“Good afternoon Sandy,” I stood up and pulled out her chair.
Before I could ask her anything, a wine connoisseur came over to our table with several glasses of wine. He explained the different flavors and fermenting processes and encouraged us to take a tour of the vineyard that was out back.
“This is a whole lot of wine,” Sandy blushed. “I didn’t know you were going to buy the five thousand dollar package. I would’ve contributed…”
“Don’t worry about it. I would’ve never let you pay,” I went down my list of small talk questions for the next hour—I was actually getting better at it.
I found out that she was normal, completely normal. She was a part-time schoolteacher, a classics book collector, and a fan of contemporary rock music.
I couldn’t tell her my real occupation, but I did tell her that I loved sports, coffee, and books. We even argued over the best British novels. She swore by Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, I swore by George Orwell’s 1984.
As the connoisseur brought over another tray of wine, I debated on whether or not I wanted to ask her out again. I didn’t know if Selena would call me by the end of the weekend, and there was an indie rock concert on Saturday that I was sure Sandy would enjoy.
I took a sip of vintage red wine and decided to go for it. “Sandy, today was great. I really enjoyed spending time with you. Would you like to—”
“You look like you have nice toes.”
“Umm okay. Thanks? Anyway, I was about to ask if—”
“I like to lick toes.”
I dropped my glass to the floor. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
“I. Like. To. Lick. Toes.”
I looked around for the waiter. I needed the check. Now.
“You wear a size thirteen don’t you?” she licked her lips. “I can guess any man’s shoe size within ten seconds. Thirteen is a good size.”
“I need to go to the restroom for a minute. Will you please excuse me, Sandy?”
“Did you know that the toes are some of the most sensitive areas of the body?” she dropped down to the floor and began to untie my shoes. “I can distract your body’s urine glands with a few strategic licks.”
“No, that’s okay,” I moved my foot away from her and signaled for the check. “My feet were already licked today. Thank you for your offer though…I appreciate that.”
She jumped up and hugged me. “You lick your own toes too? I didn’t think I’d ever find someone like me!”
Chapter 17
Selena
I woke up around four in the afternoon, with a mind-numbing headache and an itchy dry throat. Even though it was hours past my drunken escapade, I could still taste the sour tang of vodka on my lips.
I looked over at my nightstand and saw a bottle of Tylenol pills, a glass of orange juice, and a handwritten note: “Selena, I’m flying to New York today to interview potential publicists for you. All your clothes are in the living room and your mother wants the bakery signs done by Wednesday. I’ll be back tomorrow night—Cheer up, Joan. PS: I think you have a secret admirer...”
I didn’t know what “secret admirer” Joan was talking about, but I was wishing I’d stolen her away from Matt years ago. Even though she and I didn’t always see eye to eye, she really was the perfect assistant. She could pretty much read my mind and I hardly had to ask her to do anything because she’d already done it.
I washed down the pills with the juice and wearily climbed out of bed. I walked over to my balcony and stepped onto the landing.
The skies above were an ugly gray and the rain was falling relentlessly. I looked down at the parking lot and saw a woman stumbling out of a taxi cab, carrying her heels in one hand and her purse in the other.
I shuddered as a not-too-distant-memory crossed my mind: The last time I’d gotten ridiculously drunk was at one of Phillip’s cast parties. He didn’t let me hang off his arm like he normally did when we were out of town or at the beach, and he only spoke to me a few times during the night.
He’d told me beforehand that he didn’t want us to show any displays of affection because he wanted to share his time equally amongst the cast and producers; like the fool that I was, I went along with it.
I didn’t ask why his “soon-to be-ex-wife” was there, why he was allowing her to hang on his arm, or why he only came around me when she wasn’t around. I’d been conditioned to believe that it was all a facade and that his daughters scoured the internet daily and needed to see their parents looking happy together at public events.
The last time he came around me that night, I was vomiting over the toilet. I’d had one too many drinks and asked if he could drive me home and take care of me. He patted my back, waited for me to finish hurling, and escorted me outside.
He held my hand down the brownstone’s steps and whistled for a cab. Not his personal driver that had picked me up hours earlier. A cab.