Chapter 2
It was August in New Orleans, where tempers were short and apathy long. Business was seasonally slow. So after Ilsa got through the shop’s morning rush she was sometimes able to take off and leave things in Rebecca and Daisy’s hands. Having a long-term and friendly rapport with most of the concierges, hotel pool privileges were one of the perks. She texted her two best girlfriends to see if they wanted to join her at the rooftop pool of a nearby French Quarter hotel. Rebecca and Daisy were like daughters to Ilsa but momma needed her two best friends to stay sane. The two women who knew her and who she had been before Mark died. Before The Fat Ballerina had become her life.
Nina, an off again on again interior designer and “kept” woman was always available for whatever Ilsa came up with. She texted back immediately that she’d be there in half an hour. Kaitlyn, a full-time single mother of two, and a bartender by night, didn’t have as much flexibility. However, the kids were at their father’s grandparents for the entire month, and she didn’t have work that night so, she texted back that she'd be there after, she “got her shit together.”
Ilsa smiled at Kaitlyn’s texts. It was always all or nothing with that one. Months of celibacy and sobriety turned into days of questionable behavior while the kids were being looked after elsewhere.
Ilsa hadn’t realized how important these two women were until her husband had died. They had all hung out for years, done girly spa days and the like, but back then her husband was her best friend and he hers. Everyone else had been labeled bar acquaintances. Mark ran a nightclub so of course there was no shortage of friends. Laissez les bons temps rouler as they say.
With Mark’s death, Ilsa got wise real quick, that once the drama had worn off, the second line come and gone, and the avalanche of condolences done, she only had Nina and Kaitlyn left. She often quipped. “It’s not like anyone can send me flowers!” But she knew the score. New Orleans was about pleasure, living in the moment, immediate self gratification, coupled with massive denial. Nobody cared about or wanted to hang out with a widow once the ashes had been cast in the Mississippi. He had been only thirty, she twenty-five. His wasn’t even a glamourous death. A quiet aneurysm in his sleep. Ilsa woke up to a corpse spooning her. His arm had weighed a ton.
“So I got another email last week,” announced Ilsa with a smirk once her friends had settled into the lounge chairs she had saved, battling bravely against dirty looks from the entitled circling horde.
“No?” said Nina. “Not the famous TMI Guy!”
“Yep,” said Ilsa. “One and the same. This one’s not as good at the last one but it does have its charms.” She pulled up the email on her iPhone. “By the way, the water is soupy warm, so we might want to open the umbrella.” Kaitlyn, who liked to stay as pale as a geisha, stood up and began to wrestle with the closed canvas.
“Let me read it,” said Nina. “You know this is my area of expertise.” Nina was an encyclopedia when it came to mass market female erotcia. Just mention Fifty Shades of Grey and you’d get an exhaustive list of five other superior erotic trilogies. She would talk about Ana, Eva, Tess, Christian, Gideon, Q, ect. like they were real people. People often told her she should write a naughty book. She knew so much about the genre. She’d dismiss them with a wave of the hand, and say, “I don’t know enough words for ‘dick’ to say anything that hasn’t already been said before.”
“Read it out loud,” said Ilsa.
“Wait,” interrupted Kaitlyn. “Are you sure you’re allowed to let us read this stuff, aren’t you bound by confidentiality or something?”
Ilsa laughed, “I keep telling everybody the same thing. A florist is not a therapist. I’m not bound by shit!”
With a satisfying snap, Kaitlyn got the umbrella secured and she settled back down in her seat. “Okay, okay, simmer. I just wouldn’t want you to get sued or something. Read it Nina, but please use your inside voice.”
Nina began reading in an affected baritone, “Greetings Ilsa, Once again I humbly bow to your taste and discretion.” She stopped and mumbled, “Oh this fool,” then began reading again. “You see I’ve stumbled into another inappropriate entanglement. It started as these things do. I spied her on her first day, heartbreakingly outfitted in the cheapest “power suit” I’ve ever seen. Purchased, perhaps at TJ MAXX. Ouch! She wasn’t certified as a realtor yet and was basically our office assistant until she got her license. She smiled. I didn’t.” Nina snickered. “Man this guy is a piece of work.”
