Limerence: Be careful what you tell yourself

By Shira Block

Limerence

Be careful what you tell yourself.

Jackie Baker likes to pretend. She pretends she’s happily married to her handsome, successful husband. She pretends she’s the perfect mother to her two beautiful children. She even pretends that her secret job as a phone-sex operator is n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shira Block McCormick
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9780967665023

Shira Block

An Adams Media author.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to my family for their unwavering love and support. Alan, I will always choose you as my partner, husband, and life’s companion until I take my last breath. A.J., you are a constant source of love and pride. I can’t wait to watch you change the world. And, thank you for agreeing not to read this book until you are 35.

To the immensely creative and talented Howard Odentz who tricked me into writing a novel, telling me it was easy. You held my hand every step of the way and made the process of writing Limerence fun. I could not have, and would not have, done it without you.

To all my readers, re-readers, friends, family, confidants, and industry professionals who nurtured me along the way. I am in your debt, truly. Thank you Melissa Ablondi Alves, Michelle Simon Benyacar, Barbara Block, Deborah Block, Allegra Chapman, Ed Charlton, Arielle Eckstut, Amy Edelman , Piper Foreso, Sherrie Gilfor, Kristen Johnson, Ilana Katz Katz, David McCormick, Diana McCormick, Deborah Mutchelor, Pat Newcomb, Jolly Odentz, Alys Osofsky, Ann Richards , Beth Rosenberg, Susan Sama, Rachel Rose Shalev, Shelley Steuer, and Cathy Wasserman.

Finally, a special thanks to Nick Gilfor and Michael Ward for the final proofread.

Limerence:

An obsessive infatuation with another person, so much so that it can interfere with the ability to see life and relationships clearly.

– 1 –

What do you mean this isn’t working for you?

I pressed the phone against my ear, waiting for a response, but all I got was dead air. "This, I hissed at no one. This works for everyone."

Not once in my nine-month history with the service had I failed to get a guy to drop his inhibitions and his pants within thirty seconds. Who the hell did this Ethan Monroe think he was, anyway? I threw down the phone, stomped into the kitchen, flapping my hands to fling off the insult, and grabbed my ledger. Ethan Monroe, I wrote. One minute and eighteen seconds. Waste of time.

There was a Teflon sponge by the kitchen sink. Without thinking I snatched it, turned the water to hot, and began scrubbing myself fingertips to elbow, like a surgeon. How could he have hung up on me? What did he expect? He didn’t give me a chance to make this work.

Thankfully, the phone rang again and stopped me just short of scraping myself raw. My grandmother’s smile immediately tugged at the corners of my mouth – the smile she always told me to wear during times of unpleasantness. It spread across my face and worked its magic, subduing the growing anxiety that had begun to snake its way through my core.

Good mornin’, I said slowly, using my best British accent and forcing Ethan Monroe out of my head. This is Heather. With whom do I have the pleasure?

My breathing went shallow and my heartbeat quickened. I sauntered into the living room and lay back on the beige loveseat reserved for talking to clients. My blonde, wavy hair fell loosely over the rounded armrest. I hit the phone’s timer and licked my lips. Any last memory of Ethan evaporated – at least for the moment. I had to get my British on.

Hi, Mommy, it’s Stevie. I’ve been really, really bad, said a grown man failing miserably at imitating a little boy.

I hoped he didn’t want me to change his diaper, but then again, would that really be so bad? I stretched out, making myself comfortable. How have you been naughty? I asked.

Well, he sniffed, you were making pee-pee, and I watched through the door. I’m sorry, Mommy, I couldn’t help it.

Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, I scolded him. Let me get this straight. While I was in the loo, you peeked through the keyhole and watched as I slowly lowered my knickers?

Uh-huh – I did, he panted. This guy was probably a senator.

Indeed, you were naughty, I said. Now you’re going to pay for it. With a caller like this one, I had the freedom to keep him on the phone for as long as I wanted, literally making him pay for whatever urological fixations he may have.

How, Mommy?

I’ll tell you when I’m ready, you little wanker. I loved my British accent. It gave me license to use fantastic words like wanker or bugger or arse. Don’t you dare touch yourself until I get all my facts straight.

