by Dana Bate
“A plaster.”
I stare at him blankly.
“A bandage. Whatever you Americans call it.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you.” Hugh continues to hold my hand above my head, his hip nearly touching mine. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Natasha is going to kill me.”
“If she kills anyone, she’ll kill me. I’ll tell her I broke it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because getting rid of me is a lot more complicated that getting rid of you.” He goes quiet and searches my face. “We aren’t in love, you know. Me and Natasha.”
“It isn’t really my business. . . .”
“Perhaps not, but I thought you should know. It’s more like . . . a business arrangement. We help each other professionally, but it’s not . . . There’s no romance.”
“You’re still married.”
“Technically. But she’s had a lover for a while now, and we barely see each other. Even when we do, it’s all very buttoned up. We never really . . . talk about things.” He tightens his grip on my hand. “Not like this. Not like I can with you.”
My heart races, his words echoing in my head. I want to kiss him. God, I want to kiss him. He gets me—who I am, where I’m from, what I want in life. And he sees something in me, something I’ve never seen in myself, that makes me feel capable, worthy—invincible. Sam shrank my world to make it manageable and safe, but Hugh has blown it wide open, releasing me into a sea of adventure and possibility. I like the person I am when I’m with him, the way I act, the way I feel. It’s as if he’s unlocked a part of me I didn’t know existed, and now that I’ve caught a glimpse of the woman I could be, I don’t want to let her go.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I say.
“You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t.”
He holds my stare, and then he slowly moves closer, until his hips are touching mine, pressing me against the kitchen counter. He leans toward me, his breath hot on my face, and I slowly lean toward him, my skin tingling. He rubs his thumb gently along my lower lip, and then he kisses me, softly at first, then with more intensity. My heart is beating so hard and fast I’m afraid it will burst. He pulls me close and starts kissing my neck, his skin smelling of cedar and pine, his touch electric.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he whispers in my ear.
He kisses my neck again, and I pull him closer. “I don’t want to stop,” I say.
I grab at his shirt and run my hands up and down his back, and he presses against me harder, rubbing his knee along the inside of my leg. My entire body shakes, out of fear or desire or a combination of both, but he holds me close, his body warm and solid. Every touch and kiss feels like the first—not with Hugh, but with anyone—as if everything that came before this was, on some level, pretend.
He reaches down and pulls my T-shirt over my head, exposing my pale skin to the glow of the kitchen light. He runs his hands over my stomach and hips, and I shiver as I unbutton his shirt, feeling feverish, dizzy. His chest is smooth and muscular, his skin warm and pale. He pulls away for a moment and smiles, and my legs go weak. I tremble as I look up at him—those eyes, those lips. I fumble with his belt buckle, tugging at it manically, like a woman possessed, wanting him so intensely my bones ache. My breath quickens, the air thick and strange, as if something in the room has suddenly changed, as if we have crossed some sort of threshold.
He unbuttons my jeans, hoists me onto the counter, and wraps my legs around his waist. I run my fingers through his hair, my heart beating faster and faster, my head dizzy with wine and longing, and then, as I pull him into me, I let my mind go blank.
CHAPTER 23
What have I done? What have I done?
This is terrible. Oh my God, this is terrible. I mean, it wasn’t terrible at the time. It was magical and emotional and was, quite literally, the best sex that has ever happened—if not in the history of the act, then at least in my personal history. But now that it’s over, I’m left with the glaring reality that I just slept with a married man. Not just any man. An MP. An MP who, for the sake of publicity or not, is married to Natasha fucking Spencer.
Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.
I rush over to the kitchen sink and vomit, while Hugh is in the bathroom down the hall. I flick on the water, washing the wine-soaked hunks of regurgitated baguette down the drain.
“Everything okay in there?” he shouts from the end of the hall.
“Fine,” I call back, even though that isn’t even close to the truth.
I blot the corners of my mouth with a paper towel, a thin stream of blood still trickling from my index finger. Hugh walks back into the kitchen, his white shirt half buttoned and stained with blood.
