Simone was too stunned by all this girlish gushing to know what to say. She was used to Shirley’s crushes, certainly, and her various passions and lusts. But she couldn’t quite remember when Shirley had ever treated a romantic relationship as anything other than a business transaction from which she could profit. And
love?
To her knowledge the word had never crossed Shirley’s lips.
“Wow, Mama. That’s…wonderful! But…it’s only been a couple weeks since you broke up with—”
Shirley held up a hand. “Don’t say his name!” she cried, a sudden bite in her voice and flash in her eyes. “This is
not
the same! Clancy
respects
me. He
loves
me. He’s asked me to move in with him. I’m going to think about it.”
The doorbell rang then and Shirley floated off to answer it. Simone’s head spun and she felt, as she always did after a conversation of this sort with Shirley, like she’d been sucked dry. As if she was a lobster leg and Shirley had drained the juices and meat right out of her. Was it possible? Could Shirley really have changed enough to realize the value of a nice man?
Hearing voices and the click-clack of heels coming back up the hall, Simone jumped to her feet. Shirley, smiling beatifically, came in, her arm laced through that of a grinning older gentleman almost a head shorter than she was.
Dark-skinned, bespectacled, a little plump, unbeguiling and pleasant, he looked like a black Hobbit in his dark suit. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Shirley, upon whom he bestowed a Nancy Reagan look of absolute devotion. The couple, as odd as a swan and a chickadee, was strangely charming, and Simone had to smile.
“Simone,” Shirley said as if she was introducing her daughter to Mr. Universe, “you remember Clancy Howard.”
Stepping forward, Simone held out her hand, which he took in a firm grip. “It’s so nice to see you, Mr. Howard.”
The man peeled his gaze away from Shirley and faced Simone for the first time. “And you,” he said in a gravelly Louis Armstrong voice. Holding her hand, he regarded her solemnly, as if he was about to recite wedding vows. “I just want you to know how much I care about your mother.”
Alarmed at this recitation of feelings—he wasn’t going to ask permission to court Shirley as if she was a Victorian virgin, was he?—Simone hastily held up a hand. “Oh, you don’t need to—”
“I do,” he said, the quiet, sincere firmness in his tone shaming Simone into silence. “Don’t you worry about Shirley. I plan to take good care of her. I promise you.”
Simone believed him. There was an undeniable look of complete, intense sincerity in his eyes. This man
did
care about her mother and maybe, for the first time in Shirley’s life, Shirley would discover what it meant to have the love of a good man.
“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Howard. I’m going to hold you to that,” Simone said. “And you’re coming to the auction? It’s next week.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Thank you for the tickets.”
Shirley giggled and pressed a kiss on her boyfriend’s graying, balding head. “Simone, I want you to listen to me, baby darling. When you find a good man who looks at you the way Clancy looks at me, I want you to keep him.”
Simone didn’t answer, but her belly did a crazy flip. One man
had
looked at her like that before—as if he needed her and would gladly die for the chance to be with her: Alex Greene.
Chapter 14
B
y eight o’clock, Simone had had enough of the happy couple and their incessant cooing. Making her excuses, she took the extra piece of buttery rhubarb pie her mother gave her and went home to continue her sulkfest in the privacy of her own apartment.
When she got there, she lit her usual candles, started a fake gas fire in her fake fireplace, and put on some Miles Davis. Tonight, though, Miles wasn’t gloomy enough for her, so she turned him off and pulled out the big guns: Billie Holliday. No one enhanced a good funk quite like Lady Day.
Thus armed, she wrapped up in her fluffy cashmere throw, rolled into the fetal position in the corner of the sofa and plotted her bloody revenge against Alex Greene for ruining her life.
He
had done this to her. Oh, yes. That stuttering computer geek had waltzed into her life and, without so much as a by-your-leave, had turned it upside down. And when
that
wasn’t enough, he’d turned it inside out, too.
What
had he done? He’d made her look like an idiot on the Internet, sure, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that, just like those slimy, glistening earthworms that surfaced from the mud every time it rained, he’d tunneled his way under her skin, through her hot blood and into her brain.
