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
As I sat with Orla and Meg over tea at Orla's flat, I can't help the pit in my stomach that had returned in full force few days after my conversation with Quentin about my financial situation and how he has taken responsibility for my expenses and I haven't had peace since then. We sat at Orla's small kitchen table, watching Sophie ignore her vast array of toys in favor of pots pans that she scattered all over the kitchen.I confessed my misgivings to Orla and Meg. "I just don't know what's wrong with me. Something is just plaguing me."Orla nodded. "You're just feeling general anxiety over child-birth and motherhood. The whole scary journey ahead. And it can't help watching this!" She pointed at Sophie, rolled her eyes, and laughed."That has to be it," Meg agreed. She had recently announced the wonderful news that she, too, is pregnant. But she is in her very early weeks, with her own set of worries about miscarrying. "There's always something to fret about," she said. "Hmmm," Orl
I suggested another double date with Andrew and Capucine. Although our first effort wasn't an overwhelming success but I want to give it another try. Quentin protested a bit, saying that he prefers to be alone with me. I informed him that where I came from, Valentine's is a cheesy, amateur nonevent and therefore we have two options: blow it off altogether and order a pizza, or share the evening with another couple. I told him that I am not going to be one of those silly couples sitting alone at a table, all dressed up and eagerly ordering off a jacked-up, prix-fixe menu, and that going to dinner with another couple would temper the whole cheese factor. Quentin reluctantly saw my point and reluctantly made reservations for four at Daphne's, an Italian restaurant in South Kesington. ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***Quentin and I drove to the restaurant for our Valentine's double date. We arrived right on time and waited for Andrew and Capucine. They showed up thirty minutes lat
Quentin barged into the room in the middle of my transforming hug with Andrew. At least it seems as if he was barging, given my mind-set, but more likely it is his usual dignified entry. I feel guilty. I have not cheated and I'll not cheat. Although Quentin couldn't read my mind. Neither could Andrew for that matter. By all appearances, I was only hugging a friend. Yet inside I am reeling. Andrew stood and walked over to the window, as if to give Quentin and me privacy. I feel like yelling out, "No. You stay here. You belong next to me." But instead I looked at Quentin, standing at the foot of the hospital bed with his erect posture, in his starched white shirt and perfect suit and tie. Despite our ordeal, he remained composed, unruffled, and steadfast. It is now clear to me why I have been confused about loving him, why I had wanted so much to love him. On paper, he is perfect: handsome doctor, committed lover, seeming savior. "What happens now?" I asked Quentin as I fiddled nervo