Opening Belle by Maureen Sherry Read Free Book Online Page A

for him to catch the top of my thigh-high hose. Brigid sees them too. “Big socks,” she says bluntly, pointing at my thighs. His sandy-blond hair is revealed. While it’s moplike, I refrain from suggesting a haircut today. In fact I find myself wondering how he still looks so good. There isn’t a line on his sleep-deprived face and even with the sun directly on his head, not one gray hair reveals itself. He opens one green eye and arches his eyebrow.
    â€œThe stripper shoes really make the outfit,” he says, reaching a bare arm out of the covers. He grabs my calf and purrs. Brigid thinks this is fantastic.
    â€œDaddy’s a big cat,” she shrieks.
    â€œDaddy’s a lion,” he answers. “He’s gonna eat Mommy up.”
    Brigid runs screaming down the hall and I return my foot to the floor.
    â€œGood day, Big Lion,” I say in a fake English accent. Because the thing we do when we’re uncomfortable with each other is break out in random foreign accents. I have no idea why.
    â€œAu revoir, Mademoiselle Big Tease,” he returns in some Pepé Le Pew voice.
    He’s right. Nothing can actually occur between us right now and even if we were alone at this exact second, my biggest desire would be to take the damn big socks off and go back to sleep. Bruce pulls the covers back over his head.
    Before I leave I try and reach out to each kid, to make eye contact at least once in every twenty-four-hour period. I turn to my eldest, Kevin, who’s still standing on the bed.
    â€œI saw a Blue-Eyes White Dragon on a kid’s backpack the other day,” I say.
    Kevin’s latest obsession is Yu-Gi-Oh! cards.
    â€œCool,” he says, clearly not interested. He has found the remote and is trying to get our childproof television on.
    I bend forward to peck his cheek but kiss mostly air because he’s started bouncing again. Brigid has returned but no longer jumps simultaneously with him; instead they go one up, one down, and are probably making Bruce nuts. I sweep my wet hair back into a slick bun; I kiss the jumpers, and the lump, and head to the door. I’m not even fully in the elevator when I hear the Cartoon Network come on the television. Bruce’s sudden alertness is not lost on me.
    In the elevator, I swap the stilettos for the Ferragamos in my briefcase, and I hand the fancy shoes to the doorman in what is our daily routine. I’ve never explained it to him and he’s never asked why I hand him shoes each morning. I like it this way. Each day he gets a flashy pair of hooker shoes that he hands to the nanny when she shows up. The nanny puts them back in my closet, and the next day we do it all over again.

CHAPTER 6
Dais of the Dicks
    I PREDICT THE most awkward time to address what went on with Barbie’s head last night will be in the afternoon.
    And I am right.
    If no major earning announcements break after lunch, no wars begin in an oil-laden nation, or no political scandal takes hold of our attention, there is a dull hum that blankets the trading floor in the midafternoon. This is the time of day people run for an extra coffee, a pack of M&M’s, a stimulant legal or not, anything to keep the enthusiasm going. It’s at this moment I hear King shout to me from his spot on the dais.
    â€œHey, Belladonna, get over here.”
    When I say dais, I mean it. Picture a state dinner setup where the heads of state sit at a long table to keep watch over the guests. But on a trading floor, that dais is filled with the “Big Dicks.” No, they are not men named Richard, they are the biggest producers, the highest-paid, and for the twelve years I’ve worked here, nary a woman has ever been seated there. These Dicks are capable of dialing a phone, using the intercom, or even texting me, but King, our most highly esteemed trader, chooses to stand and scream for me to come to the Dick Dais. I’m seated about two hundred feet and