“Jesus, it looks like you murdered someone.”
He glances down at his shirt. “Indeed it does.”
“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I should have gotten a Band-Aid. A plaster.”
“It’s fine. There wasn’t exactly a lot of . . . planning going on.”
“But your shirt is ruined.”
“Probably.”
We stare at each other for a few uncomfortable moments, and my queasiness returns.
“Listen,” he says, and as soon as he does, I know what will follow. This was a mistake. This can’t happen again. I’m sorry. You should go. So instead, I hold up my hand.
“I know,” I say. “It’s okay. I’m leaving.”
“That isn’t what I meant—you don’t have to leave.”
“I think we both know that isn’t true.”
He stares at me for a long while. “Could I at least call you a taxi?”
“I can take the tube. It isn’t a problem.”
He looks at the clock. “Nonsense. I’d worry the whole time. I’ll call a taxi right now. And then I’ll get you a plaster.”
He walks out of the kitchen, and I finish cleaning the floor, sweeping up the glass with one of Olga’s brooms and wiping up the rest of the spilled wine with a paper towel. Aside from a bit of grout that now bears a pinkish hue, there is no trace of my clumsiness.
Hugh comes back in, waving a bandage over his head. “Taxi called. Plaster ready.”
He approaches and unwraps the bandage, crumpling the papery wrapper into a ball. I stick out my finger, and Hugh gently applies the bandage. When he’s finished he looks down at me, my finger still held in his hand.
“Could you please call when you get home? To let me know you got back safely.”
“Sure. If you want.”
“I do. Thank you.” He holds my finger tight.
The doorbell rings, and we turn toward the hall. “Sounds like the taxi is here,” I say.
He gradually lets go of my finger, and I grab my bag off the counter and follow him upstairs. He unlocks the front door, but as I reach out for the knob, he presses his hand on top of mine.
“I . . . had a lovely time tonight,” he says.
My chest tightens. This is awkward. Why is this so awkward?
“Me too,” I finally say.
“You promise you’ll call when you get home?”
He stares at me earnestly, and my heart races. He rubs his thumb along my hand, and I say, “I promise,” even though I know that’s a lie.
Promising to call him wasn’t a willful lie. I would have called him if I’d had his cell-phone number, but I knew I didn’t, and I wasn’t about to ask for it. For privacy reasons, I don’t even have the house line. The only person’s number I have in connection with this house is Poppy’s, and somehow I didn’t think calling her in Paris to say, “I made it home safely after sleeping with your boss’s husband—just thought I’d let you know!” was wise.
Instead, when I get home, I head straight for my bedroom, dump my bag next to my bed, and hop in the shower, as if cleaning myself will erase what happened tonight. Unfortunately, the plumbing in my building is about two hundred years old, so the water alternates between too hot and too cold, pro
viding little comfort and no absolution.
What little sleep I get that night is besieged by dreams of Hugh and me, our legs intertwined, our lips pressed together. I can’t decide whether these are dreams or nightmares. Didn’t I want that to happen? Haven’t I wanted it ever since I met him?
My great fear is that when I arrive the next morning, his will be the first face I see, and we’ll fall into a clumsy and stilted interaction that I won’t know how to resolve. But my worries are for naught because when I arrive at the house, Hugh has already left for work, so Olga and I are the only two people there.
“Miss Natasha, she return today,” Olga says.
“Do you know what time?”
She shrugs dispassionately. Apparently she neither knows nor cares.
Given that last time Natasha returned from Paris, she consumed nothing but juice for three days, I decide not to prep the Brussels sprouts, since doing so will inevitably result in my throwing them away. Instead, I get going on what I hope will be my final test run of the paella, followed by a first attempt at sweet potato fries, a compromise Natasha and I came to, since she wanted fries in the book, but doesn’t eat white potatoes and therefore wouldn’t be able to try them.
