Dirty Diana

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

—

L’Wren stands on my welcome mat holding a hairless rescue cat with goopy eyes and a hangdog face. “He comes with free antibiotics!” she offers. “The eye thing is really no big deal. It’s kitty herpes, if you can believe it.”

“Is it contagious?” I take a noticeable step back.

“No! Not to humans. God, Diana. Look at him. He’s a gift. A belated birthday gift!”

My birthday was a month ago. “I didn’t think you were actually serious.”

“I have three litters of kittens in my catio right now. Kevin is a patient man, but I think I may have pushed too far. Listen, if you like him, I’m waiving the adoption fee. It’s a great deal.”

“What if Oliver’s allergic?”

“This one is hypoallergenic,” L’Wren lies. “And if he isn’t, Oliver can take some Claritin with his vitamins. You look great by the way.”

“Thank you.” I’ve dressed up for tonight. This black dress I’ve had since before Emmy was born, but I like the way its thin straps make my shoulders look. And on my lunch hour, I bought new heels that give me three inches. When I put them on, even in the overcrowded shoe department of Macy’s, I felt like someone else. I also spent real, concerted effort on my hair so that it looks more like L’Wren’s, smooth and purposefully placed.

“Here.” L’Wren, still holding the kitten, pulls a red lipstick from her purse and blots some on my lips. “I’d die to have your full lips.” She stands back to admire her work. “Ooh, perfect. Keep it. It looks much better on you.”

As soon as I had mentioned that Oliver and I might try for a night away, L’Wren jumped in and insisted she’d stay overnight with Emmy. At first, I was more embarrassed than grateful—was it that obvious how much Oliver and I needed this? That we’d been trying and failing at a kind of intimacy that should come so much easier? Or maybe it was shame at feeling like a bigger person would own it. Oh god, sex with my husband—help!! is what I imagine someone more evolved would lament. I take the lipstick from her and squeeze her and the kitten into a hug. “Thanks for doing this.”

“ Please. Halston’s at my mom’s all weekend and Kevin’s working late. And Liam refuses to watch Bravo with me. Emmy will be way less judgy company.” She slips off her boots. “Where are you offto?”

“I’m not sure. Oliver’s going to text me.” After my birthday, I decided what we need is a change of scenery. When I suggested the idea of a night away, just the two of us, Oliver took over the planning, telling me he wanted to surprise me.

“Hmm, well,” L’Wren narrows her eyes. “I have faith in Oliver. If you were Jenna, I’d say change your outfit ’cause—surprise!—you’re one hundred percent being dragged to nosebleed seats at a Mavs game. But Oliver…he won’t let us down.” The kitten meows in L’Wren’s arms as if to agree. “Emmy!” she calls up the stairs. “Come look what Auntie L brought you!”

My phone chimes with a text from Oliver. Rosevale Hotel. See you soon. I kiss Emmy good night and L’Wren shoos me out the door.

—

At the hotel, I park the car and call Oliver’s cell. “I’m here.”

“Good, good. I’m upstairs.”

“What’s the room number?”

“Oh, right.” I can tell from the smile in his voice that this is exactly what he wanted me to ask. “When you get to the front desk, tell them Hugo Drax left you a key.”

“Who?”

“It’s my code name.”

“Why do you need—Oliver…” I trail off, laughing.

“Sounds like a pretty cool guy, right?”

It used to be that when one of us was excited, it spread to the other, like a welcome contagion. But recently, the opposite is true. It’s as if when one of us is excited, the other person feels they have to balance things out, temper the excitement with caution or reason or just throw ice-cold water on the whole thing…or what? What will happen if we’re both happy?

“You’re Fiona Volpe. I left the key under your name, Fiona.”

“Wait, what?” But he’s already hung up.

The lobby of the Rosevale has vaulted ceilings and pink marble floors. It’s loud tonight, with a bar full of conference attendees drinking in their badges. At the reception desk, an older gentleman in a well-fitted gray suit and purple tie squints into his computer screen.

As I cross the lobby, Alicia calls. If anyone would love this assignment it’s her. She’d waltz to the desk and announce “Fiona-Fucking-Volpe.”

“Hey.” I answer her call in a whisper for no good reason. “I’m about to meet Oliver in a hotel room.”

“Please tell me you’re wearing a trench coat.”

“Totally.”

