Hopscotch with the Devil

By Lori Garfinkle

When temptation propels her headfirst into the abyss, CHLOE, a thirty-five year old Manhattan based author finds herself ensnared in a mind game of the highest caliber. In her quest to dispel vulnerability as a myth, she crosses the line between fantasy and reality, falling prey to the electrifying side effects of a self-discovery so potent she has no choice but to complete her breakthrough.

CHLOE is tempted into hell when her best friend, the infamous gay hairstylist Christophe suggests that an online affair is just what she needs to spark her writing. In between juggling her husband Brads Vicodin addiction, her brother Dylans cocaine fetish and her mother Ceciles overdose of daily Jewish guilt, Chloe surrenders her common sense for a dance down serendipitys back alley. What begins as a meeting of the minds before a meeting of the flesh soon spirals into a powerful seduction when Chloe meets Bryce, a British Commodities Trader with a posh accent and the ability to chisel away at her defenses like a grand European master. With humor and strength, Chloe struggles with the depths of her vulnerability as she seeks answers to lifes multifaceted questions. What she ends up discovering, is herself and exactly what it means to be human.

From the high-powered worlds of New York and London to the pristine beaches of Cancun and Bora Bora, Hopscotch With The Devil is a laugh out loud adrenaline rush into the demons of emotion that simmer beneath the surface of a life filled with choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467024518

Lori Garfinkle

LORI GARFINKLE is a graduate of The Fashion Institute of Technology with a degree in Advertising and Communications. She currently lives in Montreal and is the proud mother of three sons (an attorney, an electrical engineer and a soon to be doctor). Her passions include Broadway and Bull Markets with stamina. HOPSCOTCH WITH THE DEVIL is her first novel.

Book preview

HOPSCOTCH

WITH THE DEVIL

Lori Garfinkle

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by Lori Garfinkle. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/6/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2449-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2450-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2451-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011915827

This is a work of fiction, and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

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Acknowledgments

For my three sons

Brandon, Dustin and Blake

My Greatest Achievements

Your generosity of spirit from beginning to end in helping me to achieve my dream is nothing short of remarkable. From your words of praise in the middle of the night to your technical expertise, I couldn’t have done it without you.

For my parents

Alice and Albert

Your love and support propelled my motivation

Your lessons of life guided my heart

In memory of my father Hershey and my Grama Beaulah

Two people who knew how to coax magic out of a pen.

Heartfelt thanks to Gabrielle Grawey for her brilliant creativity, her unswerving dedication and more importantly for being a true friend.

Much gratitude to Bryan Gorrie for his wonderful eye for detail, technical savvy and most of all, for allowing me to be fussy.

A colossal thank you to special friends whose support seems to grow exponentially as deadlines approach

Your concern for all my all-nighters is touching

But as I keep telling you, insomnia is a writer’s blessing…

For the reader

May you accept and embrace your vulnerability…

In the realm of human destiny, the depth of man’s questioning is more important than his answers.

-André Malraux

Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.

-The Wizard of Oz, to the Tin Man

It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous, that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to.

-George Santayana

1

New York City taxi drivers\’ nu–york-si-te- tak-se- drI-v&rs\ n 1: a quintessential breed of the male species 2: the most highly opinionated men in Manhattan 3: pseudo-psychoanalysts of backseat therapy

I’ve just single-handedly redefined a classic Webster’s definition, Chloe smirked, as she flailed a bejeweled arm to hail a cab. Eccentric, perhaps a touch, but I’m no more guilty pegging myself a writer than those cabbies who ostentatiously wink, while feigning total non-comprehension of the English language. Those master winkers have such an indelible grasp on highway robbery, their expertise on scenic routes at quadruple the fare is legendary. It’s also a prime example of what it means to be vulnerable in a city that prides itself on its strength.

About time, Chloe hissed, hopping into the first cab compassionate enough to stop. Sniffing like a Chihuahua in heat, her Chanel powdered nostrils twitched in defiance. Oh God, she groaned, bad enough, I’ll probably die going from point A to point B, but I truly have no desire to be buried six feet under with seven-day-old curry fumes rising from my ass. Why am I contemplating death when all I want to do is live? she mused, while shaking her head at her own neurosis.

I suppose death and vulnerability go hand in hand, she reasoned, while liberally spritzing the cab with a healthy dose of perfume. Honest to God, some smells should have their licenses revoked, she mumbled under her breath, while furiously cranking open the back window in a desperate attempt to escape the inexorable curry fumes that washed over her like an ill wind.

Behind the wheel, the wild-eyed man didn’t miss a beat. He found it hilarious when passengers choked on his native smells, even funnier, when they hung on for dear life as he took the corners of Manhattan on two wheels. Swollen with egotistic arrogance, he smashed down on his horn twice, before extending a calloused middle finger in an upright position out his window. With a wink, and in what appeared to be impeccable English, he boorishly told an errant jaywalker to go fuck himself.