As I trim and soak the sweet potatoes, the house phone rings, and I hear Olga’s footsteps race down the hallway above me as she goes to answer it. The ringing stops, and a few moments later, I hear her thumping down the stairs to the kitchen.
“A call for you,” she says.
“For me? Who is it?”
“Mr. Ballantine. He have question.”
My pulse quickens. “Oh. Okay.” I wipe my hands on my apron. “Is it okay if I take the call down here?”
“Please.”
I pick up the phone and press it to my ear, my eyes locked on Olga, who stands frozen in the doorway. “Hello?”
“Hi—Kelly. It’s me. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say, flashing a friendly smile for Olga’s sake.
“Thank God. I was worried. You never called.”
“I don’t have the number,” I say, trying to make my dialogue as vague as possible. To Olga, that could mean anything. It doesn’t mean Sorry for not calling you last night. It doesn’t mean Sorry for sleeping with you.
“Right—of course. I didn’t even think of that. I suppose I assumed you had the house number, but I forgot Natasha doesn’t give it out. Shall I give you my mobile?”
“What for?”
“I don’t know, in case . . .” He fumbles over his words. “No, I suppose you’re right. It’s probably not a good idea. You should have the house number, though. I don’t care what Natasha says. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Let me ask Olga,” I say. I move the receiver away from my mouth. “Olga, do you have Natasha’s number in Paris?”
“I think . . . maybe. I go check,” she says, heading for the stairs.
“Ah, sorry,” Hugh says. “I didn’t realize she was standing right there.”
I redirect my voice back into the phone. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Made it home in one piece and back to work in one piece, and everything is great.”
“Good. Lovely. I’m . . . glad to hear it.”
Olga reenters the kitchen with a scrap of paper. “I have number.”
She goes to hand it to me, but I stop her. “Why don’t you give it to Mr. Ballantine?” She shrugs in acquiescence. “Lovely speaking with you, Mr. Ballantine,” I say. “I’m glad I was able to help.”
I hand the phone to Olga, and as she takes it, I head back to my station at the counter, pretending not to notice that she is eyeing me warily the entire time.
Natasha returns at four o’clock that afternoon, just as I am up to my elbows in sweet potato fries—not figuratively, but quite literally, as I scoop the soaking slices of sweet potato out of an elbow-deep bowl of water.
“Bonjour!” she says as she waltzes up to the kitchen island, across from where I’m standing.
Yes, by all means, speak French and remind me that you went to Paris without me.
“How was your trip?”
“Magnifique. The weather was amazing. And the food.” She sighs. “Pierre really outdid himself this time.”
“Pierre?”
“Gagnaire.”
My jaw drops. “You know Pierre Gagnaire?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve been going to his places for years—Paris, Tokyo, Dubai, Hong Kong. I love his approach to food: new flavors, classic techniques. He’s such a genius.”
She’s right; he is. The man has three Michelin stars. He’s one of the greatest chefs in the world. But more astounding than the fact that Natasha has met him—knows him—is her ability to speak with such knowledge about his cooking. And not just his cooking; my cooking, too. As annoying as her fussiness may be, she does have an extremely well-cultivated palate. I suppose if I regularly ate at Pierre Gagnaire and Joël Robuchon, I would, too. But if she derives such pleasure from fine food, then why did she have a meltdown at the mere whiff of a loaf of banana bread? It makes no sense. She makes no sense.
“So,” Natasha continues, “what do you have for me to taste today?”
I freeze, my hands clasped around a bunch of raw sweet potatoes. “Oh—last time . . . I thought . . .” I clear my throat. “I thought you’d be doing another cleanse.”
“A cleanse? Why would I be doing a cleanse?” She looks down at her waist and then back up at me. “Do I look fat?”
“No—my God. You’re like the thinnest person I’ve ever met. No, it’s just that last time you were in Paris you didn’t want to do a tasting for a few days. I figured it would be the same this time around.”
“Did I say that?”
“No . . . I just assumed.”
