The Yes Factor Read online

  Phase 3 – Determined not to be derailed by the mundane bios (wine tasting, hiking, golf, and fine dining), the gym rats (flexing in the mirror is such a turn-off) and the downright appalling profile pics (was that guy in the bathtub!), I carry on, hoping there are some quality guys out there I might have missed the previous go-rounds.

  Phase 4 – I’m in a messaging relationship with a few guys when one of five things inevitably happens.

  1) Both of us are “too busy” to meet up.

  2) A dick pic.

  3) He tells me he’s not looking for a relationship.

  4) Another dick pic.

  5) I decide I want to meet a man organically and that this whole thing is a waste of my time.

  Phase 5 – Throw my hands up, yell “F this!” and delete all the apps from my phone. Again.

  Phase 6 – See Phase 1.

  Liv is well aware of this, yet she is eternally optimistic when it comes to my dating life. She says I self-sabotage, that I’m too picky, that I’ve never given anyone a chance. But she just doesn’t get it. She’s got the perfect relationship. At least, I thought she did, until this phone call.

  I let out a huge sigh after reliving the trauma of Phases 1 - 6 in my mind and finally respond, “How was my date on Wednesday? I didn’t go. I canceled.”

  Here we go—let the lecture commence. Liv takes a breath then cranks into high gear. “This is getting ridiculous, Bex! You say no to anyone that asks you out! You need to start saying yes. Be a yes person. No gets you nowhere.”

  I groan into my pillow, tired of this subject already. “I know. I’m just tired. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m freaking old, I’m a single mom. What do I have to offer?” I’m eyeing forty with disdain. It’s one thing to be single in your thirties. At thirty-nine, at least I can say I’m still in my thirties, still youthful but with a certain appealing maturity. But forty, ugh. I’m crossing into being a real adult. I should have my life together and still look fit, stylish and “great for my age.” Living in Los Angeles has done a number on my self-worth and I’m not even in “the business.”

  The jangle of Liv’s keys distracts me from my depressing thoughts and with genuine kindness Liv says, “You’re nuts, you know that? You are amazing. A total catch. And stop with this old crap. You’re not old.” Liv continues, on a roll, “Hell, you’re not Blanche Devereaux yet. Stop with the pity party and just say yes for once.” She pauses and I hear the click-clack of her high heels on the hardwood floors of her Chelsea flat. “I’m gonna come up with a plan,” she says with such determination that I almost believe her. Almost.

  “Bollocks!” she says and I hear a thud, then the muffled sounds of feet, fabric, and the clatter of her phone being picked up.

  “Liv? You okay?”

  “Yeah, shit, sorry, I dropped the phone. I’m kind of a hot mess right now.” She giggles.

  Is she drunk? I think to myself.

  “What’s with this ‘bollocks’ stuff? You’ve been living in London for too long,” I say, the softness of my pillow lulling me into near sleep.

  “I know…but at least I’m not faking an accent,” she says, in a very bad fake accent. “I’ve got three hours to get it together and get to work. And you, what is it, like eleven p.m. over there? Don’t you have to take Maddie to school in the morning? Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Nope, it’s summer. Maddie’s at camp for the next ten days and it’s slow season for my Etsy shop. Not a ton of orders comin’ in right now. Just making new stuff for inventory when the holidays come around. Which can’t be soon enough, considering my bank balance.”

  “Hello! So you can still go out. What’s stopping you? Wake up and say yes. Do not fire up Outlander. Get out of your sweats and into something sexy. Love you. Bye!”

  And just like that, Liv in her usual way, tells me what to do while giving me a compliment, and totally managing to dodge any further discussion of her own life. I love that bossy bitch.

  With my eyes already closing in sleep, I whisper, “Yup…going out sexy. Bye.”

  Chapter Two

  Triple Shot

  LIV

  Staring at myself in the mirror, I run my fingers through my long blond hair. The blowout I’d gotten yesterday afternoon has turned into a tangled mess, the strands heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke, damp with spilled champagne, and rustled by expensive hotel sheets. And Francois.

