed a wife.
Peggy said, “Are you interested in psychological help as well?”
He didn’t want to get into that. “Can we move along?” he asked. “Get to the part about meal planning and, uh, supplements.”
She said, “Step on the scale, please.”
“I already weighed myself. Two twenty-three.”
“I’d like to see fo
r myself. Just part of the exam.”
He said, “If you insist.”
He stepped back on the scale, still on 223. The silver pointer slammed back to the top. Peggy said, “Let’s move this just a bit.”
She moved the upper measure to 224. Then 225. The silver pointer was still just a hair closer to the center. Two twenty-six. And then, at 227, the pointer leveled.
She made a note on the chart. She then took Peter’s blood pressure and temperature, and asked him a series of questions about his eating habits. How many vegetables did he eat per day? Which kinds? Did he have a sweet tooth? Did he eat chicken skin? Red meat? Pretzels? Croissants? Did he practice nighttime feasting behavior? Had he ever had an eating disorder? What was his high-school weight? How much had he gained in the last twelve months? The list went on and on. For twenty minutes, he sat in his underwear and answered highly personal questions about dairy and doughnuts.
She finally put down the clipboard and said, “I’ll be honest with you, Peter.”
“Please,” he said.
“You’re an emotional eater.”
“You mean I really love food?” He laughed.
She didn’t. “Emotional eaters use food to compensate for what’s missing in their lives,” she said. “You’re using food as a substitute for love and affection.”
He examined Peggy McFarthing, in her white lab coat, with her perky breasts and black glasses. She was as skinny as a bow, clearly not an emotional eater despite her much-fired husband.
Peter said, “I have love in my life. Deep, abiding love.”
“Of cheeseburgers.” She laughed.
He didn’t. Did she talk this way with all her patients? It was offensive, cruel. She was making fun of his weight problem, and calling him a loveless loser as well.
He said, “What do you recommend? A diet or a divorce?”
“Let’s start with an eating plan, all right?” she said in a condescendingly calming voice.
“Fine.”
“We like a high-protein, low-fat, low-carbohydrate diet,” she said. “To make specific food choices, we use a system based on traffic lights: ‘go’ foods, ‘caution’ foods and ‘stop’ foods. We color-code them on a chart: green, yellow, and red. I’m going to give you a packet that details food in each category, and the chart. Ninety percent of what you can eat will be ‘go’ food. But you may have two ‘cautions’ a day, and one ‘stop’ a week. The packet also details portion size and restrictions on ‘gos.’ For example, you’ll find grilled chicken breast on the ‘go’ list. I had a patient who ate a dozen of them every day, and wondered why she wasn’t losing weight. The ‘gos’ are broken down into two categories, unlimited and limited. Unlimited ‘gos’ may be eaten in any quantity. You may have three limited ‘gos’ per day. It sounds complicated, but when you see the packet, you’ll figure it out.”
Peter wondered what an unlimited ‘go’ was. Iceberg lettuce? Broccoli? She might as well give him unlimited license to run naked down Fifth Avenue. He said, “I like a good system.”
She smiled encouragingly. “Let’s set a goal weight of one eighty-five.”
“Doable,” he said, gulping. Forty-two pounds? That sounded like a ton.
“You can get dressed now. We’ll see each other once a week for as long as it takes,” she said. “When you break two hundred, we can move to phase two of the program. You need to keep an exercise chart. Thirty minutes of aerobic activity, five times a week.”
Shit. Now this? “Okay.” He quickly put on his pants.
“And one last thing,” she said. “We expect fledgling patients to have lapses.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I won’t,” he said adamantly.
“Okay, you won’t,” she said, the super smooth on. “But if you do, when the dust settles in the kitchen, I’d like you to write what you were doing in the hour before the lapse in what we call a ‘food journal.’ ”
“If you insist,” he said.
She said, “You can learn a lot from a lapse.”
“I’m sure you can,” he said. Peter put on his undershirt and shirt. He pointed a thumb toward the cabinets. “What about the supplements? Aren’t you going to make me buy some of those?”
Peggy shook her head. “They’re for fine tuning. You’re nowhere near that point.”
“Got to learn to walk before you can run.”
“In your case, we’ll work our way up to a crawl.”
Whatever her professionalism amounted to, she hated him. And now, he was stuck with her for months. Or not. He could blow off the whole thing. Or find another nutritionist. But then he’d have to go through this humiliation again, the weighing-in, the questions. The $300 initial office-visit fee.
Peter slipped on his socks, tied his shoes. He asked, “How’s Bruce? He find a job yet?”