When he failed to unnerve his victim, he cursed, Bloody Yanks, colorblind bastards, don’t know the fucking difference between green and red! America, land of opportunity…and of idiots!

No wonder foreign policy is such a touchy issue, Chloe grunted, digging her freshly manicured nails into the tattered vinyl. Abdul is it? she said, sneaking a peak at the flimsy plastic nametag that bore his moniker like stale bait, I offered you an extra twenty to get me to my appointment on time. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to arrive with all of my limbs intact.

Abdul snorted in boredom, Look Lady, make up your mind! First, you want fast; now you want slow, pick a fucking speed. Don’t make me crazy!

As if you have far to go, she barked.

C’mon Lady, gimme a break, this is New York! You want to be safe, try the subway?

Tell you what, I’ll try the subway when you try manners, deal?

Deal? Abdul taunted, What this means…deal?

I should have walked, Chloe cringed, I should have known better than to entrust my life with some frustrated cabbie with a dusty PHD. It’s ironic, but I bet back in his country, he’s probably a brilliant psychiatrist while here he’s simply a jerk about to ram two clueless pedestrians into an early grave. If I’m smart, I’ll get the hell out of this cab while my head and ass are still in perfect alignment.

Pull over, on the right, Chloe demanded. Completely carsick, she flew out of the filthy cab, thankful that her intense queasiness hadn’t erupted all over the grimy backseat. Like a terrible joke that only got worse, rancid subway fumes rose from Manhattan’s steamy streets, causing her tummy muscles to tighten instinctively in a venerable effort to prevent her vomit from decorating the sidewalk.

Abdul cringed, watching Chloe bolt into Christophe’s Salon. Women and their goddamn hair, he sighed, just another frivolous American obsession. And who better to mess with a woman’s vulnerability than a highly sought after gay stylist? Especially one, with balls so bold, as to claim highlights are one of life’s absolute necessities.

Shit, any man who has the nerve to charge six hundred bucks for a cut, and then laugh as hordes of women trip over their Prada pumps to get their asses in his chair, definitely deserves some credit. Fucking women, Abdul maniacally cursed, bitches have more respect for hairstylists than for their own damn husbands. Just the thought, made his disturbing facial tick vibrate, as he cracked his Big Red gum, and wondered if his rage was rooted in envy.

Ouch, Chloe whimpered in self-absorbed agony, as she snagged a nail entering the Salon. Within seconds, the heel on her favorite pair of nine hundred dollar Jimmy Choos snapped in half, leaving her with a right leg that was a full four inches shorter than her left. Needing desperately to blame someone, she instinctively chose Abdul. Why not, she reasoned, he made me nervous; it’s his fault I now have to enter Christophe’s like a circus freak. Between my missing tip and my brand new limp, I must look like a pitiable prop on a low budget Sci-Fi film. I wonder if I’m in jeopardy of losing my revered status of Christophe’s muse, she laughed.

Chloe Darling, I’m so happy to see you, Christophe exclaimed, gracing his best friend with a double cheek air kiss. Scrutinizing her outfit, he excitedly clapped his hands, Is that Versace you Bitch? God, that sweater is to totally die for, you look stunning! I missed you Doll, promise you’ll never travel without me again?

Not giving her a chance to reply, Christophe shrilled, I want all the juicy Sin City details. Wait, what’s that, a missing tip? Looks like Vegas wasn’t too kind to you after all. Seriously, couldn’t you have rolled the dice a bit less and saved a few quarters for a manicure?

She laughed, A manicure or the Forum Shops? You would have been so proud of me Christophe, those poor shops at Caesars had to call for emergency restocking by the time I finished ravaging their shelves. I’m telling you, it was like sending my Visa card to boot camp. Vegas, was just the adrenaline I needed. Great martinis, moving sidewalks, flashing lights, dancing fountains; I flew home feeling like I had just self imploded in my own fantastical dream.

I’m jealous, he pouted.

Maybe next time I run away, you and your magical hands can accompany me? Honestly, the stylists over there handle blow dryers as if they’re weapons of mass destruction, must be all that pumped up oxygen destroying their fine motor skills. Oh, and speaking of pumped up things, the Sin City boys would eat you up alive with those emerald eyes of yours.

Must you tease? he scolded.

Madame Chloe, bonjour! interrupted Christophe’s assistant. Come, you must shampoo right zis second or Monsieur Christophe will run very late and if zat happens, you know he will become zee impossible bitch.

Truer words were never spoken, Chloe winked. Christophe, keep my chair warm, missing me ten more minutes won’t kill you.

No it won’t, he rolled his eyes, but hearing how you antagonized people in the desert might.