  Bex was unnecessarily harsh about it. Doesn’t she understand I’m only human? Besides, it’s not something I plan to make into a habit. It just felt so good to make out. Too good. Kissing for hours, the delicious feeling of something new. I warm all over just remembering it. And before that moment when Francois and I were finally alone together, we’d teased each other with whispers of subtle innuendo, our glances deepening as the waiter began a well-rehearsed speech on the dessert menu. Halfway through a description of what sounded like a pretty damn good chocolate ganache cake, Francois threw £200 down on the table, grabbed me by the hand and we made for the exit. Just like that. The anticipation was almost too much to bear, and by the time the door had clicked behind us at the Savoy, I was weak with urgent desire.

  “Dammit, what am I doing?” I whisper sharply, bringing myself back to reality, back to seven a.m. on a now rainy London Thursday, exactly two and a half hours before I have to be in the office. I hastily undress and step into the shower, closing the glass door behind me. Of course, Bex was going to lecture me. Why had I called her when I knew she’d sleuth out what I’d been up to? Guilt? The need to confess, even though I hadn’t done anything too crazy? Or had I…? Everyone says marriage is work, so I guess that means I have two full-time jobs. And Ethan only has one, and he’s always at that job.

  “Aaaahhh!” I let out a little shriek as the water instantly turns ice cold. “Shit!”

  I hop away from the freezing water and almost tumble out of the shower, knocking my elbow against the glass door. When we redid the bathroom, Ethan insisted on a glass-enclosed shower cubicle. A shower-tub combination would have been fine for me, but Ethan hates bathtubs and wanted to have a separate shower. I went ahead with it because I have to choose my battles with him. Even at home, he attacks every argument with the relish of a lawyer who will never give up. Besides, it felt frivolous to fight about the luxury of a bathroom renovation. The whole time I was growing up, we never once renovated anything at home. I still remember the patterns of mold that seemed to be baked in to the aging caulk between the cracked lime green tiles in the one bathroom we all shared.

  Most of the time I think London is the best city in the world, but what is so hard about keeping a hot shower hot for at least ten full minutes? That bathroom back home certainly can’t compare to the snowy white marble that Ethan chose for this shower, but at least we had consistently hot running water. Just when I’m ready to give up and get out, the water turns hot again.

  Am I expecting too much from a marriage? This is the time to hustle, isn’t it? I’m forty, Ethan is forty-seven, so we’re supposed to be working hard like this, saving and building a nest egg for when we retire. I guess that’s when we’ll finally spend time together.

  But realistically, how much do we need to save without a family of our own? We tried almost everything, but still, I’ve always been the guest at baby showers. Finally, I just started to decline invitations; it hurt too much to sit there and watch someone else unwrap tiny crocheted booties. And now, well, the chances are less than slim. There’s no way Ethan will go through another IVF round with me. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I was such an emotional wreck; there were times when I’d cry uncontrollably for no reason. Ethan was mortified by the whole endeavor. He didn’t want to admit there might be something that wasn’t working on his side. Considering how things are between us now, maybe it’s better that Ethan and I aren’t parents.

  I hold my face under the thankfully warm shower stream, a baptism to wash away the pain. The glass doors slowly steam up as I turn the fa
ucet to hot. Soaping my torso, the soft, sudsy body wash slides down my thighs, and I remember the feeling of Francois’ hands gliding over my skin right before he’d grabbed my legs and hoisted me onto him. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be so desired. I don’t want to wait around until retirement for someone to pay attention to me.

  I turn off the water, just as it’s starting to turn cold again.

  “Skinny triple shot extra hot latte for Liv! Spiced turmeric oat milk latte for Emily!” The barista’s description of my coffee is a walk of shame in itself. Yes, I’m the middle-aged woman who needs three shots just to make it to lunch. A glossy new intern from this year’s herd practically skips over to pick up the spiced turmeric oat milk latte. What the hell is that? Does that even have caffeine? I grumble to myself, thinking how much better it’d be to be back in that hotel room with Francois.

