The Divorce Club (3 page)

I nod, wide-eyed, hoping she's not getting
more explicit than that. Frankly, I've never been the inhibited
type, but Lucy's starting to push my boundaries.

"Let's see," Lucy continues, "he advertised
his new-found sexual preferences on a dating site and expected me
to help him sort through the phonies. And when he found a guy he
asked me to sleep in a hotel so he could spend the night with the
lad. Top that."

Peering at her, I nod some more. "What an
awful man. What about you, Simone? Is there anything you'd like to
blame your hubby for?"

Simone shakes her head as she stares at a
point behind me. "I don't think there is. We both made
mistakes."

"But there must be something that makes you
boil inside," I insist.

"Nope."

I tap a finger on my chin, thinking. "Let me
see that list."

She hesitates, but then hands over the paper.
I peer down at the white space. There's nothing there.

"There must be a reason why you want to
divorce him," Mindy says.

Simone laughs nervously. "It's not really
that big a deal."

I feel like telling her to just spit it out,
but contain myself. What's the point in distressing her even more?
"It's okay. Maybe another time."

"No, it's not," Lucy says. "We gals have to
trust each other. You've got to open up eventually, lassie."

"I don't fancy him anymore," Simone whispers.
I lean forward because I'm not sure I heard right.
That's
her big secret? For goodness sake, she wrote it down on the
membership form.

"You mean he doesn't take care of himself any
more. Have you tried getting him a shower gel for his birthday?"
Mindy asks.

Simone shakes her head. "No, it's not that.
He's very attractive―just not to me, and I've no clue why."

"At least you're not finding that out after
wasting your life on him," Lucy says.

"Did you talk about divorce yet?" I ask.

Simone shakes her head, wide-eyed. "I
mentioned I might need some time alone, but he wants to wait things
out. Maybe something's wrong with me."

I smile and pat her knee because I know how
she feels. "Don't worry about it. I have the perfect plan for you.
You'll get him to fall out of love with you."

She frowns. "How?"

"Look at the five points on your individual
plan."

She starts searching through the papers in
her folder, then reads out loud, "Put on weight and don't shave
your legs, or armpits, or any part of your body for that matter.
That's gross."

I shrug. "But it'll get the job done. The
next points will be more fun."

"Don't wash his clothes and cook rotten
meals, preferably ones that give him constant diarrhea. Wear a
thong with a mini dress and bend over in front of his friends,
preferably after you've gained weight." She laughs. "You can't be
serious."

"Okay, you don't have to pile on the pounds
if you don't want to," I say. "Just focus on the last two
points."

"Treat him like a child and nag, nag, nag."
Simone shakes her head. "I can't do that."

"You want him to let you go, don't you?"
Mindy says. Simone nods. "Then you'd better follow Sarah's advice
and see what happens."

"Exactly," I say. "If he's the one dumping
you, you won't hurt his feelings which is something you seem to
want to avoid at all costs." My phone beeps on the table, the first
hour is up. I clap my hands. "Well done, everyone. I'm so proud of
you. Let's meet in two days, same time, same place, and for those
of you who have one, don't forget your individual appointments. If
anyone needs to cancel or rearrange, give me a call."

My clients stand and start stacking away
their papers in oversized bags between makeup bottles, lipstick
holders and powder brushes and, in Lucy's case, hundreds of
chocolate wrappers. They air-kiss me, then flood out the door while
I wave goodbye. I've barely managed to pick up the dirty mugs and
carry them back to the kitchen when the bell rings.

Assuming one of the ladies forgot something,
I shout, "Come in. It's open."

Heavy footsteps thud through the tiny hall. I
wipe my hands on a kitchen towel and turn, almost bumping into a
tall guy dressed in a suit, at least six feet, with cropped brown
hair and piercing blue eyes. For a moment, I feel like I'm going to
faint as hundreds of thoughts race through my mind. What if he's
someone's husband and here to hurt me after finding out I'm helping
the missus divorce him? Of course, he could be some psycho who's
spied a lonely woman in a quiet residential area on a dark, cloudy
evening. Why didn't I think of security or at least of locking the
door?