“Well, you know what my eighth grade English teacher told me about assuming?” She stares at me coolly. “It makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”
How does this woman manage to get through a day without someone’s punching her in the face?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Next time I’ll be sure to ask.” I nod toward the sweet potatoes. “I’m about to do a first test run of the sweet potato fries, so if you want, you can stick around to try them. Oh, and the paella should be ready in an hour or so, if you’re interested.”
She scrunches up her lips and looks at the clock. “No on the sweet potato fries; yes on the paella. I’ll be down in an hour for a taste.”
“Perfect.”
She taps her hands on the counter. “Oh—and before I go, I almost forgot: Hugh and I want to throw a dinner party for some friends on Saturday, and we were hoping you could cook. I’m thinking . . . tapas.”
“This Saturday?” As in three days from now?
“Yeah. That isn’t a problem, right?”
“Nope. It’s fine.” Aside from the fact that I now have three days to pull a tapas menu out of thin air. I was also supposed to meet up with Harry for pizza that night, and now, thanks to Natasha’s capriciousness, I will have to cancel. Again.
“Excellent. I think there will be twelve of us. I’ll double-check with Hugh—I haven’t spoken with him since before I left. You haven’t run into him, have you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I know he’s been swamped with work, but I just wondered if you’d seen him or if he’s been living at the office.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice from quavering. “I ran into him the other day for a second as I was leaving. He seemed fine.” I suddenly remember this morning’s call. “Oh, and he called this morning asking for the number at your hotel. Not sure what that was about, but Olga gave him the number.”
She looks confused. “Why would he need to call me in Paris this morning, if I was returning this afternoon?”
“I . . .”
. . . have no idea how to answer that question. Why would he need her number, especially if, as he said, their marriage is one of convenience and they never talk? What seemed like a plausible l
ie now seems preposterous.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “He didn’t call?”
“No. And anyway, he knows where I was staying. I sent him an e-mail weeks ago.”
“Oh. Weird.”
She looks annoyed, and I’m certain she is about to call my bluff, but instead, she clenches her fist and lets out a grunt.
“God, he is such a flake. This is why—this is why I send him a monthly calendar. He never remembers anything. Jesus.” She points her finger at me. “I’m telling you, Kelly: When you find the right man someday, you’d better pray he isn’t like Hugh. Because if he is, it will drive you up the freaking wall.”
I laugh nervously as I reach for the bottle of olive oil and try to keep myself from saying out loud the words running through my head—that I’ve met the right man, and he isn’t like your husband. He is your husband.
CHAPTER 24
What am I saying? Hugh isn’t the right man. He is the wrong man. He is, in fact, the very definition of “the wrong man.” He is married, he is a politician, and he is twelve years older than me. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
But if that’s the case, then why can’t I stop thinking about him?
I suppose Harry has been on my mind as well, but only in the sense of Crap, I need to call Harry and cancel our date or Ugh, I still haven’t called Harry; I really need to get on that. It really isn’t the same thing.
On Thursday evening, I manage to get Harry on the phone, bracing myself for the inevitable disappointment in his voice.
“This dinner came out of nowhere,” I say. “But she’s my boss, so I kind of have to do it.”
“I understand,” he says, though, as expected, he doesn’t sound thrilled. “Shall we try for a third attempt? Or is this your polite way of telling me you’re not interested?”
“No—that isn’t it at all. I promise. I’d still love to meet up.”
This is sort of true. I genuinely liked him when we met a few weeks back, and I feel like a huge jerk for constantly canceling on him. But ever since the incident on Tuesday night, Hugh has been pumping through my veins like a virus, an infection I can’t seem to shake. Sometimes, in the middle of sautéing Brussels sprouts or chopping an onion, I’ll flashback to his thumb grazing my inner thigh or his lips lingering on my neck, and my hands will start shaking, my skin so hot I need to open the refrigerator to cool down. But no matter how phony his marriage is, Hugh still isn’t available, and Harry is, which means I should at least give him a shot.
