Hit the sheets. For the love of Pete. Couldn’t he just say make love? That being said, she was in the mood. Very much so. She glanced at her watch. She could manage a quickie.
“Come with me, lover,” she said, leading him to the steam room. “I think I have time to rock your world.”
* * *
Four hours later, the pimple having been gently extracted and injected with corticosteroid, Melissa felt much restored. A half hour in the Himalayan salt sauna, another half in the mineral tub, the shoulder massage that went along with the facial, plus a pedicure because someone had canceled . . . she hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time. Then the makeup artist had asked if she wanted him to make her gorgeous, so of course she said yes. It was always fun to see what someone else might do with her perfect face.
She walked up Bradford Street to her car. “I love your look,” said a man who was holding hands with another man. “You look like a mature Taylor Swift.”
Her smile, which had begun at the start of his compliment, fell. A mature Taylor Swift? Taylor Swift was older than she was!
In her BMW, she looked in the visor mirror. She looked fantastic. Perfect makeup. No wrinkles, thanks to preemptive Botox shots four times a year. But there were shadows under her eyes, visible even under the concealer. She was thirty years old. She shouldn’t have shadows!
Suddenly, a wave of nausea rolled up from the pit of her stomach to her mouth, and she barely had time to open the door to vomit.
She wiped her mouth with a few tissues, rinsed and spit with the mineral water she always had in the car to make sure she was hydrated at all times. Gross! Her stomach, now empty, growled, and sure enough, she was suddenly starving. The smell of garlic in the air made her want to burst into a restaurant and stuff fried shrimp in her mouth. God, yes.
Fried food? She hadn’t had fried food since she was fifteen.
What the heck was . . .
Oh.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Sore breasts. That second bite of cake. The pimple. Puking. The presumed jet lag. And now, a craving.
Melissa could not be pregnant. She never missed taking the pill, and it was 99 percent effective. She was just premenstrual. “You are in your thirties now,” she told her reflection. “Some things might be changing.”
As she drove down the street, she noticed a drugstore. Should she stop? No. She’d get her period any minute now. The universe would take care of her. It always did.
* * *
The universe was taking its sweet time. Melissa did not get her period. Nor did she buy a pregnancy test, for fear Bradley or Ophelia or the household staff (Lucia every day, plus a band of cleaners twice a week) would find it. Also . . . pregnancy was impossible. The pill was 99 percent effective, wasn’t it?
She waited. And waited.
Twelve days after her period had been due, she made an appointment with Wanda Owens, MD, who had a five-star rating on Google and Yelp. Right here in Wellfleet.
The office was a snug little building off Route 6. She pulled in and parked in the back, since her BMW was quite identifiable, then went inside. Of course, women went to the gynecologist for many reasons, not just a possible (and very unlikely) pregnancy. But even so, she wanted privacy. She was becoming a celebrity in this town, just as she’d hoped.
The waiting room wasn’t quite what she was used to—those Park Avenue doctors in New York had waiting areas that looked like the lobby of a luxury hotel. But this one was cozy, she supposed. More like a living room than a doctor’s office. Attractive enough club chairs, a green microfiber couch, a little play area for children.
An older woman behind the counter was on the phone. “I’ll be right with you,” she said. “Have a seat.”
Melissa did. There were plenty of current magazines on the table. Cape Cod Home, eh? Maybe she should hire a publicist to get her in this type of magazine. She wanted to be featured in Martha Stewart Weddings, too. Those were just a start. She only had thirty-two thousand followers on Instagram, but she hadn’t posted many wedding photos yet. Yes. A publicist. She’d have to google “celebrity publicists” when she got home.
“How can I help you?” said the receptionist.
“Melissa Spencer to see Dr. Owens,” she said. Using her own last name had seemed like a good idea.
“Right this way,” she said. “I’m Carol, by the way. I do everything here except the medical stuff. Step up on the scale, please.”
Melissa obeyed, and after a second, the number blinked: 134.
What? She practically leaped off the scale. She’d never weighed so much in her life! Damn all that French cheese! And bread! And chocolate! She’d have to do a cleanse. Nothing but green tea, ginger extract, lemon and cabbage juice for the next week so she could get back to her ideal 123. Since France, she’d forgotten to weigh herself each morning. For heaven’s sake! She should have started with a liquid-only diet the minute she stepped off the plane.
“You’re in Room Two,” Carol said. “Undress completely, put on this gorgeous exam robe, and Dr. Owens will be in shortly.” Carol handed her a blue-and-green cotton robe.
Melissa undressed, carefully folding her clothes and placing them on one of the chairs. The robe smelled like lemon laundry detergent and was quite soft. The exam room walls were a pretty shade of blue, and there were prints on the wall. A mobile hung from the ceiling. This was, she supposed, the Cape’s version of high-end medical care.
She glanced at her watch. Ophelia was in school; Bradley was in his office. She had a meeting for the arts council tonight, and she wondered what to wear. Something interesting yet classy. Oh! The black Armani dress with the keyhole front. Christian Louboutin leopard-print ankle boots and dangling Marie Mas earrings. Yes! They were funky and artistic and also damn expensive. A gift from Dennis when they’d gone to France the first year of their marriage.
Bradley wouldn’t be able to afford that kind of jewelry, not on his salary. She’d been a bit shocked at how little he earned, to be honest. Then again, all his money was discretionary now. Even so, maybe she’d give him an allowance so he could step up his game. He’d grimaced at the cost of her engagement ring, and honestly, it had only cost $17,000. Lucky for him, her fingers were slender, and the rock looked bigger than it was.
She should buy Ophelia some diamond earrings. Just little ones. Half carats, maybe, so she could start exerting her own brand, her own sense of style. Maybe they’d go shopping in Boston over the weekend. The truth was, Melissa missed her a little bit. She’d been largely silent and resentful since Bradley moved in. When Dennis was alive, she’d been much livelier and more talkative. Even after he died, when it had just been the two of them, it had been kind of . . . snug. Almost-mother and almost-daughter, finding a new place in the world, eating together every night, taking walks on the beach. She’d thought they’d started bonding, but once Bradley moved in, Ophelia had regressed.
Well, the child would have to start maturing. Maybe once she hit puberty, she’d appreciate Melissa more, and they could—
There was a commotion in the hallway. Urgent voices, though Melissa couldn’t make out what they were saying. Gosh darn it. She had wanted to go to Supple Apothecary in Orleans and get an under-eye serum to get rid of those dark circles. The spa treatment in Provincetown hadn’t lasted beyond a few hours.
The door opened, and a woman came in, dressed in scrubs, wearing those hideous clogs they forced nurses to wear. She looked down at the clipboard in her hands, looked up and said, “Ms. Spencer?”
Then she froze.
It took a second or two for Melissa to recognize her. Women in scrubs all looked alike, more or less. Her hair was in some kind of bun, and she wasn’t wearing makeup, but yes. It was Lillie Silva.
CHAPTER 18
Lillie