thoughts about what Mummie smelled like. (âCouldnât quite get it right, unfortunately. Kept wanting her to smell like cinnamon and kept coming up Dunhills.â)
That pitiful Victorian tale was so sad, I wished for a time machine so I could turn back the clock and rescue the enfant Hugh alone in the St. Bartâs Nasty School for Unfortunate Rich Boys. But when I dangled it out there that perhaps his mother might have been a tad neglectful, Hugh immediately rose to her defense, claiming she hadnât neglected him in the slightest because sheâd had Nanny send up a box of special tea and lemon drops that the St. Bartâs nursing staff took for themselves, arguing candy wasnât good for sick children.
I apologized and assured him this did mean his mum loved him desperately. Secretly, however, I vowed that if I ever were in the position of being in charge of Susanna Spencerâs care, I would see to it that she lay alone in an infirmary and tried to recall what someone dear to her smelled like, too.
Okay. So I might have gone a bit overboard with that one.
Anyway, no use sweating the St. Bartâs chicken pox drama. Thereâs some other woman to look after Hugh now, to hold him in the middle of the night and be the mummie he never had.
To be fair, Hugh never did treat me like his mother. Far from it. The first night we ever slept together was perhaps one of the most erotic nights of my life. It happened entirely by accident, which, Iâm afraid to say, is always the best way. (Sorry, Planned Parenthood.)
Weâd been dating for about a month when a freak November snowstorm blanketed Boston and we were stranded in his apartment, which, granted, was above a funeral home, but which also had a spectacular, working fireplace.
There were a few sticks of wood, enough for a small fire. However, we had no food aside from some grapes, crackers, two cans of Progresso clam chowder, and a superb cabernet.To us it was a feast. We drank and ate and talked until the fire died down and snow knocked the power out, and suddenly Hugh was kissing me on the couch in a way Iâd never been kissed, ever.
Before I could say âWait, hold on, not quite ready,â he had nuzzled down the collar of my sweater and his lips were exploring my neck.After that, all I remember is sinking into that deep bed of his with the cream duvet and the 1,000-thread-count sheets. We stayed there for two days until New England Power turned on the lights and the heat cranked up.
I used to think our decadent weekend in bed was because I drove Hugh mad with desire, that he couldnât help making long, slow, passionate love to me over and over and over.
Now, in light of his latest revelation, I realize he was just trying to stay warm.
âGenie?â
Itâs Frank, the bearded driver of the number 73 who smells like bagels and lox and garlic. âMonday morning daydream?â
âSomething like that.â I flip him my pass and get on.
âDonât worry. Fridayâs just around the corner. See if you can hang on âtil then.â
I like Thoreau best in the summer when the campus is quiet and lush. Aside from some lingering students and the occasional conference attendees, itâs practically empty.
Thatâs not counting the tours.The tours and tours of prospective freshmen and anxious parents being led around by various admissions interns to Billings Hall (where Admissions is located), Fillmore Library, the Student Center, and the pièce de résistanceâ the Sports Complex (heated Olympic-size swimming pool, sixteen tennis courts, racquetball, squash, weight room, Jacuzzi, sauna, and even, I am told, massage by appointment).
Not for nothing was Thoreau voted by Rolling Stone magazine as the finest four-year, four-season resort east of Las Vegas.
Alice, our secretary, is fiddling with a window air conditioner when I enter her first-floor office to get my mail. She has leaped into
That pitiful Victorian tale was so sad, I wished for a time machine so I could turn back the clock and rescue the enfant Hugh alone in the St. Bartâs Nasty School for Unfortunate Rich Boys. But when I dangled it out there that perhaps his mother might have been a tad neglectful, Hugh immediately rose to her defense, claiming she hadnât neglected him in the slightest because sheâd had Nanny send up a box of special tea and lemon drops that the St. Bartâs nursing staff took for themselves, arguing candy wasnât good for sick children.
I apologized and assured him this did mean his mum loved him desperately. Secretly, however, I vowed that if I ever were in the position of being in charge of Susanna Spencerâs care, I would see to it that she lay alone in an infirmary and tried to recall what someone dear to her smelled like, too.
Okay. So I might have gone a bit overboard with that one.
Anyway, no use sweating the St. Bartâs chicken pox drama. Thereâs some other woman to look after Hugh now, to hold him in the middle of the night and be the mummie he never had.
To be fair, Hugh never did treat me like his mother. Far from it. The first night we ever slept together was perhaps one of the most erotic nights of my life. It happened entirely by accident, which, Iâm afraid to say, is always the best way. (Sorry, Planned Parenthood.)
Weâd been dating for about a month when a freak November snowstorm blanketed Boston and we were stranded in his apartment, which, granted, was above a funeral home, but which also had a spectacular, working fireplace.
There were a few sticks of wood, enough for a small fire. However, we had no food aside from some grapes, crackers, two cans of Progresso clam chowder, and a superb cabernet.To us it was a feast. We drank and ate and talked until the fire died down and snow knocked the power out, and suddenly Hugh was kissing me on the couch in a way Iâd never been kissed, ever.
Before I could say âWait, hold on, not quite ready,â he had nuzzled down the collar of my sweater and his lips were exploring my neck.After that, all I remember is sinking into that deep bed of his with the cream duvet and the 1,000-thread-count sheets. We stayed there for two days until New England Power turned on the lights and the heat cranked up.
I used to think our decadent weekend in bed was because I drove Hugh mad with desire, that he couldnât help making long, slow, passionate love to me over and over and over.
Now, in light of his latest revelation, I realize he was just trying to stay warm.
âGenie?â
Itâs Frank, the bearded driver of the number 73 who smells like bagels and lox and garlic. âMonday morning daydream?â
âSomething like that.â I flip him my pass and get on.
âDonât worry. Fridayâs just around the corner. See if you can hang on âtil then.â
I like Thoreau best in the summer when the campus is quiet and lush. Aside from some lingering students and the occasional conference attendees, itâs practically empty.
Thatâs not counting the tours.The tours and tours of prospective freshmen and anxious parents being led around by various admissions interns to Billings Hall (where Admissions is located), Fillmore Library, the Student Center, and the pièce de résistanceâ the Sports Complex (heated Olympic-size swimming pool, sixteen tennis courts, racquetball, squash, weight room, Jacuzzi, sauna, and even, I am told, massage by appointment).
Not for nothing was Thoreau voted by Rolling Stone magazine as the finest four-year, four-season resort east of Las Vegas.
Alice, our secretary, is fiddling with a window air conditioner when I enter her first-floor office to get my mail. She has leaped into
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