“Fuck the boys”, she said aloud, and then giggled at her rare profanity, as she carried her second glass of champagne through the expansive kitchen. Her Golden Retriever, Lucy, looked up and panted in that happy, “laughing” way dogs do, as if agreeing completely with her statement.
As a rule, she usually found the dinner parties and social events they attended to be boring, snobbish affairs. “Same old shit”... as her husband would inevitably say as they undressed for bed after each one, talking about “who said what”..”who’s doing what (or who)”... And Claire agreed. Actually, there were only three people she really liked being around, could open herself to, and two of those were her sisters. The “ideal life”, as so many women who looked at Claire Crosby thought, was in reality quite boring. They saw the house, the cars, the clubs, the handsome, successful husband, and - certainly not least - the striking forty year old beauty with the impossible legs, butt, and breasts of a Playboy centerfold... and the Vogue model face framed in long, dark brown tresses.... hell, who wouldn’t be envious? Ah well, she was never a person to lament the “what ifs”. Her life was just fine, and she thanked God everyday for the good family around her.
But, with all the “command performance” affairs that Claire forced herself to smile through every year, the one she really looked forward to was tonight’s Masquerade Ball. Of course, in that unwritten marriage rule, it was also the party that Mike hated most. Always more comfortable in his “club” environment, her husband thought the crowd of Claire’s college and “single days” friends were bawdy and uninteresting. Her favorite local pub, which threw the annual “ball”, was a place he would go with her only rarely, a night he termed “slumming” to see how the other side lived. But, Claire loved the place, the people, and most of all... their annual Masquerade Ball. Unlike the “fund raiser” events held by their socially “connected” friends, where red faced, overweight trust fund babies paraded around in $2500 “period costumes” carrying hand held gold lame masks.... the “Armadillo” Masquerade Ball was a great mix of fun loving, hair down, “tonight I don’t give a shit” people. From doctors to plumbers to carpenters...to career woman to stay-at-home-moms... to the local bartenders and waitresses... to the “never-miss-a-day” bar flies... ages from 21-81 and everywhere in between...these were real people.... Claire’s people. And there were no pompous costumes here. Outrageous, yes. From the ridiculous to the sensuous...layers of fabric to 90% naked... the ball had only one rule; “you can wear anything or nothing...but you can’t be you!” Claire was not the only one who looked forward to this party every year.
But, there she was, sulking around her empty house, getting drunk by herself and thinking about all the fun her friends were having. Suddenly, the ringing phone shook her out of her daydreams. The prick’s feeling guilty, she thought as she walked over to pick up the phone.
“Hey, Cleo.”
Claire’s heart did a quick skipped beat as she recognized the deep, laughing voice. Ian Flannery was the only one in her life that called her that...Cleo for Cleopatra.
“Hi, Ian. Long time. To what do I owe the gift of this transatlantic phone call?”
“Well, my spoiled and privileged queen, this is but a 35 cent toll from your local Hyatt...so please don’t flatter yourself too much. I flew in this afternoon on business, and after running down my long list of gorgeous, loose women in this zip code.... I finally got one to answer the phone.”
Claire laughed out loud at Ian’s usual sarcastic wit. She flopped down on the wicker chair, throwing her feet up over its arm, picturing the tall Irishman with his unruly back hair and piercing green eyes...the “leprechaun” as he was known to all friends.
“Still the smooth talking potato farmer, I see,” she jibed back. “I can’t tell you how privileged I feel that my number is anywhere in that cumbersome black book of yours, and thrilled that I chose to stay home tonight in the off chance that you might call. Two years of waiting here every night was becoming a bit dull.”
“Ah, Cleo, your weak attempt at humor only reinforces the sad truth. You are hopelessly in love with me, and I know for certain that already your loins have been suffused with heat, and your panties damp, at the soft caress of your ‘imaginary lover’s’ soft voice.”
Claire giggled at his brazen and familiar “off color” words, but blushed at their accuracy. Ian could always make her feel like a teenage school girl.
“I ran into Jimmy DiCenzo in the bar here a little while ago,” Ian continued. He and Kate were dressed like some geriatric Star Wars creatures... said they were headed to the Armadillo Masquerade Ball. Of course I thought of you... wasn’t that where we first met? Anyway, Kate said little Mikey had stiffed you to go play with his boyfriends, and the queen wasn’t going to go by herself.”
“True and true,” Claire answered, smiling as she rubbed her freshly pedicured toes against each other, admiring the red polish against her tan, slim feet.
“Well, my queen, that just won’t do. Here’s the new plan. Not being the sort of rogue to sully the impeccable reputation of a married lady, I will not suggest that I be your ‘date’ tonight. But, I am sending a cab for you to arrive in precisely 45 minutes, and I shall expect to see you at the Armadillo at 10:30. Dress in a manner befitting this secret liaison..... not as an armpiece for Mr. Crosby.... am I making myself clear? I will be going as the Invisible Man, so naturally, I will have to find you.”
“I’m not sure.......” Claire began.
“No more words, Cleo.” Ian interrupted. “Cab in 45 minutes. You better get moving. “ and then just a dial tone.
Claire felt flushed and excited with the cryptic message from the crazy Irishman. With a twinge of guilt, but a smile born out of the intriguing evening ahead, she jumped up from her chair and ran to the stairs. 45 minutes, huh? Not much time to come up with a great ‘non-Mrs. Crosby’ look. she thought. But, already her mind was forming an idea that sent a chill up her spine, and another rush of warmth to her core.
(to be continued)
