After all, my Francis moratorium didn’t include ignoring what the competition looked like.
The photo I kept going back to was the most flattering one I could find of Maude, mostly so I couldn’t lie to myself and say she’s hideous. It was a Getty image taken from some outdoor event that was probably labeled a “soiree.” She’s in a sleeveless shift dress that highlights her thin figure, and wearing a jaunty hat with lots of black feathers.
She reminds me of Mary from Downton Abbey, with sharper features, thinner lips, a pointier nose, and shrewd brown eyes. Definitely not the warm and fuzzy type.
And definitely not ugly.
But I’m certainly not going to sully tonight with freshly viewed images of her right before my party.
“Alright, enough Muffy! Is this going to be a party or not?”
“Can it really be one without muff-y?” Rose snarks with a laugh.
We all laugh again.
“Speaking of private parts, a little birdie told me the boy next door is set to make an appearance? A Jesse?” Rose says.
“I see Jerome has been spreading the news,” I reply twisting my lips into a wry smile.
“Oh, is he cute?” Antoinette asks with excitement filling those wide blue eyes.
I secretly smile behind my coupe of champagne, which has all of them riled up.
“I’ll just be happy if he’s not gay. This party will have enough of that,” Esmerelda grouses.
“He probably won’t even come. This kind of thing doesn’t seem to be his thing.”
“Does he have a problem with what we do?” Esmerelda says, resting one hand on her hip, ready to pounce.
“He doesn’t even know what we do,” I say, wrinkling my brow. “At least I don’t think so.”
“For a rebound it doesn’t matter,” Rose says. “In fact, it may make him all the more keen on the idea.”
“He’s Catholic. Didn’t even take a peek while I was in nothing but a robe and a slip.”
They all give me dead stares.
“It was nothing like that!” I say, laughing. “He just, helped me bring the case of champagne up this morning. Why would I get dressed just for that?”
“That just means he’s a gentleman?” Antoinette says in a hopeful tone.
“Or dead,” Rose points out.
“Or gay, I knew it!” Esmerelda says, throwing her head back. “We’re cursed to be surrounded by—”
“He’s not gay,” I interrupt with a laugh. “He’s just—I’ve always compared him to Clark Kent. Glasses, dark hair, serious, a little awkward even.”
“Aww,” Antoinette gushes.
“Yes, but is he Superman underneath?” Rose asks with a grin.
I can’t help the smile that returns to my face.
I’m sure if I was as pale as Rose, my cheeks would be as red as her hair. All caused by that mental vision of him bending to pick up my champagne, the muscles of his back and shoulders visible even through his coat.
“I guess that answers that,” Esmerelda says with a laugh. “Just how well do you know this neighbor?”
I roll my eyes and sit up straighter. “Like I said, it’s not like that. Maybe a little teasing and flirting, but certainly nothing that amounts to cheating. Besides, Francis has always liked that about me, encouraged it even. He enjoys the fact that other men want me.”
“Almost like a fancy car, or expensive watch!” Rose says in a hyperbolically thrilled voice.
“At least Francis accepts me for who I am.”
“Well, that’s one thing to celebrate!” Antoinette interjects, raising her glass with hopeful cheer.
“Thank you, Antoinette,” I say in a deliberate voice. “And on that happy note, I’m going to crank up the tunes so we can get this party started.”
I rise up and turn up the music which has been playing softly in the background while we chatted. The current song is “Crazy in Love,” by Beyoncé, so naturally, that gets the other Girls up from their perches to dance.
I grab a pink cupcake to enjoy as I watch them.
After all, it’s not like I have a wedding dress to fit into anytime soon.
Chapter Nine Giuseppe
It was another late night.
After a week of radio silence from Doug regarding Congressman Bowen, he finally called me back into the office to confirm that we officially had him as a paying client. With billable time in play—the source of funds worryingly ambiguous—he apparently felt it was the perfect excuse to steal several hours from my already busy workday.
Thus, the last thing I’m interested in is the music that hits me as soon as I step foot off the elevator when I get home.
“Disco?” I mutter to myself as I hesitantly step out.
I’d completely forgotten about Honey’s party. The sound of something straight out of Saturday Night Fever is here to remind me.
Donna Summer, I’m sure of it… “I Feel Love,” as the lyrics help me decipher.
Like I needed another reason not to go to the thing.
I notice the pink sticky note on my door as I approach, and exhale with exasperation. I don’t even need to read it to know who wrote it. Sure enough, the flowery script is a message that can only be from my lovely neighbor:
Come on over anytime, Neighbor. Champagne’s on me.
Love, Honey
It’s accompanied by a kiss made in lipstick only a few shades darker than the paper.
I snatch it off the door with a sigh and insert my key into the lock to open it. I’m irked to note that the music is still audible even after closing the door.
That’s the thing about these apartments, the walls are amazingly soundproof. I never hear a peep from the people on either side of me, nor from up above or below. But the doors are less reliable, especially when you live directly across from party central. In fact, I’m probably the only one in the building who can hear anything, as muffled as it is.
It’s only a little after nine o’clock, and I’m under no illusions that this party will be ending any time before midnight.
I