Kaitlyn said, “Just read it Nina.”
Nina continued reading silently to herself for a moment, shaking her head in disbelief. “So, he goes on and on about her clothes and how she starts to smarten up her dress. Jeez, he’s as snarky as a gay. He’s also dissing her handbag, saying it’s a fake Louis. Total homo if you want my opinion.”
Ilsa sighed, “Just read it.”
“Okay,” said Nina, “This part is good.” She used her manly voice again. “One afternoon alone in the conference room, I noticed her giving me the downcast eyes. Uh-oh, I thought. I knew that look. Nor was I under any illusions that she actually wanted me for me. She needed professional mentoring and I, the consistently biggest seller in the whole operation, was going to give it to her. She stood up, walked over to me and just plopped herself down between my legs. It’s sad, all she had to do was ask and I would have taken her under my wing. Now I was trapped. If I pushed her away I would have humiliated her, thereby creating an enemy. If I let her continue I’m trapped and open for all sorts of drama. I let her unzip me, it was her lips, those damn lips that lured me in. They were a work of outsider art. Brilliant in their amateur execution. To be clear, It wasn’t her lips exactly, it was the way she wore her lipstick. Lip liner drawn on way outside of the lines, the extra acreage filled in with waxy red goo.That last bit of trashy girl still peeking out from behind the curtain. That’s what drew me in.”
“He’s so weird,” said Ilsa, not even trying to hide her smile.
“You like this?” questioned Kaitlyn. “He seems like a prick to me.”
Nina raised her brow, “You do seem amused, but I’m with Troy. A fake Louis? This poseur gets what she deserves.”
Ilsa shrugged. “First, you are such a snob. Second, I am amused. This guy is amusing. I’m not apologizing for finding this kid absolutely fascinating. We don’t normally get stuff like this. You know my customers, they only know how to say, ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘Happy Anniversary’, or ‘Happy Valentines Day’. This guy’s on another level.”
Nina continued paraphrasing. “ So he goes on to call her dumb and says she covers this up by giving blowies, and here I quote, ‘She’s a timid rabbit who latches onto a cock at the first sign of trouble. I liked it, of course I liked it. Sometimes I’d invent problems. This girl was like a vacuum cleaner. Afterwards my business would look like a crime scene. I had to stop wearing tighty whities.” Nina chuckled. “Okay that’s funny.”
Ilsa said, “So he wanted me to make something for her to congratulate her on getting her real estate license. A sort of no hard feelings type thing.”
Kaitlyn rolled her eyes, and began rubbing seventy-five level sunblock onto her legs.
They all sat still staring into the clear blue of the pool. Tossing the iPhone back into Ilsa’s lap, Nina said, “Yeah, that one was no where near as good as the last one. This one just seems sad.”
“Sad for her or sad for him?” asked Kaitlyn.
“Both of em,” said Nina.
“Why him?” asked Kaitlyn. “Seems to me this guy is living every man's dream. Here he is all the time bragging about these women throwing themselves at him while he cuts them down behind their backs to Ilsa. He’s laughing at them.”
Ilsa sat up, but her posture was weak. Her shoulders slumped forward with the weight of the punishing sun. “That line though, about ‘knowing she didn’t want me for me’, reminds me so much of the last time with the foot lady. That woman didn’t want him for him either, he was just a warm body to do her thing with.”
“Warm foot you mean,” joked Nina.
“What did you make for him?” asked Kaitlyn.
Ilsa pulled up a photo of the design. “Oh man I loved this one! This round I knew I had the time and the budget to ship in exactly the flowers I wanted. ‘Lipstick’ Heliconia, was overnighted from Hawaii, Red, ‘Kissing Lips’ tulips from Holland. Those look just like they sound. And from Italy, a strange new variety of ranunculus that had fluffy red outer petals surrounding tufted lobed leaflets in green, they look just like the mouths of blow up dolls. Forty-eight hours later, after considerable shipping fees that I had no problem passing on to this particular customer, I began this masterpiece.” She passed the phone first to Kaitlyn who then tossed it over to Nina. Ilsa sighed and said, “An ode to red lipstick and the girls who over-wear it everywhere.”
