“Pleasure to meet a woman of such high standards. I’m Bellamy Hart, and I love a good Moscow Mule.”
“I’m a martini gal all the way,” Coco says as they shake hands. Then she glances from me to Bellamy. “But did I interrupt something?” Her eyes widen, and she wags a finger at me. “I did. I am a bad, bad woman.”
Ah. I see now. Coco is a little drunk. “Time to get you home, Grandma,” I say.
“But I’m just getting to know Bellamy. Bellamy, dear, come with us. We have so much to talk about.”
Dear God, don’t let it be sex.
The devil woman’s eyes light up. “Can you tell me stories about what Easton was like as a kid?”
I smother a groan. That topic is only marginally better.
Coco grins—wickedly, of course. “So many delicious tales. Where to start . . .”
By the time the cab drops us off at Coco’s Upper East Side brownstone, Bellamy has heard about how, when I was twelve, I took my father’s red Triumph for a joyride and crashed it into a mailbox.
Two states over.
She’s learned how, on a European vacation, my family traveled from Paris to London via the train under the English Channel, and I convinced my sister that the Eiffel Tower was in England.
Bellamy looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You were full of mischief, Easton Ford.”
“Guilty as charged,” I say.
“So much mischief,” Coco seconds as she leads us into her three-story brownstone. “Do you want to see pictures of him as a kid?”
Bellamy gleefully eats this up as we cross the foyer. “Of course.”
Grandma beckons my archenemy down the hall to her bedroom suite. I start to follow, but she stops me with a raised hand. “You go wait in the living room. We’ve got girl talk to do.”
“Yes, munchkin,” Bellamy taunts with poorly hidden laughter. “We’re going to gab.”
But before she turns away, she mouths, You were right.
I laugh and mouth back, I told you so.
And, yes, it’s very satisfying.
In the living room, I pour myself two fingers of scotch from the decanter on the bar table, then flop onto the couch. I grab The Bonfire of the Vanities from the coffee table. As I open it, reading idly, bits and pieces of the conversation in Grandma’s room float through the spacious home.
“Could he have been any preppier?” Bellamy asks.
“No, dear. He could not. Not even if he’d owned the entire Izod company.”
A few moments later . . .
“Of course he plays blackjack.”
“And he never loses, I swear. He’s got the Midas touch at the tables.”
And after that . . .
“Oh, this is a sweet shot by the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Yes, that’s him and Anna. May she rest in peace.”
I freeze, glass midair.
There’s a pause, then Bellamy repeats somberly, “May she rest in peace.”
I still don’t move, imagining Bellamy’s checking out a picture of me with a woman I was in love with once upon a time.
But they quickly move on and are talking about music—Cole Porter versus Cyndi Lauper—as I finish the drink and set it down with a yawn, turning a page in the book.
There’s something so natural about Bellamy chatting with Coco, even after angry sex with me.
Bellamy and I don’t see eye to eye, and while that pissed me off earlier, I’m not so annoyed now. Maybe that’s the Great Sex Effect?
Or maybe it’s the Coco Effect. It’s endearing in ways I didn’t expect, hearing the two of them debate Ella Fitzgerald versus Pink. Funny that Bellamy likes Ella and Coco picks Pink.
I flip another page, but the words start to blur as I sink deeper into the soft pillows of the couch.
“I heard your podcast about Carpe Diem,” Coco says, like it’s a delicious secret. “So scathing.”
“Was it too much?” There’s a hint of regret in Bellamy’s tone. Does she wish she hadn’t aired the piece this afternoon?
“Darling, never apologize for speaking your mind. It’s something that women really ought to do every day. In business and in love.”
“You know, I think you’re right,” Bellamy says, her tone confident, the voice of someone who just made a big decision.
I’m not sure what that might be, but I doubt I’ll puzzle it out further tonight. Not with my eyes floating closed as the exhausted bliss of great sex finally catches up with me.
When I wake up to the sun peeking through the window, Bellamy is gone.
23
Grandma Crush
From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford
* * *
Dear Easton,
* * *
I think I have a crush on your grandmother.
* * *
Bellamy, AKA The One You Can’t Stand
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
The crush appears mutual. The first thing Coco did when she woke up was order the ingredients for Moscow Mules from her favorite liquor store. I hope I didn’t spoil any surprise when the invitation for cocktails arrives.
* * *
Yours in I can still feel the effects of that hate sex,
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
Good. Because there are so many more tales I want to extract from her.
* * *
Yours in . . . same here,
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
I’m sure she has plenty more to share about the trouble I got into.
* * *
Easton
The Purveyor of Enemy-Delivered Os
Dear Easton,
* * *
Did I say they were tales about you? Please. Maybe I want to hear stories about her life.
* * *
Bellamy,
Greedy Recipient of those Os
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
I appreciate your commitment to knocking me down a peg or two.
* * *
Yours,
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
Try three.
* * *
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
Today’s debate is this—whether I still can’t stand you or I still want to bend you over the couch.
* * *
Yours in dilemmas,