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“I kind of thought he might come with you today.” She scrunched up her lips. “Does he not like me?”
“No, I’m sure he thinks you’re lovely.” I giggled. “Actually, he thinks you’re pretty hot.”
“I am pretty hot,” she agreed.
“He didn’t want to horn in on our time together, I thought that was sweet.”
“Yeah, it is,” Holli agreed.
The waiter brought our coffee, and we talked until we had to order another, and then another. Holli was having an awesome time in Paris, even if she was missing Deja like crazy. Between fittings and rehearsals for fashion week, she was attending parties with important designers and international publications. Her agent had gotten her a commercial for a brand of Russian vodka, which she happily showed me on her phone.
“That’s crazy,” I said, watching the picture slowly panning over Holli’s bikini-clad body. “You’re on television in Russia and everything?”
“I will be. It’s totally nuts. I mean, magazines are one thing... and I did that BBC documentary— oh my gosh, when you go home, you can probably watch it!”
“Definitely!” I had a momentary thrill at the thought of seeing my best friend on TV. “Things are happening for you.”
“They are.” She considered a moment. “Everything is changing, isn’t it?”
I hated to admit, but it was. I could feel it. It was more comfortable to deny it. “Nah. This time next year, we’ll both be back in New York, sniping at each other over who left what dish in the sink.
She laughed with me, but then she said, quieter, “No, we won’t.”
I nodded, my heart sinking in my chest. “I know.”
Holli’s phone alarm went off, and she groaned. I wanted to groan, too, but I knew she was super busy and we’d already been visiting with each other for three hours.
“Already?” She made a disgusted noise. “Things are happening for me, all right. I never have any fucking time to do what I want to do. Which is just sit here and talk to you forever.”
“Hey, you have Skype, bitch,” I reminded her with a laugh, parroting her earlier statement.
“And it’ll be easier when I’m back in the States. I mean, the time change will suck—”
“But we’ll totally still talk to each other,” I vowed.
“Totally.” She even held out her pinkie finger to do the pinkie swear with me.
When we parted with tearful hugs, I headed to the underground station. She was right. Everything was changing. If Neil survived the chemo and the transplant went well, I wouldn’t just go back to New York without him, would I? Would we still be living together?
What would happen to my apartment? Would Deja move in there? Would Holli move out? Would two new girls, fresh out of college and excited to live in the big city, inherit the spaces we’d inhabited and form a friendship like ours?
Would it hurt them just as much when life separated them?
After dinner, which had been prepared by a private chef and served to us in the dining room of our suite, Neil said, “I think we’ll go out tonight.”
I sipped from my water glass. I knew that the lack of wine was a sign to me that he had something planned. Neil didn’t like to play when I was intoxicated.
“Oh?” I feigned disinterest, but I wondered if we were going where I expected.
“Are you still interested in visiting my club?” He was trying to pose the question casually, but I knew he was dying to take me there. After our initial conversation on Christmas, we’d discussed it a few times. I had definitely warmed to the idea even further; curiosity and the forbidden drove my libido like nothing else.
“Sure. But I don’t know what I should wear.” I looked down at the same outfit I had worn earlier. I wasn’t sure the look that Neil had described as “innocent virgin” would fit in at a BDSM dungeon.
“Don’t be furious with me,” he began warily. “I bought you something today.”
He stood and I pushed my chair back, dropping my napkin on my plate while I gave him a little bit of side eye. Though I’d given him free reign to spend money on me, I could never be sure exactly what he would dream up.
He pulled me with him toward the bedroom, saying, “I hope you like it. I know I’ll like seeing you in it.”
The dress was laid out over the bed. It was a short, black number in layers of sheer chiffon, more nightie than dress. Delicate, glittering beading along the hem of the top-most layers gave it the appearance of an upside-down flower dripping with dew, and the top of the dress was similarly ornamented, with a plunging v that arched gracefully into two thin straps.
“Oh wow. I would be afraid to put this on,” I said in a reverent hush. “It looks so fragile, it could just tear right off.”