“I like hearing you talk about flowers Ilsa,” said Kaitlyn.”I mean I never know what you are talking about, but it doesn’t seem to matter, I can see them in my head anyway.”
“Did Rebecca and Daisy freak out?” asked Nina.
“No, not this time, this one was all mine. I guess I didn’t want to stir up all that drama again.” This was only partially true. Ilsa didn’t want to share this with the other girls because she considered Troy hers in some sick way. Being in his world, living the lurid stories through his eyes, imagining these women, what they looked like, smelled like. It all had her designing at her highest level and digging him out of his messes was a challenge she delighted in. Nothing else at the flower shop touched this. He was a pig, no doubt, but at least he was interesting. This was interesting.
“Have you Googled him yet?” asked Nina, typing his name into Ilsa’s browser.
“No,” said Ilsa.
“Why the hell not?”
“I guess I just want to keep what’s in my mind, and not fool with reality. I mean what if he’s gross looking? It would make me feel slimy.” The images she held of him were in fact shadowed. It was the women she thought about, not him, they were the ones making all the moves, and taking control of the actions. “And I like these women, I really do. I want to make them beautiful things. I don’t know? It seems like sex is something that always just happened to me. I never made it happen like these gals of his do. He trash talks them, but I feel he honors them in some way, and I want to do that too.”
Nina laughed after doing a search for Troy LeBlanc New Orleans, moving the phone closer to her face, the glare from the sun making it hard for her to see. She lifted up her sunglasses and whistled, passing the phone over for Ilsa to see. “Not gross looking. Not even a little bit.”
Kaitlyn pounced and grabbed the phone before Ilsa could see. She also lifted up her sunglasses and squinted down at the image. “Oh come on! He’s prettier than I am! Is he wearing eye makeup?”
“Let me see!” Ilsa grabbed the phone. He looked as fresh as a new notebook on the first day of school, so empty, so clean. Ilsa felt altered. She found him simply beautiful. Ridiculous girl. “What is that? Are there bunnies on his tie? Who has a bunny rabbit tie? I mean what is he trying to say with that? Nice eyelashes though.” Her nonchalance displayed nothing that she really felt. A surge of anticipation shot up from her core causing mini explosions behind her eyes so violent she feared she might be having a heat stroke. She reached for her cocktail, downing it one gulp.
Nina grabbed the phone. “ He’s trying to say ‘come here ladies. I’m cute, cuddly and the type of guy who will send you flowers’. She handed the phone left, back toward Ilsa. “Hey, pull that flower pic up again. I want to get another look at your floral masterwork.”
Ilsa scrolled through her texts and found the one she had sent to Troy. With a proud smile she passed it back to Nina. “It really is spectacular. A true one of a kind.”
Nina’s fingers flew over Ilsa’s screen before Ilsa or Kaitlyn could detect what she was doing. Tossing the phone up then catching it in the air, Nina said, “You’re welcome,” before placing it with care on Ilsa’s thigh.
“What did you do?” asked Kaitlyn, grabbing for the phone. When her hand landed down on top of the screen, Ilsa slapped her hand on top of Kaitlyns.
“What the fuck Nina?” Ilsa shifted her leg so that the phone slid between her legs, then she grabbed for it with her other hand. Nina had texted Troy three words. In all caps it read: LOVE THE EYELASHES.
Pool time turned into dinner at the hotel’s four-star restaurant. A lot of dark wood and linen. The bar was dotted with lone businessmen eating their steak and Potatoes Dauphinoise. If you watched them long enough, they’d flash you beams of light from their heavy silver steak knives, and equally large shiny watches. That night no one batted an eye at the ladies still in pool gear. They were covered, and the restaurant wasn’t near capacity so who really cared? The waitstaff seemed amused and grateful to have something to do. All pretentiousness was gone on these rare empty nights. Nina’s elegant off-the-shoulder linen shift kept sliding down revealing her white bikini top. Her two friends gave up reaching over and pulling her top back up.
