Typist #4 - Every Romance is a Revenge Fantasy

“Men make mistakes,” Noreen said. “We all do, but mostly the men make the big mistakes, lummoxes that they are. Age difference or not, if your man is not on drugs, or an alcoholic, he’s a better choice than most of the men I’ve chosen.”

“Amen,” said two of the other women, in unison.

One of them picked up the paperback and peered at the author photograph. “Not too shabby,” she said, which made us all smile.

I picked up my purse, which felt so heavy now from the weight of the gift. Batting my eyelashes, I said, “Mommy, would you prefer to drive me home, or have me overnight as your guest?”

My mother rolled her eyes. To her friends, she said, “She claims to be an adult, but this adulthood thing is selective. Just watch, she probably has a suitcase full of laundry for me to wash.”

I gasped in pretend shock. “How did you know?”

She nodded toward the stairs. “Go ahead. The guest room’s all made up.”

I went up to the room, took off about half of my clothes, and collapsed on the bed, face-down. My mother and her friends were still talking and laughing downstairs, showing no signs of stopping the party. I was glad to be around people who made me remember who I was.

The idea of phoning Smith came to mind, but it was easy to flick away, since I didn’t even have his number. I had no simple way of contacting him, and maybe that was for the best.

Part 4: Future Bestseller

Smith Wittingham

Though he had Brynn’s phone number, Smith Wittingham (as per his first typist Lexie’s suggestion, he’d happily dropped the “David” from his name) didn’t call her until he’d finished the first draft of his novel. He’d put in a call to a very exclusive employment agency, and they’d sent a pleasant woman with a buzz cut and a dozen earrings to be his typist.

“Future bestseller,” she’d said when they reached the end.

Smith tried to be modest, but he could feel himself puffing up and floating away on shameful pride. The man stood to inherit over a billion dollars, and he’d played no small role in the family business to build it up, yet this was the first thing he’d ever done completely on his own. Well, on his own with the help of the typist, whom he gave a generous cash bonus to before they hugged chastely goodbye and she went on her way.

He still had work to do, revising some scenes and getting the wording just right, but he had it written, and all the anxiety he’d felt about the things that were unwritten simply evaporated.

Yes, it would be a future bestseller. How big would his name appear on the cover? Very big.

He went online and started looking at photos of famous actresses, wondering who might play Detective Dunham’s love interest in the movie version.

Renee Zellweger was cute, but too adorable and chirpy to play the kind of emotionally damaged young women the detective liked. Cate Blanchett was scary, but in a way that aroused him. He nearly lost his boner when he saw a photo of Charlize Theron as her Monster character, but then he found some photos of Naomi Watts that made him happy. Scarlett Johansson also made him happy, as did a dozen others.

He unbuckled his trousers and clicked through some more photographs of the current hot blondes and brunettes, gripping himself as he imagined a young, talented actress calling him aside to ask about motivation in a particular scene.

“Oh, Smith,” she’d say breathlessly. “Your story moved me so deeply. I would have done this project for no money at all. I know people think genre films are no good, just popcorn fare, but your skill as an author, your sensitivity as a person, elevates everything you touch.”

Smith closed his eyes and quickened his hands until he found release. The need dissipated, but the fantasy remained all through the evening.

He was lonely, on his own at the cabin, nothing but nature outside. The sun was setting, the sky pink. He walked out to the veranda with a glass of ice, a full bottle of scotch, and the cordless phone. When he was no longer in control of himself, he phoned Brynn.

She was surprisingly receptive. She was so friendly and warm, in fact, he wondered if he hadn’t gotten a wrong number.

Brynn was living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in an area she assured Smith was “up and coming.”

They hadn’t seen each other in fourteen years, and the moment she opened the door of her brownstone, he wondered if he’d come to the wrong house. The tight red curls he remembered were now bleached out to a strawberry blond, and straightened—as if Brynn were trying out for a Nicole Kidman look-alike position.

“Davey! You grew into your face.” She stood blocking the doorway, legs spread apart like a superhero. She wore cutoff jeans with tattered edges, with platform espadrilles, and those pale legs seemed to go on forever. The day was hot, and the place seemed to lack air conditioning, as she wore a plaid men’s shirt tied under her br**sts, and her smooth abdomen glistened with sweat.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“I shouldn’t. The place is a disaster, and my husband isn’t home.”

“Do you two still have that arrangement?”

She crossed her arms. “Is that all you’re interested in? Can’t you get that closer to home, without coming over to Brooklyn?”

He looked down to make sure his feet were still on the ground. Brynn always did make him feel like there was a localized earthquake, wherever he was standing. The woman was a force of nature. Those legs. He was already hardening for her, and she likely knew it.

“Let me take you out for dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the town car, parked up the street with his new driver, Claude, at the wheel.

“Fancy car. With a driver?” She made a low whistle, as sarcastic as a whistle could be.

“He’s a charming French Canadian fellow. Come with me, we’ll go anywhere you like, as long as there’s air conditioning.” He peeked around the side of her, into the townhouse. He saw tasteful sofas and rugs, but no children’s toys. “Unless you can’t leave the house… for some reason?”

“You mean kids?” Her face took on a stormy expression. “What do you think?”

He took a step back, stumbling to regain his footing as he found nothing but air, then the lower step. “Forget it,” he said, backing down another step. “I can see that coming here was a mistake.”

She flipped her strawberry hair back, and for an instant, he saw the beautiful riding instructor he’d fallen in love with, bouncing on the back of a feisty horse.

“Oh, David,” she said, smiling with the sweetness of a Disney villain. “Have you gotten that old? Do you give up so easily now?”

With that, he strode up the steps and grabbed her ass in his hands as he sought her lips with his. She leaned into his body and parted her lips, thrusting her tongue into his mouth ferociously. He ground against her hips, hardening for her, the erection dulling his thoughts.