Chuckling, she made her way past endless sand blasted glass cabinets of imported European products. The Salon looks so sleek, she thought, almost like the Jetsons on Prozac. Nothing like a good shot of trendy minimalism to make a woman feel self-conscious, she sighed. Who in their right mind wants to settle for average when every detail around them is perfectly symmetrical?

Won’t be long though, before all this sterility bores the shit out of Christophe and his Zen inspired hard-on will be nothing more than a memory. By next week, my restless friend will have discovered a spanking new trend and he’ll be bursting at the seams to blow yet another low ball decorating budget. Course, knowing him, the word blow will only triple his enthusiasm.

Chloe felt her heart race as she sunk into the shampoo chair and thought about Ricardo’s talented hands. His infamous scalp massage was comparable to tumbling off a cliff while coasting ever so slowly into oblivion. The fact, that Ricardo himself was pure eye candy; well that was simply a bonus. Stallion like, he emerged, bearing fluffy towels warmed to just above body temperature. Expertly, he gathered her hair in one hand, while wrapping a towel around her neck with the other. His onyx eyes warned her not to dare and break the sexiness of the moment.

Ten strong fingers ran through her hair, working the shampoo into a thick foamy lather. Ricardo’s powerful hands worked the back of her scalp, urging her to just give in, and surrender to his touch. Her tension floated away as he skillfully circled her temples before slowly moving down towards her neck. Caught up in the seduction, Chloe let out a low sultry moan.

Bella, is better than sex, no?

Much better, she sighed, especially since I’m not having any. I’m a Jewish Nun that gets none. You know Ricardo, if you weren’t so set in your ways; I’d make you my sex slave.

Sorry Princess not interested. It’s high maintenance horrors like you, that make me crave pisello for dinner. Baring teeth straight out of a Lumineers ad, he smiled, What’s the point in suffering in a heterosexual world where no matter what the poor bastard does; he’ll forever be twenty steps behind? It’s a proven scientific fact that a man has zero chance of winning, when a woman pouts and parts her legs. So, I say, if you can’t beat the bitches, why not join their fabulous party?

Refusing to give her the satisfaction of a wisecrack, Ricardo turned the tap all the way to the right. Relax, he laughed, ice, makes hair shine like diamonds.

Much as she adored him, Chloe hissed, Bastardo, may your next pompino bring you as much pleasure as this frigid rinse! Roaring from her vulgar Italian, Ricardo applauded in delight, and then wrapped her head in towels before pinching her ass and sending her back to Christophe.

What a lovely sight, Chloe smiled, an empty chair!

I know better than to inspire temper tantrums, winked Christophe, and before you ask, yes I’ve set aside a double booking.

Impressive, so you actually remembered the Gala tonight?

He choked, After I read that elitist article in the Times this morning, yes.

And?

And I was shocked. I had no idea that the Museum Gala Benefit honored self-centered pricks like your husband Brad.

As much as I love you Christophe, sometimes your mouth is just too much. I can’t understand why women wait hours for the honor of your touch, God knows where your hands have been. Honestly, I don’t know why your clients put up with your arrogance.

Yes you do Chloe; you know exactly why, he laughed. I’m the best. Black Tie Events make me hard as a rock and no one can transform a woman, beaten with the ugly stick, into a glamour puss as fast as I can. Three hour wait, big deal. Trust me, it’s good for them, they could all use a little humbling. Okay Doll, who are you wearing tonight? Valentino, Galliano or are we going vintage?

Versace, she purred, black, sexy and very low cut.

Excellent, he smiled, raising her chair in an egotistical move so she could watch him work his magic. Pensively, he squeezed a large dollop of crystallized gel into his palms, warming the product before massaging it through to her ends. So tell me Chloe, your novel? You must be close to the grand finale with all those manic obsessive hours you put in.

Oh, don’t start your pity party, I have zero patience. Can’t you just give me a fabulous blowout without opening your mouth?

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you Dollface but shutting my mouth is exempt. I know you’re busy, but I feel like I’ve lost my best friend and I’m not going to apologize for missing you. Furthermore, if I choose to whine about it, you’ve no choice but to listen as long as your ass is parked in my chair. You’ve turned into a recluse, I’m surprised you haven’t run away and chained yourself to some remote beach house.

Chloe let out a heavy sigh. Tell me Drama Queen, if I don’t dedicate myself to finishing, how do you suppose it will get done? Perhaps you’d care to help with the editing, with your illiterate tendencies and atrocious spelling, it’s sure to fly off the shelves?

At least, if I finished the book, the sex scenes would sizzle, Christophe shot back, yanking playfully on her hair. What in the world are you going to base the requisite passion of those lusty scenes on? Some faded high school memory of some awkward kid groping your breasts as though he were shopping for grapefruits?