“Dirty.” Alicia laughs. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

At the reception desk, the well-dressed man says, “Welcome,” with a practiced smile.

“I’m picking up a key,” I say. “For Ms. Volpe.”

—

Outside of room 1406, I take a deep breath. This night is exactly what we need. No strained intimacy or fake orgasms or hurrying things along. An entire night, just the two of us.

Before I can knock, Oliver opens the door. I’m not sure who I thought might be behind the door—of course it would be Oliver—but I startle anyway. He’s wearing the blue button-down shirt I gave him for our anniversary.

“You found it,” he says.

“I did.” Oliver looks unsteady and I want to reach out to him and tell him, we got this. We do. We’re going to slip into the best versions of ourselves and be better, together, closer.

“Well, come, come,” Oliver says to me, like calling a dog in from the cold.

“Thank you.”

Oliver’s sprung for a suite, which has its own living room. I follow him through the sitting area, past the huge bay windows to the bedroom that I imagine is decorated to look like one of Laura Bush’s guest rooms—silk drapes, ornate headboard, and very southern touches. The overhead lights are off, but we’re bathed in candlelight. So many candles. “Wow. Flower petals.”

“Two dozen red roses. I did it myself.” Oliver’s smile is easy.

“Two dozen? Really. Looks like more.” A lot more. It’s a churning sea of dead roses.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up.” Oliver flops onto the bed and looks up at the ceiling, his hand tucked behind his head. “Is it too much?”

“No.” I lie beside him and drink it all in. How nice it is to be away together. I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes. “But maybe the candles? They’re a bit…. strong.” I can taste them in my mouth, like an unripe pear rolled in cinnamon potpourri.

“I got them on Amazon. They claim to be aphrodisiacs. ” He rolls the word. “Four and a half stars.”

“How can a candle be an aphrodisiac?”

“Maybe all the effort is?” he asks hopefully.

I smile, remembering that I brought a gift too. I reach into my purse and pull out a wrapped box.

“For me?”

“Yeah, for us,” I say. “Open it.”

He lifts the lid and inside, lying on its own satin bed, is a very large, neon-orange vibrator. It glows cheerfully in the dim light.

“Hmm, I didn’t realize how bright that color would be,” I say. Oliver and I have never talked about using toys together.

“Maybe it glows in the dark?” he says.

I lift it from the box and it hums so loudly we both startle. The old us would be doubled over laughing by now, but tonight, we’re earnest and focused. The only sound in the room is the vibration. Almost like the rattle of a small lawn mower.

I switch it off. “It was hard to tell how big it was, at the shop.”

“You went to a sex shop?”

I nod.

“Did anyone see you?”

I try to read his face. “Just Emmy’s teacher. And your mom…I think they were together?”

“Ha ha. I meant, did anyone working there see you and offer to help?”

“I was kind of in a hurry.” I think about my hopeful shopping day—new shoes, new vibrator. Now I say, “I don’t think it’s for us.”

He turns the vibrator over in his hands, genuinely curious. “Who is it for? It’s got straps.” He loosens one, then tightens it again. I watch his hands, strong and gentle. “It feels a little…advanced? Doesn’t it? I wouldn’t even know where to put it. I mean, aren’t I enough?”

“Of course you are.” I smile. “It was just an idea.” Clearly not a good one. I was moving too fast, forgetting who Oliver and I are.

“I think I’m a little scared of it,” Oliver says. “What if it turns on us?”

I’m already putting it back in my purse. “I bought the wrong one.”

“We could try it.”

“Is that what you want?” I try not to sound annoyed.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Not really, no.” He looks up. “I just want to connect with you.”

In my head, the word connect has never sounded so dull. Yes, that’s the whole point of tonight— connection. But when Oliver says it out loud, I feel like I’m sitting on the edge of the bed next to an octopus, his tentacles wrapping around me and pulling me underwater.

I brush the hair from his forehead. “I do too.”

“Do you?”

His question makes me more annoyed. Of course I do. Don’t I? Why does an easy night have to turn hard? The longer we go without sex, the harder it is going to be to get back to each other. And it does feel like a place I have to get back to, somehow—like an island that my boat keeps drifting away from, farther and farther. I’m never sure where Oliver is in this tired metaphor. On the beach? In a boat of his own? Underneath my boat, one tentacle draped over the hull?

I lie back on the bed and pull Oliver toward me. He kisses my mouth, gently. I close my eyes.