"Are you okay?" he asks, groomed brows
furrowed. "You look like you're about to have a heart attack."

I press my palm against my racing heart and
smile nervously. "Maybe a tiny one."

"I don't bite—" he smiles "—unless it's full
moon."

"What can I do for you?" Should I actually be
so forthcoming? I remember reading somewhere that rapists take
friendliness as some kind of sick invitation.

The guy runs a hand through his hair as
though it was longer until recently and he's still not used to its
new length. His blue eyes scan the room, fixing on the floor. "I'm
here to sign up."

"You're here to do what?" I ask, unsure
whether I've heard right.

"Sign up," he repeats, this time a little
louder.

Why would he want to join my club―unless he's
some sort of spy and only here to expose me? Then I remember, he
can't
expose me because I'm doing nothing illegal.

"That's not possible." I walk past him to my
office slash meeting room and start looking through the papers on
my desk, hoping he'll get the hint and leave, but I can see I've no
such luck.

"Why not?" He slumps in the chair opposite
from mine and puts his elbows on the scratched, wooden surface, his
gaze connecting with mine. My heart skips a beat and my palms start
to sweat as I search for excuses.

"Because you're a man!"

"What? You're kidding me."

I shake my head. "No, you see, this club's
for women only. I don't think my members would feel comfortable
with you around." I'm actually talking about myself because he's
making my knees all jittery. I've never been the confident type
anyway―hence the need to transform myself into a social goddess
through this club―but this is beyond ridiculous. I feel as though
I'm fourteen again, waiting for the bus, and the school hottie's
talking to me for the first time.

"That's a sexist thing to say." He laughs,
but the glint in his eyes conveys another message.

"It's my club. I make the rules."

"So you'd rather lose a potential customer
than discard your sexist ideas?" He snorts. "What a great way to
run a business. You'll go bankrupt in no time."

I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm not a
sexist."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Well, in that case,
you'll let me sign up because I've heard you're really good and the
only institution offering this kind of treatment in town."

"No, sorry." I shake my head.

"No?" he asks, incredulously.

"No."

Smirking, he stands and leans over the desk.
"Listen, I'm not usually such a jerk but you leave me no choice. I
need this, okay? My life depends on it. My―" he takes a deep breath
as he struggles for words "―my whole existence does because I can't
take it any more. I can't sleep or focus on work, meaning I could
lose my job soon."

I stare at him, lost for words. Granted, I
anticipated my club would make someone feel like that one day, but
the guy isn't even a member yet.

"I'm sorry, I can't help you," I whisper,
uneasiness creeping over me as he nods.

"I will sue you." He says it so composed I'm
not sure I've heard right.

"Pardon me?"

"Sexism is a crime in our politically correct
times. You know what'll happen to your reputation once the media
get hold of this?" He grins like a child in a candy shop. The first
pangs of anger bubble inside me.

"You wouldn't," I hiss.

He smirks. "Oh, I would. Believe me, I would.
I'm desperate enough to do it."

I grit my teeth, wishing I could tell him
that the word desperate doesn't even do him justice. The phone
rings, jerking me out of my thoughts. Still looking at him, I pick
up the receiver.

There's music playing in the background―a
fast bass beat accompanies one of the Black Eyed Peas' rap. After
listening for a second or two, I realize someone's shouting,
anxious to be heard through the noise.

"Babe, can you hear me?" Mel's voice seems to
be coming from Alaska.

I smile, thankful for the distraction. "How's
the party? Got any doggy bags?"

"She brings you food?" the guy asks.

"I meant goody bags," I hiss.

"What?" Mel yells into my ear.

Shouting, I repeat myself as I glare at the
guy still sitting opposite from me. Social etiquette doesn't seem
to be his strong point because he can't even be bothered to turn
away and
pretend
he's not listening.

"It's fab," Mel shouts. "You should see the
fit lads in here, and everyone's wearing
Armani
."

The guy snorts. "Who in their right mind
defines attractiveness by the suit one's wearing? No wonder once
the suit's off, so is the relationship."

