As it turned out, his room was next to mine, and all I could think of was the scene from Pillow Talk between Doris Day and Rock Hudson, where they're both in the bathtub, separately, talking on the phone. If this had been a movie, he would call me. In real life, he'd have had me committed for what I was thinking.

“Good night,” he said pleasantly, and went inside to call his wife and seven children. Or his ex-wife, and two girlfriends. Or his boyfriend. Or any combination of the above.

I stood in my room, staring out the window, and thinking of him. And since there was still a faint possibility that he was a normal person, and not a registered sex offender, he didn't call me. But I saw him again the next morning. We left our rooms at the same time, perfectly synchronized, and rode down in the elevator together. It was raining, a light rain, but I had come prepared, and I was wearing a raincoat and carrying an umbrella. I knew I could hit him with it if he assaulted me, and was fiercely disappointed when he didn't.

Instead, he turned to me in the lobby, as I began struggling with my umbrella. He was wearing a white shirt this time, and he asked me where I was going.

“Out …” I said awkwardly, “shopping … maybe the Louvre … I don't know….”

“I'm going there too … to the Louvre, I mean. Care to join me?” But what about his wife and children in Greenwich? That's it? Simple as that? After all those jerks who drank too much, and forced me to use aikido on them on the way home, this incredibly handsome man wanted to go to the Louvre with me? I wanted to ask him where the hell he'd been for the last twenty-one months while I was dating Godzilla and all his brothers and cousins. What took you so long, Bozo? Maybe the time was just right now.

“I'd love it,” I said with a smile.

We chatted easily in the cab. He lived in New York too, about a dozen blocks from where I do. And he spent a lot of time in California. He owned a company in Silicon Valley, specialized in bionics, some kind of combination of biology and electronics. He explained briefly what the company did, and it sounded like Swahili. Whatever he did, it was something high-tech. And he hadn't gone to Harvard or Yale. He had gone to Princeton. And while he was married, he had lived in San Francisco. He had only moved back to New York two years before, after his divorce, and he had one son at Stanford. His name was Peter Baker. He was fifty-nine, and he had never lived in Greenwich. And my own history was so dull, as I relayed it to him, that I found myself listening to hear him snoring. He managed to stay awake long enough for me to tell him the pertinent details. I left out the scene on the satin chairs, and the fact that Roger had more or less left me for Helena, or maybe just because he didn't love me. I told him about the kids, that I was divorced, and had worked at a magazine as an editor for six years before I got married, but I even managed to make that sound boring. I was surprised he stayed awake till I was through with my story.

I wanted to run through the list for him as quickly as possible. I was a pro at this after nearly two years. Tennis, skiing, yes, rock climbing, no, marathons impossible, can't jog anymore due to bad left knee after minor ski accident the year before, but nothing major, no hang gliding, no small planes, fear of heights, a little sailing, gourmet cuisine C—, new sheets, decent nightgowns, wine, no hard liquor, fatal weakness for chocolate, a little Spanish, rusty high school French sneered at by most waiters. The rest he could see for himself. And perhaps, if pressed, Roger would offer a reference. No serious relationships in two years, God had it been that long, but a lot of incredibly mediocre dates in a lot of very ordinary Italian restaurants, and a few really great French ones. Lonely divorcee seeking … what? Seeking what actually? Seeking who? … Man in crisp white shirt and clean khakis, with navy blue blazer over his arm, Ralph Lauren tie in pocket. And what exactly were “bionics”? I wasn't sure, and I was embarrassed to ask him.

He tried to explain it again on the way to the Ritz for a drink, after the Louvre. It sounded pretty good when he offered. He said he had once stayed there, with “friends,” but didn't elaborate further. I assumed a torrid affair, which gave me something to think about in the taxi. In spite of a certain openness, there was nonetheless an aura of mystery about him. And something very sexy. Just the way he moved, and talked about things. The questions he didn't ask. The answers he didn't offer. At the Ritz, he ordered a martini, and told them how he liked it. Sapphire gin. Very dry. Straight up. Two olives.

