My Favorite Mistake. Stephanie BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
is a nightmare.”
My smile slipped. “I…yes.”
“Good, because I’d hate to be late.”
Barry wasn’t the most attentive man I’d ever known, but tonight he seemed unusually preoccupied. Then I realized he was probably more anxious about the award for which he’d been nominated than he wanted to let on. Indeed, on the drive to the hotel, he checked his watch at least a hundred times, his expression pinched. And he seemed to be coming down with a cold since he sneezed several times. To see my normally calm, collected boyfriend so fidgety moved me. I reached over to squeeze his hand. “Relax. I hope you have a thank-you speech prepared.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I made a few notes…just in case.”
I instantly forgave him for not noticing how fabulous I looked. Besides, I reminded myself, I had dressed for Ellen Brant, and as luck would have it, we were seated at her table for the awards ceremony. In fact, by some bizarre shuffling of bodies and chairs, she wound up sitting between us. The woman was so cosmopolitan, even in my new clothes I felt gauche. I raised my finger for a nervous nibble on my nail, and tasted the bitter tang of fresh nail polish…a do-it-myself manicure was the best I could manage under the circumstances.
“Denise, your dress is divine,” she murmured over her martini glass.
“Thank you,” I said, taking my finger out of my mouth and sitting up straighter.
“She’s smart and fashionable,” Ellen said to Barry for my benefit. “I like this girl.”
“She’s dependable, too,” Barry said. “And loyal.”
I managed to conceal my surprise at his bizarre statement. Until I realized that to Ellen, recently betrayed by her husband, loyalty was essential. So on cue, I nodded like a puppy dog.
Ellen pursed her collagen-plumped lips. “Denise, why don’t you call me next week and we’ll go over the paperwork for that investment account.”
“Okay,” I said in a voice that belied my excitement. If Ellen opened an account at Trayser Brothers, I’d be able to pay off my outfit and buy my apartment. Plus a new bed that didn’t reek of woodsmoke. A closet organization system. Caller ID.
I could scarcely eat I was so wound up. I tried to contribute to the conversation, but Ellen and Barry were soon absorbed in television-speak, and I thought it best not to intrude. Barry was, after all, hoping for a promotion, and Ellen would drive that decision. Instead, I chatted with other people seated at the table, spurred to a higher degree of socialization than usual by the open bar. Happily, the evening was topped off by a slightly tipsy Ellen presenting Barry with the award for excellence in producing that was acknowledged in the industry as a precursor to the Emmy.
For his part, Barry was the most excited I’d ever seen him—which was no compliment to me, I realized suddenly. But I postponed an untimely (and uncomfortable) analysis of our love life by clapping wildly. I told myself it was okay that he didn’t name me personally in his thank-you speech, a fact that he seemed truly distressed over later when we were in the car.
“I forgot my notes and I went completely blank,” he said in the semi-darkness, his hands on the steering wheel at the ten and two positions—he was a fastidious driver. “I’m sorry, Denise. You’re the one who’s had to put up with my long hours and my traveling.”
“It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m just so proud of you. And I know Ellen is impressed.”
He made a dismissive noise, but was clearly pleased. Then he winced. “Oh, by the way, Ellen asked me tonight to be in L.A. Monday morning.”
My good mood wedged in my throat. His travel to the West Coast had become more frequent in the past couple of months—in the wee hours of the morning, I wondered if something other than work drew him there. After all, if I wasn’t thrilled with our sex life, he probably wasn’t, either. “How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks, maybe three.”
“That’s almost a month,” I said, hating the way I sounded—horny.
“No, it isn’t,” he said with a practicality that did not put me at ease.
“You’ll miss Valentine’s Day.”
He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Denise. Right now I have to focus on this promotion. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Want to spend the night?” I asked, not caring that I was being transparent.
He looked over at me and laughed. “Sure.”
I smiled all the way home, determined that tonight Barry and I would have great, boisterous sex. I might even pull out some of the tricks that Redford had taught me that I’d never shared with anyone else. I had shaved my legs to get ready for the dinner, so nothing was holding me back.
Unfortunately, we drove straight into a traffic jam in midtown that left us in gridlock. After thirty minutes had passed with no movement, I began to dwell on Barry’s comment that I was dependable…and loyal. He made me sound like a cocker spaniel.
I studied his profile, noting how preoccupied he was, and realized abruptly that we had fallen into a serious rut. No wonder we’d never talked about marriage—we rarely saw each other and we rarely had sex.
For all intents and purposes, we were already married.
Feeling rebellious, I ran my fingers through my loose hair and whispered, “We could have sex right here.”
Barry looked over at me with a shocked expression, then laughed nervously and gestured to the cars around his silver Lexus. “Are you crazy? We’d be arrested for indecent exposure. A stunt like that would mean my job, Denise.”
I pulled back, humiliated at my own behavior. He was right, of course. The network’s top female anchor had gone out drinking one night and performed a topless dance at a bar where at least one handheld video camera had been rolling, and everyone had been put on notice. Barry couldn’t jeopardize his job just because I was feeling neglected. So we listened to National Public Radio and chatted about the evening.
“You seemed to be having a good time talking to everyone,” Barry said. “Everyone thought you were great. Everyone loves you, Denise.”
Something in his voice made me turn my head to look at him in the semi-darkness. He’d spoken with a sort of wistfulness when he’d said “everyone loves you,” as if everyone else saw something he didn’t. I waited for clarification, but Barry simply scanned the traffic, tapping his finger on the steering wheel to a jazzy song floating from the speakers.
I was imagining things. Barry loved me. He hadn’t changed—I had. More specifically, that stupid wedding dress had made me paranoid.
And reflective.
Because the wedding dress had made me confront the possibility of marrying Barry…was it something I wanted? And if not, then what was the purpose of our being together? Companionship? An occasional sexual release? Were we merely a pit stop for each other on the way to…something else? I was suddenly seized by the feeling that I was looking at someone I’d known for years. Yet…did I really know him?
In hindsight, I’d known little about Redford when I’d married him—beyond his sexual prowess. A sudden stab of desire struck my midsection, but I closed my eyes against it.
During those few days with Redford in Las Vegas, I had been a different person, wanton and hedonistic…a bona fide nymphomaniac. I don’t know what had come over me…okay, admittedly, Redford had come over me a few times, but I digress. My parents—especially my mother—would be appalled if they knew how I had behaved during that time, and my girlfriends would be shocked. I could scarcely think of it myself without being overcome with shame—nice girls didn’t do the things I’d done with Redford. Especially after knowing the man for mere hours.
At the time, I’d thought that Redford DeMoss, with his chiseled