Stella is early again. I picture a manicured red talon hovering over the intercom button, pushing insistently—my image of her.
The incessant buzzing, like her seductive charm, ultimately prevails, forcing me from the shower. I grab a towel and run to unlock the door.
“C’mon up,” I sing into the speaker, trying to make my tone cheery—the exact opposite of how I feel.
I hurriedly scoop up pages of The Toronto Star and tidy the coffee table, but there’s no time to blot wet footprints I’ve left on the dark hardwood floor. Damn! I hate mornings like this, but I’m not about to grab another towel and play housekeeper with her arriving any second.
I barely make it back to the bathroom when the front door opens.
“Good morning, Theo—hope you made coffee.”
“Help yourself,” I call through the door and quickly switch on the hairdryer to drown out any further chatter.
Thankfully, one of the blessings I inherited from my Greek mother is curly black hair— lately showing a little gray, but I keep it cropped in a corporate style and blow-dry it in minutes. I’m not so fortunate, however, when it comes to shaving my sensitive skin, a trait inherited from my English father.
I shake the last of the water droplets from my curls; make another quick pass with the dryer, and then I’m on to lathering my face. But the brief moments spent recalling my parents makes me grieve their passing.
Ten years ago, Mother decided she wanted to return to Greece for a visit, and managed to pry Father from his golf game long enough to accompany her. Who would have guessed he’d like the country so much he’d want to stay?
They sold their Rosedale estate, flew off to Athens and never looked back. In true fidelity, they passed within a week of each other last year leaving me bereft, although in some weird form of consolation, also making me financially independent.
So here I am, all on my own at forty years old—one failed marriage under my belt, and a New York Time’s bestselling novel that’s made me famous.
In the dizzy arithmetic of fate, I’m not sure on what side of the ledger that leaves me, or how I would account for my life so far.
I wince, not at the scraping of the razor across my cheek, but at another image from the inventory of memory—I’m picturing Ari posing in her wedding gown.
I married Arianna at thirty-seven and we lasted just two years—statistically the norm nowadays, so Stella informs me, and she should know—she’s built her real estate career upon others’ failed marriages.
But statistics aside, I failed for the first time in my life, and there’s bloody little that can be rescued from that, other than a leased condo in High Park, a Bentley in the underground garage, and a white leather album of wedding photos sitting on my closet shelf.
I have to remind myself there’s no Booker prize for being successful in your career and a bust in your personal life, but if there were, I’d be a prime candidate.
Stella, clued in to the hairdryer gone silent, brings me out of my daze by shouting through the door, “It’s raining, Theo—better bring an umbrella.”
I groan, not exactly thrilled at the prospect of another day of tramping through wet gardens.
I relent and open the door a crack to see her leaning against the opposite wall, sipping coffee in the narrow hallway.
“You clean up well,” she smirks.
She’s dressed in a black, pinstriped Edith Pena business suit, her dark hair down and her Eau de Hadrien fragrance intoxicating at such close range.
Actually, she’s far too much, up-close—less than a foot away.
“Mm,” she murmurs dreamily, “do I detect the scent of Clive Christian No. 1?”
I let the door swing all the way open.
I hate coy. Flirting with her friend’s ex-husband, is crossing an invisible boundary...
But then, with Stella, that's part of her mystique.
