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
Andrew, Capucine, Quentin and I are doing the whole double-dating thing for the first time on New Year's Eve. Quentin made reservations for us at Gordon Ramsey, the posh, Michelin-starred restaurant at Sloane Square, which is the perfect venue for a special occasion. As we ate, we praised the New French cuisine. Quentin called it "sublime" and Capucine referred to it as a "symphony of flavors." I think both of them sounds a bit pretentious, although it is a fair description of my pot-roasted belly of West Country pork with aubergine caviar, and of Andrew's roast Scottish gray-legged partridge with braised red cabbage—which I tasted more than once.Unfortunately, the interpersonal dynamic didn't live up to the food. The measure of success of any double date is how well the women get along, and Capucine and I just do not jell. On the surface, everything looks pleasant enough. She is extremely nice to me and very easy to talk to, but she came across as condescending. It is almost as i
As the winter in London dragged on and my due date neared, Quentin doted on me more and more. It is as if he normally consult every article ever written on how to treat a pregnant woman. He had taken me to fabulous restaurants: Planque, The Clove Club and Petrus. He buys me lavish gifts—Jo Malone bath oils, a Valentino clutch, lingerie from Agent Provocateur—which he normally leaves on the bed and pretend to be just as surprised as I when I'd emerge from the bathroom to discover them. He doesn't fail to reassure me that I am only becoming more beautiful with every passing day. He even insisted that he can't see the zits (or "spots" as he called them) that are frequenting my nose and chin. He always talks about our future and also promised to take me to see exotic places he had traveled to: Botswana, Budapest, Bora Bora. Quentin promised me a wonderful life and makes me feel like a lucky woman. A saved woman. But, as I lay next to him every night, I can't shake the feeling that someth