There was absolutely no justice in the universe because he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still classically handsome and impeccably groomed. He could’ve been a model who’d just stepped out of West Coast Magazine. To add insult to injury, he’d finally grown out his thick black hair, which I’d repeatedly asked him to do during the time we were together. There’s just something about a man with great hair.
‘Tom. How nice to see you,’ I lied, silently pleading with my facial muscles to transform what I was sure was a grimace into an acceptable smile.
I’ll be damned if I’ll let him know he still affects me.
He came over and almost-hugged me, one of those not-quite-embraces – complete with an air-kiss on either side of my face that are so popular among the rich and famous. ‘You look just as I remember you.’ Which made me want to knee him in the nuts.
He grinned and stretched his arms out to the sides, making a show of his rippling biceps. ‘You just popped into my head the other day and I decided to make it a point to see you when I came to Denver.’
Asshole. I just ‘popped into his head’. So much for my fantasy of the daily inner torture I hoped he’d endured as he replayed the loss of me over and over in his mind.
I retreated from his pseudo-hug and made my face as neutral as possible. My gaze slid to his skin-hugging running tights and I noticed he still wasn’t reluctant to advertise all his products and services. No matter how obnoxious he was, he did still possess certain . . . arousing . . . attributes. I fought a flood of memories and coaxed my eyes up to his face, straining my brain for something brilliant to say, but instead came out with the verbal equivalent of elevator music. ‘You’re still running every day?’
‘Yes, indeed – got to keep one step ahead of Father Time.’ He patted his tight abs.
Dr Cliché. I wonder if this man ever has an original thought.
He tugged on my arm and guided me over to a nearby bench and sat. ‘Can we sit for a minute? Now that I’ve got you here, I’d love to catch up. What are you doing these days? Are you writing? Are you married?’
I reluctantly joined him on the bench. ‘Well . . .’ I managed to get that one word out before he launched into a monologue.
‘Things are going so super for me. My private practice in San Francisco is booming, both because of the success of my last book and my radio programme. You wouldn’t believe how busy I am and how in demand I am as a speaker. Did you see me on Dr Phil? I was one of the experts for a recent segment. Oprah’s people are talking to my people. She’s starting a new network – can you imagine what an appearance on one of her shows will do for my books? I live in a fabulous house in one of the finest sections of town and I just ordered a brand-new Ferrari. I’ll take you for a ride the next time I see you . . .’
I just stared at him as he went on with his manic rant. He didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t spoken or that I was gaping at him like he was a nasty squished bug on my windshield. Had he always been this way? What had I been thinking? Had I really been so dazzled by his appearance that I’d ignored his self-absorption? More likely, I’d simply been so desperate for any kind of attention that I blocked out behaviours I didn’t want to see. I amused myself for a few seconds by mentally thumbing through the list of personality disorders he fitted into.
Hmmm. Definitely Narcissistic Personality Disorder. And with his temper, maybe Borderline as well. Obsessive-Compulsive. Then there’s the sex addiction . . .
‘So, whatever happened to Summer, the astrologer?’ I interjected loudly, with what I hoped was an evil grin.
‘Who? Oh, yes. She was a sweet thing. Simply adored me. Thought I walked on water. But we were from two different worlds, and she wasn’t a good fit for where I was going. We parted the best of friends.’
Yeah, sure. I’ll bet. I wonder what her version of the break-up is.
He glanced down at his diamond-studded watch. ‘Oh, damn. Look at the time. I’ve got to hurry back and get dressed for my presentation. Hey, here’s an idea – why don’t you come to the conference with me, and you can listen to my lecture. I bet you’ll really learn a lot from it. What do you say?’
How typical. He’s jogging in a diamond watch.
‘As tempting as that sounds,’ I said sarcastically, which, judging by his solemn head-nodding, he’d totally missed, ‘I’ll have to pass. I have clients.’
‘Bummer! It’s a shame you can’t attend, but I know how seriously you take your work.’
He said that as if it was a bad thing. He’d always viewed my refusal to join him in the fast lane as a character flaw, as well as a personal disappointment.
‘Yeah.’ I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘It really is a drag that I’m too burdened with my mundane private practice to spend time discussing your superficial – er, super – life. Maybe the next time you’re in town.’
He gave a quick pout – he actually poked his bottom lip out – patted my arm, then offered his fake ‘I’m really just one of the guys’ grin.
‘I was going to keep this as a surprise for you, but I guess I can tell you now. I expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of you as I’m doing a series of workshops in Colorado, and I’d love to discuss the possibility of using your office part-time while I’m here. Could we get together for dinner and talk about it?’ He flashed me a toothy California smile.
Welcome to the wonderful world of Tom Radcliffe’s ego. Plenty of room for everyone, folks, step right up. Watch out for the smelly little piles. Enter at your own risk.
He stood and began running in place. ‘Tell you what – I’ll just drop by your house after the conference is over next Friday night. I got your new address from a close friend who works for the APA Directory.’
‘Hey!’ I frowned. ‘You’re lying. Clinician contact information is confidential. No way they gave you my address. It’s protected – I even paid extra to make sure.’
‘Obviously, you don’t remember how persuasive I can be. Especially after a few drinks in the right setting. Wouldn’t you like to be reminded of my special skills?’
Before I could answer, ‘Hell no,’ he had jogged away backwards, yelling, ‘I’ll see you then.’
Suddenly, everything about Tom Radcliffe seemed hilarious. I sat on the bench and laughed out loud. Luckily, no clients were around to witness my temporary joyful insanity. I did have a reputation to uphold, after all. Sitting alone in the park laughing hysterically wouldn’t be good for business.
How could I have been in love with such a narcissistic egomaniac? Such a superficial moron? I’d spent the last two years grieving and miserable, and now I couldn’t for the life of me remember why. As long as we kept enough miles between us and a bedroom, I might never be tempted to recover the memory.
I had no doubt he’d got my address by seducing an APA employee. Ethics had no meaning in Tom Radcliffe’s world. An official complaint was definitely in order.
I smiled through a brisk walk around the park and whistled all the way back to my house. Maybe my life was looking up.
The buzzing of the alarm clock woke me early on Monday, giving me plenty of time to do some writing and organise the online research I’d gathered before I had to leave for my appointment with my therapist, Nancy. I felt so energised by the vampire-wannabe project that by the time I realised I was hungry, it was too late to do anything about it. I’d missed last month’s session, and I didn’t want to be late for today’s.