I put one arm behind my head, and crossed my ankles. So, Stevie. You watched me sit down with my legs slightly spread, and you were able to see my mommy parts peeking out while I let a warm stream of pee trickle down between my legs? I heard garbled moans and other unintelligible primate sounds on the other end of the line. Is that right?

Yes, Mommy. I’m sorry, he said, with the most pathetic faux remorse I had ever heard.

I bet you wanted to crawl over and lick the inside of my thighs, cleaning up whatever mess I may have left. Is that right? I wondered if I voted for Senator Stevie in the last election. You know, young man, you’re a sick pervert. Do you have any idea what happens to sick perverts?

Wh-what? he groaned.

I put on my best angry Mary Poppins voice and told him. For ten minutes I let loose with every scenario that came to mind, beginning with an unseemly placement of my talking parrot-headed parasol, imagining it squawking something vile like ‘it’s dark in here’, and ending with Stevie chest down, butt up, with his face in a spoon full of sugar, and my high-heel boot pressed into his back.

When it seemed Stevie was about to burst, I threw him the bone he was waiting for. Okay, you can pull out your perverted little pud now.

Uh huh, he replied in an annoying baby voice, and… click.

His quick hang-up didn’t bother me at all. I didn’t need confirmation that he got exactly what he wanted. It worked for him, I told myself. It worked for everybody. Ethan Monroe was the one with the problem.

I strutted into the kitchen, opened my ledger, and wrote: Stevie, aka Peepee boy, fifteen minutes and twenty-two seconds. That’s six dollars and thirty-nine cents. At forty-two cents per minute, it wasn’t a great start, but I still had about six hours to take calls until Emmy and Luke got off the school bus.

In any event, I had six bucks more in my secret stash than I had before. I didn’t need the money, but it was mine. I earned it myself.

– 2 –

The ringtone, Sexy and I Know It, told me Jake was on the line rather than a call forwarded from the service.

Why was he calling? He was supposed to be on a plane somewhere by now. Maybe he was calling to apologize again for last night.

Good mornin’. With whom do I have the pleasure? I said into the phone, as Heather instead of me, Jackie. Shit. Hello.

Cheers luv, Jake chuckled, with an over-the-top cockney accent. Wasn’t the British invasion in the 60s?

My cheeks burned hot. That was the second time I screwed up this week. The first was with a salesman. It took all my self-control to keep Heather from taking over and giving the guy the best cold-call of his career. Oh, right. Um, I have the BBC on, I lied.

Everything okay? Aren’t you supposed to be at the airport?

Yeah, he said. I’m stuck in traffic. I’ll get there eventually.

I glanced at the clock. Minutes on the phone with my husband were minutes away from men who really wanted to talk to me. That’s good. I said, pacing like a caged animal. Why don’t we talk later? I have to put the laundry in the dryer.

He kept talking anyway. You won’t be able to reach me once I land. I’ve got back-to-back meetings, and then I’m off to court. But text if you need anything. He stopped as if he expected me to answer, but I had nothing to say. Tick, tick, tick. The seconds went by and he still didn’t hang up. Oh, and don’t forget it’s my mother’s birthday next week. Can you pick something up for her and send flowers?

How could I possibly forget the Mother of the Year? She was thirty when her husband died and she glommed on to Jake’s life instead of rebuilding her own. He became her surrogate husband. I wouldn’t be surprised if she even ironed Jake’s Underoos. She was always there to serve him – her very own king of the universe. Yeah – no problem. Thanks for the reminder, I said, grateful he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes.

All right, he said, then paused. Was he waiting for me to respond? I love you, he told me as though he was asking a question.

Have a safe flight.

Pip pip, cheerio, and all that rubbish, he chuckled again and hung up.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth – not my grandmother’s smile, but a real one. It was hard to stay mad at him when he was funny.

I sat back down at the kitchen table and waited. Two minutes ticked by. Three minutes, then four minutes passed and no calls. In the quiet, a familiar knot began to form in my stomach. I quickly looked around the room for something to clean, but as usual the kitchen was spotless. Without a distraction, my mind went into overdrive.

