feel as if we’ve been “running into each other” for ages. “We talked a little at soccer practice, that’s all. And I ran into him this morning at Trader Joe’s.”
She nods knowingly. “And?”
“And nothing!”
“I know that look, Ellen,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me sharply. “You had that look on your face for two hours after we saw
Australia
.”
All right, I admit, it was a terrible movie, but the scene where Hugh Jackman dumps a bucket of water over his torso kind of hit me hard.
“I do
not
have that look,” I tell her. I couldn’t possibly, since I’ve never seen Ben Campbell dump a bucket of water over his own torso, but I’m starting to conjure up a pretty good image in my brain just about now.
Stop
, I tell myself. This will come to no good. I’ll start comparing Ben’s hypothetical wet torso to Jonah’s nonhypothetical and very un-
Australia
wet torso, and then I won’t ever be able to look at Jonah’s naked body again, let alone allow it on top of me. Crap.
“He
likes
you,” Jill says, and I suddenly feel like I’m in a Judy Blume novel.
“He does
not
!” I say.
“Look.” Jill is suddenly serious, so I quickly take a large gulp of wine in preparation for what’s about to come out of her mouth, because I know I won’t like it. “I know you have this whole low self-esteem thing going—”
“I do not!”
“But you are a beautiful woman who only occasionally wears sweats with holes in them.”
“Stop.”
“And when you take the time to pluck your eyebrows—wow!”
“Shut up.”
“Plus, you’re very smart and witty—”
“Jill—”
“What I’m saying is—”
“Don’t—”
“It is not completely out of the realm of possibility for a totally hot man to be attracted to you. Seriously, why wouldn’t he be?”
Oh, let me count the reasons
, I think.
“For one, he’s married. To a totally brilliant environmental lawyer. For two, I’m married…to Jonah.”
“Hey, Ellen, I’m not saying you should jump his bones or anything. But a little flirtation with someone whose name you do not share is never a bad thing. Trust me.”
I look at her, totally agog. I have known Jill my whole life, and I have always known that she is a coquette of the first order, but she has always vehemently denied it, telling me that I confuse “flirting” with her intrinsic Southern charm (even though she left the South when she was still in diapers). This is the first time she has ever admitted this to me.
“Sometimes,” she says, “a little extramarital flirtation is the only thing that gets me through the day.”
I am about to delve further into the topic when the doorbell rings. Seven o’clock on the dot. The book club ladies have arrived.
Jill’s living room is abuzz with the chatter of the seven of us as we partake of wine and appetizers and—yes, Jonah—gossip. The first hour of book club is
always
about mingling, catching up, and drinking wine. Right now, Mia Franklin is talking excitedly to Sandy Herman about this fabulous hair-straightening product she found at Nordstrom. I know for a fact that Mia’s African American locks have been subjected to a pantheon of chemicals in order to smooth out their kinks, and I am surprised that she still has any hair left on her head. Regan Stillwater and Liza Pierce are giggling about the new produce guy at the local Vons. Regan has apparently taken to surreptitiously knocking over assorted fruit and vegetables just to watch him bend over and pick them up. Mona Emmerson is trailing Jill like a Sherpa, helping her transfer the platters from the kitchen to the coffee table, chirping about how much she
loves
the plain gold-trimmed napkins because they are
so
elegant.
I give Jill a wink and she covertly rolls her eyes at me while simultaneously thanking Mona for the compliment.
The seven women who make up this club, myself included, are very different, with varied life experiences and outlooks, but we all
She nods knowingly. “And?”
“And nothing!”
“I know that look, Ellen,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me sharply. “You had that look on your face for two hours after we saw
Australia
.”
All right, I admit, it was a terrible movie, but the scene where Hugh Jackman dumps a bucket of water over his torso kind of hit me hard.
“I do
not
have that look,” I tell her. I couldn’t possibly, since I’ve never seen Ben Campbell dump a bucket of water over his own torso, but I’m starting to conjure up a pretty good image in my brain just about now.
Stop
, I tell myself. This will come to no good. I’ll start comparing Ben’s hypothetical wet torso to Jonah’s nonhypothetical and very un-
Australia
wet torso, and then I won’t ever be able to look at Jonah’s naked body again, let alone allow it on top of me. Crap.
“He
likes
you,” Jill says, and I suddenly feel like I’m in a Judy Blume novel.
“He does
not
!” I say.
“Look.” Jill is suddenly serious, so I quickly take a large gulp of wine in preparation for what’s about to come out of her mouth, because I know I won’t like it. “I know you have this whole low self-esteem thing going—”
“I do not!”
“But you are a beautiful woman who only occasionally wears sweats with holes in them.”
“Stop.”
“And when you take the time to pluck your eyebrows—wow!”
“Shut up.”
“Plus, you’re very smart and witty—”
“Jill—”
“What I’m saying is—”
“Don’t—”
“It is not completely out of the realm of possibility for a totally hot man to be attracted to you. Seriously, why wouldn’t he be?”
Oh, let me count the reasons
, I think.
“For one, he’s married. To a totally brilliant environmental lawyer. For two, I’m married…to Jonah.”
“Hey, Ellen, I’m not saying you should jump his bones or anything. But a little flirtation with someone whose name you do not share is never a bad thing. Trust me.”
I look at her, totally agog. I have known Jill my whole life, and I have always known that she is a coquette of the first order, but she has always vehemently denied it, telling me that I confuse “flirting” with her intrinsic Southern charm (even though she left the South when she was still in diapers). This is the first time she has ever admitted this to me.
“Sometimes,” she says, “a little extramarital flirtation is the only thing that gets me through the day.”
I am about to delve further into the topic when the doorbell rings. Seven o’clock on the dot. The book club ladies have arrived.
Jill’s living room is abuzz with the chatter of the seven of us as we partake of wine and appetizers and—yes, Jonah—gossip. The first hour of book club is
always
about mingling, catching up, and drinking wine. Right now, Mia Franklin is talking excitedly to Sandy Herman about this fabulous hair-straightening product she found at Nordstrom. I know for a fact that Mia’s African American locks have been subjected to a pantheon of chemicals in order to smooth out their kinks, and I am surprised that she still has any hair left on her head. Regan Stillwater and Liza Pierce are giggling about the new produce guy at the local Vons. Regan has apparently taken to surreptitiously knocking over assorted fruit and vegetables just to watch him bend over and pick them up. Mona Emmerson is trailing Jill like a Sherpa, helping her transfer the platters from the kitchen to the coffee table, chirping about how much she
loves
the plain gold-trimmed napkins because they are
so
elegant.
I give Jill a wink and she covertly rolls her eyes at me while simultaneously thanking Mona for the compliment.
The seven women who make up this club, myself included, are very different, with varied life experiences and outlooks, but we all
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