speed dial number.
“Bonnie? Hi, babe.”
“Hello yourself,” her older sister said.
Now that she’d called, she felt a bit awkward. “It’s been a while.”
“It sure has. How the hell are you?”
The two made small talk for several minutes while Sam sniffed at every bush and tree around her block of town houses. Finally, Monica said, “I was wondering whether you guys were free sometime soon. I’ve been thinking that I haven’t seen you, Jake, and the kids in quite a while.”
“We’re barbecuing tonight. Why don’t you stop by for dinner? Come early. I know everyone will be tickled to see you.”
Just what she needed. Although she and her sisters had little in common, she genuinely liked both Bonnie and Janet, and they had so much history that they were seldom at a loss for conversation. “Are you sure I won’t be putting you out?”
“Not at all. I’ve got plenty. I’m going to hang up now so you can’t say no. Dinner’s around six. Be here! ’Bye!” The line went dead.
Monica snapped the phone closed. She was making changes in her life. If she could only keep it up. “Hey, Sam, we’re going to Bonnie’s house later. You get to play with everyone.”
At four-thirty, having spent a couple of hours going over mounds of paperwork, Monica showered and dressed in a pair of lightweight summer jeans and a soft yellow blouse. She opened the car door and Sam bounded into the backseat, ready for an adventure. Not wanting to arrive empty-handed, Monica stopped at her favorite pie shop and picked up a crust full of blueberry calories and a quart of the shop’s special vanilla-fruit-swirl ice cream, then drove the nine miles to her sister’s quiet neighborhood. The raised ranch house was of moderate size and comfortable, with a huge oak tree in the front yard that caused Jake to lament that he couldn’t get grass to grow beneath its branches. It wasn’t at all like the ones on Sheraton, but more than sufficient for Bonnie and her family.
At thirty-six, her sister was three years older than Monica and had been happily married for almost thirteen years. “Auntie Em,” her niece Lissa yelled as she saw her aunt’s car pull into the driveway. “Auntie Em.”
Auntie Em. She’d been called that since the first time Lissa, now aged eleven, had seen The Wizard of Oz. At first Lissa thought it was a big joke, having an aunt whose name began with M, but the nickname had stuck and now all of her nieces and nephews called her that. “Did you bring Sam?” Lissa said, skipping over to the car as it pulled to a stop.
To answer, Monica opened the car door so Sam could gallop toward the giggling girl. “Auntie Em’s here, with Sam,” Lissa yelled, and answering boys’ cries of, “Here, Sammie,” echoed from the backyard.
Monica spent the next hour sitting on her sister’s deck, enjoying large glasses of sangria and large doses of family life, eventually watching Jake fiddle with the outdoor grill. Later, filled with hamburgers and hot dogs, she extricated herself and arrived back at her apartment at around eight, slightly sunburned and scratching three mountains that some hungry mosquito had built on her left ankle.
As she wandered into her bedroom, she realized that times like this left her with deeply conflicted feelings. She was envious of her sisters. Marriage, kids, the security of at least some steady person as the years passed, all sounded so comfortable and wonderful. But she was also contemptuous of them. They were both bright, college-educated women. How could they settle for suburbia, crab grass, and part-time jobs? Sure, Jake made more than enough money as an attorney, and Janet’s husband Walt was a stockbroker, but what did Bonnie and Janet do all day? She remembered Eve’s comment earlier that afternoon. What would she do if she didn’t have her job, and what skills would her sisters have if something happened and they had to go back to work? Sure, Jake and Walt were all right, but men in general were unreliable and would skip out the minute things weren’t going well. Her father was a prime example, leaving the family when Monica was in her early teens to do what he’d always “needed” to do, see the country with his new girlfriend, Doreen. Monica had listened to her mother in the years following, calling her father every name in the book, and a few she made up herself.
Tempted as she was to pick up the stack of work still undone, she stretched out on the bed and flipped on the TV. When her cell phone rang, she pressed the mute button. “Hello?”
“Hi, Monica.” She recognized Trent Lockhart’s voice immediately. He was the assistant media director at the skin care division of a large cosmetics firm, and she’d been trying to convince him to let C & B pitch his account.
Lowering and softening her voice, she said, “Well, hello stranger. I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”
“I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”
“I sure do. To what do I owe this call?” She’d given him her cell phone number “just in case.”
“I’ve got a free evening Wednesday and I thought we might get together and talk about”—he paused—“things.”
Things. She knew exactly what things he was referring to. She had been dangling sexual favors in front of him just as he’d been dangling the account in front of her. Another unfaithful married man. “I’d love to talk about”—another pause—“things. Over dinner?”
“Sure. How about Peter Luger’s in Williamsburg?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll bring my car. Why don’t you come in a taxi and then I can drive you back to the city?”
“We’ll see how it all works out,” she said, knowing her meaning was perfectly clear. No pitching the account, no fucking. It was that simple. Actually, Trent was a really sexy guy and she would have done him just for the hell of it, but that wasn’t the way the business ran, at least for her. And God, was she hungry. She’d been celibate for almost a month, longer than she’d gone in years. She pictured Trent: soft, country-boy blue eyes, razor-cut sandy hair, and a nicely turned out body. She wondered what he’d be like in bed. Aggressive, she hoped, and she’d find out soon. It was only a matter of time.
Monica had no qualms about trading her body for whatever she needed at work. She’d had brief affairs with several of the senior partners. Everyone understood that they were just short, feel-good fucks but they accomplished what she wanted. She got noticed. She knew no one would really do anything extra for her and she never even hinted at a quid pro quo, but she got considered for new accounts and found out about opportunities before most others.
What was the problem with that? She wasn’t hurting anyone. She enjoyed sex in all forms, and with a few exceptions, had as good a time as her partner.
For a moment the image of the guy from the yoga class flashed through her mind and she wondered what he was like in bed. Nah. Too complicated. It was so much simpler when everyone knew what was what.
As she undressed after her call from Trent, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Not bad, she thought, sucking in her stomach, lifting her ribs, and arching her back slightly. Not bad at all. So I’m not a kid anymore, she thought, lifting her breasts with her hands. I’m experienced and damn good in bed. Every man I’m with gets the best I can give.
She sometimes wondered whether she should be ashamed of her behavior, but
