Chapter 15

As we got close to Christmas, the goddess announced that she wouldn’t be traveling to NYC until after the baby. That was a relief, though I’m sure she’d be back on the ‘C’ train as soon as her pussy healed up. She was needing more and more attention these days. Her back hurt, her feet were all swollen, she needed moisturizer applied to her everywhere – though it beats me how she was worried about stretch marks on her calves. At long last, I got to see how tall she was without the stilettos – still a little taller than me.

I spent several hours per week at the home that Suzanne purchased. I thought that she held up in her pregnancy better than Mrs. James did. Suzi – she insisted, Suzanne was her stage name, I learned – beamed, or glowed, or blossomed, whatever the word was. Anyway, she was happy and showed it. The b-K suffered in a perpetual prenatal slump. I had to explain where I was, and I did. No sense lying about something that didn’t need to be hidden. But no, I didn’t mention that Suzi was prego. She went to Miami for her last orchestral performance – a Christmas Celebration, it seemed. I was, surprising to me, worried about her. Here she was, an extremely pregnant woman, going to be strapped into a plane – seat belt and everything. I shouldn’t have worried: she hired a driver and a town car for the trip. She laughed, when she heard I was concerned. How else could she make the many, many bathroom breaks she’d need? She patted my cheek. Not to worry about her, she said.

Shortly after New Year’s Day, she packed up her extensive wardrobe and headed for New York. She was going to be on stage for one evening. How come, I wondered, did she need to take three formal evening gowns? And an uncountable number of lounging clothes, of course. Naturally, she had to be comfortable in her hotel room. Four days later she called me from the Sheraton Midtown. I looked it up: $395 a night. I knew she was the headliner – Davenport’s word, not mine – but she was not going to make a dime out of this performance. Too many expenses. But she was doing it for the boost to her career. And after all, she’d need to earn enough for three, and a traveling nanny.

Two days later, she called, in tears. Pietro Signorelli sent flowers, wanted to see her, with a strong undertone of ‘wanted to get together again.’ I felt like I should have gone with her, but then again, while we were getting friendlier during our months together, our relationship never progressed to anything personal. But I wanted it to. Now, if she got Signor-fella-itis...

Well shit!

I called Davenport. Told him to get Signorelli away from Suzanne. Did he want to bugger-up the Town Hall event? I used the British neologism, of course. Use the other person’s lingo, remember? She’d be ruined if the event went badly. He certainly did not want that. He should get his arse down to the Sheraton Midtown, and coo over his star client. Feed her strawberries or peppermint licorice ice cream or whatever she wanted. AND KEEP SIGNORELLI AWAY! He was upsetting the rare flower that was Suzanne Moise. He promised he would.

“You dumb tosser!” he greeted me when he called the next day. “She doesn’t want Signorelli. And she doesn’t have a problem keeping him away. IT’S YOU SHE WANTS!”

I had to hold my phone away from my ear. Me? Well, of course I wanted her ... too much. I had to keep up appearances for the ex-goddess who was getting more and more pregnant herself. So, I didn’t want to get involved with another woman.

“Davenport, hold the fort.” I liked the poetry of that, once I replayed it in my mind. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Me, she wanted? It’s probably all the hormones. She’s due to deliver any moment. Okay, I had the vacation days, and I could just deliver my own Fuck You Announcement. I’d have to go to New York a few days earlier; that should work for an excuse. Have to get used to my surroundings for my big first day in New York Society.

I told the bitch, and all she wanted was to have me close at hand to massage her feet or re-moisturize her belly. I half felt like telling her to call Lucas. It was his baby, after all. At least she and he both thought that. But she was pregnant as well. So I arranged for a massage out-call, every day I was to be away. She sulked. Couldn’t be consoled.