Body Language

Ellie felt a surge of nausea and feared she might puke all over Barnaby. “Don’t talk nonsense! Of course you and dad will make up. This is just a bump in the road. Why, you don’t even know for sure that he actually had sexual relations with that woman,” she said, sounding a bit too much like Bill Clinton during his Monica Lewinsky days. “It might all be part of a fantasy—a sick fantasy, I’ll give you that—but still a fantasy.”

“Your father was unfaithful. Period. Why can’t you understand that? Have things changed so much since I was a young woman? He took a vow to love, honor and cherish me, through sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live. Well, I’m not dead yet!

“Whether in his mind or in deed, Ted betrayed me. The damage has been done. And when he refused to stop all contact with that bitch…”

Ellie gasped. “Mom! You don’t swear.”

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! There, now I swear. I swear, I drink, I cry.” Suddenly Rosemary burst into tears, and Ellie rushed over to the sofa to comfort her, wrapping her arm around her shoulders. Even Barnaby whined in support.

“I’m so sorry, Mom. I wish there was something I could do. I feel so helpless.”

Her mother sniffed several times, then smiled wanly, patting her cheek. “There is something you can do, Ellie. Do you have any Lysol? I feel the need to clean.”

And so it began….

“Never accept dates out of desperation or loneliness.

Desperation fuels dyspepsia, not desire.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“ARE YOU SURE, Ms. Peters, that you’ve transcribed that last word correctly? The syntax of the sentence doesn’t make sense to me.”

Sucking in her anger, Ellie turned to find Michael hovering behind her chair, looking over her right shoulder and reading her transcription. In fact, he’d been hovering a lot the past few days, and it was starting to grate on her nerves.

Every time she inhaled she could smell the musky scent of his cologne—the same scent she’d bought him seven years ago, as a matter of fact!

Some men had a lot of gall!

“Quite sure, Mr. Deavers. I’m very good at what I do. But if you’d like to listen for yourself—” You pompous, arrogant… She removed her headphones and handed them to him, but he shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary, as long as you’re certain. By the way, I like that sweater you’re wearing. That purple color looks good on you.”

“I don’t care what you like. Just leave me alone and let me do my work.”

“Now why would I want to do that? It’s my job to make sure everyone in this department is doing their work to the best of their abilities.” He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, making Ellie gasp.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He smiled. “Observing. And I must say, I like what I see. You’ve only grown more beautiful, Ellie. Time has softened your features, made you look even more—”

“I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, Michael, but I’m not interested,” she bit out, barely above a whisper. “And if you don’t want our previous relationship to be found out and bandied about this entire building, I suggest you leave before Becky gets back.”

“You’re still very angry with me, aren’t you?”

Ellie felt like rolling her eyes. “Are you dense? Of course I’m angry.” She shook her head. “What did you expect, just to waltz back into my life as if the last seven years hadn’t happened? It doesn’t work that way, Michael. You, of all people, should know that.”

“It should. We used to be good friends once, before we became lovers.”

I will not allow myself to be drawn back to those memories—those sweet, destructive, painfully bitter memories.

“Please go away, Mr. Deavers. I need to finish my work and you’re disturbing me.”

“That’s good, I think,” he said with a sexy grin, before rising to his feet and walking away, hands clenched behind his back like some pompous dictator surveying his possessions.

Well, if he thought she was still one of his possessions, he had another think coming!

“What did the director want? Did you do something wrong?” Becky wanted to know upon her return from the rest room. No doubt her ears had homed in like radar on her entire conversation with Michael.

Yes! I slept with the bastard!

“Mr. Deavers questioned me about one of my transcripts. Guess he’s bored and needs to harass the employees. Have you had any trouble with him?”

Becky shook her head. “None. I’d probably pee my pants if he told me I was doing something wrong.”

Ellie sighed. “Have you ever considered that not everyone else is right, Becky? That perhaps you’re not the one who is always wrong?”

“No, because I’m usually wrong.”

Ellie’s phone buzzed just then, and she was grateful for the interruption, excusing herself to answer it. Sometimes Becky’s self-esteem issues were just too much for her to deal with. “Ellie Peters.”

“It’s Mrs. Greenlaw, dear. Mr. Deavers asked me to call and—” There was an uncomfortable pause, then, “He wanted me to tell you that gum chewing during translation isn’t acceptable work behavior, that it can distract the listener from hearing the nuances of the speaker’s conversation.”

“What?” Ellie nearly dropped the phone. “Mr. Deavers said that? He wants me to stop chewing gum while I work?”

The bastard!

“I’m afraid so, dear. I’m terribly sorry.”

“I realize, Mrs. Greenlaw, that you are only doing as instructed, but you can tell Mr. Deavers that he can go—”

“Was there something you wished to tell me, Ms. Peters?”

Eyes narrowing to slits, Ellie turned to face Michael. She was so pissed off she thought smoke must be pouring out of her nostrils. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the arrogant bastard just what she thought of his edicts and where he could shove them. But then, remembering that she needed her job, she said instead,

“I don’t have a thing to say to you, Mr. Deavers. Not one damn thing.”

WITHIN TWO DAYS of her arrival, Rosemary had gone through Ellie’s new apartment like a white-gloved tornado and had cleaned every inch of it, scrubbing down the floors with Lysol, putting shelf paper in the kitchen cupboards—the ugliest shelf paper Ellie had ever seen, by the way—waxing and polishing the hardwoods, and had annihilated the germs in the bathroom until you could have sipped gazpacho from the toilet bowl.

Even Barnaby had not escaped her clutches.

“Mom,” Ellie asked, “why is Barnaby’s tongue blue? The poor thing looks sick.” She knelt before the dog, and he whined pathetically, trying to lick her hand with his big fat blue tongue.

“He must have drunk water out of the toilet bowl. Disgusting habit! That should teach him a lesson.”

The bulldog obviously understood every word Rosemary had said, because he very uncharacteristically bared his teeth, which were also tinged blue.

Ellie now had food in her refrigerator, none of which looked particularly healthy or low-fat, soft drinks and bottled water, and a year’s supply of toilet paper, Kleenex, and paper towels in her cupboard, not to mention a hideous array of cleaning supplies. Believing an invasion of flesh-eating bacteria was imminent, Rosemary had purchased twenty cans of Lysol.