did pretty well himself, there was no shortage of girls lined up and I certainly understood why.
We’d had the business for about five years when finally Davis and I became a couple. Six months earlier, I had caught him studying me with an unusual look on his face. It was as if for the very first time, he had seen saw me as a woman and not only as a business partner. Because let’s face it, with Davis, the business always came first. Unfortunately around that time, I also noticed Davis and Marty becoming snappy and argumentative with each other. It was a first in many ways.
I still shudder when I think back to a particular Friday night in the office. We’d had a gruelling week. We had been uncertain if a particular buyer, who we had spent months getting over the line, would settle on an extremely lucrative property. There we were, just the three of us, having a few drinks, when I came on to Davis. Glass of pinot noir in one hand, the other hand clutching a cheque with a sizable deposit scrawled across it. I pranced around gleefully waving the cheque at the boys. As Davis attempted to playfully take it from me, I quickly put it behind my back. As he leant closer, I went up on tiptoes and kissed his lips. Briefly!
I caught the look of fear in his eyes.
It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Marty coughed and quickly began searching his desk for some miscellaneous nothing. While Davis told me, and he did it nicely, that he didn’t want to spoil what we had. I agreed wholeheartedly, laughing it off, saying, ‘God only knows what the hell I was thinking. Totally bad idea! The absolute worst! Quite funny really.’
I asked if he’d spiked my drink, as I slung my bag over my shoulder and then left laughing, glass of pinot noir still in hand.
Pausing long enough to leave the glass on the footpath, I laughed all the way home in the cab. I’ll point out at this point we had parted company, so I don’t know who the hell I was trying to kid, as I sure as heck knew the cabbie couldn’t have cared less.
Looking at myself in the mirror in the elevator in my apartment building, I continued to laugh, shaking my head at myself, nervously playing with my hair, wrapping it around and around my index finger. A habit left over from childhood. In hindsight, I think I may have been a tad hysterical and at one stage imagined slapping myself. However, it really doesn’t work when you do it yourself. I’ve tried before.
Entering my apartment, I kicked off my fire engine red patent, bejewelled Mui Mui heels and then, dramatically leaning against the door, I cried with embarrassment and through my rantings told myself that it was because I didn’t have long legs. That was definitely it. My legs were the problem.
To my utter dismay, somewhere around the age of 15, I realised I was never going to have long legs and I was always going to be curvy. I think a good description would be small but voluptuous, with my fantastic breasts… yes I do say so myself… svelte waist, curvy hips and rounded bottom. And can I tell you, I rather like the way I look. If I had lived in the 1940s, I would have been perfect movie star material. A bit short, however perfect, none the less.
And look, I make the most of it. With my well styled expensive suits I liked to wear low cut shirts and blouses to show off my assets.
I was well known for it. There were even times, when Davis, propped on the edge of my desk, would say to me, ‘Seriously Frenchy, we need to pull out the big guns for this client… can you flash your tits a bit!’
He was the only person in the world who called me Frenchy, as most people were unaware, that my biological father was French. Davis, with his voice low, would literally breathe it, never failing to send shivers up my spine, so sexy was it.
Being vertically challenged meant that I had fallen in love with heels. They gave me confidence, made me feel taller, thinner, like I wasn’t going to slip through the cracks of life, and that something fantastic was going to happen to me. Men turned to look at me. Hell, I turned to look at me.
They were such a weakness of mine. Jimmy Choo, Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik, Ralph Lauren, Chanel, Sergio Rossi and Roberto Cavalli’s were all friends of mine, paired beautifully, sitting on the custom designed shelves in my wardrobe. It wasn’t actually a wardrobe, but the second bedroom in my apartment turned into a walk-in-robe. The boys often joked that my investment portfolio needed to include my terribly expensive, designer, killer shoes.
I kept thinking that in the right pair of shoes, everything would be alright.
Well moving right along… six months later precisely, there we were on another Friday night, jammed in along the onyx bar at the Cru Bar, among a sea of suits in navy and various shades of grey, and over his pinot grigio, Davis was crying on my shoulder after another blonde five foot ten… yes they were all tall and blonde… who had left him for greener pastures. Hang on, I lie, there had to be a couple of five elevens and even a six footer thrown in there – bloody Amazonian!
Anyway the thing was, on that particular night, although I was giving him the lip service he required, I didn’t know why he was so upset. He didn’t really spend that much time with any of his girlfriends. Truth be known, they were trophies for him. And I was bored stiff with hearing about them. Glassy eyed, I wondered how long I could stare at the Baccarat crystal chandelier, nodding my head, without him noticing, that Hello, I’m not bloody interested.
Elbow on the bar and propping his chin on his hand, out of Davis’s mouth came the words, ‘Frenchy… why can’t I find someone just like you?’ And then while I absorbed this bit of information, he lent closer. Narrowing his eyes, and with his wine smelling sweet breath cool on my face, he whispered, ‘What are we doing Peach? You know you’re the one.’
At the time, I had just taken a mouthful of my sauvignon blanc, and I was so surprised, I sprayed it all over him. I mean literally. All over him. In his eyes, his face, down the front of his crisp white, double cuffed, business shirt, and violet pin striped tie. Did I happen to mention he was an impeccable dresser? I grabbed a white cloth napkin and with trembling hands busily attempted to blot the wine.
In my mind, I wanted to yell at him, “What do you mean I’m the one? I’m a five foot two, brunette. If you wanted someone like me, you’ve been bloody well looking in the wrong direction.” And then there was the other part of me, that felt all warm and fantastic, because how long had I been waiting for this?
So there we were at the bar, and finally after all these years, he has noticed me. He has said he wants someone like me. Like me! He has said I am the one. The one! Yes, I know I am repeating myself, but I could not believe it was actually happening, so every time I think of that night, I go over every detail, twice!
Reaching out, Davis touched my hair, delicately playing with one of my dark perfectly blow dried waves.
I didn’t look directly at him, just continued to fuss with the napkin and made a sound in the back of my throat, attempting a light hearted laugh, however it came out all wrong.
Gently, he took my busy hands in his, holding them quiet. I let out a deep breath and looked at him. I mean really looked at him and I saw it. He actually loved me.
I wanted to do that Sally Field thing where, at the Oscars, she had yelled, ‘You like me, you really like me’, but thought it a tad obvious and inappropriate.
And then he lent down and kissed my lips. Slowly. My God, how long had I wondered how that would be? Baby, he did not disappoint. I lost myself totally. Time stood still. Pulling away, he looked at me once more and then kissed me again, longer this time. And look, there was absolutely no argument from me. And he knew it. Because at some stage I realised I
