Page 7 of The Yes Factor

“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 faucet 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.

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