The Cocktail Collection Page 2

  I thought back with a shudder to the night when O and I had parted ways. I’d had a series of bad first dates and was so sexually frustrated that I allowed myself to go back to the apartment of a guy I had no intention of ever seeing again. Not that I was averse to the one-night stand. I’d made the walk of shame many a morning. But this guy? I should have known better. Cory Weinstein, blah blah blah. His family owned a chain of pizza parlors up and down the West Coast. Great on paper, right? Only on paper. He was nice enough, but boring. And I hadn’t been with a man in a while, and after several martinis and a pep talk in the car on the way, I relented and let Cory “have his way with me.”

  Now, up until this point in my life, I’d shared that old theory that sex was like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. I now hated pizza. For several reasons.

  This was the worst kind of sex. This was machine-gun style: fast, fast, fast. This was thirty seconds on the tits, sixty seconds on something that was about an inch above where he should have been, and then in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out.

  At least it was over quick, right? Hell no. This horrible went on for months. Well, no. But for almost thirty minutes. Of in. And out. And in. And out. My poor hoohah felt like it had been sandblasted.

  By the time it was over, and he yelled, “So good!” before collapsing on top of me, I had mentally rearranged all my spices and was starting on the cleaning supplies under the sink. I dressed, which didn’t take that long as I was still almost fully clothed, and departed.

  The next night, after letting Lower Caroline recover, I decided to treat her to a nice long session of self-love, accented by everyone’s favorite fantasy lover, George Clooney, aka Dr. Ross. But to my great regret, O had left the building. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe she just needed a night away, still experiencing a little PTSD from Pizza Parlor Cory.

  But the next night? No O. No sign of her that week, or the next. As the weeks became a month, and the months stretched on and on, I developed a deep, seething hatred for Cory Weinstein. That machine-gun fucker. . . .

  I shook my head, clearing my O thoughts as I crawled into bed. Clive waited until I was situated before snuggling into the space behind my knees. He let out one last purr as I turned out the lights.

  “ ’Night, Mr. Clive,” I whispered, and fell right to sleep.

  Thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Thump thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Unbelievable. . . .

  I woke up faster this time, because I knew what I was hearing. I sat up in bed, glaring behind me. The bed was still pulled safely away from the wall, so I felt no movement, but there was sure as hell something moving over there.

  Then I heard . . . hissing?

  I looked down at Clive, whose tail was at full puff. He arched his back and paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

  “Hey, mister. It’s cool. We just got a noisy neighbor, that’s all,” I soothed, stretching my hand out to him. That’s when I heard it.

  “Meow.”

  I cocked my head sideways, listening more intently. I studied Clive, who looked back as if to say, “T’weren’t me.”

  “Meow! Oh, God. Me-yow!”

  The girl next door was meowing. What in the world was my neighbor packing to make that happen?

  Clive, at this point, went utterly bonkers and launched himself at the wall. He was literally climbing it, trying to get to where the noise was coming from and adding his own meows to the chorus.

  “Oooh yes, just like that, Simon. . . . Mmmm . . . meow, meow, meow!”

  Sweet Lord, there were out-of-control pussies on both sides of this wall tonight. The woman had an accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. Eastern European for sure. Czech? Polish? Was I seriously awake at, let’s see, 1:16 a.m. and attempting to discern the national origin of the woman getting plowed next door?

  I tried to get ahold of Clive and calm him down. No luck. He was neutered, but he was still a boy, and he wanted what was on the other side of that wall. He continued to caterwaul, his meows mixing with hers until it was all I could do to not cry at the hilarity of this moment. My life had become a theater of the absurd with a cat chorus.

  I pulled myself together, because I could now hear Simon moaning. His voice was low and thick, and while the woman and Clive continued to call to each other, I listened solely to him. He groaned, and the wall banging began. He was bringing it home.

  The woman meowed louder and louder as she undoubtedly climbed toward her climax. Her meows turned into nonsensical screaming, and she finally yelled out, “Da! Da! Da!”