That’s it Christophe, you blew it, she teased. Now you’ll never have your fifteen minutes of fame in my book. I know you’re drooling like a newborn baby to get lost between my pages but your mouth alone requires a sequel. So, do us both a favor, wallow in your blessed celebrity hairstylist status and just concentrate on making me look sensational for tonight.

I’ll drop to my knees in any chapter you desire, he begged, please; you need to fit me in. Sandwiched between a fabulously well endowed Playboy and a delectable Prince with a tongue to write home about, would be divine.

Chloe smiled at Christophe’s zest for her work. It was wonderfully genuine, the sort you only receive from someone who has nothing to gain. Fitting you in is the least of my concerns, she warned, it’s a miracle I’ve even written a book at all. Now that the end is in sight, I just pray the sky doesn’t fall down tomorrow. Wasn’t long ago, I thought my lifelong dream might just shrivel up and die a silent death.

People die Chloe, dreams only do if you let them, Christophe reprehended, as he maneuvered a boar bristle brush through her strands. And amen to the end, your goddamn perseverance is killing me.

She paused, It’s almost impossible to explain what’s happened to me. I’m writing like a wild woman possessed by words. Someone could make a damn fortune by bottling my creative juices and distributing them to every poor struggling writer out there. I feel, as though I’m a running river, with facets of my personality flowing through every page.

Oh God, she panicked, what if my inspiration decides to go on vacation before I finish my final chapter? And no, I’m not behaving like one of those self-doubting authors, this is real, I’m scared.

Yes Darling, he sympathized, I understand your obsessive compulsive disorder to have Mars aligned with Jupiter but just remember that all great endings must encounter some sort of struggle in order to make the effort momentous.

Hmm, when did you become so wise?

In between blowjobs, he giggled, wait until you see what I have planned for your hair.

I was thinking, maybe that perfectly undone look?

Amazing how our minds are always in sync, he grinned. You’re going to look like you just tumbled out of bed with hair so violently sexy, it’s going to moan, ‘Look at me, I’ve just had fifty-five orgasms!

Have I told you lately that you’re deranged?

Oh you love it Chloe. Be honest, could a straight man with inflexible fingers give you a natural look that took hours to create?

She bit her lip, asking herself for the millionth time why Christophe had to be born gay. So unfair, that he and Ricardo had hogged so many handsome genes, straight men were now clearly lacking. Teasingly, she poked him, copping a feel at his impressive abs. So how’s your love life, please tell me that rumor about you and that South American man-whore is just vile gossip?

I don’t know what you’re talking about Chloe.

Oh please, spare me your angel dust, she sighed. C’mon Christophe, that piece of jailbait Brazilian ass is semi famous in his own right. Besides, news travels fast in Manhattan.

He snickered, Only between the inner circles of Jewish yentas.

Don’t even go there Christophe, and as a devout atheist, let me say gossip is non-denominational. Look at you for example; you’re like the second coming of Christ, undoubtedly more chic, with your ipad tucked under one arm and a copy of Vogue in the other.

Is that how my best friend in the world sees me?

Actually, I see you as a predator of sultry young boys. I know that Brazilian nut is just the type you have an insatiable need to crack. You simply can’t resist the fresh meat that falls off the shelf of the homosexual fantasy factory. But if you ask me, I bet that slime ball has already test driven every dick in New York City.

Chloe was already laughing as she anticipated Christophe’s larger-than-life reaction. On cue, he wildly flung his arms, almost knocking her out with his prized titanium blow dryer. Don’t insult me; everyone knows that Antonio is a depraved slut. My God, his thighs have been wrapped around more necks than a hand me down Hermès scarf, but you can’t deny he’s delicious.

Is that what you call a rotten apple with an STD for a core?

Your verbiage is astounding Darling, he chuckled, anyway, no worries, I’m done with that crap, no more meaningless one-night wonder fucks for me.

Oh really, so now what? she asked, trying to keep a straight face.

What I need now, he winked, is to find myself a billionaire sugar daddy that will derive pleasure in catering to my every self-centered whim. Perhaps some ancient geezer that is barely conscious. I’m thinking life support would be a definite bonus. Excuse me Doll, while I say a silent prayer.

Brilliant, she smirked, tonight, rather than frequenting your usual sleazy haunts, why not cruise Manhattan’s emergency rooms?

Call me a jaded romantic, he moaned, but I’m exhausted waiting for my Prince to materialize. My vision of golden sand has turned murky and the water, once so turquoise, has evaporated in a pale mist. All I have to look forward to is the steamy affair I’ll be having in your novel.

Chloe simply shook her head laughing. I never dreamt my best friend would be such a melodramatic piece of work. Call me crazy, but it’s rather comforting that your endless neurotic tirades are even more outrageous than mine.

