The Perils of Pauline Read online

  After a night of cartwheeling over sheer cliff drops in my sleep, I stumble into the ski rental and ask the guy at the desk to hook me up with a set of boots and blades.

  He lays two little strips of wood on the counter in front of me. So what was I worried about? Blades are nothing but dinky little baby skis. I put on my boots and go outside to sit on a bench to wait for my instructor. Donald waits around to keep me company until I shoo him away. “I’m fine here, you go ahead and catch up with Rob and Scott.” He eagerly hurries away to the lifts.

  I love blading. I don’t know how to fix the blades to my boots yet, but sitting here on the bench with the clean mountain air ionizing my skin is like a religious experience. My spirits rise even higher when a mountain man strides up to me and asks if I am Pauline. Ooh! Hello! I’ve been assigned to Paul Bunyan, the biggest, hottest instructor in the whole Rockies. The guy could chop down trees with that grin. Better yet, I seem to be his sole student. He kneels down beneath me and shows me how to adjust the bindings. With those shoulders, he could haul an unsuspecting woman deep into the forest.

  “Before we go to the lifts, we have to wait for one more student.” I look around as he says, “There she is.”

  Of course it’s Lindsay.

  I hate blading.

  The dinky baby skis are unstable little planks of terror. “Blades are the bomb for stunt skiing,” says Paul Bunyan. “You can do cartwheels on them.”

  We scale the side of a cliff and he demonstrates a few basic twists and turns. The tricky part appears to be stopping. Lindsay goes first and slides toward him, only to fall giggling at his feet. He helps her up and she holds on to him a little too long.

  The slope below me looks like a straight shot to becoming an undone jellyroll at the bottom. I watch a couple of four-year-old ski ninjas whoosh by, snow roosters rising in their wake. Biting my lip, I push off, only to go sideways and then backwards before I manage to turn around the right way and fall flat on my face. Look ma, no brains.

  Paul Bunyan drags us to the top of the hill again and again. My butt is munched from landing on it so many times. Then he says we’re ready to go higher up the mountain where we can “catch some big air off the cliff drops.”

  Lindsay is determined to ride the chairlift with Bunyan. I couldn’t care less. I’ve just noticed that his arms are way too long for his body and his high-pitched voice is getting right up my red frozen nose.

  At the last second, Bunyan steps out of the lineup to chat with one of the female lift operators, and I end up riding with Lindsay. As we ascend I can’t think of a thing to say. The one theme I’d like to raise is hardly appropriate: So, Twinkie, are you sleeping with my husband or what? What would Bibienne do? She’d shove Lindsay off the lift, that’s what.

  I picture Lindsay in a crumpled heap on the hill below, and my chapped lips feel prickly and tight as they curl into a secret smirk.

  I can’t wait to get off this lift. Halfway up the hill, the lift stops.

  We sit swinging our legs and shrugging our shoulders at each other. Lindsay turns around and waves to Bunyan who is several chairs back talking to a girl beside him. He doesn’t wave back. The wind is shredding my cheeks off, and I’m worried maybe I’ll be too stiff to dismount by the time we get to the top.

  Lindsay exclaims and points below. Donald is skiing by with Rob and Scott. We wave and shout until Rob looks up. He signals to Donald who looks up too, promptly loses his balance, and almost wipes out. Ha! Yes, Donald. Look at me, sitting on a chairlift with your girlfriend.

  I wave at Donald and then turn to address Lindsay, all chummy like. “I love your ski jacket. Where’d you get it?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. I love your jacket.”

  Donald stands on the hill below us. He waves and we wave back. Then he skis away in a hurry. Ten minutes later, the lift lurches forward again. Lindsay pulls a tube of lip gloss from her pocket, dabs it on and hands it to me. Then she checks her watch. “I’m starved. What do you say we ditch Bladeboy and go get some food? There’s a lodge up top.”

  The lodge overlooks the mountains. We choose a table beside a panoramic window and stare out over the endless horizon of postcard peaks, blue sky and treetops below. Lindsay orders first. “I’ll have a glass of the house red and a grilled steak sandwich.” Then she turns to me. “Or, if you want, we could split a carafe?”

