the movies and kiss her on New Year’s Eve. She’d thought that was enough . . . only now, she wasn’t sure.
Cal came back into the bedroom and kissed her. “Love you,” he whispered and went to work. When the sitter arrived, Lizzie locked her bedroom door, went online, and booked a room at the Plaza. Eight hundred and fifty dollars. The total took her breath away. It’s just dinner, she told herself, tapping in the credit card number. Just dinner with an old friend. And don’t I deserve something nice? After all these months, after all this sleeplessness and sexlessness and now cancer, motherfucking cancer, don’t I deserve a treat?
Her suitcase looked as if it had been packed by a crazy person. A lacy black thong lay on top of a pair of stained cotton briefs. A matching black bra, with a tiny rosebud sewed between the cups, was tucked beneath a sturdy beige nursing bra. Strappy black sandals (will!) danced on top of black clogs, the right one with a splotch of YoBaby yogurt over the toes (won’t!). Lizzie tossed in her best dress, the one made of fine black wool, with the plunging neckline, and dug through her jewelry box to find her diamond necklace, a solitaire suspended on a platinum chain, that Cal had given her when the boys were born. She fastened the clasp, zipped up the suitcase, waved to the sitter, and dashed out the door before the boys could notice she was gone.
“Very good, madam,” the bellhop approved, unlocking the door to her room, as if Lizzie’s jeans and flats and Eileen Fisher tunic were the finest things he’d seen all day. Black-suited, white-gloved, he bustled around her room, opening the curtains, demonstrating how the television could be made to rise from its enclosure at the foot of the bed, adjusting the temperature, bringing her ice. She tipped him twenty dollars, eliciting a second, even more enthusiastic “Very good,” and when he was gone, she lay on the bed, staring up at the crown moldings, with her bare feet on the crisp coverlet, and her hands resting lightly on her breasts.
She slept, then ordered high tea from room service, nibbled at the salmon and egg-and-cress sandwiches before carrying the glass of Champagne into the bathroom, where she took a long, hot bath. She lathered her body with creamy soap. She shaved her legs and smoothed on lotion, and wriggled into her lacy underwear, then the high-waisted spandex boy-shorts that left her breathless and made it look like she was roughly the same size she’d been, prebabies. Downstairs, at the bar, she ordered a glass of Riesling, and sat on a stool, legs crossed, heart pounding, until she felt his hand on her shoulder and heard the low rumble of his voice in her ear.
“Elizabeth,” said Marcus. She’d always been Elizabeth to him, never Lizzie, never Betsy or Beth. He said her name and hugged her awkwardly, one armed, as she half-rose from the barstool, and it was as if nothing longer than a three-day weekend had passed between them, as if she’d woken up that morning in his bed and murmured Hi, handsome into his neck.
“Hi, handsome,” she’d said reflexively, and he’d smiled, flashing his teeth. Immediately, she felt the physical response to his voice, his touch, his body, his dear, familiar scent and wondered if it was meant to be as simple as that—you picked the one who smelled right to you (Cal, she thought, before she could stop herself, smelled like breath mints and Right Guard, which wasn’t nearly as nice). As always, she felt his voice right between her legs, as intimate as if he’d reached down and cupped her there.
Her knees wobbled as she stood. “Whoops,” he said, and took her hand, her right one, the one without the wedding band, and led her into the elegant restaurant, all plush carpet and velvet banquettes and not a high chair, or a child, in sight.
They ordered from a menu full of delicious-sounding dishes, although, later, Lizzie couldn’t have said how any of it tasted—there
Cal came back into the bedroom and kissed her. “Love you,” he whispered and went to work. When the sitter arrived, Lizzie locked her bedroom door, went online, and booked a room at the Plaza. Eight hundred and fifty dollars. The total took her breath away. It’s just dinner, she told herself, tapping in the credit card number. Just dinner with an old friend. And don’t I deserve something nice? After all these months, after all this sleeplessness and sexlessness and now cancer, motherfucking cancer, don’t I deserve a treat?
Her suitcase looked as if it had been packed by a crazy person. A lacy black thong lay on top of a pair of stained cotton briefs. A matching black bra, with a tiny rosebud sewed between the cups, was tucked beneath a sturdy beige nursing bra. Strappy black sandals (will!) danced on top of black clogs, the right one with a splotch of YoBaby yogurt over the toes (won’t!). Lizzie tossed in her best dress, the one made of fine black wool, with the plunging neckline, and dug through her jewelry box to find her diamond necklace, a solitaire suspended on a platinum chain, that Cal had given her when the boys were born. She fastened the clasp, zipped up the suitcase, waved to the sitter, and dashed out the door before the boys could notice she was gone.
“Very good, madam,” the bellhop approved, unlocking the door to her room, as if Lizzie’s jeans and flats and Eileen Fisher tunic were the finest things he’d seen all day. Black-suited, white-gloved, he bustled around her room, opening the curtains, demonstrating how the television could be made to rise from its enclosure at the foot of the bed, adjusting the temperature, bringing her ice. She tipped him twenty dollars, eliciting a second, even more enthusiastic “Very good,” and when he was gone, she lay on the bed, staring up at the crown moldings, with her bare feet on the crisp coverlet, and her hands resting lightly on her breasts.
She slept, then ordered high tea from room service, nibbled at the salmon and egg-and-cress sandwiches before carrying the glass of Champagne into the bathroom, where she took a long, hot bath. She lathered her body with creamy soap. She shaved her legs and smoothed on lotion, and wriggled into her lacy underwear, then the high-waisted spandex boy-shorts that left her breathless and made it look like she was roughly the same size she’d been, prebabies. Downstairs, at the bar, she ordered a glass of Riesling, and sat on a stool, legs crossed, heart pounding, until she felt his hand on her shoulder and heard the low rumble of his voice in her ear.
“Elizabeth,” said Marcus. She’d always been Elizabeth to him, never Lizzie, never Betsy or Beth. He said her name and hugged her awkwardly, one armed, as she half-rose from the barstool, and it was as if nothing longer than a three-day weekend had passed between them, as if she’d woken up that morning in his bed and murmured Hi, handsome into his neck.
“Hi, handsome,” she’d said reflexively, and he’d smiled, flashing his teeth. Immediately, she felt the physical response to his voice, his touch, his body, his dear, familiar scent and wondered if it was meant to be as simple as that—you picked the one who smelled right to you (Cal, she thought, before she could stop herself, smelled like breath mints and Right Guard, which wasn’t nearly as nice). As always, she felt his voice right between her legs, as intimate as if he’d reached down and cupped her there.
Her knees wobbled as she stood. “Whoops,” he said, and took her hand, her right one, the one without the wedding band, and led her into the elegant restaurant, all plush carpet and velvet banquettes and not a high chair, or a child, in sight.
They ordered from a menu full of delicious-sounding dishes, although, later, Lizzie couldn’t have said how any of it tasted—there
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