Spanish Disco by Erica Orloff Read Free Book Online Page A

this.
    Kathleen
     
    Kathy:
    Will have the art department bump it up several sizes. You’re gorgeous, of course, and we want the public to see every bit of that face of yours up close and personal.
    Cheers,
    Cassie
     
    I sent a copy of the e-mail to Manny, our art director, and knew that he would “get” the dripping sarcasm in my e-mail. My Harvard-grad political commentator would not, and that made me simultaneously laugh to myself and grit my teeth.
    Where did Lou find these authors?
    My next e-mail was from late Friday—my lawyer. Itseemed my mother had pulled a death watch call again. Periodically, she called my attorney to see if my father was still alive because, under the terms of their long-ago divorce, she got a huge lump sum at the time of the divorce and ten percent of his estate when he died. In her mind, the estate was dwindling as I set him up in the nicest assisted living facility I could find. Of course, there was plenty of money left. My hope was that she’d be hit by a bus and die before him, as I saw her pictures every once in a while in Vanity Fair on the arm of her latest billionaire husband and she appeared disgustingly healthy. Pictures can lie, I consoled myself. Perhaps she was rotting from the inside out with stomach cancer. One can hope.
    The third e-mail was from Michael. I held my breath as I opened it.
     
    Cassie:
    I hope I didn’t scare you off with my phone call. When you told me you were leaving for a month I just took leave of my senses. Forgive me? But who else can I call in the middle of the night? Who else will talk to me of cold nipples and tequila sunrises and coffee? And tea? Who else would own a tea set worthy of Queen Liz and let it tarnish on her counter? Because I know it’s brown as dishwater by now. And I find that all the more endearing. You resist any attempts by anyone to change you. And that’s precisely why you are both exasperating and charming. Write me. Call. Tell me you forgive my emotional outburst. Tell me you are coming to London.
    Truly,
    Michael
     

    I felt a shiver run through me. My coffee was done brewing, and I remembered I hadn’t brought a coffee mug. I stood in a panic, crossed the room and poked my head in my bathroom. It was nicer than a hotel’s, down to little teeny shampoos and soaps.
    “Perfect,” I grabbed a large water glass, went back and poured my coffee. I stared at Michael’s message. I stared and thought of his voice. Finally, I started clicking at the keyboard.
     
    Michael:
    You didn’t scare me. In case you haven’t noticed, I am not the frightened type. In fact, I am usually the one who does the scaring. If you saw the state I keep my bathroom in, for example, you would be utterly terrified. Toothpaste drippings on the sink. Towels on the floor. Make-up dust on the counters. Hairspray stuck to everything. It’s not pretty. If I came to London and did this to your bathroom, you would immediately regret it. The fantasy is so perfect. I have so little in my life that’s perfect, Michael. Wouldn’t you rather keep it pure? Keep us on the phone laughing and talking and not changing?
    I wish I could explain how your face stares at me from the jacket covers. I feel like some little girl who kisses her David Cassidy poster each night. I don’t know if you’ll get that reference. But you sense what I mean. There is no one else. And this—whatever this is—is ideal. Write. Call. Tell me you know that I am right.
    Always,
    Cassie
     

    I hit Send. If I went to London and things weren’t perfect, there was no send or delete button. Real life was messy. Sloppy bathrooms I could handle. Love I could not.

6
    I am the only Floridian I know without a tan. Not even a hint of one. It’s not that I care that the ozone layer has a hole in it the size of China. I could give a shit about SPFs and suntan lotion. When I do venture out in the sun on that rare occasion, I watch my freckles multiply like rabbits on fertility drugs. But I like