Images of perfectly coifed business women casually touching Jake’s arm, laughing at his jokes, hanging on his every word, invaded my thoughts. My last image of him before he ran out the door to catch his limo to the airport this morning was his wavy, black hair still damp from the shower, dressed in his expensive lawyer suit. Giorgio Armani would have been proud to see how perfectly his design hung on Jake’s athletic frame.

His last image of me was bed-hair and sweat pants.

I grabbed my phone and texted Jake. I love you – come home soon. Then I called the local florist and ordered an extravagant bouquet of flowers for his mom’s birthday. Slowly the knot in my gut loosened.

What did I have to feel bad about anyway? The kids were taken care of and our home could have graced the cover of any home and garden magazine. So what if I didn’t want to chat with him on the phone? More often than not, he was too busy to talk to me. Besides, I had to save my energy for my clients. It wasn’t easy to get them to open up, especially when they didn’t know what they wanted or were too embarrassed to say.

Maybe that was Ethan Monroe’s problem. Maybe he liked small farm animals and wanted me to oink and was too embarrassed to tell me. I walked back to the living room and flopped down on the sofa to replay our conversation.

Good mornin’, this is Heather. With whom do I have the pleasure? That was my standard opening. It worked.

I’m Ethan Monroe, he said.

Well, Ethan, what can I do for you this fine day? I felt confident – nothing out of the ordinary.

How are you? he responded.

I disregarded the how I was and went right for the who I was. The who for most people would be straight-forward. For me it changed daily. He may have liked someone like me, a petite, thirty-three year-old blonde, but maybe not. I’m 5’4’, brunette, busty, horny, wet, and I’m all yours for as long as you want, I told him, making a mental note to record my appearance change in the ledger so I didn’t forget the next time he called.

That’s not what I wanted to know, he said. At least not yet, but – can I ask you something?

You can ask me anything you want, I drawled. Would you like to know what I’m wearing and how my breasts look popping out of my top? That should have gotten his attention.

Ignoring my attempts at seduction, he asked, Is your accent real?

That was when it all went bad. What? Um… well… of course it is, I said, as my British intonation went by the wayside. Trying to regain control of the conversation, I said, So, Ethan, in case you’re curious, right now I’m wearing a white half-tank top and a matching lacy thong, silver high-heeled slippers and nothing else. I’m lying back with one leg over the top of the sofa and the other down. If you were sitting in front of me you could see everything I have to offer – if you know what I mean. I had used that opening more times than I could count. It was always a crowd pleaser. If Ethan were normal, it would have gotten the conversation back to where it belonged – but he wasn’t normal.

I waited. I waited some more. Ethan, luv, are you there? Is there something you’d like to talk about?

Then, he delivered the low blow. Thanks, Heather, but this isn’t working for me.

This isn’t working for me filled my head. My breath caught in my throat and I had to force myself to breathe. I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t my fault. I lay back down and draped my arm over my eyes and replayed the conversation again and again. Each time, my accent sounded even more fake, and my descriptions seemed more ridiculous and cartoonish. I tried to relax and focus on the air going in and out of my lungs, but the phone’s shrill ring cut through the room. I took a deep breath and tried to make myself answer it, but I couldn’t. Finally, the call forwarded to another operator. That was a no-no. I pulled myself up and called Tracy, the dispatcher, to tell her what happened. We hadn’t met, but she was a close friend.

Hi Tracy, it’s Jackie Baker, I said, forcing my name out of my mouth. My name didn’t belong there. The only name that belonged on my lips during the day was Heather – sexy, carefree Heather. Unfortunately, Heather was nowhere to be found.

Aren’t you working now? Did I see a call bounce back? she said, cutting to the chase in her thick New York accent.

Despite my feelings, I kept my voice steady. Yeah, I’m on, but I had a weird call that I wanted to run by you. Do you have a minute?

Chill out, she said. She obviously saw through my attempt to sound calm. She was amazing that way.

I sat at the kitchen island and brushed away imaginary crumbs from the gleaming granite. I wasn’t going to break down in front of her – not again. I took a few deep breaths and said, I got a call from this guy, Ethan, or whatever his name is, and it was bad. I paused, waiting for her to respond, but like the great listener she was, she waited for me to continue. I couldn’t engage him and the only thing he wanted to talk about was whether or not my accent was real.