  “Oh, hi! You’re Liv!” Emily greets me with the enthusiasm of a puppy. “I loved the presentation you did at the departmental meeting last week. I am so excited to be here. We get free coffee. So cool. Well, this isn’t coffee, but you know what I mean.” She takes a swig of her turmeric latte, peering at me through chunky-framed glasses that I assume are trendy but would make anyone over the age of thirty look certifiable.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Emily.” Thank God the barista said her name because I would have never remembered it. HR circulates a kind of rap sheet of all the new interns each year, with their names, photos, and pithy biographies, but I hardly even look at it anymore. Their optimistic naivete and youthful ambition make me more depressed with each passing year.

  “Yup, it’s cool, isn’t it.” I try not to sound too sarcastic. Where do these kids get so much energy? How can she be this awake and not drink coffee? I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s nursing a hangover and still looks like a freshly blossomed rose.

  I slowly trudge my way to my open plan desk. Just as I’m ready to face an in-box full of unnecessary “as per my previous message” and “looping in Liv who can give you more information” emails, my phone chimes. I welcome the distraction. It’s a text from Francois. A hot and cold rush of adrenaline courses through me as I read:

  Liv, you are magnifique. Until next time.

  I slap my phone down on the desk, screen side down like closing a book. End of story. I can’t go down this road. I’d witnessed the hell of Bex’s divorce and, despite everything, I’m just not ready to go there with Ethan. I can’t imagine starting over at this stage of my life. I turn to my computer, pretending to work, attempting to get back on track, but quickly succumb to the story of Francois.

  Even though it was a fling, I can’t help but want more texts, more dinners where we’re each other’s desserts, more attention, more “magnifiques.” I do a Google image search of Francois Duval, not for the first time or the fifteenth time. I’ve lost count. It’s become a compulsion since we first met a few months ago. I search images in the past week, past twenty-four hours. What the…? There’s Francois with his hand around an undeniably cool young thing at a gallery opening he attended last night before he’d met me for dinner. Who is that? Must be some D-list British royal celebrity because she looks vaguely familiar. I can’t keep track of all the titled Ladies, Dukes, and Duchesses and their pouty offspring who populate the gossip columns here more than most actresses.

  I peer intently into the screen, squinting my eyes and trying to get a better look at the mystery woman. A dark shadow crosses my mind. What the—Is that Emily, the intern? She’s wearing a black slinky cutout dress that shows off her toned physique, and a pair of chic gray ankle boots. A shiny curtain of chestnut hair cascades over her cheekbones, partially obscuring her face that’s turned upward to Francois. They look cozy…too cozy. His hand is melded to her hip and in silhouette, they’d be one shrouded shape—no gaps, no distance between them. Bex is right. What am I doing? Did I think I was special? Magnifique?

  I can’t do this. I’m too old (and married!) to be swooning around after someone, especially a French artist. It’s just too cliché. Bex was right, I need to get a grip and delete Francois. But that accent…that kiss.

  Startled by my phone ringing, I jump. Ethan. Great, perfect timing. Swallowing my guilty conscience, I answer the phone.

  “Hi, Ethan,” I say with fake cheerfulness—why hasn’t this three-shot latte kicked in yet? “How’s the trip going?”

  “Hello, darling. Listen, I’m terribly sorry, but this case is turning out to be more complex than we’d imagined. Alan thinks it’s going to be at least another week in this desert oven. So I won’t be able to meet you in Provence after all. I’m sorry, darling.” Ethan’s crisp delivery belies no trace of emotion other than extreme politeness. He’s like a nervous, amateur actor doing a Hugh Grant imitation.

  My heart sinks, though I’m not exactly surprised. This isn’t the first time a weekend away has been spoiled by a case. I’d booked a beautiful suite in a renovated farmhouse in the lavender fields of Luberon. Ethan was going to fly from Dubai to Nice, rent a car and drive out to meet me. My flight was due to leave tomorrow from City airport. I knew he’d forgotten about the trip when we talked about it at the charity gala last week. And I held on to that hurt and anger in order to justify the night with Francois. Still, I didn’t want to give up hope and in my foolish heart of hearts I thought maybe, just maybe, Ethan and I would actually get away together. Maybe distance from London and the rut we seem to be in could help turn things around for us. Certainly more so than those therapy sessions with Emma.