Kaitlyn’s black hot pants covered nothing, and revealed a network of unrelated and varied tattoos. She looked like a bad girl, but was strangely conservative about some things. For one her table manners were impeccable. At dinner she kept shushing Nina, and rolling her eyes at the other woman’s exhibitionism. With a prissy elegance Kaitlyn mastered her giant cutlery and flimsy wine glass stem with ease. While the other two women’s glasses looked lip-smeared and fingerprinted, their plates picked over, bread crumbs everywhere, her place setting still glowed clean and shiny. She was also a practising, tithing Catholic, who attended church, and volunteered in the community. Visit her at the bar where she worked, and you would find a sexy rock and roll, pin-up-girl. Visit her house by day, and find a mommy and homemaker complete with ruffled apron. She even baked, and had a passion for decorating with fondant. With dinner over and dessert plates cleared, Kaitlyn asked Nina, “Seriously Nina, what were you hoping to accomplish with that text message? If you ask me all you did was make Ilsa seem unprofessional. And anyway, we both know Ilsa doesn’t go for the bad boys”
Nina, never one to be put on the defensive stated, “Ask Ilsa how long it’s been since she’s had sex, then talk to me about professionalism.”
Ilsa said, “That logic is how I ended up with Victor, and we all remember what a spectacular shit show that was.” She smiled prettily at her friends, feeling coquettish under the glare of the men safely across the room at the bar, her breasts barely contained in a corset-like one piece covered up by a vintage inspired floral romper. Her hair naturally dried in the subtle waves that women spent hours in the salon trying to recreate. She wondered at the lack of indignation she was feeling towards NIna’s behavior, then wondered if it was the booze and the embarrassment was just on layaway until the morning. Pimm's Cups and Mimosas at the pool, turned into champagne cocktails before dinner, Pinot noir with dinner and cognacs with dessert. Ilsa a “tall drink of water” according to the gentleman at the bar who sent over their first round, could still see straight. But barely. Her smaller friends, however were wrecked. Nina even had to cover one of her eyes to navigate a path to the door. They all stumbled in their platform sandals out onto the street, giggling and falling over each other. The bellman hailed them a cab. Kaitlyn, only had three blocks to her apartment as she was still holding strong in the French Quarter. Nina had a gorgeous townhome close by in the Treme. Ilsa was last to be dropped off at her camelback in the Bywater.
Sunburnt, dehydrated and stuffed full of prime rib, Ilsa plopped down on the couch with a big glass of water. She knew it was the latter end of Saturday Night Live because the host announced “once again” then whomever the newest band on the scene was. Since Mark’s death she only wanted to listen to The Sound of Music soundtrack, it soothed her, everything else was just noise.
She thought about her friends’ reaction after she had mentioned Victor at the restaurant. There was no easy way to state it. They loathed him. Ilsa searched her emotional dictionary for some word to illustrate her feelings for her ex, but only came up with the word blank. Blank is how she had been when she had been with him and blank is what she felt now. But Kaitlyn calling Troy a bad boy, that did give Ilsa pause. Wasn’t it the women who were bad in his emails? Weren’t they the instigators? The stars and him just an ensnared moon orbiting their greater magnetism? Ilsa had met Victor on a blind date at the insistence of a mutual friend two years after Mark had died. She was already seated when he had arrived at their arranged lunch spot. A historic bistro in the heart of the French Quarter. His choice. She wore a simple white button down top tucked into a leopard print pencil skirt. In her hair, a red lily. Conversation flowed freely, especially after he started ordering the Kir Royals. He was gorgeous, the man’s lush hair flopped over black vintage styled glasses. His skin luminous. His eyes were dilated pools of wet chocolate. He licked and chopped asparagus as if it were liquorice. He sucked his spoon much too long after each bite of creme brulee. Silly, seductive tricks Mark would have never sunk to. He wouldn't have conceived such subterfuge. Hadn’t needed too.
