Page 3 of Embracing the Change

CHAPTER 1

CALVIN KLEIN

Nora

Anumber of years ago…

I sat alone in the ballroom of a notable hotel with a half-consumed martini resting on the table in front of me, watching my husband flirt with another woman.

This was not unusual. Roland was an inveterate flirt, and I wasn’t too concerned about it.

Oh, make no mistake, it made me angry. It always made me angry.

So angry, the instant we arrived home, Roland and I would have a huge row, which would end in a sumptuously violent and all-consuming session of lovemaking.

Something to look forward to.

Nevertheless, people saw him doing it, and it never failed to be humiliating.

The only way to respond was to pretend I didn’t care, a skill I performed so well, by the end of the evening, Roland would be infuriated, which harkened the volatility in his part of our lovemaking.

Even so, my eyes in a face that had assumed a deceptively entertained expression were resting on him, my fingers to the stem of my martini glass twisting it to and fro.

I was doing both wondering how I should approach Roland in a way he would actually listen to me and discontinue demeaning me in this manner (I could live without the makeup sex—our sex was all-consuming all the time, so, even if post-argument sex was fabulous, it wouldn’t be a loss) when I felt someone sidle up to my side.

I turned my head to see a hotel employee bent toward me.

“Mrs. Castellini?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Your mother has sent me to get you. She says it’s urgent.”

I felt my brows draw together, but when Mother called, urgent or not, you came.

If it was urgent, you wasted no time doing it.

I abandoned my martini (alas) but grabbed my Judith Leiber and moved with the staff member out of the ballroom and through the hall crowded with the crème de la crème of New York glitterati. We were headed to where, in this hotel, which was used to host many a society function, was one of the more remote set of bathrooms.

The ladies being the facilities my mother always used when we were there.

When I saw two suited security guards standing outside, barring the door, my heart skipped a beat.

Was something wrong with Mother?

I hastened my step, and the staff member escorting me waved her hand to the guards at our approach. They each took a step to the side to clear my way to the door, but I didn’t even glance at her or either of the guards as I pushed inside.

After I walked through the elegant lounge to where the basins and the stalls were, I stopped dead.

Mother was dumping what appeared to be vomit-covered towels into a basin.

And on her ass on the floor, propped against the back wall, her head with its extraordinary mane of strawberry-blonde hair lolling forward, her simple (but superlative) gold Calvin Klein slip dress askew and stained at the bodice, the skirt having ridden up to her shapely thighs, was the current belle of the hoi polloi.

Belinda Oakley.

I rushed forward, my heels clicking sharply on the tiles, asking, “What on earth?”

“Excellent,” Mother said crisply. Having rid herself of the soiled towels, she turned to me. “You’re here. Make certain she stays upright.” She reached to a stack she’d clearly demanded of hotel staff and handed me a clean towel. “And see what you can do about her dress.”

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