Excuse me Monsieur Christophe, interrupted the receptionist, Your two o’clock just called, said she’s having a major crisis and has to rebook.

Stifling a giggle, Christophe imagined the absurd woman contorted into some fucked up hot yoga position intended for someone thirty years her junior. Chloe, I’m free, how about lunch with your main character?

Lunch with you, means I’ll never zip up my gown tonight.

But how can you say no to anyone that makes you look like this? he asked, swinging her chair around and placing a mirror in her hand so she could admire his handiwork from all angles. Every bitch at that Gala will be green with envy and no man in that ballroom will be able to take his eyes off you. Chloe smiled, then stood up and bowed.

Arm in arm, they walked two short blocks to a stylish Bistro that had just opened. Leave it to Christophe to find a taste of Paris smack in the middle of the Upper East Side, Chloe thought, as she immediately fell in love with the place.

Monsieur Christophe, ça va bien? Come, the best table, juste pour toi.

Merci Jacques, he blushed, no menus, I know the specialties by heart.

Chloe burst out laughing, I suppose you think you’ll be ordering for me? Listen, my Versace gown won’t find it amusing if I swallow an entire side of beef for lunch. Nor will my gown find it charming if I suck down pounds of seafood dripping in that artery-clogging garlic butter you simply can’t live without. And no red wine, my luck I’ll break out in ghastly splotches before tonight’s Gala.

Thank you Chloe, you make every dining experience so pleasurable, he cringed, though nothing’s worse than your company at breakfast.

That’s because I despise it, she declared. You know I only choke down eggs if I’m forced to attend some pretentious charity function. I told you millions of times I can’t stand the sight of food before noon. Don’t even get me started on those disgusting sausages. Honest to God, you’d think they’d at least be circumcised and look nice before being tossed on a plate. Scanning the breadbasket, she purred, So how many rolls do you figure I could consume before I look like a bakery myself?

Christophe followed her eyes and instantly lost all semblance of willpower. Lunging for a mini croissant, he exclaimed, Hell with it! and began to slather the flaky pastry with freshly whipped chive butter. Reluctantly, he offered it to Chloe, figuring she would decline. She shocked him by taking a guilty bite.

Oh My God, this is Heaven!

Tell me, that isn’t the best thing you’ve had in your mouth in ages. God, I adore when you eat with me Chloe.

Misery loves company with a lack of willpower to match their own, she laughed, accepting a glass of bubbly from a white gloved waiter.

Christophe clinked his glass against hers, I’m thrilled my client cancelled, now we have some quality time to catch up. It’s been ages since we had a real good chat, and from that stifled look on your face, I think we’re way past due.

What makes you think that?

He cocked his head to one side, The way you just crumpled your perfectly pressed napkin. You tend to become aggressive when I touch a nerve.

Perhaps you should quit touching then? she suggested. Sometimes, your obnoxious flair of crashing through my heart’s well-guarded walls makes me ill.

The arrival of their artfully arranged salads was a welcome intrusion and Chloe couldn’t wait to stuff the fresh baby greens and crisp arugula sprinkled with a dressing of balsamic vinaigrette into her mouth. Christophe eagerly picked up his fork, Bon Appetit Cherie, enjoy. And while you do, why not humor me with an explanation of the emptiness I see in your eyes?

I feel so naked, she winced, why must he stare at me like that? Why does he think he always knows everything? Taking a healthy gulp of champagne, she said, Thanks for your concern but I’m fine. It’s not emptiness you see, its fatigue. From Vegas to my writing to my daughters, I’m exhausted. Between Amber’s daily ballet recitals and Skye’s tennis lessons, I’m riding the mommy merry go round and the ride never stops.

Course, I have those obligatory Fundraisers and Charity Balls to keep me fascinated and don’t forget the countless mind-numbing dinner parties. It’s always such fun to wear a Trophy Wife smile during a never ending evening. Oh, I’m also trying to complete a novel in my spare time; it’s amazing I even find five minutes to shave my fucking legs!

What about you Chloe? he asked concerned, alarm bells signaling his built in bullshit detector. Where’s the time for you?

Is that a trick question?

That bad, Darling?

Okay, I admit that kind of time is a rare commodity these days, but better to keep busy.

You mean avoid temptation, don’t you?

I don’t even know what temptation is anymore, she confessed. Sad, I’m only thirty-five and I can barely spell lust, let alone know what it truly feels like. Maybe tomorrow, when Brad leaves to Europe for his Trade Show, I’ll have a few seconds to google the word, so I can remember what it feels like to be alive. Feeling choked for breath, she barked, Whoever thought twenty-four hours in a day was enough surely had nothing to do.

Twenty-four is all you need Chloe, as long as you make the most of them.

You seem to forget Christophe, was just a short while ago I truly did have nothing to do, she said, between sips of champagne. Have you forgotten how I wasted my days floating listlessly upon a mindless sea?

