Four of a Kind (13 page)

Alicia nodded. “And I’d be honored to write pithy slogans to sell your products, whatever they might be. Right. It’s a silly idea. Obviously, we’d help each other without needing to win first.”

Carla sensed Alicia’s embarrassment. She needn’t feel it. Her idea had merit. The four of them had gotten to know each other, somewhat. As considerate people, they’d help each other if asked. Theoretically. But if they were betting, and there was a clear winner, they’d be beholden to.

“Not a silly idea,” said Carla. “Personally, I have a hard time asking people for help. It’s awkward. But if I win the service, I’d use it.” She thought of herself hoofing to Brownstone to get the boys that very afternoon, how it’d screwed up her entire schedule, forcing her to rush through patients, rush home to throw dinner together and
hurry back to the Heights for cards. Why hadn’t she just called Robin or Bess asked them to pick up her boys instead? Both women were available, at school anyway to pick up their own kids, lived close to the hospital. It hadn’t occurred to Carla to think of ways to cut herself slack. She was loath to be needy or a bother. However, if she
won
their help, Carla would be able to take it without feeling as if she couldn’t handle her own responsibilities.

Robin nodded. “I’m seeing how it might work.”

“If I win, I’m going to finally get you guys to plan a Diversity Committee agenda,” said Bess.

Robin said, “You know what that means, Alicia? Carla? We cannot let Bess win.”

“Just try to stop me,” said Bess. “What can we use for poker chips?”

Robin said, “A-ha!” stood up and yelled, “Stephanie!”

A stunning little girl appeared in the hallway and ran toward the kitchen. Carla marveled at Stephanie’s long, auburn hair and apple cheeks. She got her coloring from Robin. What had she inherited from her mysterious father?

Stephanie stopped at her mom’s chair. “You bellowed?” she asked, which made Carla snort.

“Find Connect Four and the Othello and bring them here.”

The girl groaned. “They’re buried in the back of my closet.”

“You’ve got three friends and one babysitter back there to help,” said Robin. “Go.”

Stephanie dramatically rolled her eyes, which made them all smile, but she did as her mother asked. Ten minutes later, each woman had a pile of plastic discs in front of her.

“Where were we?” asked Bess.

Robin said, “The Black Queen was about to deal.”

Carla—correction, the Black Queen—felt a tingle of excitement. Once more, she shuffled the cards with as much earnest concentration as administering a vaccine shot to an infant. She felt lucky tonight. Correction. She was Lady Luck herself, and she’d just walked into the joint.

“Whoa, Alicia. I didn’t know it was you. From behind, you looked like a woman,” said Finn Clarke, the hero of Alicia’s satisfying yet emotionally hollow fantasy life. He’d just walked into their shared office at Bartlebee, a “boutique” (read: minuscule) “specialty” (read: limited) “agency” of six people, including, along with creatives Alicia and Finn, a CEO, a one-woman art department, and two account managers.

“What, I usually look like a gorilla?” she replied, only half turning around to face him, knowing that her cheeks were pomegranate red.

“It’s just that I’ve never seen your legs before,” said Finn, lowering himself into his desk chair and leaning back to appraise her further. “I thought you might be walking around on a pair of Polish sausages.”

A plumper woman might’ve taken offense. But Alicia was, had
always been, slim. Since she hadn’t had sex in over two years (and counting), she compensated for the lack of intimacy by working out like a fiend at lunchtime at the Equinox around the corner. Lately, in the mornings, she’d also taken up the routine of masturbating and crying in the shower. These practices had made her as sleek, taut, and high-strung as a whippet.

“If you’re so interested in what I’ve got under my skirt, why don’t you take a closer look?” Alicia
thought
to say. But she wouldn’t dare. Alicia was not a provocative and flirty type. That would be as odd as, well, wearing a short skirt to the office. And yet, here she was, showing two inches of thigh. And wearing makeup, too.

The outfit was selected by Bess and Robin for Alicia to wear out on a dinner date with Tim. But it would take a keg of dynamite to get Tim to notice her. She’d strutted around their apartment all morning in her sexy costume, and Tim barely glanced at her. Joe, bless his little heart, said, “Mom, why are your eyelids green? Aren’t you cold in that skirt?”

Alicia must have been frowning at the memory. Finn said, “Don’t be pissed off. You look great. I’m just surprised you’ve gone female on me.”

“The Female,” was the nickname they’d given the agency’s art director, Sonya, because of her hysterical, insecure overreactions to the slightest criticism. Whenever Sonya burst into tears at a staff meeting, Alicia thanked God for her one-of-the-boys status. It’d be horrible to be thought of as emotionally fragile.

“There’s a difference between going female and wearing a skirt,” said Alicia. “If you can’t handle it, I can put on track pants.”

Finn said, “Don’t do that! I just need a second to get used to the skin.” He gazed at her legs for a count of three. Then he said, “Okay, I’m inured,” and turned his attention to the computer to do his morning lap of blogs and email accounts before they got down to the business of the day.