  Ah. She was Russian. For the love of St. Petersburg.

  One last thump, one last groan—and one last meow. Then all was blessedly silent. Except for Clive. He continued to pine for his lost love until four in the mother-loving morning.

  The cold war was back on. . . .

  chapter three

  By the time Clive finally settled down and stopped his cat screaming, I was thoroughly exhausted and wide awake. I had to get up in one more hour anyway, and I realized I’d already gotten whatever sleep I was going to get. I might as well get up and make some breakfast.

  “Stupid meower,” I said, addressing the wall behind my head, and I padded out into the living room. After switching on the TV, I turned on the coffeemaker and studied the predawn light just starting to peek in my windows. Clive curled around my legs, and I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Oh, now you want some love from me, huh? After abandoning me for Purina last night? What a jerk you are, Clive,” I muttered, stretching out my foot and rubbing him with my heel.

  He flopped onto the ground and posed for me. He knew I couldn’t resist when he posed. I laughed a little and kneeled next to him. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You love me now because I’m the one who buys you vittles.” I sighed and scratched his belly.

  Before heading for the shower, I went to catch the a.m. news. That’s when I heard the noise in the hallway. I headed back into the kitchen, Clive at my heels, and poured some food into a bowl. Now that he had what he needed, I was quickly forgotten. As I headed for the shower, I heard movement in the hallway. Like the Peeping Caroline I was quickly becoming, I pressed my eye to the peephole to see what was happening with Simon and Purina.

  He stood just inside his doorway—far enough inside that I couldn’t see his face. Purina stood in the hall, and I could see his hand running through her long hair. I could practically hear her purring through the goddamned door.

  “Mmm, Simon, last night was . . . mmmm,” she purred, leaning into his hand, which was now pressed against her cheek.

  “I agree. A fine way to describe the evening and this morning,” he said quietly as they both chuckled.

  Nice. Another twofer.

  “Call me when you’re back in town?” she asked as he swept her hair back from her face. Her freshly done face. I miss that face.

  “Oh, you can count on that,” he answered, and then pulled her back into the doorway for what I can only assume was a kiss that killed. Her foot came up like she was posing. I started to roll my eyes, but that hurt. The right one was pressed so firmly against the peephole, you see.

  “Do svidaniya,” she whispered in that exotic accent. It sounded much nicer now that she wasn’t caterwauling like a kitten in heat.

  “See ya,” he laughed, and with that, she gracefully walked away.

  I strained to see him before he went back inside, but nope. Missed him again. I had to admit, after the spanking and the meowing, I was dying to see what he looked like. There was some serious sexual prowess going on next door. I just didn’t see why it had to affect my sleep habits. I pried myself away from the door and made for the shower. Under the water, I pondered what in the world might be required to make a woman meow.

  As seven thirty rolled around, I hopped a cable car and reviewed the day ahead of me. I was meeting a new client, finishing up some details on a project I’d just completed, and
having lunch with my boss. I smiled when I thought about Jillian.

  Jillian Sinclair headed her own design firm, where I’d had the good fortune to intern during my last year at Berkeley. In her late thirties, but looking in her late twenties, she’d made a name for herself in the design community early in her career. She challenged convention, was one of the first to sweep shabby chic off the map, and had been one of the first to bring back the quiet neutrals and geometric prints of the “modern” look that was all the rage now. She hired me after my internship was over, and she’d provided the best experience a young designer could ask for. She was challenging, discerning, and had a killer instinct and an even more killer eye for detail. But the best part about working for her? She was fun.

  As I jumped off the cable car, I caught sight of my “office.” Jillian Designs was in Russian Hill, a beautiful part of town: fairy-tale mansions, quiet streets, and a fantastic view from the taller peaks. Some of the larger old homes had been converted to commercial space, and our building was one of the nicest.