Oliver shifts beside me on the hotel bed and asks, “Why don’t we take a bath?” his lips still touching mine.

I open my eyes inches from his. “Good, yeah. That sounds really nice.”

“You get in first. I’ll order us some room service. What would you like?”

He’s pulling away, I realize. I hug my arms to my body. “You decide.”

In the white marbled bathroom, I find the switches and play around with them until the fluorescent light isn’t so harsh. I kick off my heels, and the floor is cold beneath my bare feet. In the mirror’s reflection, I see Oliver has already run the bath. The bubbles are quickly evaporating so I hurry to unzip my dress.

I stand in front of the hotel mirror and smile—Oliver isn’t the only one trying. I’d put on my best underwear, red and lacy, an impulse buy one Valentine’s Day. They’re six years old, but so uncomfortable that they’ve hardly been worn. I like how pretty and ridiculous they are. There was once a matching bra but it disappeared long ago.

I hear something like “Lite Jazz” drift through the wall. I inhale, suck in my stomach just slightly, and watch my small breasts rise and fall in the mirror. I trace my fingers down my naked stomach and across my C-section scar. I slip my hand beneath my underwear and think of gliding my fingers inside myself. I imagine inviting Oliver in to watch me masturbate. I feel myself pulse with a familiar, warm sensation, then pull my hand back. It falls to my side.

I turn away from my reflection. I dip a toe into the bath, then take off my underwear and climb all the way in. As I reach for the hot water tap, I spot a lone hair, so short and curly it could only mean one thing.

“Eww. Oliver, did you wash out the bath before you drew it?”

It is not, in fact, a lone hair. Its companion drifts toward me and I hurry out of the tub. I grab a towel. Louder this time, I call, “Did you wash out the bath? There’s something floating—are these your hairs?”

“I don’t know,” he answers over a saxophone solo. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s a hotel, Oliver. You have to wash the tub out first.”

I pull on my dress and drain the tub.

“Want a bite?” Oliver comes in holding a plate of strawberries. “They’re organic.”

“Oliver…”

“I’m trying, Diana.” The plate clangs against the marble sink. The effect is louder than he intended and his cheeks go red. “Please. Just take a bite of the goddamn strawberry.”

I take a bite, but zip my dress first. “Now what?”

“Try not to look so bored, for one.” He looks down at our feet and mouths the word fuck, which makes me smile.

“I’m sorry.” I take his hand. “It’s just—I feel like this is how a sixteen-year-old girl in a Netflix movie would want to lose her virginity. It feels almost silly. Rose petals?” I had to say it out loud. It was impossible to keep in any longer.

“Ouch,” he says. But he takes my other hand.

“Maybe let’s not make such a big effort…”

Oliver grins. “Lose the candles?”

“Please.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Let’s just be us.”

“You’re right. God, you’re so right.” He claps his hands together, exhales. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s not. It’s sweet.”

He looks at the empty tub like he wishes he could slip right down the drain. “I’m seeing it with horrifying clarity now. I have had sex before, I promise.”

I lead him back to the bed thinking about how I used to masturbate in front of my ex, my legs spread wide. I imagine doing that now. I slip my dress off and dive beneath the itchy quilt. Maybe we both need to be shocked.

Oliver circles the room, blowing out the candles, one by one. “Better?”

“Yes. Although—” I cough. “The smoke is almost worse than the scent?”

“Just ignore the smoke. Come here…” Oliver climbs under the blanket beside me and slips my underwear down my legs, stopping at my knees. He smiles. “You shaved.” He pulls me closer, pressing his erection into my warm skin.

But I’m still focused on the smoke. I know I should stay in the moment but it’s impossible. “It’s just a lot of smoke, Oliver.”

“It’s fine.” He pulls the quilt up over our heads making a fortress around us. He finds my mouth and kisses me hungrily.

“I’m just worried…” I pull the covers off us.

“Ignore the fucking smoke, Di—” The high-pitched beep of the smoke alarm cuts him off. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Oh shit!” I grab a pillow and stand on the bed waving it furiously. “Fan the smoke!”

Oliver runs to open a window. “Fuck. They’re sealed.”

The alarm keeps screaming. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. “Oliver!” I fan harder as the sound gets louder and louder.

Oliver’s erection is gone, defeated by the alarm. “I’m calling the front desk,” he yells.

Too late. The sprinklers come on and water rains down. Everywhere.