By the time we left the Ritz, it was nine o'clock, and we had been together for ten hours. Not bad for a first date. Or was it? What was it? It was nothing. I was a little drunk on white wine, and he was terrific. We ate oysters at a bistro in Montmartre, and I told him about Sam and Charlotte, and the nose pierce. I even told him about Roger and the scene on the satin chairs, and his telling me he didn't love me.

Then it was his turn. His wife's name was Jane, and they had parted company after she had a two-year affair with her doctor. They were living together in San Francisco, and Peter didn't look particularly upset when he said it. He said the marriage had been dead for years before that. I couldn't help wondering if that was what Roger had told Helena. Or did he have to tell her anything? I'm sure Helena had never sat around eating oysters with Roger in Paris or anywhere else. They had probably gone to discos, or cheap motels, so they didn't have to talk to each other. Peter also mentioned his son, and that he was crazy about him.

We got back to the hotel just before midnight, and rode up in the elevator in silence. I had no idea what would happen or what I wanted, but he solved the problem for me. He said good night, told me he'd had a great time, and he was leaving in the morning for London. I told him it was wonderful meeting him, and thanked him for dinner. It was an interlude, a moment in a lifetime, and as I closed my door and looked around I told myself that guys in white shirts and khakis were a dime a dozen. But not like this one. For some reason, he seemed unique. And he was. I knew it.

Peter Baker was a rarity, a gift, a unicorn in today's world. He seemed like a normal person. A nice one. I could already feel myself being led into the Colosseum, blue lace underwear and all, although today I had worn the pink ones. I wasn't sure what I expected from him, what I wanted, or what he did. More than likely, nothing. But he'd said he would be back in New York, and would call me. No chance of that, he hadn't asked for my number, and it was unlisted. Besides, I was going to be in the Hamptons with the children. And I had already been in and out of the Colosseum. I had been eaten alive for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And Roger had gotten the best parts before that. I was no longer sure what was left of me, or if he cared. In fact, I was sure he didn't. I was convinced of it as I undressed, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. It was so warm, I didn't even bother to wear a nightgown, and there was no sound from the next room. Not even snoring. Utter silence, until the next morning, when he called me.

“I called to say good-bye,” he said easily. “I forgot to ask for your number last night. Would it be all right if I called you?”

No. It would be terrible. I would hate it. I never want to see you again. I like you too much already, and I don't know you. Hearing the lions roar in the background, I gave him my number and then prayed he would never call me. The jerks always call, but never the good ones.

“I'll give you a call when I get back to New York,’ he said. “Have a great time with your kids.”

Have a nice life, I said to myself. And to him I said, have a great time in London. He said he would be working, and would be going back to the States via California. At least he wasn't boring. He was employed. He appeared to be supporting himself. He liked his son. He didn't seem to have a problem with his ex-wife. He had never been in prison or jail, not that he was willing to admit to anyway. He was polite, pleasant, sexy, intelligent, well behaved, handsome beyond belief, and nice, or so he seemed. Obviously a sicko.





Chapter Three

Roger dropped the kids off at my hotel with a look of immense relief the day after Peter Baker left for London. I had been to the Rodin Museum by then, and every boutique on the Left Bank, and bought a lot of clothes I wasn't sure I'd know what to do with. They were sexy and young and tight, and I felt a little hesitant about them, but decided that if they didn't work out, I could always pass them on to Helena, or Charlotte when she grew up.

The children looked great when they arrived. Charlotte was wearing pale pink nail polish, instead of green, and had settled for a second pierce in her ear, which seemed to satisfy her lust for self-mutilation, temporarily at least. Roger looked exhausted. He barely said hello, when he ran out the door, waving vaguely and saying he had to meet Helena. She had stopped to do some shopping at Galliano, and he was going to meet her there. In thirteen years of marriage he had never shopped anywhere with me. Not once. Helena seemed able to elicit things from him I had never even dreamed of.

“Dad's weird,” Sam announced, throwing himself into a chair, with a Mars bar in one hand. They had paid two dollars for it at the Plaza-Athenée, where Roger and Helena were staying until they left the following morning for Florence.

“No, he's not,” Charlotte editorialized, checking out the new things in my closet. She glanced with interest at the white miniskirt with the see-through blouse with the white denim pockets carefully placed where it counted. “He's an asshole. You're not going to wear that, are you?” She looked contemptuously at me. Welcome back, Charlotte.