Yeah, yeah, he grunted, I know the whole tedious story. Such a saga, it’s like a great big survivor’s tale, the way your hairspray served as a flotation device, Paul Mitchell, right?

She laughed, Don’t make fun of Paul; you’re just envious your name isn’t on a can. Anyway, thank God for my novel, it’s my one truth.

Christophe reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. You want the truth Doll, here it is. You need to live a little and I don’t mean vicariously through your fiction. For Christ sake, you were the original Miss Creativity. You lose your spark now and your writing will suffer. Boredom is evil; don’t let it get its claws in you.

Cringing, as he hit another nerve, she replied, Look, I’m doing my best but it’s getting tougher everyday to wake up and feel creative amongst all the pressure. God knows we all need to reach outside the box, even in a small way.

He smiled at her words, trying to recall the last time Chloe had ever done anything small. This was a woman so anal; she sequenced her dreams in segments just to have control over every detail. If only she could manage the same fabulous technical maneuvering in her daily life.

Say what you want Chloe, he shrugged, but your baby blues are giving off an altogether different vibe. Your twinkle is still there, but I’ve a sneaking suspicion it’s due to that iridescent Chanel highlighter I forced you to buy.

Why the hell are you provoking me?

Sorry, but I have to ask. When was the last time you really laughed?

About a hundred years ago, she hissed, satisfied now?

Obviously more than you’ve ever been, he shot back. I’m guessing that’s also the last time a man tantalized you with witty innuendos as he fed you truffles dripping in Grand Marnier? Can you recall the last time you indulged in berries and Dom Perignon for breakfast, followed by lusty insatiable sex on a bed of rose petals for dessert? Do you even fucking remember?

Chloe sat wide-eyed, taking in his manic outburst. Think, she pushed herself; placate him with a memory, any memory. She froze as her mind came up blank. In a tone rife with aloofness, she spat, C’mon, you’re describing a fantasy. Who do you know that actually lives like that?

Agitated, she gulped down the rest of her champagne. I can do fantasy as well as you. In fact, I can do it better. Would you like to know my five juicy secrets for finding the ideal man?

Yes, he grinned, I’m dying to know where the bastard is hiding.

Secret number one, she giggled, is to stumble upon a man with a brilliant profession. Doctors, lawyers and engineers have top ranking. Secret number two is to find a man that makes you dizzy with laughter but fully understands when you cry for nothing.

Excited, she continued, Third secret is to choose a man who thinks being faithful is a religion. Secret number four is to hope heaven opens up and drop kicks a stud to earth that is exceptional between the sheets and exists solely to give you multiple orgasms. And the fifth and my favorite secret, is to make damn sure that these four supermen never fucking meet over a steak in Smith & Wolensky’s.

As the two friends fell over themselves in fits of hysteria, each secretly wished they had met just one of these fabulous fictional men, never mind all four. Without warning, Christophe breathlessly clapped his hands, That’s it Chloe, I know just what you need.

Dessert? she licked her lips.

Energized by his sudden flash of inspiration, he struggled to get his syllables out at break neck speed. Listen Doll, what you need is a total reawakening. And before you get your panties in a twist you atheist, I’m talking about a spiritual one. It’s time to shed the monotony that has you bound and tied. There’s no law that says you need accept the mind numbing hand you were dealt.

Are you drunk Christophe?

Dramatically, he waved a sesame breadstick in her direction as if conducting a harmonious inquisition. Why gamble on conventional reality when your heart’s fantasy is a much more exhilarating odd? Romantic love or passionate sex can be yours for the taking. Hell, why not go out on a limb and have a double scoop?

Sounds like you’re suggesting I have sex with an ice cream cone in a kinky dream. What are you on about, I’m losing patience and you know when I do, I…

Fictionalize yourself Chloe. Reinvent the woman that you fashioned years ago. Can you imagine how electrifying your novel would be?

Chloe frowned. Fictionalize myself; has the man nothing better to do than to dream up ways to make my life more complex? He needs help. I pity the therapist. By the time, Christophe’s done with him; the poor therapist will need two dozen himself. I need more champagne, where’s the damn waiter? I’m having lunch with an escapee from the Cuckoo’s nest. Then again, I’m sitting here listening.

Christophe, please tell me you’re not moronically suggesting I have an affair? When his silence became deafening, she yelled, Have you lost your mind, how can you be so reckless with my life? Growing more offended by the second, she snapped, I should seriously bitchslap you for daring to entice me into hell.

No slaps Darling, you have it all wrong. You should send me a thank you note for saving you from a life that’s making you cranky as hell.

