I pull back my shoulders, stand tall and give myself the pep talk. Just because Bart gave me the flick and Violetta made it horrendously public, my life is far from over. I’m a survivor. I’m a thriver. I am actually Bart’s greatest loss. His infatuation with his secretary is sure to fade. They should be ashamed of themselves. My mind pursues its usual route, climbing out of the chasm like a faithful donkey, one step at a time. The Minx is welcome to Bart. He snored. He never put his socks in the wash. He squeezed the toothpaste tube the wrong way.
Besides, they’re stuck with each other now, at least until one of them betrays the other, which is highly likely given Bart’s past behaviour. And me? I’m in the best gown in the room, bought for me by a true and highly attractive gentleman, never mind the whole accidental coffee spill.
The lighting dims. The musicians switch to soft jazz, my favorite.
I wriggle my fingers until my diamonds sparkle, and they pick up the light of every facet of every chandelier in the room, and there must be at least a dozen of them up there on the ornate ceiling. How many balls has this hall seen over a hundred years? How many hearts have grown and met and blossomed and broken beneath them, including the dear departed Raymond, late husband of our brave hostess, taking her tragedy square on the chin to make the world a better place? I must find the woman who dreamed this up and congratulate her. Forget all those fickle men who behave like Bart, dressed like penguins.
But I’m over near the dance floor when I see them, my Ex and that Minx, and they’re so close you couldn’t fit a platinum credit card between them.
It hits me like a soccer ball to my gut how besotted they are with each other, surrounded by that special golden glow, as attractive as a celebrity couple can be. And in contrast, how much I’ve lost – not just the husband I loved and cared for, but my beloved home of more than twenty years, and my own daughter, flesh of my flesh. My heart breaks all over again, shatters into smithereens.
And not one of my personal makeovers, nor my cheery, chatty chirpy neighborhood parties can ever make up for those losses. My heart is no diamond. It is broken in too many places. I am fundamentally damaged. The fractures run right through me. I am brittle beneath this gorgeous gown. It’s only a front, a battle shield, thin as silk. Who am I fooling?
As Bart and the Minx swirl and frolic in front of me, their joy shimmers around them like gossamer, like phosphorescence, like moonbeams. I stand speechless – the saddest statue at the edge of the dance floor.
And then I see him on his own. Dirk. Handsome and slightly worn, like my favorite furniture – shabby chic. Dirk is a lifeline and I am drowning in despair, lonely and alone. I can’t let my Ex see me like this. It’s too pathetic, but more than that, I don’t want this agony.
“Hold me,” I say to Dirk as I rush towards him, touch him on the shoulder from behind, then slip in front to face him with a smile. Will he reject me? Will he be ashamed to be seen with me, that pathetic woman on Network Eight.
I reach for him, run both hands up the fine, cool wool of his dark suit, and join my fingers behind his neck.
A thousand thoughts run behind his eyes. Does he see me as a patient, a neighbor, the woman Bart rejected, a flirt, or drug dependent, as Violetta alleged?
I press myself against him; shameless in my need. Let the whole ballroom see us together. I have nothing more to lose.
Dirk’s arms come around me slowly. Then he takes my right hand as if in a waltz as his other lands slowly, warm and dry and deliciously tentative, on the skin of my bare back, where the gown dips at my waist, an underrated part of the female anatomy, so sensitive I squirm involuntarily and press myself closer to him. Dirk is just the right shape for me. I don’t let myself wonder whether any man would do. Dirk is perfect, my kind neighbor. I can apologize later, explain about my Ex; hope he’ll understand.
“Dance with me,” I whisper into his ear, and he inhales sharply. “Do it. Please. Now.”
As he steers us onto the dance floor, past the Ex and the Minx, I drag on him, halt us, anchor us right beside them.
“Kiss me,” I whisper. “Here. Now. Please. I’ll owe you. I’ll explain later. I ...”
But his eyes have caught mine, and in those depths I see his own need.
Chapter 25
