But still.
Paris had been utterly magical, though, and Bradley had been a perfect husband. They ate and strolled. Paris was for lovers, and Bradley had finally mastered cunnilingus. How had Lillie borne it for twenty years? Oh. Right. She’d been a virgin when they met. Bradley had told Melissa. So Lillie didn’t know any better.
Melissa brought gifts for Ophelia, Lucia the housekeeper, the yard service man whose name she couldn’t remember and a few friends at yoga. Future friends, she thought. The presents would help. She’d even bought a beautiful bottle of perfume for Hannah.
But then they’d come home to an awful stench in their bedroom. One of the wedding guests had dropped a shrimp behind the bed, and the smell was so bad, Melissa had thrown up. Bradley had, too. Of course, Melissa had expected people to wander through the house, and she’d wanted them to see how splendid and tasteful and gorgeous it was. But for Pete’s sake! You drop a shrimp and don’t even notice it? Then the jet lag hit her hard, and she slept late for the next week, missing every early yoga class she’d booked.
That pimple. Could it have been from French food? All that cheese? But she’d been to Paris with Dennis twice and that had never happened.
Oh, well. Her aesthetician would take care of that. She probably just needed to change skin care products.
She went downstairs, and there was Bradley, sitting in the living room, Teeny on his lap, snoring. “Oh! You’re home. Is everything all right, honey?” she asked.
He put Teeny aside, rose and came over to kiss her. It must’ve been her imagination, but she swore she could still smell skunk in this room. “I canceled my afternoon patients because I missed you too much,” he said, hugging her against him. The pimple on her chin pressed against his shirt, and it throbbed. “Ophelia’s still in school. Shall we take advantage of that and make love on the kitchen table?”
She almost rolled her eyes. Why did men think that a woman lying on a hard slab of wood was enjoyable? Dennis had loved that particular naughty scenario, too, going so far as to make her pretend to be a Spanish-speaking chef. But she didn’t have to earn her keep anymore, did she? “I have an appointment I can’t miss,” she said, her tone frosty. “I wish you’d called to inform me of your whims”—word of the day!—“before you left.” Yes. Let him remember who was in charge.
Brad’s face fell. “You’re right, babe. I’ll call next time. And we can always hit the sheets later tonight.”
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.