He hasn’t seen cranky, she thought, I’m saving that for tonight’s Gala. But I’m bordering on bitchy right now, I can feel it creeping through my veins and if he doesn’t stop gnawing away at my weak spots, I swear I’ll…

Chloe, relax. I’m not saying you should fly off to the moon and give up your pampered existence, we both know you wouldn’t last a day. But behaving like a silly bitch doesn’t suit you, so retract your claws and for once, just listen.

To soften the impact of his proposal, Christophe spooned a revoltingly large bite of raspberry torte into Chloe’s open mouth. While she was gagging, he spoke quickly, You know, opening your mind to the unknown is not such a bad thing.

Thank God one of us still has a mind.

The loss of mine is irrelevant, he chuckled, but your mind is stuck in Virgin Mary mode and it’s time someone gave you a cerebral orgasm. Don’t laugh, an adrenaline pumped mind game of the highest caliber will challenge every one of your senses. What’s the worst that can happen, your heart starts beating again? Of course, you must find a worthy opponent in order for the game to reach a smashing climax, but I digress.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong, Chloe thought relieved, poor thing is sexually frustrated. If I were a real friend, I’d call that Brazilian slut Antonio and beg him to bend over so Christophe would have a diversion. I once read that pent up sperm has a direct link to one’s sanity, perhaps I should have read that article twice. Does the term psychotic bastard mean anything at all to you Christophe?

I promise, you’ll lose yourself and find yourself in ways you never knew you could, he said, ignoring her insult. Sensory overload is a fabulous thing Chloe, trust me! Not only is cerebral fucking super safe, it’s as or more addictive than those Manolo Blahniks you cherish. Taking her hand, he winked, What I’m suggesting, my sweet Goddess of Naivety is an online affair.

Loud gasps of mortified laughter escaped Chloe’s lips. Not caring who heard, she loudly hissed, Are you for real, telling me to pack my ingenious wit in a Vuitton trunk and hop on a clandestine jet to cyberspace? God, this is too twisted for words and yet, I’m laughing? You’re insane, telling me to make passionate love to a dusty computer screen.

He laughed at her predictability, Look, if it’s a matter of germs, you could whip out your super-size Windex and spritz your screen fifty times before you log on. That’s what your brain’s obsessing over, isn’t it?

He’s not joking, she realized with alarm. He seems to know too much about fantasyland. I wonder how many times he jerked off his shiny new Mac, no wonder he buys Tilex Scum remover by the case. Okay, now I’m good and nauseous and it’s certainly not from the delicious torte.

I didn’t realize you had such a vested interest in my creativity Christophe. In fact, I thought you had no interest at all in how my juices flowed?

My only concern, he choked, is that your juices don’t dry up.

Can I dry up at my age, she wondered in a panic. Thirty-five is not exactly prune time but I did spot a tiny line above my upper lip last week. Exasperated, she sighed, Congrats madman, this is by far the most ludicrous scheme you’ve ever come up with. You know me inside out, yet you dare to be presumptuous enough to suggest I could fall for a fantasy? Not me Christophe, not a chance in hell!

Raising a perceptive eyebrow to her objections, he countered, Oh and why not you? Chloe, don’t you know that the most vulnerable people are the ones who believe they are immune to vulnerability? Even an Ice Princess has the ability to melt given the proper stimuli. Don’t look at me like I’m a fool, the only foolish thing is your self righteous assumption.

Perhaps if you were Pavlov and I was a salivating poodle, I might buy into your weird science experiment, she giggled, however, the only correlation I feel like exploring at the moment is the one between my foot and your balls. Now, if you don’t mind, could you hurry and finish your espresso, I have a sudden insatiable need to check out the Apple Store.

Laugh Ice Princess, laugh, it’s good for your heart, he urged, grabbing the bill. But I’m sticking to my story, nothing like an anonymous lover to add mystery to one’s life. Fuck sake Chloe, quit analyzing every breath and just live already.

I thought that’s what I was doing, she pouted.

Happiness has nothing to do with logic, he went on undeterred. Have you ever known logic to stir people’s hearts? I swear you act as though it’s irrational to feel good. Unless you know more than Einstein did, you’ll accept the genius had a point when he declared, ‘Before God we are all equally wise and equally foolish.

Now you’re resorting to goddamn quotes, she said in disbelief, what’s wrong, are you feeling the need for some credible back up? Look, I confess you have some compelling points but still, this crazy suggestion of yours has disaster written all over it. On the other hand, who am I to disagree with Einstein? Besides I don’t recall him ever saying we are all equally creative?

Is it possible, he asked himself, is she actually giving an inch? Or is she just humoring me? The razor tongue bitch is a quick study, he smirked, and to think I’m sitting here, teaching her the art of the mind game.

Chloe, as the only man in your life that buys you chocolate without a hidden agenda, let me say I’m well aware of everything you have. But I’m even more aware of what you’re missing. A blind man could spot the void in your heart.

But can the ass pin the tail on the donkey?

