Body Language. Millie Criswell
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for crying out loud!
Ellie’s bulldog, who had a face only a mother could love (if said mother was blind), digested this news by letting loose with a very ungentlemanly fart, and then whimpered, obviously knowing that it was her ex-boyfriend’s hatred of him that had sent Ellie and Brian’s relationship into the toilet, forcing her to look for a new place to live.
She may have dumped Brian, but it was his apartment she’d been living in these past six months, and that had been really poor planning on her part.
“Don’t worry, Barnaby,” she said, patting the dog’s head affectionately. “Good dogs are much harder to find than good men. And Brian was too anal for his own good, anyway.
“I mean, what person in their right mind flosses after every meal?” As the image of yards and yards of dental floss hanging over the edge of the waste-basket emerged—floss she’d been forced to pick up and dispose of properly—YUCK!—Ellie shuddered in distaste, knowing she’d made the right choice.
It was so much better to be the dumper rather than the dumpee, for a change, she decided.
“At any rate, we are going to be much better off without Brian, Barn.”
Seeming to agree with her assessment, Barnaby licked her face, producing an inordinately large amount of drool, which Ellie wiped off with the sleeve of her Georgetown University sweatshirt—her alma mater—before going back to peruse the classifieds.
Apartments in New York City were ridiculously expensive. She was no Donald Trump, and Ellie’s job as a translator at the United Nations didn’t pay her enough to find something as elegant as where she was living now, within a stone’s throw of Central Park.
She sighed at the thought of moving. Barn loved walking in the park, rolling in the grass and romping with his canine buddies. Ellie loved strolling down Fifth Avenue and looking in the store windows at merchandise she couldn’t afford to buy.
It was important to dream, even if those dreams were occasionally dumped on.
“Thank you, Brian!”
NOT!
Brian Pomeroy’s taste ran to the expensive—Hugo Boss suits, Rolex watches, dinners at La Cirque—but he also had a substantial income as a law partner in Fields, Morgan and Pomeroy that allowed him to indulge his every whim.
And for a while, Ellie had been one of those whims.
For all his faults, which were too numerous to mention—What kind of a man didn’t like dogs?—Brian had been generous, buying her expensive jewelry, planning weekend trips to Bermuda, and taking her to the opera…which she loathed.
Apparently, her ex-boyfriend had been under the misguided impression that because Ellie was half-Italian and could speak the language fluently (in addition to speaking French and Spanish), this meant she would automatically be an opera aficionado.
Ha! She hated hearing the fat lady sing, in any language.
Ellie had met Brian at a cocktail party at the Italian embassy. He’d looked dashing, she’d been desperate, and somehow they’d hooked up.
It had been an opposites-attract sort of thing, because they’d really had very little in common, other than a love of good food—the city had fabulous restaurants, and they’d eaten at most of them—and a desire to read the Sunday New York Times from cover to cover. Occasionally they worked the crossword puzzle together, but usually ended up arguing.
Brian thought he was smart because he knew what bifurcation meant.
Like anyone would use that word!
Lifting the hem of her sweatshirt, Ellie looked down at the slight bulge that was now her stomach, thanks to the aforementioned good food. She needed to lose at least ten pounds, fifteen would be better.
Diet and exercise, she’d decided, along with all her other life-altering decisions of late, would become part of her new game plan.
Ellie’s plan consisted of: locating an apartment near her work (something fabulous, but not expensive), losing weight and getting in shape (without giving up any of her favorite foods or killing herself on the treadmill—exercise was an evil necessity, but it was still evil), and last but by no means least, finding Mr. Right. And not just any Mr. Right, but Mr. Perfectly Wonderful Right. She’d been with too many Mr. Wrongs and was long overdue.
Not to mention, a decent orgasm wouldn’t hurt!
Her ex-boyfriend knew a lot about bifurcation, just not a whole lot about clitoral stimulation. And you could forget about that whole “G-Spot” thing. The man had been alphabetically challenged.
Shaking her head, Ellie cursed beneath her breath to erase the unpleasant memory of Brian Pomeroy. Picking up the phone, she began dialing several of the potential landlords listed in the “Apartments for Rent or Lease” section of the newspaper—the ones who accepted dogs, of course—and made arrangements to see them.
“Get your leash, Barn. We’re going hunting.”
A FEW WEEKS LATER, Ellie and her co-worker, Becky Morgan, who often shared coffee and lunch breaks together, were eating lunch at their desks in the Translation and Interpretation Department of the United Nations building; this was something they did with regularity, unfortunately, due to the never-ending workload.
“So, are you excited about your new place?” Becky wanted to know. “You’re lucky it’s so close to work.”
“Wait!” Ellie held up her hand, signaling for her co-worker to be silent, while she finished translating the last of the Italian ambassador’s address to the General Assembly.
Yanking off her headphones, she smiled contritely. “Sorry. I needed to finish that so I could get it in for Moody’s approval.”
Becky worked as an interpreter, while Ellie’s job was to translate. Becky interpreted orally, which meant she listened to the speaker on headphones, then rendered the speech simultaneously into the target language. Ellie translated the written word into the text of the target language, after the fact.
“That’s okay. I asked if you liked your new apartment.”
“Are you kidding? I love it.” She bit into her sandwich and listened to her stomach grumble in response. “It’s in an older building on East Fifty-third Street, between First Avenue and the East River. The rooms are large, I have a fireplace, a study, and I can walk to work, which fits in nicely with my new fitness regimen.”
Which I plan to start any day now.
“Sounds lovely,” Becky said distractedly, heaving a sigh, and Ellie knew right away that something was wrong at home. Becky was married to Ben and had a ten-month-old baby boy named Jonah.
“Jonah had an ear infection over the weekend. We were worried because his temperature had skyrocketed, but he’s fine now.”
“Thank goodness! I bet you were scared to death.” Ellie adored Jonah. Every time she baby-sat the adorable cherub her biological clock began ticking like a time bomb.
And wouldn’t my mother love to know that?
Rosemary Peters was Italian, by birth and by nature. By her standards, you weren’t considered a real woman unless you could breed like a bunny, cook a fabulous dinner for twenty with items you had on hand and recite the Ten Commandments in less than sixty seconds. (Ellie could do it in forty-five.)
Ellie’s mother was what one would call your stereotypical Italian mama. She was devoted to her husband and family—translation: she meddled—attended church religiously on Sundays—a card-carrying Catholic who lived to pass out guilt—and was an excellent cook—if you weren’t at least fifteen pounds overweight you were skin and bones.
This last part was only good if you were premenstrual and eating chocolate by the pound rather than the piece.
“Have you heard from your mother lately, Ellie? You haven’t mentioned