  The house red is so civilized we order a second carafe. I’m glad I’m taking the time to get to know Lindsay. Beyond the blonde hair extensions, she’s funny and earthy. She tells me all about how she grew up in a series of foreign boarding schools and got herself kicked out of a bunch of them for skipping classes, smoking, and going AWOL. Meanwhile her father built his empire and her mother skipped off to Florida with her girlfriends with all their hairdressers in tow. Lindsay had to learn how to take care of herself.

  And she’s excellent at it. So what’s wrong with that?

  “I need to learn how to take better care of myself,” I say as I drain my glass.

  “Then you should start with your skin. Look at what the cold air has done to your cheeks. They’re all red and chapped.”

  “So are yours.”

  Lindsay pulls out her phone and books us in for an afternoon facial. “God. We have to get off this mountain. Are you as wrecked as I am? Is it possible to take the chairlift back down?”

  “Good question.”

  “I have to go to the powder room.” Lindsay stands up and wobbles. “Hey, look who’s here.”

  Donald looks as if he has been running a race, his face is red and he’s panting slightly. “There you are.”

  “Hi ya bud.” Lindsay gives him a giant bear hug. “I’ll be right back. Sit down and relax. Talk to your beautiful wife a while.”

  Donald glances down at the empty carafes on the table and then leans in to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. “Looks like you two are having a nice time together.”

  “For sure. Actually we’re about to head out. We made appointments for facials.”

  “I’ll ski down with you.”

  “You don’t have to. Why not stay here and enjoy the afternoon with Rob and Scott? Have you guys had lunch yet?”

  Donald shakes his head and frowns.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine. I didn’t think you liked Lindsay.”

  “Now that I’ve gotten to know her, she’s not a bad person. She’s fun.” I can even sort of understand why Donald is attracted to her. Then, feeling a tad sly, I add, “And she’s really easy to talk to.”

  The sunbeams are bouncing around in the fresh powder as we step out of the lodge and Lindsay and I look at each other with why-nots gleaming in our eyes. By the time I slide to the bottom of the hill, I’m a born stuntwoman, puffing out my chest proudly as I sashay through the corn and leap small moguls with a single bound. For my big finish, I edge into a show-stopping halt at the bottom, spraying out a respectable rooster. Lindsay has got the hang of her blades too. She skids up to me on one leg in a cowboy’d stance, like she’s climbing onto a horse, one leg stuck out sideways on purpose and we give each other high-fisted props as we hand in all the equipment.

  What is it about a spa that can make women form unflinching bonds of steadfast devotion? Lindsay and I practically hold hands as we approach the white-coated receptionist. We bend our heads together over the menu of services: page after page of manicures, pedicures, facials, body scrubs, and every kind of primping, rubbing, wrapping, waxing, and plucking procedure a woman could desire. We bow our heads reverently in front of the vast wall racks laden with bottles and tubes and glass pots packed with the rarest muds and salts of the earth, all precisely formulated with extractions of rare herbs and decoctions of roots, and fragranced with delicate infusions of wildflowers from distant alpine meadows and succulents watered by antelopes on the broad plains of Africa. An attendant hands me a package containing thoughtful little Ayurvedic relaxation slippers. We pass th
rough the first threshold to the inner sanctum, where I spy heaped baskets of immaculate fluffy towels.

  In the dressing room, we slip out of our weary street clothes. I step into my shower cubicle and an attendant briskly scrubs my back with a loofah using French milled soap specially chosen for my skin type. Mountain spring water, alternating cold, hot and tepid, bathes every inch of me from nozzles positioned all over the walls and ceiling. Next, we loll in the steam chamber, and then soak in the bubbling hot tub as we await the main event. Finally, our scrubbed and anointed nakedness is enveloped in the softest of robes, and we are led away for the treatments we have chosen.

  Lindsay is going for the Himalayan Salt Scrub while I’ve added the Seaweed Massage to my Steaming Clay Facial (featuring Extracts of 1000 year old Lichen scraped off Precambrian Quartz Crystals, only found in the primest locations of the arctic).