Here comes the sarcasm, he smiled, uncomfortable Darling?

Don’t go there Christophe.

Too late.

Yeah well, I don’t like it here so…

So you’re going to run from the truth?

No, from a maniac.

All this maniac is trying to do, he laughed, is jumpstart your internal fire but you have to supply the matches. Your eyes say yes, where do I sign up?

Look again, she barked, they’re saying fuck off.

Maybe in sign language, he conceded, but in reality, they’re as blatantly translucent as that piece of Tiffany ice on your finger. I never understood why Brad refused to purchase estate bling once he was dumping that kind of cash. Tiffany’s is great, don’t get me wrong. But everyone knows, for red carpet diamonds, estate is the only way to go.

Is there no end to your incessant rambling?

Christophe shrugged, The end is entirely up to you Chloe, just remember, you’ll need an open mind to get there.

As they exited the Bistro, Chloe grabbed onto the comfort of Christophe’s arm. Spurred by a million destructive thoughts, she teased, Tell me something you pathetic Einstein wannabe, why is it so incredibly complex for women to find men that are sensitive, passionate and movie star handsome?

Dollface, that’s a no-brainer, he rolled his eyes, while kissing the tip of her upturned nose. Don’t you know perfect men already have boyfriends?

2

The porcelain faced salesgirl working the Chanel cosmetics counter broke into a cold sweat the instant she saw Chloe walking towards her. Considering the myriad of luxury make-up lines offered by Saks Fifth Avenue, she couldn’t fathom why she was the chosen one. Just once, she would have loved to watch Chloe spread her indecisive madness amongst the intolerable bitches at Shu Uemura or better yet at Nars. Even a slight uproar at Lauder or Lancome would have made her day.

With her pulse racing into the stratosphere, the salesgirl tried to pry her eyes off Chloe, but instead found herself scrutinizing her every move. Saks’ main floor, with its endless parade of glossy counters appeared to be hers for the taking. Bitch reeks of confidence, the salesgirl muttered, even her steps are calculated. Every time Chloe so much as glanced at a rival product, she silently prayed the impossible woman would drive the competition crazy, rather than her.

Much to her disillusionment, Chloe never fell victim to the intense marketing shtick. It was as if she had this invisible shield, guarding her angelic soul against the hollow promises of Madison Avenue. She didn’t give a shit about subliminal tricks designed to make youth reappear overnight. She disregarded every evil deception aimed at coercing desperate women to believe one dab of super expensive La Mer could cure their cellulite-riddled thighs. She ignored all the brilliantly constructed traps to entice the vain into submission. Promotions and free samples beckoned the weak-willed, but Chloe’s fiercely loyal sprint to Chanel, went undeterred.

Plump commission checks danced before the salesgirl’s eyes as she plastered a false smile across her expertly made up face. Good Morning, you’re out shopping nice and early, she greeted her first nightmare of the day. We’ve just received our new collection. Lucky for you, I have the entire line in stock.

Not for long, you don’t, Chloe mumbled, under her breath. Like Picasso selecting oils for his masterpiece, she licked her lips in anticipation before beginning her inspection of the new palette. Within a few short minutes, her forearms bore the tell tale signs of every exquisite new Chanel shade.

Oblivious to the gawking salesgirl, who believed Chloe looked like a chaotic finger painting by an uninspired five year old, she barked, I’ll take two of these, six of those and a dozen of these, do you think you might be able to move a bit faster?

Ma’am…I’m moving as fast as I can, considering the height of my heels.

Look, I’m not about to stand around and wait for some other customer to snatch up the entire supply of that new wrinkle cream, Chloe spat, better give me another ten jars just to be safe. Five minutes later, she had managed to deplete the entire stock, leaving a sagging glass counter in her wake.

Biting her bottom lip, the salesgirl sucked in her breath in preparation for the ceremonial process of elimination. Chloe hadn’t even started and already, her nerves felt frayed. Agonizing was a good word to describe the effort of having to explain every benefit of each and every product to a skeptical bitch with a thousand doubts up her tailored Armani sleeve. Quickly, she reached for a bottle of Evian to quench the bile that was rising in her throat.

In a voice coated with acidic honey, Chloe purred, I adore early morning shopping sprees at Saks. Such a pleasure to browse at leisure without the madness of the lunchtime power shoppers, don’t you agree?

I uh, couldn’t agree more, replied the salesgirl, thinking how fulfilling her morning would be should Chloe choke on one of the new toners or firming creams and require emergency medical assistance.

Hearing the shrill echoes of her name, Chloe glanced up. Her friend, Holly Taylor was waving, Darling, it’s been ages! You look fantastic. Mentally, Holly calculated Chloe’s bill, "What exactly are you doing Love? Aren’t you the least bit ashamed not to leave some stock