She felt his want of her emanating from across the table, and it heated her. She wondered now if it was his want of her, or his actual allure that sucked her in so quickly. At first he just took over, he was aggressively romantic, marking his territory in numerous overt gestures of dominance. Doors were opened, all her lingerie replaced with his choices. He always drove, paid, was on top literally and figuratively. She so damaged, she just let go, and let him.
He said, “I love you,” on their two week anniversary, their song, playing conspicuously in the background. She forced a smile and kissed his cheek. The whole scene felt contrived. After making love, she counted the moments until she could get out of his apartment and back home to her own bed.
She found out later from one of his more disgruntled ex-girlfriends (there were many and they all made their way casually into the shop when the word on the street got out that they were dating) that the old Cure song he had chosen for them was the same song he had chosen for their relationship. The vindictive woman went further by telling Ilsa she knew for a fact “Lovesong” was the same song he had shared with his college girlfriend as well. Ilsa confronted Victor, and he of course denied it with a flip, “she’s crazy, totally obsessed with me.” It slowly dawned on her that he wanted to recreate the same relationship over and over again. Most likely, she guessed, the one girlfriend from college being the catalyst. She knew that college girlfriend had cheated on him, and she now knew that he had never gotten over it. Punishing every woman who wasn’t her, for not being her, forever after. She should have known then he was still in love with her. No one can hate someone as much as he claimed to hate that college girlfriend and not be totally still obsessed with them.
On the first date, already charmed, she had casually asked “the question” without guile or judgement. He was after all gorgeous, educated and monied. Nothing whatsoever to be insecure about.“How tall are you?”
He replied, “6ft. How tall are you?”
“I’m close to that.”
“Well, we have something in common,“ he said. He lifted his amber colored champagne flute for a toast to their having so much in common.
When they stood up to leave the restaurant, Ilsa looked down into Victor’s eyes. She read from his determined eyes and turned up clefted chin, I dare you. She was at least four inches taller than him.
She had promised to text her friends when she got home safe. In mid-type, she received a text. It read:
TMI DUDE:
Thank you for your patience and artistry. When I saw that stunning arrangement it was if you had invaded my mind and knew exactly what I wanted.
Sorry I waited so long, just wanted to say thanks again, for everything.... So...you love my eyelashes huh?
She gaped at the screen. Fucking Nina! Her first reaction would have been obvious pleasure a designer gets from pleasing her client, but she knew he was only responding because NIna had opened that door. She felt her best tactic would be to still keep things playful meanwhile remaining focused on the work.
Flower Lady:
Any new ladies I need to help you extricate yourself from or were you and your protege able to patch things up?
Antsy, she watched as Saturday Night Live ended. Feeling the need to do something grown up. She settled on CNN and tried to pay attention. Nagging at the edges were the voices lecturing her on how unprofessional all this was. She was really drunk. She waited, all the while debating with a firm inner voice that told her no more liquor even though his lag time was spurring her towards a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc she had chilling in the fridge.
TMI GUY:
She’s now engaged to my boss so I guess not. I suppose he couldn’t resist her charms LOL.
This shouldn’t make her smile.
Flower Lady:
Well, I hope you’re not too broken up. By your emails, I’m sure some strange new adventure awaits you around the corner.
He came back at the exact second she disengaged herself from the couch, and the situation.
TMI GUY:
Be that strange adventure! Meet me out.
She plopped back down on the couch.
Flower Lady:
What? Are you crazy? You don’t know me and it’s too hot to go back outside again.
TMI GUY:
I know plenty, I’ve asked around about you. You must know what a depressingly small town this place is, and you’re kinda popular with the locals.
Flower Lady:
You don’t even know what I look like.
TMI GUY:
I can tell...
Flower Lady:
Tell what exactly?
TMI DUDE:
You have the self contained demeanor of someone who has been preyed upon because of the way they look. Only real beauties are as tightly wound as you.