There, he’d set up house, taking up every available space and shoving aside the things she should have been thinking about, like her clients, her column, her book and the house she wanted to bid on. He’d shown her all the qualities she found irresistible in a man: intelligence, humor, vulnerability, and sexiness.
He’d scared her and made her behave like a raving, certifiable lunatic the other day in his car. He’d opened a whole Pandora’s box of what ifs: what if there was more to life than work? What if they really did have a few things in common? What if he could ease the gaping loneliness in her life?
What if she had sex with the man who set her skin on fire every time he walked in the room?
Right on cue, her body began to tingle from the inside out. Her breasts and sex swelled painfully, as if all the blood in her body couldn’t get there fast enough. Aroused beyond all sanity for a sworn enemy, she arched her back, flung her arms over her head and stamped her feet into the cushions. When that didn’t make her feel any better, she grabbed a pillow, smashed it into her face and screamed into it until her throat hurt.
Maybe she should…go ahead and date Greene and see what happened. There. She’d thought the whole thought. What could happen if she spent a little more time with him? Would it be so bad, really, to test the waters? Would she be maimed or killed if she ate dinner with him once or twice? Of course not.
But she was beginning to think she’d die if she
didn’t
sleep with him.
Disgusted, she threw the blanket to the floor, jumped up and went to the kitchen. In the freezer, she found an unopened pint of fully leaded—not low fat!—Turkish coffee ice cream that she’d saved for just such an emergency, not that she’d ever had an emergency like Alex Greene before.
Peeling off the lid, she grabbed a spoon and shoveled some in her mouth, smearing it on her lips as she did so. Not bothering with a napkin, she swiped the back of her hand across her mouth and took another bite.
After a minute, a butter-enriched sugar buzz went straight to her brain, and she closed her eyes in ecstasy. Heaven. Nothing like a little more ice cream to wash down the pie and ice cream she’d eaten at her mother’s. If only her clients could see their calm, cool and collected Dr. Simone now, what a laugh they’d have.
Out of habit, she went to the computer and checked her e-mail. Not that she was looking for another letter from
him,
because she
wasn’t.
But she couldn’t help feeling an excruciating stab of disappointment when she saw that her mailbox was empty.
Another, bigger bite of ice cream went into her mouth. Sullen, bored, she decided she might as well check Greene’s blog to see who hated her today.
To her surprise, the home page had a different graphic of her. Instead of that awful caricature, Greene had posted a black and white drawing of her that was…ethereal and lovely. Her image stared straight out from the screen, the eyes wide and sweet, the lips slightly parted in a gentle, mysterious smile.
Greene had done this—the style was similar to the hateful caricature—but he’d idealized her and made her look beautiful and bewitching, like the kind of creature any man couldn’t wait to get his hands on. But why? She didn’t look this way in real life, so why would he draw her like this?
Was this how he saw her?
Stunned, she sat in her chair and put down the ice cream.
That wasn’t the only thing different about the blog. Greene had posted his own comments, the first time he’d done so since the entry he wrote when he opened the site.
Hi, everyone. “Alexander” here, checking in. Thanks for all your observations and comments. I figured it was time to take a hard look at the information we’ve collected, and see what we’ve learned about the good doctor.
So far we’re running about forty-seven percent in favor of her and thirty-eight percent against her, not including those of you who just want to sleep with her. By the way, this is a G-rated blog, and I’ve deleted all the nasty comments from you perverts out there.
Of people who wrote in claiming to be her former patients, ninety percent of them claim she helped them, which, as much as I hate to admit it, I think is a pretty good record. But here’s an interesting statistic: I’ve been following her online column for the past few weeks. Of the letters where a person who was part of a couple wrote in, Dr. Simone sided with the woman on the issue eighty-three percent of the time. Coincidence? I don’t know. This is hardly a scientific exercise, but I have to wonder: is Dr. Simone antimen? Has something happened to prejudice her against those of us with only one X chromosome?
Comments, please.