  I breathed a sigh when I entered my office. Jillian wanted her designers to make each of their spaces their own. It was a way to show potential clients what they could expect, and I’d put a lot of thought into my work space. Deep gray walls were accented by plush, salmon-pink curtains. My desk was dark ebony, with a chair draped in soft gold and champagne silks. The room was quietly distinguished—with a touch of whimsy coming from my collection of Campbell’s Soup ads from the thirties and forties. I’d found a bunch of them at a tag sale, all clipped from old issues of Life magazine. I had them mounted and framed, and I still chuckled every time I looked at them.

  I spent a few minutes throwing out the flowers from last week and arranging a new display. Every Monday I stopped in the flower shop next door to the office to choose flowers for the week. The blooms changed, but the colors tended to fall within the same palette. I was particularly fond of deep oranges and pinks, peaches and warm golds. Today I had chosen hybrid tea roses of a beautiful coral color, the tips tinged raspberry.

  I stifled a yawn and sat down at my desk, preparing for the day. I caught sight of Jillian as she breezed past my door and waved at her. She came back and stuck her head in. Always pulled together, she was tall, lean, and lovely. Today, clad in black top to bottom but for the fuchsia peep-toe pumps she was rocking, she was chic.

  “Hey, girl! How’s the apartment?” she asked, sitting in the chair across from my desk.

  “Fantastic. Thank you again so much! I can never repay you for this. You are the best,” I gushed.

  Jillian had sublet her apartment to me, which she’d had since she moved into the city years ago. Now she was refinishing a house in Sausalito. Rents being what they were in the city, it was a no-brainer. The rent control made the price obscenely low. I prepared to gush further when she stopped me with a wave of her hand.

  “Shush, it’s nothing. I know I should get rid of it, but it was my first grown-up place in the city, and for the rent it would just break my heart to let it go! Besides, I like the idea of it being lived in again. It’s such a great neighborhood.”

  She smiled, and I stifled another yawn. Her sharp eyes caught it.

  “Caroline, it’s Monday morning. How can you be yawning already?” she chided.

  I laughed. “When’s the last time you slept there, Jillian?” I looked at her over the rim of my coffee cup. It was my third already. I’d be cruising soon.

  “Oh boy, it’s been a while. Maybe a year ago? Benjamin was out of town, and I still had a bed over there. Sometimes when I was working late I’d stay in the city overnight. Why do you ask?”

  Benjamin was her fiancé. Self-made millionaire, venture capitalist, and knockout gorgeous. My friends and I had a killer crush.

  “Did you hear anything from next door?” I asked.

  “No, no. I don’t think so. Like what?”

  “Hmm, just noises. Late-night noises.”

  “No, not when I was there. I don’t know who lives there now, but I think someone moved in last year, maybe? The year before? Never met him. Why? What did you hear?”

  I blushed furiously and sipped my coffee.

  “Wait a minute. Late-night noises? Caroline? Seriously? Did you hear some sexy times?” she prodded.

  I thumped my head on the desk. Oh, God. Flashbacks. No more thumping. I peeked up at her, and she had her head thrown back in laughter.

  “Aw jeez, Caroline. I had no idea! The last neighbor I remember was in his eighties, and the only noise I ever heard coming from that bedroom was reruns of Gunsmoke. But come to think of it, I could hear that TV show remarkably well . . .” She trailed off.

  “Yes, well, Gunsmoke isn’t what’s coming through those walls now. Straight-up sex is coming through those walls. And not sweet, boring sex either. We’re talking . . . interesting.” I smiled.

  “What did you hear?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.

  I don’t care how old you are, or what background you come from, there are two universal truths. We will always laugh at . . . gas if it happens at the wrong time, and we are always curious about what goes on in other people’s bedrooms.

  “Jillian, seriously. It was like nothing I’ve ever heard before! The first night, they were banging the wall so hard a painting fell off and hit me on the head!”

  Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward on my desk. “Shut up!”

  “I will not! Then I heard . . . Jesus, I heard spanking.” I was discussing spanking with my boss. Do you see why I love my life?