  “Oh, um, that’s okay, darling.” I try to sound upbeat, while thinking that “darling” must be the most overused word in strained British marriages. “It sounds like a big case.”

  “Why don’t you take Clarissa instead and have a shopping weekend? Alan’s already checked with her and she’s free.”

  Is he serious? Even after the snide remarks she made to me at the gala event he’s still suggesting a girl’s getaway with Clarissa, the mean girl of Treadwell & Sloane wives. Clarissa, who despite being ten years too old, is still mad that she’s not Kate Middleton. Uh-uh, no way. Why is Ethan always trying to set us up anyway? Is it his and Alan’s not-so-secret plan to fob us off on each other so they won’t have an ounce of guilt about making these “Darling, I’m sorry” calls? That I’d be too busy shopping and brunching to notice my invisible husband is missing. Besides, what kind of shopping does he think Clarissa and I would do in the countryside of Provence? There’s only so much lavender soap you can buy. The whole point of this long weekend away was for Ethan and me to get time together, for him to at least look me in the eye, talk to me about something other than a client or a case, and maybe even caress me, run his hands over my body instead of his damn laptop. After our failed therapy sessions, we’re in do or die territory and he doesn’t even seem to notice.

  “Um.” I’m stalling. I can’t face being alone in the country with Clarissa. “I’d rather wait until we can go together. I should be able to cancel the reservation without a charge,” I say, distracted by what’s brewing in my subconscious. “Hope the case goes okay.”

  We hang up after exchanging a mutual “Bye, darling” in an everything’s fine and dandy voice.

  The prospect of a long three-day weekend suddenly free of any plans has me thinking, and not with my head. I swipe back to the text message from Francois and imagine what a “next time” would entail. “Liv, don’t go there,” I say to myself. But the freedom of a next time is so damn tempting. I think of Bex. I envy her freedom—she could do this any time. Which is why I don’t get why she spends most of her nights with Netflix. Bex is gorgeous, so warm and charming. Could it really be that hard out there as a single woman? Isn’t it a fun, secret sisterhood? Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” for God’s sake! In our twenties, living together in Atlanta, we practically had to hire a bouncer to keep the guys away. Well, that was almost twenty years ago. I shiver at the thought.

  “Hi, Liv.” Emily waves to me as she prances by my desk
. I hadn’t really given her much notice in the office before. All the interns blur into one. It’s not that I actively try to ignore them, it’s just that their bright-eyed eagerness is salt in the wound to the fact that I’m getting burn-out with my so-called career. It’s not like being in ad sales for a media company is my dream job. Does anybody do their dream job anyway?

  I eye Emily suspiciously. Could she have been born in the 2000s? Maybe UK child labor laws are different than in the US. Spiced turmeric oat milk latte, my ass. She walks down the hall like it’s a catwalk and I can’t help but admire her fringed boots with a perfect heel—not too high, not too low, sturdy enough to trot around town but still with a sexy edge. The fringe tassels bounce to the rhythm of her stride, matched in movement by her smooth as glass mane that dances along with each step. Watching her, I start to feel sick.

  I turn back to the computer screen and pull up the image search of Francois, leaning in to look at the gallery photo. She’s not wearing those glasses, but I sure as hell recognize those boots. Dammit, it is her. Francois and Emily, the intern. My cheeks burn with indignation and embarrassment. Maybe she’s his daughter? But no father holds his daughter like that. How many women (girls!) has Francois texted “magnifique” to in the last week? That’s it. I delete Francois from my phone.

  Okay, let’s do the right thing. Let’s be sensibly English. A weekend in Provence with Clarissa seems like the best option after all, even if she is a mean cow. What would I do otherwise? Sit at home and eat cheese puffs, watch the Golden Girls, and get lost in an Internet wormhole of stalking Emily and Francois? And what would Clarissa and I do away? I conjure up an image of Clarissa and me on a girl’s trip, practically boring myself to sleep. Now if it were Bex and me. I smile at the thought, already hearing the percussion of popping corks and howls of laughter.

  If it were Bex and me…