Whatever momentary goodwill Simone had felt toward Greene for drawing such a beautiful portrait of her died a quick, painful death as soon as she read this entry.
But then things got worse with the next e-mail.
I’ve kept my silence for a while now, but you’ve hit the nail on the head and it’s time for me to speak up. Dr. Simone isn’t prejudiced against men—she HATES men. AND she’s as frigid as the day is long. Trust me, I know.
I dated her a couple times a while back. When I tried to get to know her in the Biblical sense, she turned into a block of ice and called me every dirty name in the book. Whoever heard of a sex doctor that doesn’t like sex? I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not a toad. I’m a reasonably handsome, successful professional who’s never had a problem with other women.
So if you ask me, everyone should run and hide every time this wacko starts to spout off about sex. She’s as screwed up as they come.
—Anonymous (e-mail address hidden)
The world swam in and out of focus for a moment and, light-headed, Simone gripped the edge of her desk to keep from sliding to the floor. Clammy sweat trickled from her underarms and down her sides.
Hearing her own harsh, erratic breath, Simone quickly put her head between her knees before she hyperventilated. After a long minute, she felt well enough to sit up straight.
Oh, no. She couldn’t have dreamt up a worse scenario than this one. Though he hadn’t had the guts to sign the letter, she knew it was from James Richardson, the weatherman she dated once. The octopus who thought she could be bought and paid for with an expensive steak dinner. A man who clearly had never been told
no
before and wanted to take his revenge on her by ruining her personal and professional reputations.
Trembling uncontrollably, she tried to think. Once she stepped back to look at the big picture, she decided things weren’t so bad after all. No one, besides her and “Anonymous,” knew the allegations in the e-mail were true. And “Anonymous” was anonymous and would undoubtedly stay that way because he was a coward who wouldn’t want people to know he was also a jerk.
And this was an obscure Web site. It wasn’t like Amazon.com, which surely got millions of hits a day. She was Dr. Simone, a minor local celebrity at best. Not a big shot like Dr. Phil or Dr. Drew.
Slowly she stopped trembling and her blood ran warm instead of cold in her veins. Really, what was the big deal? Losing a client or two? The people with whom she’d worked—who
knew
her—knew she was scrupulously fair, and would never choose a woman’s side over a man’s on the basis of their sex.
As for the syndication deal, it hung in the balance, sure, but what were the chances anyone in charge would ever find out? Slim to none, probably. So why worry? And what about—
The phone rang, echoing off the high ceilings like a shot fired from a cannon. Startled, she snatched it up without bothering to read the display to see who it was. “Hello?”
“Simone? It’s Julia Pilchard from the
National Inquisitor,
” said a grating, nasal voice.
Simone blinked.
The National Inquisitor?
That alien-baby-showcasing tabloid trash in the checkout aisle at the supermarket? What on earth could they want with her? “Can I help you?”
“Actually, you can. I’m calling about a blog—have you heard of it? DrSimoneIsAQuack.com? Any comment?”
Simone froze like a possum playing dead; maybe if she didn’t move and didn’t say anything, the danger would move along and choose a different prey.
“Are you suing? Simone?
Hello
?”
Cornered, Simone tightened her grip on the phone. “No comment.”
“Simone, have you read these entries?” Julia’s exasperated voice grew louder. “There’s one tonight that claims you hate men. Aren’t you going to defend your professional reputation?”
Bile collected in the back of Simone’s throat, a nasty combination with the ice cream she’d just eaten. “No comment.”
Julia huffed. “Okay, Simone,” she said condescendingly, as if she’d failed to talk Simone out of jumping off the Suspension Bridge, and was therefore leaving Simone to her own self-destructive devices. “But we’re running a piece on this and I think this story’s going to have legs. My editor’s watching it very closely, so you’ll have to comment at some point.”
“Fine,” Simone snapped.
“I’ve heard syndication rumors, too, Simone. What about that? Won’t that be affected by—”
“Good
night,
Julia. I’m hanging up now,” Simone said, barely managing to click the end button before the phone slipped out of her nerveless hand and thunked to the floor.