Flower Lady:
WTF!?!
TMI DUDE:
You know exactly what I mean.
The texts were coming fast now and she felt a consuming satisfaction that she finally had his full attention. She wasn’t sharing him with anyone. At this moment in time for better or worse she was one of his entanglements.
TMI DUDE:
Also the bartender here knows you and said you were smokin’ hot. haha! And I of course googled you the second you told me you liked my eyelashes ;)
She knew lots of bartenders, and lots of bartenders knew Mark. She found this unsettling. How could they be okay with Mark’s wife being reduced to ‘smokin’ hot’. Another moment where Ilsa realized everyone has moved on except her. She made Troy wait, while she assured herself that she wasn’t doing anything wrong here. Just to see... She wrote.
Flower Lady:
How tall are you? P.S. don’t think for one minute I don’t know you’re texting every single woman you have in your phone...just casting lines to see who’ll take the bait.
TMI DUDE:
Confession, I’m not as popular with the ladies as I made myself appear in those emails. You gotta come out and let me explain those letters. They were more for me than for you. I’m not this fisherman. More a frustrated wanna be writer than a Hemingway.
Ilsa didn’t know what to do with that so she just waited. It was hard but she waited.
TMI DUDE:
Did I lose you? I hope not. Anywho...I’m 5’7 and ¾ if you must know. Hmmm I also remember telling your company that I couldn’t fill out a Magnum Condom. So what? Good things come in small packages. What are you a size queen?
He clearly got girls. The key to unlocking them was to simply have a plan for them, follow through and most importantly, make them laugh. She smiled in remembrance of how her husband would jokingly talk about his small penis. She shook her head and chuckled. Mark had been so self deprecating, and would do or say anything to get her to smile. He used to say, “I made you laugh! I’ve got you for another day!” His dick was not small, and she suspected only men confident in their equipment could or would joke about a thing like that. Comfortable now, as if she was responding to Mark, and not TMI Guy.
Flower Lady:
Where are you?
This whole height thing (for an obvious reasons) was an important detail for Ilsa since Victor. What did she know about men and dating? She had married Mark at twenty and her only modern dating experience was a sham with Victor. Even if Troy was a midget she needed to know he wasn’t living in another reality of his own making. They needed some sort of common ground. With Mark it had been easy, he was tall with similar coloring as her. They often used their look alike status to amuse themselves from time to time. Once when they were on a cruise an intrusive couple at their assigned dining table asked if they were twins. Mark looked at her with eyes shining and said, “Yes fraternal twins and very close.”
TMI DUDE:
Molly’s. The bartender here told me you like the whiskey. I’ll have one waiting for you ;)
Mark waited until the second to last day of the cruise. It was an elegant dress night and only the second time they had decided to dine in the main room. All the original couples were still there. Everyone at the table had become fast friends, so once again Ilsa and Mark were the center of attention. The table ordered the lobster over the beef wellington. Mark began to feed Ilsa the butter soaked claws. His movements may or may not have been carnal. In between probing questions about their childhood as twins, and raised eyebrows when Mark used his fingers to wipe a spot of butter off Ilsa’s chin. Ilsa put her hand high on his thigh. He leaned into her close, and whispered in her ear. The couples on either side of them looked around the table in wide eyed bemusement. When Mark returned his attention back to the diners, he asked, “What was the question? Oh yes, have I ever felt pain when my sister was injured?” He smiled wryly. His eyes twinkled. “Yes. Yes all that. Pain. Pleasure. It’s all intertwined. It can be verysurreal and intense...”
She squeezed her thighs closed in remembrance. Her memories sustained her
enough to extricate herself from the temptation at hand. She wrote to Troy while she
daydreamed about Mark and tried to forget her brief time with Victor.
Flower Lady:
Goodnight Mr. LeBlanc. Tell whoever is bartending I said thanks for the endorsement.
She sank back down into her couch. Staring blankly at the cream colored walls after putting her phone down on the lucite coffee table. Her hands twitched. She dove to turn off her phone, just to make sure she stayed true to her intention.