  My therapist, Roberto, slathers me with oil and seaweed paste and then slides his muscular, practiced hands all over my body, smoothing away the soreness and transforming me into a greasy green blob of bliss. When he’s done, another therapist comes to coat my face and neck with hot mud.

  Afterwards Lindsay and I recline on chaise lounges, all steamed, mudded, rubbed, tubbed, exfoliated and defoliated, sipping flutes of Sparkling Elderflower water, sighing and loving being silky-faced women of the sisterhood.

  “I don’t ever want to leave,” I say while admiring my flawless manicure.

  “Me neither.” Lindsay looks over at me. “When do you have to go home?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “I have the kids and work. It took a lot of wrangling to get a few days out here.”

  “I thought you’d want to spend a few more days in Calgary, you know, do a little house hunting.”

  “House hunting? We’re not moving to Calgary.”

  Lindsay is quiet for a minute. My mind begins to refoliate.

  “Why would we move to Calgary? I thought Donald’s assignment was finishing in a couple of months?”

  “Yes it is. But Donald can stay on here if he likes; I mean there’s always the option now that the branch is established.”

  “Donald never mentioned that to me.”

  “I guess that means he isn’t interested. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  Lindsay sits up to inspect her pedicure. “What do you think of this color? I wasn’t sure if I should go with the green or the peach.”

  “Why are you trying to change the subject?”

  “Perhaps I spoke out of turn. Donald loves Calgary. I know how he feels, that’s all.”

  “I like that you know how he feels and I don’t.”

  “We work together and we’re friends. He’s alone out here. Sometimes we talk about things.”

  As she leans over her toenails, her towel slips down and I notice she has a tramp stamp arcing across her butt crack. I’ve never seen such intricate handwork. I can make out intertwined flowers, a pair of eagles and the words: carpe diem. I can’t help but wonder if Donald has ever had a chance to examine her ink too. My head fills with a picture of Donald reading her ass as he takes up the rear guard.

  If I had a shotgun in my hands right now, her flowery ass-gulls would be cratered with buckshot.

  “Maybe you could fill me in on a few more of my husband’s thoughts and feelings?”

  Lindsay jumps up from her chaise and clamps her hands on her hips. “I think it’s time to go.”

  Seize the day indeed. Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out: “Are you and Donald having an affair?”

  She looks at me straight on, woman to woman, eyeball to eyeball: “I never have love affairs with co-workers, Pauline. Your husband is a good guy. He loves you. Let it go.”

  As I slip back into my clothes, I mull over her statements. Donald’s a good guy. Donald loves me. Donald never slept with Lindsay.

  Wait a minute: Lindsay didn’t say she never slept with him, she only said she doesn’t have love affairs with co-workers. And why would she admit anything to me, anyway? She’s blowing butterflies out of her ass again. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But, even if that last one is a lie, two out of three ain’t bad. And after all, in that whole equation, there’s one more critical factor: Pauline slept with Michael.

  At the front desk, I pull out my wallet. The receptionist says, “Your bill has already been settled, Ms. Parril. Ms. Bambrough took care of everything. She left this for you.” She hands me a folded piece of paper.

  Pauline: I have a date tonight and I’m running late. I called a cab for you but it’s also a nice walk back to the chalet if you prefer. I had soooo much fun with you today. It was awesome to have the chance to get to know you. L.

  I stare down at the familiar handwriting, sprinkled with those dumb little circles over the ‘i’s, and I remember the time I found a business card, many moons ago, under my bed, before Michael, before I got into this whole sticky mess. I remember word for word what it said: Thanks for lunch. Let’s do it again soon. L xo.

  Donald never mentioned that lunch. Which is odd because he always liked to recount his stomach’s wanderings of the day.

  I stuff the paper in my pocket, and push through the doors back out onto the street. I give the cab driver a generous tip and send him away. A walk in the cold air will help to clear my head.

  Donald’s a good guy. Donald loves me. He sent me a diamond pendant for Christmas. On Christmas morning we skyped Donald into the living room so he could watch the kids open their presents. When they were all done, I opened the little blue velvet box. I feigned excitement as Serenity fastened the clasp. I’m not really a diamonds kind of girl. Diamonds make me think of foreign mines filled with black-lunged miners sweating away in the dark and having to eat coal dust sandwiches from tin pails. Donald knows that. Or at least he should’ve known it. Offscreen, I tossed the box aside. Mom picked up the box, read the certificate and said, “These are Canadian diamonds.”