Peggy’s smile didn’t fade. “He’s fine. In contention for a few spots. Your references will help, I’m sure.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She left as he arranged his jacket. He scheduled his next appointment and paid for the visit in cash.
Chapter 14
Thursday, November 14
4:21 P.M.
“He did what? For an hour?” asked Betty into the phone to Frieda. She was at Burton & Notham, in her office with the door closed.
“Sex with Sam,” said her sister wistfully, “is everything I never dared to hope sex could be.”
It had been two weeks since her sister’s first date with Sam, and Frieda was a different person. Betty was still reeling from the change. The same woman who’d been nearly catatonic for a year had emerged from her bereaved slumber with a sudden, big bang. The biggest bang of her “entire life,” she’d said. Betty was always wary when people used the phrase “my entire life,” as in “That was the best hamburger I’ve had in my…” or “I’ve never been so excited in my…” Gross exaggeration showed a lack of perspective that Betty found irritating.
Betty said, “Look, I’m really busy.” She could listen to the fabulous sex report for only so long.
Frieda said, “I’m going to Oliver! on Saturday night. With Ilene.” What’s this now? Ilene had been invited, and not Betty? Before Betty could complain, Frieda added, “Ilene surprised me with tickets. Isn’t that decent of her? And they’re not cheap. She got hundred dollar seats.”
Ilene couldn’t have gotten three tickets? Had Betty been excluded intentionally? If so, that could only mean Ilene had an agenda, something Betty wouldn’t approve of.
A knock at Betty’s door. “Enter,” she called.
It was Gert. Her blonde hair was teased sky high today. “Earl needs you,” she said.
At the mention of Earl’s name, Betty’s heart beat the Morse code for S.O.S. In the phone, she could hear Frieda saying, “Earl? Go talk to him! Ask him out! Do it!”
Betty covered the earpiece with her hand. To Gert, she said, “Be right there.” To Frieda, she said, “Hanging up now.” She clicked off before Frieda had a chance to pep talk her. She didn’t need the cheerleader routine. Betty hated pep. She despised vim.
That said, she sprang out of her chair and trotted down the stairs to the main floor to find Earl Long.
Even though every conversation with him was like hearing a chorus of angels, Earl was kind of a pain in the ass. Ten times a day, he sought her out with questions and niggling problems about the store’s electrical system and square footage. He seemed to enjoy wrenching her from the serious demands of running a gigantic retail store, just so he could send her on a quest for sales statements about CDs and instructional videos.
At the moment, she suspected he wanted to talk again about placement of the audio-book booths. They’d been around the bend on that one a few hundred times, trying to figure out where the store’s dead space was, if indeed it had any. Betty believed the booths should be near the audio-book section on the third floor, but Earl wanted to move audio books to the main floor, to showcase the boo
ths at street level. This would be a massive job, a huge headache for Betty to arrange, especially for an experimental outing. But corporate had big plans for these booths, hoping to increase audio-book sales tenfold, and Earl had been given the deciding vote.
She found him on the main floor, in the back, by the CD section. This would be a good spot for the booths, thought Betty. He’d actually set up a booth in the corner. He had on a pair of earphones. She tapped him on the shoulder.
“Earl,” she said. “You need me?”
Gert had followed her downstairs and into the back of the store. Betty wasn’t sure where her assistant was lurking, but she could smell the Eternity. She scanned the area, and spotted Gert unloading some new DVDs. Whenever Betty was in conference with Earl, Gert was sure to be in the vicinity.
Earl removed his headset. He said, “A compromise.”
“I’m listening.”
“We have two booths here,” he said, “And one booth where the new nonfiction table is in the front. A temporary position, just to increase awareness, and then we can move the third booth back here, too.”
Betty hated to lose the table. But she could squeeze in a vertical shelf by nonfiction on the second floor. She said, “Okay. The booth can stay in front for one month only. We’ll have to figure out what to do with the loss of all this shelf space back here. One tight aisle of racks might fit over there.” She pointed in Gert’s direction. Sure enough, Gert was watching, not bothering to be shy about it.
“Should we shake on it?” asked Earl. His smile made her bowels twist, it was so wrenchingly hot. She felt a fantasy coming on, the one where he came into her office after hours, closed the door, and took off all his clothes, piece by piece, until he stood in front of her stark naked, one hand gripping a gigantic erection.
“Just hurry up and get it over with,” she said.
Earl shrugged and put the earphones back on. Betty turned to go, relieved to be done with another interaction with him. She hadn’t taken three steps when Gert appeared at her side.
The Not-So-Perfect Man Page 8