"And you're the expert on that field." I roll
my eyes like Sam always does.

"Darling, I can smell
Armani
from a
mile," Mel says.

My visitor shuffles in his seat, an unnerving
smirk planted on his lips. "If she smells the
Armani
it
makes one wonder what the guy smells, doesn't it?"

"Not really." I point at the receiver.
"Sorry, do you mind? I have an important conversation here."

He holds up his hands in mock awe. "Of
course. I wouldn't want to keep you from saving the world." He
turns, muttering under his breath, "Or the whales."

I bite my lip, struggling to keep a snarky
remark to myself and focus my attention on Mel who's shouting,
"Hey, are you still there? I can't hear a darn thing."

"Then turn down the salsa."

"It's pop."

"Whatever. About the goody bags―"

"I didn't forget about my best friend," Mel
says. "They'll be delivered to your door first thing in the
morning."

Cradling the receiver between my shoulder
blade and my cheekbone, I clap my hands. "What's inside? I'd love
some perfume because Sam's used it all up."

Mel laughs. "I won't tell, but you'll love
it."

"How I wish I worked in PR."

"So you can party day and night, and die of
an enlarged liver from all the alcohol?" My visitor, completely
forgotten to me for a brief moment, snorts. "Now there's a hefty
goal."

"Not everyone wants to be a surgeon," I hiss.
"What did you say you do?"

He turns to face me, his eyes beaming again.
"I'm a business exec."

Now I'm the one letting out a snort. "So
you're Robin Hood, except that you rob the poor to give back to the
rich. How altruistic."

"Says the one who robs children of their
youth so they can make pretty handbags." He points at my
second-hand
Louis Vuitton
.

My temper flares up, leaving a boiling
feeling in the pit of my stomach. "
Louis Vuitton
don't
engage in child labor. Besides, it was a gift."

The guy nods. "Ah, a gift. That certainly
makes it more acceptable."

Heat scorches my cheeks. I've no idea why I'm
arguing with this man. He's not even that good-looking, but I know
I'm lying to myself. He's well-dressed, groomed, probably almost as
educated as a NASA astronaut―and makes me all defensive. But, after
dealing with Greg for fifteen years, I can certainly deal with
Mister Business Exec.

"Can you call me back once you get home?" I
ask Mel as I keep my gaze fixed on the guy in front of me.

Mel agrees and I hang up, smiling at my
visitor.

"So." He cocks his head.

"So." I imitate his posture. "You'd sue me,
wouldn't you?"

"Yep," he says, grinning.

"Okay." I open a drawer and pull out an
application form, which I push toward him. "Fill this out, please.
It's four hundred a month." I usually charge two, but I feel as
though he owes me after all the headache.

"Four hundred?"

I nod, feeling guilty because my superego
tells me I'm about to cheat someone out of their hard-earned cash.
"That's quite cheap considering the kind of service you'll receive
here."

"I thought you charged more." He points at
the scratched up chair. "You know, to get new furniture."

"Really?" There's my chance, so I switch off
my bad conscience and go with it. "That's because I just offered
you the basic package. If you want the 'extras' you'll obviously
have to fork out more."

"What's the 'extras'?" He looks up from the
application form.

"A 24/7 emergency line and an employee's
constant surveillance that you stick with your goals. After all, if
you want to change your life, the changes have to come from within
yourself."

He seems impressed as he signs the form and
hands it back to me. I read his name written in all caps: JAMES
BOWERS.

"Everyone calls me Jamie." He points at the
form as though reading my thoughts.

"I'm Sarah."

"Do you do home or office visits as well?" he
asks.

I nod, suddenly recognizing his enthusiasm.
He didn't mean to sound rude; he just wanted to join so badly that
he saw no other option but to threaten me. "Any time."

"In that case, it's worth every nickel."

"Five hundred," I say, hoping I'm not pushing
my luck. He doesn't even blink as he hands me his credit card and
signs the standing order form.

As soon as I've locked all papers inside my
drawer he asks, "When do we begin?"