  I snatched up the certificate and, sure enough, Donald had gone out of his way to find guilt-free Canadian diamonds from a decent mine with happy miners who have pensions and a dental plan. Of course it is a fine thing to be dripping with diamonds mined by guys with good teeth.

  In all the chaos, I didn’t get around to buying a Christmas present for Donald. The guilt floods in. I’m the rotten egg. I better grab something from one of the shops on the way. I scurry along the sidewalk looking in all the windows. A scarf? A jacket? Leather gloves? The stores are closing and I have only a few minutes left to choose something that doesn’t look like I grabbed it at the last minute. I run into a men’s shop.

  The cashier is counting her receipts and shooting me irritated looks. I paw through a display of wallets. I select a nice one and head to the counter, elated that I’ve skinned under the wire with my gift.

  I glance at the price tag—and stop short in the middle of the aisle. Mr. Frugal Man will think I’m out of my melon for wasting so much dough on a wildly overpriced wallet. I better not mention it.

  The cashier is tapping her pencil on the counter. My head clears. Donald doesn’t want a wallet. He doesn’t expect anything. He’s not like that. He’s just glad I’m here. I should’ve known.

  I put the wallet back and walk out of the store. I know what I’m giving Donald for Christmas: me, just me, wearing nothing but my glowing spa skin and a diamond pendant.

  CHAPTER 26

  Deception Story

  Deception Story: A scenario that outlines the friendly actions that will be portrayed to cause the deception target to adopt the desired perception.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  “I have a surprise for you,” Donald says after he pays for our meal at the legendary Full Angus, Calgary’s most exclusive prime rib restaurant. “But we have to hurry and catch a cab.”

  “Sure,” I murmur. I’m busy free falling through a serotonin rush from the riches
t chocolate mousse I’ve ever tasted, and I’m still shimmering from last night. Donald loved his Christmas present: he threw it down on the bed and ravished it all night long.

  After breakfast we said goodbye to Todd, Tina, Rob and Scott, and drove back to Calgary. Lindsay was nowhere to be seen. Donald showed me around the branch offices, and then announced that he wanted to buy me a dressy outfit so he could whirl me around for a night on the town. Thank God the airline lost my luggage. I now possess a lusty little skirt and the perfect blouse and heels to go with.

  Donald pulls back my brass-studded leather chair and helps me with my coat. He sure knows how to be suave and urbane for a night on the town. He even knew the chef. And, as it turns out, western chefs know their beef. My hips will know their beef, too, unless I stand down from all this holiday eating.

  A few minutes later, the cabbie drops us on the sidewalk in front of the Calgary Tower. Donald swoops his arm up to point at the flame burning at the top. “It has a 360º observation deck with a glass floor. It’s the best way to view the city at night. So? Are you ready for your private tour?”

  “Donald, this is incredible! How did you manage to arrange it?”

  “Our chief accountant out here plays golf with the guy who owns this place. He said anytime I wanted to come up …”

  After a quick ID check at the front desk, we are in the elevator ascending at high speed. I step forward to check my hair in the mirror and spy Donald watching me from behind. I stick out my tongue at him and he flashes me his Scotsman’s grin, reminding me why I fell in love with him back in the day. He’s always had the rogue charm of a highlander about him. Tonight he’s looking very much like William Wallace in his best wool kilt with the Prince Charlie jacket and three-button vest. He knows I love it when he pulls out all the Scottish stops. I feel his hands steal onto my hips and he pulls me closer to him so I can feel his Gaelic sap rising. I nudge my rump back and forth a few times to show my appreciation for the compliment. A blush mounts my cheeks, on both ends. Donald is getting me a bit … warm. The elevator guy studiously looks the other way as we sway together with the motion of the lift until the doors glide open at the top of the tower. The elevator guy steps back to let us pass and, tipping his cap, disappears as the doors slide closed, leaving us alone in the darkness on the observation deck.