“I think it is,” he said, and he drove out of the parking lot.
When we got to my condo, he wanted to walk me to my door. He held my hand and said, “I wish when we'd had sex, I'd known it would be our last time.”
I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. “It was perfect. It was really special.”
Huskily, he said into my ear. “Are you sure? Because I think I could do it better.”
I laughed and pushed him away, although my pu**y didn't want me too. My whole body trembled with excitement. I stared up at Jacob's brown eyes, and I considered taking him up to my place and giving him something to remember, but my mouth said, “Goodbye.”
He kissed me, and he left.
As I walked into the lobby of my building, I glanced behind me to the street, but Jacob had already gone, disappearing into the night.
3: The Mentor
I spent the weekend feeling sorry for myself. On Saturday morning, I pulled everything out of my kitchen cupboards in order to give them a good scrubbing inside. By Sunday night, my canned goods and dishes were still spread out everywhere, and I hadn't washed anything. The up-side of this was it made preparing food easier. Craving candy, I ate a jar of cake decorations.
On Monday morning, I had an organizing job. I put on my little Bitch Boots, which I hadn't worn much since my first visit to Luthor Thorne's mansion, and I headed out to work, feeling disgust as I looked over my disaster of a kitchen.
I had the new girl, Martine, working with me that day. She asked a lot of questions, again, but she was getting the knack of it. I left her alone with the client, patiently sorting through the woman's overstuffed closet, listening to the woman describe the wonderful gala events she'd attended in each fancy dress.
Suzanne had booked this job on a per-hour basis, not for a flat rate, so I had no incentive to rush things along. I excused myself to the washroom and checked my phone for messages, for about the millionth time.
Part of me was hoping Jacob would call or text, saying we could go back to how things were, and that he needed me—not to marry him immediately and bear progeny, but to kiss him and hold him.
Another part of me wished Luthor would do something. Anything.
Shortly after we got back from Indonesia, Suzanne had forwarded me his phone number, and I'd almost called him a dozen times. I pulled up his number again and hovered my finger over the screen.
I put the phone away and then … I received a sign from the universe, or whatever. I glanced down at the bathroom's counter top and right on top of a stack of women's magazine was a Cosmopolitan, and in bright pink text, these words leapt out at me:
Why Don't You Ask Him Out for a Change?
So I did.
I sent Luthor a carefully-worded, just-breezy-enough text message, suggesting we meet for lunch so that I could “pick his brain” about business advice.
He returned the message within half an hour, naming a fancy hotel restaurant downtown and saying he'd already made reservations for Tuesday at noon.
Martine, who was packing up ball gowns to go to a charity, stared up at me, all big blue eyes. “What? Am I doing everything wrong? Please don't fire me.”
“You're great,” I said. “I'm just surprised by a text message.”
“Ah!” She looked relieved.
Our client had disappeared off to another room to fetch some accessories for us to help her sort.
Staring at Martine, I remembered what it was like to be nervous at a new job, so I put away my phone and gave her a little pep talk, letting her know she was doing a fine job.
Martine looked around to make certain we were alone, and then leaned in and said, “Rich people scare me a little.”
“They're just like everyone else,” I said, launching into a mini-speech I was used to giving when people asked about my career. “Our clients just want to be heard. They want someone to patiently listen without judgment, and sometimes they just need a little company. It can be very lonely at the top.”
As Martine nodded and I spoke, I heard my pre-canned speech with fresh ears.
My major issue with Luthor Thorne had been him trying to treat me like an employee, ordering me around and trying to “book” me rather than date me. And yet, if he'd been raised by nannies and other staff members, people paid to care for him, it wasn't unnatural for him to try those patterns later in life.
And goodness knows there are a lot of women around looking for “sugar daddies” to buy them things in exchange for affection. I wondered if Luthor Thorne had ever had a normal relationship. Had he dated anyone in college? Had he ever had his heart truly broken, or did he push people away before they could hurt him?
People don't mean to hurt each other, not usually. They're just unwilling or unable to stop it. Sooner or later, everyone's going to be disappointed in life, and they'll look around for someone to pin it on.
After my parents first separated, my father made an effort for a while. He'd pick me up and we'd go through the ritual, listing off all the things neither of us felt like doing. Then we'd go back to his sad little bachelor apartment and I'd watch TV while he went about his regular life, sometimes there, sometimes out. He'd give me the fold-out bed and he'd take a blow-up air mattress that had to be noisily re-inflated in the middle of the night.
When he drove me back to my mother's, to my house where my real life was, he'd stand on the porch and grin like SuperDad. My mother would look down at me and say, “Tell your father you love him.”
“I love you,” I'd say.
He'd beam and say, “Me too, sweetie,” and hug me goodbye.
As I got older, we fought more. He moved to a better apartment, and I had my own room, but it was also his office, and he wouldn't let me put up the posters I wanted. It was a stupid thing to argue over, as are all the stupid things families argue over, but my teenage years were not pretty.
Eventually, I'd see him only once every few months, but still my mother would put us through that ritual of me saying, “I love you,” even on days I wanted to scream that I hated him.
In my head, I pretended I was saying “Isle of Yew” and that made it a little better.
My father's not the worst guy, and we actually get along just fine now that I'm a grown-up, although we don't see each other often. When we say goodbye, I still say “Isle of Yew,” and he doesn't know.
Even dressed in my best little suit—a cream skirt and matching jacket, over a red blouse—I felt out-classed at the fancy hotel restaurant. Don't you hate it when waiters give you a snooty, appraising look? I mean, come on. They're waiters, not captains of industry. Who are they to judge? I may not wear Chanel, but I don't describe the Catch of the Day a hundred times a day for a living.