Dawn Atkins - A Perfect Life?

“Hide the razor blades,” Claire said with a lopsided smile.

“Don’t sell yourself short, honey. You deserve better than that putz.”

Georgia and Mimi were both forty, divorced and okay with being single. Claire envied them their self-sufficiency.

“At least you have a great story to tell,” Mimi said. “I learned my husband was cheating by finding Victoria’s Secret receipts in his suit coat. So cliché.”

“Good point,” Claire said, comforting herself with three sugars and real cream in her coffee. She turned to face the women, resting her backside against the counter.

“Those mechanicals are on your chair to copy,” Georgia said.

“Great. Just what I need—a visit with Leroy the Letch.” The man lurked in the copy room and lived for a pat, brush or slide against some female part.

Georgia cackled again. “If that man gropes me one more time, I think I’ll have to…I’ll have to…”

“What?” Mimi said. “Sleep with him?”

The three women burst into laughter. It felt good to Claire—kind of like a mini Game Night.

“Nah,” Georgia said. “I can’t sleep with him. Mouth breathers snore.”

They laughed again.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Claire said, raising her doctored brew in a toast to the two women. She turned to go.

“One more thing,” Georgia said.

“Yeah?” She turned, expecting something motherly.

“Lose the suit. You look like a stewardess.”

Just the image she was going for. “Honey-roasted nuts, anyone?” she said. Actually, she could think of a pair of nuts she’d love to roast. With no honey involved…unless the nuts were suspended over an ant-hill. Hmm…

“Don’t feel bad,” Mimi said, shrugging. “If you don’t try things on for size, you can’t learn what works.”

“Right,” she said. The advice was good for life, as well as clothes. Except everything Claire tried on was either too tight, too loose or made her butt look big. She set off for her office.

Low on the account exec totem pole, she’d been squeezed into the cubicle between the copy room and the mechanical room that used to be a janitor’s closet. Now and then, when the breeze was right, she caught a whiff of cleaning supplies. She’d grown to love the smell of Comet in the morning.

She picked up the ads from her chair and began her foray into Leroy the Letch Land. Moving quickly, she escaped with barely a breast brush.

The minute she sat at her desk, the phone rang. “Claire Quinn,” she said into it.

“Don’t hang up!” Jared.

She took in a quick breath, knowing she should do just that, but the phone felt Velcroed to her ear.

“I wanted to tell you a million times,” Jared said, “but I knew it would hurt you and I’d rather die than hurt you.”

She could hear tears in his voice. Tears. She couldn’t help but be touched. And a little weirded out. “How long have you been…?”

“Married?”

No, a cheating creep. “Yeah.”

“Three years. We just sort of ended up together.”

A thought chilled her. “Do you have kids?”

“No, no kids. And we’ve grown apart. I didn’t realize how much until I met you and fell in love.”

“Right.” She tried to sound sarcastic, but the word love softened her like a VCR case on a dashboard in summer.

“It’s a relief that you know the truth. You have no idea how this was haunting me.”

“You poor, poor dear.”

“I know, I know. Of course you’re hurting more than me right now. We can talk this all through on Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“When I move in.”

“You can’t move in. You keep forgetting—you’re married.”

“We need to be together, Claire. This thing between us is big. Just give me time to talk to Lindi.” His words were as sweet and soothing as warm honey on Claire’s sore throat.

“We’ll work it out,” he continued. “I know we will. And on Saturday we can buy that futon, and a lamp—even an area rug—just like we planned. Anything you want, baby.”

Anything she wanted. Baby. She loved it when he called her that. She fought down the throb of hope that tightened her throat. Hold it right there, you lying sack of pig parts. She decided on a more civilized approach.

“How can I trust you?” she said. “You lied to me. Our whole relationship is a lie.”

“No. My marriage is the lie. Our love is the one true thing I have. You have every reason to hate me, Claire, but please don’t stop loving me. Please.”

She was touched, of course, but she couldn’t help noticing he sounded like bad daytime TV. Plus, the picture of roasting his nuts kept floating in her head.

“I want to hold you,” he said. “I need you in my arms to feel okay in the world.”

Now that line was perfect and she felt herself melt right into her pumps, blisters and all. Maybe it would be okay. Men had to get shocked into change, didn’t they?

“I don’t know, Jared. I have to think.”

“Take a day or two, but never forget that I love you. We’ll find a way to make this work. We have to. What we have is real and true.” More bad dialogue. Stop that, she told herself. The man was professing his love and she was critiquing his performance? That was Claire, though. Always with the smart remarks, as her mother used to say. Sarcasm kept the pain at bay.

Claire glanced up to find Georgia wagging a finger at her through the glass door, like she was a puppy who’d widdled on the carpet. Bad girl.

On the other hand, a smack on the nose with a rolled-up paper was probably exactly what she needed. “I’ve got to go, Jared.” She ripped the phone from her ear and dropped it onto its cradle. The familiar wish to snatch it back washed over her. She had trouble making decisions. Yes, no. Stay, go. Sheesh.

Georgia smiled at her. She’d pleased Georgia, at least.

Claire checked her watch. Seven hours and fifteen minutes until she could plop this burden into the soft and willing laps of the Chickateers. Thank God for Game Night.

AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, Claire stepped off the bus and entered the cool dimness and expectant air of Talkers for Game Night. She surveyed the happy-hour crowd of downtown singles, looking for who of the Chickateers was already here. Claire loved this place and this weekly event. Waning sunlight slanted onto the bar and washed over the toned, well-groomed professionals around the room who were flirting, commiserating and dipping wontons in peanut sauce.

She spotted Kitty Knight at the far end of the bar. Kitty being Kitty, she was with a man. She leaned toward him, swinging her wineglass lazily between two fingers, just this side of slutty. If only Claire had Kitty’s flair. Of course, Kitty also had a model’s face, a flamboyant personality and saline implants. Claire had neither of the first two and no interest in the third. But Kitty stirred up a room like no one else and Claire loved trailing in her wake.

Kitty would be philosophical about the Jared fiasco. Men troubles rolled off Kitty’s back like water over bath oil. She called it the Zen of men—Be the man and you’ll get the man.

As Claire got closer, she could see the guy was writing something in his Palm Pilot. Kitty’s number, no doubt. Just before he left, Kitty gave him that flattering once-over that Claire had actually practiced in the mirror once, feeling goofy.

Kitty spotted Claire and slid off her stool for a hug. She smelled of something new—probably a perfume sample from Vogue—she liked to test out the new stuff before she purchased it—and her hug was the usual well-meaning but painful grab.

“Who was that?” Claire asked, tilting her head toward Kitty’s exiting conquest.

“Investment banker with two first names,” Kitty said on a sigh. “Arnold Oliver. New in town. When Rex is over.” Rex was Kitty’s boyfriend du jour, a personal trainer at a health club. Kitty gave Claire an up-and-down. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Career Girl Barbie.”