  “Nooo,” she breathed, and we giggled like schoolgirls.

  “Yeesss. And he made my headboard move, Jillian. Made it move! I saw her the next morning, as Spanks was leaving.”

  “You call her Spanks?”

  “You bet! And then last night—”

  “Two nights in a row! Spanks got spanked again?”

  “Oh no, last night I was treated to a freak of nature I’ve named Purina,” I continued.

  “Purina? I don’t get it.” She frowned.

  “The Russian he made meow last night.”

  She laughed again, causing Steve from accounting to stick his head in the door.

  “What are you two hens clucking about in here?” he asked, then cracked up as he walked away, still shaking his head.

  “Nothing,” we answered at the same time, then cracked up again.

  “Two women in two nights, that’s impressive,” she sighed.

  “Come on, impressive? No. Manwhore? Yes.”

  “Wow, do you know his name?”

  “I do, in fact. His name is Simon. I know this because Spanks and Purina kept screaming it over and over again. I could make it out over the banging. . . . Stupid wall banger,” I muttered.

  She was silent for a moment and then she grinned. “Simon Wallbanger—I love it!”

  “Yeah, you love it. You didn’t have your cat trying to mate with Purina through the wall last night.” I chuckled ruefully and laid my head back on the desk as we continued to giggle.

  “Okay, let’s get to work,” Jillian finally said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I need you to land these new clients today. What time are they coming in?”

  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson are here at one. I’ve got the presentation and the plans all ready for them. I think they’ll really like the way I redesigned their bedroom. We’re going to be able to offer an en suite sitting room and an entirely new bathroom. It’s pretty great.”

  “I believe you. Can you run through your ideas with me at lunch?”

  “Yep, I’m all over it,” I answered as she headed for the door.

  “You know, Caroline, if you can land this job, it would be huge for the firm,” she said, eyeing me over her tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Just wait until you see what I came up with for their new home theater.”

  “They don’t have a home theater.”

  “Not yet they don’t,” I said, arching my eyebrows and grinning devilishly.
/>   “Nice,” she appraised, and left to start her day.

  The Nicholsons were definitely a couple I wanted—everyone did. Mimi had done some work for Natalie Nicholson, blue-blooded and well heeled, when she reorganized her office last year. She referred me when interior design hit the table, and I immediately started plans for their bedroom remodel.

  Wallbanger. Pffft.

  “Fantastic, Caroline. Simply fantastic,” Natalie raved as I walked her and her husband to the front door. We’d spent almost two hours going through the plans, and while we’d compromised on a few key points, it was going to be an exciting project.

  “So you think you’re the right designer for us?” Sam asked, his deep brown eyes twinkling as he wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and played with her ponytail.

  “You tell me,” I teased back, smiling at the two of them.

  “I think we would love to work with you on this project,” Natalie said as we shook hands.

  I internally high-fived myself but kept my face composed. “Excellent. I’ll be in touch very soon, and we can get started on a schedule,” I said as I held the door for them.

  I stood in the doorway as I waved them off, then turned around and let the door close behind me. I glanced over at Ashley, our receptionist. She raised her eyebrows at me, and I raised mine right back.

  “So?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah. Nailed it.” I sighed, and we both squealed.

  Jillian came down the stairs as we danced about, and she stopped short. “What the hell happened down here?” she asked, grinning.

  “Caroline got hired by the Nicholsons!” Ashley squealed again.

  “Nice.” Jillian gave me a quick hug. “Proud of you, kid,” she whispered, and I beamed. I freaking beamed.

  I danced back to my office, putting a little bump and grind in it as I made my way around the desk. I sat down, twirled in my chair, and looked out on to the bay.

  Well played, Caroline. Well played.

  That night when I went out to celebrate my success with Mimi and Sophia, I may have imbibed more than a few margaritas. I continued with tequila shots, and I was still licking at the now-nonexistent salt on the inside of my wrist as they walked me up my stairs.