Alicia sat behind her desk and started her own morning lap on the computer, her mind distracted and unsettled.
Finn had been flirting, right?
she asked herself. A fantasy crept up on her, of Finn coming toward her, grabbing her, bending her over her inbox, raising her skirt, and taking her in full view of the entire office.

If such incredible events were to unfold, Alicia would be grateful for it. She would let life happen. She’d welcome the excitement with open legs.

Had there been an exact moment when she decided that having an affair was within her moral capacity? In the last few weeks, her take on infidelity had gone from one extreme (a rot-in-hell sin) to the other (a worthy act of self-preservation). She’d kept her sexlessness a secret for over two years, was rooted in denial about her loneliness. When Alicia revealed the truth at the poker game, her own desperation hit her full force. That brought about a perspective shift. She would not continue to tell herself that (1) Tim’s chronic rejection was okay, and (2) she was content with celibacy.

Alicia was in the throes of a reversal of suppression. A 180-degree reversal. Simply put, Alicia had turned into a sex-crazed maniac. If Finn starred in her occasional masturbatory fantasies before, in recent weeks he’d blossomed into a throbbing obsession in Alicia’s feverish daydreams.

If only she could have sex with Finn, just once, Alicia believed she’d return to a normal, stable state of mind. Her head would clear and she could accurately assess her life and marriage.

In the meantime, as in, right now, Alicia didn’t know which end was up, down, or sideways. If someone put a gun to her head and said, “Do you still love your husband?” Alicia couldn’t rightly say. She and Tim were friends and co-parents. Was that love? He seemed content to exist in this half relationship. Indeed, how could he not? His options were limited. Alicia earned the family’s income, modest though it might be. If she and Tim split up, what would he live on? Where
would he go? How could either of them survive if she was to pay alimony or support Tim in a second apartment? They could barely cover the expenses they had now.

Alicia shook off the image of Tim, destitute, in torn clothes, living under a bridge, cursing her name and shaking his grimy fist at the gods.

It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t find a job! It wasn’t her fault he hadn’t had sex with her. If she’d done nothing wrong, why was she being tormented hourly with fantasies of Finn naked with a rock-hard, throbbing, two-foot-long erection?

Alicia put her fingers on her temples and rubbed. These violent swings of emotion were exhausting. This was the unfortunate result of opening up. But she couldn’t go back to numb even if she wanted to. An affair would settle her down. If she were held, touched, and treasured by a man for just a little while, she knew she’d feel better about everything. Maybe Tim would instinctively know she’d been made love to, and the heady perfume of sensuality would reignite his passion for her. Alicia was convinced that if she had sex with someone else, Tim would want her again.

She glanced across her desk at Finn. He sensed her eyes were on him, looked up, and smiled at her.

She smiled, too, like a lioness over a flank of raw meat.

“Did you have breakfast?” he asked. “You look hungry.”

“We never go out after work,” she said brazenly. “I mean just the two of us. We should have a drink.”

He squinted at her, trying to figure that out. Finn was too handsome not to register a come-on when he heard one. This one came out of left field, though.

“We totally should,” he said, polite and maddeningly neutral. Finn had never shown any particular interest in Alicia’s personal life. He knew she was married. Finn had met Tim and Joe a few times. Finn either wrote her off as off-limits or he hadn’t thought of his mousy, older (by seven years) office mate in
that way
. But he did
like her. They laughed together, inspired each other at work. He respected her.

She said, “How about tonight? Are you free?”

His eyebrows shot up. She was fumbling this. Too aggressive.

“Tonight is the poker game,” he said.

“What poker game?” she asked.

“First Tuesday of every month,” he said. “Me, Chaundry, Jake, Larry, and a few other guys.” He’d rattled off the names of their CEO and account managers.

“Everyone in the agency but me and Sonya?” she asked. “I can see why you didn’t ask The Female, but why not me?”

He shrugged. “Do you even know how to play Hold ’Em?”

Alicia suppressed a grin and said, “A little.”

“It’s a money game,” he said. “Big time.”

“Really,” she said, instantly deflated.

“Yup,” he said. “We play for pennies, nickels, and dimes. Think you can handle that kind of action?”

That, and a lot more
, she thought. Alicia was struck with an insta-fantasy of Finn losing his shirt to her. And his pants, shoes, and boxers. And then laying down on top of the poker table, ante (way) up.

“I’m in,” she said.

“Raise!” shouted Alicia, tipsy—actually, drunky—as she threw a handful of bottom-of-purse change into the pot.

“Is she talking about the bet or my pants?” asked a friend of Finn’s, a chubby leering buffoon who really liked short skirts or flat-chested women. Or both.

“Shut up, McAlvoy,” said Finn.

“I can defend myself,” said Alicia. “Shut up, McAlvoy.”

“Hey, if you want to play with the boys, you’ve got to be willing to play with the boys,” said the idiot, cupping his nuts.

Her boss, Chaundry, said, “I hope you appreciate how respectfully we treat women at Bartlebee.”

“You mean compared to this belch?” She jerked her thumb at McAlvoy.