And? she replied.

I tried to get him back on topic, but he said the call wasn’t working for him, and hung up. I sniffed back my tears. Did I screw up? I didn’t want to disappoint Tracy. She was there for me when I needed her most. Are you mad?

Why would I be mad? Tracy asked. Maybe he had an ugly English nanny growing up. Maybe he wanted someone who sounded more like a little boy. Not everyone wants what we’ve got.

I feel awful, I told her again. Are you mad?

Forget it, she said. Take the day off. Come back tomorrow and it will be like it never happened.

You’re not mad?

For God’s sake. Now you’re starting to piss me off. You’re way too sensitive.

Maybe you’re right.

"I am right, she answered. And, you’re the last person who should forget that the topic is whatever the caller says the topic is, right?"

I know, I said. I’ve had many long talks with Tracy where she dutifully listened while I vented. If Ethan only wanted to vent, then I really did screw up the call. Thanks. I get so nervous when we aren’t talking about sex.

One of the hazards of the job, she replied. By the way, I’m looking at the guy’s info. His name really is Ethan Monroe. As a matter of fact, he lives in your neck of the woods – right in downtown Boston.

That’s a little scary, I said and hoped I’d never meet him face to face. "I think I will take the day off. My husband’s coming home from a trip in a day or two and we really should have food in the house."

Good, she said. Take care of your family. I’ll turn off the call forwarding. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Talking to Tracy helped ease my worry. I wasn’t getting fired. Nobody hated me. It was all good. Plus, I had an important task to complete. I had to find out that Ethan Monroe of Boston was old and ugly and not worth my time.

I booted up my laptop and with a click of the mouse at least ten thousand search results materialized on the computer screen. The pictures ranged from scruffy to bald, scrawny to buff, one foot in the grave to smoking hot. This was getting me nowhere. My lips formed a straight line as I pressed the delete button. There. I deleted him.

Screw you, Ethan Monroe.

– 3 –

I poured myself a cup of hot tea, using the last unbroken teacup from my grandmother’s old pansy-painted Wedgewood set. The cup reminded me of my seventh birthday – one year after my father left us. Grandma showed up a lot back then, stepping in for Mom when she had to work late, which was all the time. I loved Grandma and she loved me and my older sister Missy. She was the only fun in our strict house of order. She may have been a stickler for manners, but she knew when it was time to play. She would even make tea parties for us using her beautiful Wedgewood tea set.

Sitting at the kitchen island, I lifted the steaming brew to my lips. As if on cue, my back straightened, my neck elongated, and my pinky extended. One sip of tea and I became a lady, though my messy hair and make-up-less face begged to differ.

I was acting like a woman of leisure, when it dawned on me that Jake didn’t respond to my last text. I texted again. Do you love me?

Did Jake love me? He hadn’t acted that way last night. He had stayed out past one o’clock again and didn’t bother to call, making me crazy—leaving me to stand watch at the damn window, wondering when or if he’d come home.

This morning, he’d woken up like everything was fine. Jake’s arms and legs were wrapped around me, holding me tightly against his chest. Lying in his arms usually felt safe and warm but today I couldn’t push him off me quickly enough. He rolled over and sprawled across our king-sized bed. A whiff of scotch wafted from the mattress. The smell of alcohol triggered visions of Dear Old Dad. Jake had his moments, but at least he was nothing like my father.

After Mr. No-show was out of bed and out of the shower, he had stepped behind me and circled his arm around my waist and whispered into my neck. I love you. I’m sorry.

The familiar smell of his cologne and his simple words softened the edges of my irritation. I leaned into him, but before I had the chance to tell him that it was okay, he released me.

Can you call the limo service and get the ETA? he asked. I have to print my boarding passes.

My back stiffened. When was I demoted from wife to errand girl? I conjured an image of my grandmother. She always said ladies who wanted to hold on to their husbands smiled at life’s annoyances.

