I woke up with a fresh panic very early in the morning. I laid in the bed, thinking about my life and how to navigate the shocking news of yesterday from Mr. Gibson. How in the world am I ever going to manage twins? Would Andrew let us live with him? Will two cribs even fit in my tiny room? What if I couldn't find a job? I have less than two thousand dollars left in my account —barely enough to cover my hospital bills, let alone baby supplies, food, rent. "Alright Tessy Johnson, you have to remain calm. Stay focused on your list, and take things one day at a time," I said to myself. I'm going to find a job to raise money for me and my boys . . .** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **For almost one full week, I was all about the job hunt. I kept an open mind, diligently seeking any kind of work: high-minded jobs, jobs in PR, even menial jobs. I checked the papers, made phone calls, hit the pavement. Nothing turned up—except some disappointing findings regarding the difficulty of se
"Hello, darling! So nice to see you again," Meg said as she answered the door. She kissed me on my cheek and I noticed she is also wearing a black dress. What a relief, at least, I am dressed appropriately. "Great to see you too! Thanks so much for having me," I said, feeling myself relax.Meg smiled and introduced me to her husband, Noâm, a rail-thin, dark-skinned guy with an unusual accent. He took my coat and offered me a drink. "A glass of champagne perhaps?"I rested my hand on my stomach and politely declined. "How about a Perrier?" he asked. "That would be lovely," I said, as Meg led me into her living room.Her living room looks like a spread in a magazine. The ceilings are higher than any I have seen in a private residence—they must be at least sixteen feet high. The walls are painted a dark, romantic red. A fire is flickering in the fireplace, casting a soft light on the jewel-toned Oriental rug and dark, antique furniture. Faded hardcover books filled the shelves that l
Quentin called me in the afternoon to prove that he is man enough not to subscribe to any silly waiting games. Or perhaps only American men make you wait. Well, Quentin said that he enjoyed my company and would love to see me again. Honestly, his candor is immensely attractive, which in turn made me feel I have matured.I shared my observation with Andrew as he stood at the stove making us fried eggs and bacon for dinner. Andrew and I loves breakfast foods any time of the day. In fact, one of the few things that Andrew and I agreed on in high school was that going to IHOP after football games was a better choice than the infinitely more popular Taco Bell. "Yeah," he said. "Sounds like you might be ready for a real, healthy relationship.""As opposed to pursuing someone like Jon?" I asked. He nodded. "Jon was all about rebellion." He flipped one egg with a spatula and then probed gently at the yolk of the other. "You subconsciously knew Max was wrong for you, so you cheated on him t
Quentin took me to dinner at The Ivy Cafe, one of the most popular restaurants in London. The head chef is a friend of Quentin's, so we had a tasting menu prepared especially for us, followed by a magnificent slice of flour-less chocolate cake for dessert, and some very expensive port for Quentin.Elle MacPherson and her husband sauntered in for a late reservation. They sat one table over from us. As we waited for our bill, I caught Quentin inspecting her, and then glancing back to me as if comparing us feature to feature. "What are you thinking?" I asked."You truly are prettier than she. I much prefer your eyes," he said, smiling lovingly at me. I blushed lightly. "You are more handsome than Elle MacPherson's husband too," I replied as I admired his facial features and stared seductively into his eyes. Handsome is the right word for Quentin's look. He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. "What do you say we go back to my place?"Finally, this is the time to find out
Quentin went to pick up his son, Curt, from his mother's house at Wimbledon. As I waited in his flat, I resisted the strong temptation to snoop through his drawers. In the past, I wouldn't be able to stop myself, but in the past, I think what I wanted was to find some fodder for a fight, a photo of another woman, an old love letter, a condom that predated me. Something or anything to rile me up, fuel my jealous instincts, get my competitive juice flowing. I don't know if my pregnancy has matured me, mellowed me, or simply sapped my strength. I am just enjoying the ease of my new, tranquil relationship. I'm not interested in barriers, only smooth sailing and a happy ending. **********************************Quentin and Curt returned, I stood to greet them, my face stretched out in a huge smile. Curt is adorable—cute enough to be in a Gap ad in his little navy overalls and fire-engine-red turtleneck. I felt my first wave of excitement over having sons instead of daughters."Hi, Curt
Quentin invited me to go to the Maldives with him and Curt for Christmas, even offering to buy me a plane ticket."Where is the Maldives exactly?" I asked after rattling my head to figure out where the Maldives is. He gave me a the sort of affectionate gaze Max had given me in the beginning whenever I confessed ignorance. "In the Indian Ocean, darling," he said, stroking my hair. "Think white-sand beaches, crystal-clear water, palm trees swaying in the breeze."As tempting as a vacation in the sun is and as eager as I am to push things even further along with our relationship, I have to decline and give him a tangible excuse. "No, honey," I said, stroking his arms. "I think you need to spend quality time with your son. It's a father-son-time with Curt." "Alright, darling," Quentin said with a worried look on his face. "I'm off to work."I kissed him on his cheek and watched him leave the flat.The truth is, I don't want to level Andrew all by himself in London. He doesn't have the
Andrew and I woke up and sleepily wished each other "Merry Christmas.""What are we going to do today?" I asked him."We're gonna chef it up," Andrew answered joyously.We had gone grocery-shopping the day before yesterday, and his small English refrigerator is packed to the gills with all of our ingredients. "What else?""Cooking Christmas dinner will take most of the day," he said. "Do you wish that we waited till today to open our gifts?" I asked Andrew. I know that Christmas isn't about presents, but there is always a bit of a letdown when the part the holidays has passed. Although, for once, I enjoyed giving more than recieving."I prefer opening gifts on Christmas Eve," Andrew said. "But, I could give you something else though . . ."I looked at him, and I think my face registered surprise. Is it my imagination or is his tone suggestive? Is Andrew coming on to me? "How about a poem?" Andrew asked innocently."Oh. Yeah. Sure," I said, feeling relieved that I hadn't responded in
I'm playing the role of sous-chef, diligently taking Andrew's instructions. I chopped and peeled vegetables while he focused on the turkey and fancier trimmings. Other than burning my finger in the goose fat when I was removing the parsnips from the oven, everything is going excellently smoothly. Almost like a cooking show, Andrew bragged before we started cooking and now, I understand why he did so—we are doing great!************* ************ ********It started getting dark outside so I went to take a shower. Andrew and I had spent most of the day in our pyjamas, preparing our Christmas dinner. Under the hot water, I allowed myself to revisit the massage he gave me in the morning, marveling that Andrew could make me feel the way he had. What was he thinking when he massaged my back and waist? I got out of the shower, and craned my neck to check out my back in the mirror, feeling relieved that my ass is still sizeable and firm—stretch-mark and cellulite-free. I felt a wave of g