My mother never listened to Grandma and she’s still alone today. Sure, honey, I said, keeping my voice light and upbeat. My grandmother would have been proud. I’m on it.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. It was time to move on.

I had the rest of the day to myself.

I walked through the house, straightening perfectly aligned black and white framed artwork hanging on the walls. I punched and fluffed beige and brown pillows that leaned against the corners of the cream-colored sofas and love seat. I refolded rust-colored chenille throw blankets resting on the chairs so the fringe lay perfectly flat.

I was about to check the glass coffee table for dust when a pea-sized nail polish stain on the rug caught my attention. Emmy could be so careless. I rushed to the utility drawer in the kitchen and took out a pair of scissors and quickly cut away the hardened polish, then brushed the pile with my hand to make sure there was no sign of the mess. That was better, though I would have liked to replace the rug all together; but that would take about 2400 minutes of phone sex.

I liked the house, though I never really wanted live in Newton, a ritzy Boston suburb. We were just starting out and were years away from having kids so we didn’t need a five bedroom McMansion with high ceilings and granite everywhere. Jake said we’d grow into it, but there was more to it than that. I think he wanted to be close to his mother. I never should have underestimated the gravitational pull between my husband and his mom.

My clean-up was interrupted by a text from Jake. Of course I love you.

– 4 –

By midafternoon I started to shift into Mommy mode. By the time Emmy and Luke stepped off the bus, Heather had been safely tucked away for hours, so my focus was on the kids. They had no idea how lucky they were to have me as a mom.

My mother was an event planner and always came home late. My mind used to fill with fantasies of her waiting for me as I got off the bus. In my imagination, she would greet me with a smile, a snack, and maybe a little help with my homework. That never happened. Even when she was home she spent her time talking to clients and working out the details of her next big project.

The doorknob turned and I stretched out my arms to greet the kids. Hey guys. I missed you today, I said, hoping for a big heartfelt family hug as six year-old Luke and nine year-old Emmy came rushing in. Instead, they gave me a half-hearted lean-in, pushed past me, and dumped their things on the kitchen floor, knocking over the mail and my cell phone in the process.

I’m starving, Emmy said.

Yeah, starving, Luke chimed in.

I started to pick up the mess but stopped myself. I didn’t have a chance to get to the store, so how about cheese and tomatoes? I asked, trying to sound upbeat.

Emmy pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. She opened the refrigerator door and all but climbed inside. You never go to the store, and I hate tomatoes, Emmy snapped. There’s nothing to eat in here.

I go to the store, I said, defensively.

Emmy slammed the refrigerator door. I’ll go to the store tomorrow, I told her. I promise. How about cookies and milk? I preferred they ate healthy, but what harm was a little indulgence every now and then?

Cool, Luke said, and then sat down at the kitchen island and prepared himself for snack time. Emmy scowled.

Once I brought out the cookies and milk, she apparently forgave my snack slacking and began to bombard me with chatter about the school play. Gilly said I only got the role of the head duckling because I’m short, not because I’m the best singer. She doesn’t know anything, she said. To prove her point, she flipped her black, wavy hair to one side, batted her long eyelashes over her bright, green eyes and belted out one of the latest pop songs that played on the radio non-stop. Not wanting to ignore Luke, I turned to ask him about his day, but Emmy sang louder, refusing to give up the spotlight.

People told me she was the perfect combination of me and Jake, but I didn’t see it. The only thing she got from me was her small size. Her black hair, coloring, confidence, and personality were all Jake. Who knows, maybe she would sprout up when she was older. It could happen. Jake was a runt in high school but by the time he entered college he was six feet tall. Luke, on the other hand, was fair-haired and took the back seat more often than not. He was all me.

Emmy bowed to the riotous applause of her make-believe audience, and continued with her loud rant about the play. The more she went on, the more excited she became and the more her words ran together and sounded like noise. It reminded me of one of my clients – the Yelper.

The Yelper seemed like a perfectly nice guy but made loud yelping noises during his finale. Whenever he called, I felt like I needed to barricade myself behind a bathroom door to keep his voice from oozing past the walls of the house and onto the street.

A tugging on my sleeve brought me out of my thoughts. Mommy, can I? Luke